Yet, if the seminary authorities were to discover that Groendal had committed sin with Jane Condon, he undoubtedly would be reprimanded and punished.
If they discovered he’d sinned with Charlie Hogan, Groendal likely would get the ax.
True, Carroll Mitchell had been expelled for his sexual escapade with Beth Yager. But that punishment hadn’t been inflicted so much for the act itself as for the flagrant flouting of the rule.
So Koesler was left wondering. He could not envision Groendal as an “abomination.” No matter what he’d done.
The priest-celebrant turned to the congregation and sang, in Latin,
Which, at that moment, was exactly what Ridley Groendal was wondering. Go? Go where?
There was no longer any compelling reason to remain in the infirmary. He—or rather, his body—was healed. At least enough to function without professional care. On the other hand, there was no possibility of his leaving. Not till the other shoe dropped.
This week’s silence had been deafening. Someplace out there, people were talking about him, determining his fate. But not a word had been spoken to him about it. That word would be spoken; of that he was certain. But when? He would go out of the infirmary in the very near future. Of that there was no doubt. But to where?
Monsignor Cronyn appeared at the open door. He wore his black cassock with the red trim, buttons, and sash. He wore his black biretta with its red pompon. Somehow the biretta seemed to formalize the occasion.
“How are you feeling now, Mr. Groendal?” Nothing special was intended by that address. Cronyn always used that title when referring to senior students.
“Hurting a bit.”
“Otherwise okay?”
“Yes, Monsignor.”
“Sit down, Mr. Groendal.” Cronyn gestured toward the bed while he sat on the room’s only chair. “Care to discuss how you were injured?”
Groendal thought a moment, then shook his head. A little more than a week had gone by. Impossible that the authorities didn’t know what had happened. Better not to volunteer any information. Better to play it by ear.
“Yours were serious injuries, Mr. Groendal.”
“Yes, Monsignor.”
“They could not have happened by accident, now, could they?”
“No, Monsignor.”
“You appeared to have been beaten rather severely. The doctor provided us with that information.”
Groendal nodded.
“Are you going to tell me about it?”
Groendal shook his head.
“Are you going to tell me your side of it?”
So, one side of it already had been told. Groendal simply waited. The other side would undoubtedly come out now.
“Very well,” said Cronyn. He handed Groendal a manila folder containing two typewritten sheets, the second of which bore a signature. “Read this, Mr. Groendal.”
Groendal read carefully. Several times he had to stop to rub his tearing eyes. It was “the other side of it”— Hogan’s side. As he read, Groendal had to admit it was a fairly factual, objective account of what had happened between himself and Hogan over the past several months, along with a detailed and again objective narration of what had taken place a-week-ago Saturday.
Missing from the account were the involuntary but compelling feelings Groendal had experienced about Charlie Hogan. Groendal understood there was no way Charlie could have been aware of those feelings. Obviously the feelings had not been reciprocated.
Besides, in a situation such as this, people were interested only in the facts and nothing more. No set of extenuating circumstances could mitigate what Groendal had done—certainly not as far as Monsignor Cronyn was concerned.
Groendal finished reading. The statement had been signed,
“Well?” said Cronyn.
There was no response.
“Well, is what you read an accurate account of what has happened?”
“Yes, Monsignor.” Groendal knew there was no point in going into those intense, driving feelings. Feelings which undoubtedly Cronyn had never experienced toward anyone.
“In the interest of fairness,” Cronyn said, “I should point out that Charles Hogan did not offer that statement spontaneously.”
It helped that Charlie had not come forward voluntarily.
“However,” Cronyn continued, “it was not difficult for us to deduce, at least in general terms, what had happened. From my interrogation of young Hogan, it seemed likely that a ‘particular friendship’ had been formed not by both of you but by you alone. Therefore, I placed Hogan under the obligation of fraternal correction.”
That was it! Suddenly, it was so obvious that it might have been spelled out in neon. It came through in Cronyn’s tone and in the hint of a smirk that appeared briefly. It wasn’t so much that Cronyn had been patiently waiting and expecting turnabout to become fair play. It was more that he would be glad to see it happen.
It had been almost exactly one year since Groendal had invoked “fraternal correction” as the principle under which he had denounced and exposed—some would say betrayed—Carroll Mitchell. It was, Cronyn had thought at the time, a rather craven use of a device that had originally been intended more as an adjustment for the common good than as a means to satisfy spite.
Granted, Mitchell had flouted a very important rule. Still, it had been one of those boys-will-be-boys things, a sort of sowing-of-wild-oats affair. The seminary system was programmed to produce macho men of asexual behavior. It was also geared to forgive an occasional lapse as long as the fault occurred with someone of the opposite sex. This preserved the image of the macho man and merely revealed a chink in the armor of nonsexual expression.
If Mitchell had not been so brazen, he might have been forgiven. If Groendal had not betrayed Mitchell’s confidence under the guise of “fraternal correction,” the offense likely would never have been detected.
Mitchell had been one of Cronyn’s favorites. The rector had foreseen a great priestly career for that talented young man. All of which had been destroyed by Groendal under the pretext of a warranted denunciation. However, Ridley’s disclosure could not have been swept under the rug. It required an official response. As a result of which, Mitchell had been expelled.
Cronyn had resented being manipulated by Groendal; now turnabout had become fair play. And more. It was Cronyn’s chance to even the score. Groendal had, in Cronyn’s opinion, misused the device of “fraternal correction” once. Now, one year later, it was being used against him.
These thoughts had occupied Groendal’s mind all the while the rector was explaining the situation as it affected him and Hogan.
“And so, Mr. Groendal,” Cronyn concluded, “the faculty feels that young Hogan was more a victim than a perpetrator in this affair. Nevertheless he was old enough to know better. He should not have become so involved with any other student, ‘particular friend’ or not. We have decided that Hogan will lose virtually all privileges for the remainder of this scholastic year.”
Groendal felt sorry for Hogan. He was miserable at having been the cause of Charlie’s punishment. All in all, though, it wasn’t cataclysmic. Summer vacation was only two months away. Charlie wouldn’t have long to go.
“As for you,” Cronyn continued, “you have a choice. You may resign from the seminary or you will be expelled.
“Before you say anything”—Cronyn’s gesture silenced Groendal, who gave every sign of wanting to speak—”I should tell you that you are most fortunate to have an option. The majority of the faculty voted for expulsion. But some few made a cogent argument for leniency.
