were incorrect were not worth arguing over. Especially not in his impaired condition.
Without identifying which items in the account were right or wrong, Groendal conceded that the rumors were basically true.
Ridley pondered what he might say next. Because Koesler was a classmate; because he was a fellow parishioner, a neighbor; and for some other indefinable reason, maybe because he had proven himself trustworthy, Koesler had been privy to nearly everything that had happened to Groendal. Ridley decided to share the final secret. He told Koesler of his meeting with Jane Condon and her announcement
“Wow!” was Koesler’s comment.
“Bob, you’re going to have to find some other kind of reaction to news. ‘Wow!’ is not going to get you all that far in the priesthood.”
“Uh . . . you’re right.”
“Do you mind if we go out and walk the grounds for a while? I’m permitted to do that . . . I just haven’t felt up to it till now.”
“I don’t know, Rid. I’m here under false colors. What if they challenge me?”
“They won’t. If you got this far, you won’t have any more trouble. Besides, if we stay in this room all the while, someone may accuse us of having a ‘particular friendship.’” There was bitterness in Groendal’s tone as he pronounced the last two words.
Koesler flushed. The thought that he and Ridley might have been suspected of having such a relationship had never crossed his mind. He agreed to the walk.
They started along the brick path within the grounds, slowly at first, then picking up speed. It was so like the walks they’d taken so often at the seminary. And so different. Now one was still a seminarian and one was not. One was still on his way to the priesthood. The other had no idea of what might become of him. So far, however, Groendal was correct: No one had challenged them.
“One thing puzzles me,” Koesler said. “You said that . . . whatever it is they’re doing to you . . .”
“Shock treatments.”
“. . . is affecting your memory of recent events. But you can remember what happened between you and Charlie Hogan and between you and Jane Condon.”
“I know, Bob, and I can’t explain it. Except that those things were so important to me. It’s like I couldn’t forget them even if I wanted to. Maybe these are the memories they’re trying to erase.”
“So Jane’s going to have a baby.”
“So she said.”
“And you’re going to be a father.”
“Again, so she says.”
“You don’t believe her?”
“What if she told me she was going to have a baby just to get me to marry her?”
“Okay, I suppose that’s possible. If you wait a little longer, you’ll know. Either she’ll have the baby or she won’t. What if she does have the baby?”
“What if I’m not the father?”
“Don’t get me wrong, Rid; I’m no expert in these things. But either you did or you didn’t.”
“Oh, I did all right. But what if someone else did it after me? What if he is the father?”
“Hmmm. I don’t know. What can you do about it?”
“Nothing that I can think of.”
“Mr. Groendal! Mr. Groendal!” An attendant was calling from the building. “Dr. Bartlett wants to see you now.”
“I guess that’s it, ‘Father’ Koesler.” Groendal led the way back.
“Are they going to give you the shock treatment now?”
“No, they save that for the morning. Tomorrow morning, I think.”
“What’s it like?”
“I don’t think you want to know. Oh, well, they put something in your mouth, then they put these electrodes on your head. I guess it’s something like being electrocuted. They just don’t give you enough juice to kill you.”
Koesler shuddered. “That’s awful!”
“You said it.”
They shook hands.
“You really put yourself out, Bob. I appreciate it. I won’t forget you.”
Koesler hesitated. “One last thing, Rid: Have you given any thought to what’s happened to you? I mean, all of it has happened to you. You don’t seem to have been in control of anything. Just a thought. I don’t know why I even mentioned it. Well, good luck, Rid.
“Yeah, we’ll pray for each other. Thanks.”
Groendal watched Koesler, straw hat in place, walk away from St. Joseph’s Retreat. Koesler was leaving. Groendal was confined. But what was it Bob had said? In effect, that Groendal was passive. Things happened to him. He was not in control.
These thoughts reverberated through his numbed mind as he approached Dr. Bartlett’s office.
There were those who would argue that Groendal was lucky to have Dr. Roland Bartlett as his psychiatrist. He was regarded in Catholic circles as God’s gift to emotionally ill priests and nuns. In addition to an extensive private practice, he made himself available almost every time a priest or a nun was committed to psychiatric care.
Bartlett himself was a devoutly religious Catholic who preferred a revisited or refreshed sacramental life to deep psychoanalysis. Everyone—priests, nuns, and laity—who came to him was queried about his or her religious condition. The next question: How active was his or her active participation in that religion? Backsliders of whatever denomination were ordered to return to their church before the esteemed doctor would treat them.
Thus, those whose problems were caused by their church got caught in psyche-religious Catch-22. It was only one of Dr. Bartlett’s flaws.
“Good afternoon, Ridley. Feeling down again?” The doctor’s expression suggested he was hoping for a bit of depression to work on.
It was as if the doctor’s greeting awakened Groendal. “I don’t think so. I was wondering when the next treatment—you know, the shock treatment—was due?”
“Tomorrow morning. Why do you ask?”
“What do I have to do . . . what has to happen for the treatments to be stopped? What would make you decide to cancel or postpone tomorrow’s treatment?”
“Well, Ridley, we’re in a series now. I would prefer not to interrupt the series.”
“Uh-huh. I have an idea that might save us a lot of time. But I’ve got to work it out and I don’t think I can do it while the treatment goes on. I’ll need every bit of my mind and memory.”
“Hmmm, I see.” He pondered a moment. “Ridley, since you entered this facility, you’ve been in a depressed state. And we’ve spoken of this often. How do you feel now?”
“Actually, kind of good. I just had a visit with my . . . uh . . . priest. And it left me feeling a bit hopeful.” Groendal was well aware of the stock put in religion by Bartlett and was willing to pander to the doctor’s fixation, even to the point of acknowledging a priesthood that Bob Koesler did not yet possess.
“Your priest?” Even though Bartlett had left orders for no visitors, it did not surprise him that a priest had broken through. The question in a Catholic institution such as St. Joseph’s was not whether a priest could see whomever he wished whenever he wished, but whether the parish priest would bother coming to visit. While Bartlett put more than ordinary stock in religious curative powers, he did not cotton to priests who dabbled in psychotherapy. There was a place for everything. Or, as St. Paul put it—We each, in the mystical body of Christ, have our gifts contributing to the good of the whole.
This deserved some investigation. “What did the two of you talk about?”
From here on, Groendal would have to deal in one long, extended lie. Since he had already lied in referring to Koesler as a priest, the remaining fabrication seemed to fall nicely into place.
“Oh, nothing much. Just about the parish . . . things going on there. But he did try to bring up the matter of what I’m going to do now that I won’t be going back to the seminary.
“Father was trying to be very helpful. He promised that he would do all he could to help me get into some
