Deadline for a Critic Read online

  “I don’t know.” He smiled self-consciously. In reality, he was buoyed by her confidence. “That’s a pretty gigantic task . . . I mean, a book!”

  “Every book starts with the first word.” Hey, thought Liz, I just might have coined a cliché.

  So Hogan began writing a book, a mystery-adventure whose characters were mainly people he knew, and with a plot he thought had some unique twists.

  A few weeks later, after Sunday Mass, Hogan bumped into Dr. Payne, a dentist and prominent member of the parish.

  After an exchange of pleasantries, Hogan said, “By the way. Doc, guess what? I’m working on a Catholic murder mystery.”

  Payne pondered a moment. “You mean you think Catholics murder people differently than other murderers?”

  Taken by surprise, it was Hogan’s turn to ponder a moment. “No, it’s not that, Doc. It’s . . . well, there’s a reason why it’s a Catholic murder mystery, but I can’t think how to explain it Wait, I’ve got it! Remember that old cop series on radio and then TV. . . the LAPD . . . Jack Webb . . .?”

  “Sergeant Joe Friday. ‘Dragnet,’” Payne supplied.

  “That’s it! Very good, Doc. Well, there was this episode—maybe you remember it—where there was a theft of some drugs from a Catholic hospital?”

  Payne shook his head.

  “Well, Joe Friday was there to get ‘just the facts, ma’am.’ Except that the ‘ma’am’ he was getting the facts from was, of course, a nun, since it was a Catholic hospital.

  “Sergeant Friday is interrogating the nun.

  “Who might have had a motive for taking the drugs? A key? Access to the cabinet? Who was on duty? Were there any security precautions? Questions like that.

  “The nun answers all Friday’s questions. And when he’s done getting all the facts, ma’am, she says, ‘Have you solved this case yet?’

  “Friday says, ‘Well, no, ma’am. We’ve just begun the investigation.’

  “And the nun says, ‘Father Brown would have solved it by now.’”

  Payne laughed.

  “And then,” Hogan continued, “Friday’s sidekick nudges him and says, ‘Joe, I didn’t know they had their own police force!’”

  Payne laughed a bit harder.

  “That’s it, Doc,” Hogan said. “That’s why I’m working on a Catholic murder mystery: I’ve got my own police force. And it’s a Catholic priest.”

  “Like Chesterton’s ‘Father Brown.’”

  “And that’s all I’ve got in common with Chesterton.”

  “That’s enough,” Payne said. “You’re serious about this, aren’t you, Charlie?”

  “Un-huh. I’m running mostly on Lil’s encouragement. But, I must admit, it’s sort of Walter Mitty-ish to think that I might actually get this thing published. It’s exciting to think I might be able to earn a living writing.”

  “Charlie, what do you think you’re doing now?”

  “Doc, I’m not ‘writing’ at the Weekender. I’m pushing words. And it’s not a ‘living.’ This is different. Oh, I try not to get my hopes up, but it’s hard not to. If I could make enough from books, Lil could quit her job and a lot of our dreams could come true. I’m trying not to count on this. But if it works . . .

  “By the way, Doc, I haven’t told anyone else. Let’s keep it between the two of us. I don’t want a bunch of people asking me all the time how it’s coming.”

  Dr. Payne agreed, with a silent reservation. Surely Charlie Hogan wouldn’t want his news kept from his good friend and one-time schoolmate Ridley Groendal.

  Before leaving town, Groendal had entrusted the responsibility of keeping him informed about all that was happening in Hogan’s life to Dr. William Payne. Groendal had taken great pains to explain his abiding interest in Hogan. Since Payne was a mutual friend, he could understand why Groendal would ask the favor. He could also understand the rather complex reasoning which demanded that this news-gathering be kept secret.

  Dr. Payne took pride in his commission. He was doing a favor for both Groendal and for the man Groendal had promised to help in every possible way, Charlie Hogan.

  Payne had faithfully reported to Groendal Hogan’s overtures to the Free Press. The doctor attributed that vague promise of a future job at the paper to the good offices of Ridley Groendal. Someday, Payne hoped, Charlie Hogan would know what a friend he had in Groendal.

  For now, the doctor could hardly wait to get home and write Groendal about Hogan’s new venture into literature. Surely Ridley would want to be alerted. A budding author could use all the help he can get.

  Payne shook his head as he walked briskly home. No doubt about it: There were very few people like Ridley Groendal.

  17

  Among those things that could be said of Ridley Groendal was that he did not wait around for opportunity to knock. At least he had not since he’d left the Detroit area and entered the University of Minnesota. From that time on, he was the master of his fate, the captain of his soul.

  A significant number of men and women dragging their shredded careers behind them could testify to that. Some had befriended him at the university, some there had fought him. It didn’t matter. Groendal had manipulated them all, trusted none of them, and used them indiscriminately as stepping stones to advance his academic life.

  Once he had wrung out and discarded them, he scarcely ever thought of them again. They, however, never forgot him.

  But while many plotted vengeance, none succeeded. Groendal left nothing to chance. He trusted none of his victims, before or after exploiting them. Ever vigilant, he was prepared for them at all times.

  After all, hadn’t Jesus been ever alert? How many times his enemies, the Pharisees, had tried to entrap him, but never successfully. Just one example of so many: when they challenged him on whether it was right to pay a tax to Caesar.

  It was a source of constant frustration to the Jews that they were obliged to pay a tax to a foreign power. So, with their question, the enemies had Jesus on the horns of a dilemma. If he approved of the tax, he would needlessly have lost most of his following. Needlessly because it was not a relevant question, since the presence or absence of Caesar had nothing to do with his mission.

  On the other hand, to oppose the tax would put him on a collision course with civil authorities—again needlessly. But he was ready for them. He asked to see the coin Caesar claimed as a tax. He demanded to know of his enemies whose image and inscription was on the coin. They could answer nothing but “Caesar’s.” “Then,” he told them, “render to Caesar the things that are Caesar’s. And to God the things that are God’s.”

  Magnificent! But hardly something done in the heat of the moment. Jesus consistently outsmarted his enemies because he was prepared for them. He anticipated them. He was ready for them at whatever time, theirs or his.

  And so would Ridley Groendal be ready for his enemies. He would anticipate and defeat them. Just as Jesus had.

  His enemies might find it hard to believe, but Groendal prayed regularly and frequently. However, his meditations were subconsciously programmed to fit his new lifestyle. In effect, he was not trying to conform his life to that of Jesus. Rather, he was “prayerfully” twisting the life of Christ to fit the new theology of Ridley Groendal.

  Thus, Groendal climbed over the torpedoed careers of reporters, columnists, here and there an editor, staff writers, authors, playwrights, actors, musicians, musical directors, and such, across the nation.

  The higher he climbed, the more human debris he left in his wake. And the more angry people he left behind, the more he was forced to keep looking over his shoulder. For his newly made enemies, sorely wounded, would not forget. Almost to a person, they sought revenge. While churning ahead toward the pinnacle of success, Groendal also needed to protect his rear.

  Constant vigilance took its toll. Groendal began to suffer from high blood pressure. It would get worse. He comforted himself with the thought that Jesus probably had high blood pressure too, what with
all the enemies he had.

  Eventually, all this skullduggery won him the highest status of all, a place as one of the New York Herald’s fine arts critics. Ostensibly, his responsibility was to review the stage and serious music. But he was also a book reviewer. And though he was not in charge of the book section, due largely to his burgeoning reputation in the other arts, he quickly became the most influential of all critics—theater, music, or literature.

  Along the way, he also learned that he was homosexual.

  Until he left Detroit for the University of Minnesota, he’d had but two overt sexual experiences, one hetero-, the other homosexual. At that time, he’d been confused as to his own sexual preference.

  At the university, it did not take long for him to establish that preference. At first, he had begun to date girls. He had the tentative attitude of sitting back to see what might develop. Some coeds found his gentlemanly passive behavior oddly stimulating. Some sought to fill the sexual void by initiating physical foreplay. He found that repulsive. They found his disgust contagious.

  Briefly, Groendal considered the possibility that he might be asexual. That was what the seminary system of his day was programmed to produce. Was it possible his peculiar Catholic upbringing had accomplished in him what it aimed for in its priests—the assembly of a macho asexual?

  No. He was gay. He had to conclude that his single episode with Jane Condon was a fluke. He had been passionately overcome by accident exacerbated by some mind-numbing alcohol. Once he gave the homosexual style a chance, it did not take long to know he belonged there.

  But it was depressing. Oh, not the sexual expression. No, the impermanence, the ephemeral, little more than one-night stands. Something in him demanded permanence, indissolubility—a quality that was most elusive in the gay community.

  When he finally made it to New York, he was determined things were going to change. Either he was going to find a stable relationship, or be continent.

  Thanks to his superlative Herald salary, he was able to afford a sumptuous apartment in the heart of Manhattan. He was not far from St. Patrick’s Cathedral. Although proximity was not a factor to choosing the Cathedral to be his parish. For Catholics, St. Patrick’s was the prestigious church of New York City. A lot of time could be passed just in counting the deceased Cardinals’ red hats hanging from the high ceiling. (One could count on it: Whoever was Archbishop of New York was pretty sure to be a Cardinal.)

  The length of the nave of St. Pat’s was one of those famous-but-smaller churches measured against St. Peter’s in Rome. At one spectacular funeral Francis Cardinal Spellman was celebrant, Bishop Fulton J. Sheen preached, and Jim Farley and Fred Allen were two of the ushers . . . leading a Jewish gentleman present to whisper, “What a cast!”

  St. Pat’s always had lots of visitors. As far as tourists were concerned, there was only one Catholic church in all of Manhattan. Anyone could find it right across Fifth Avenue from Rockefeller Center.

  One could go on and on . . . but St. Patrick’s Cathedral was the one and only parish for the infinitely upwardly mobile Ridley C. Groendal.

  He favored the early Sunday morning Mass—less crowded. Of course he never got the Cardinal at that time, usually just a monsignor or a bishop, but it was sufficient. The routine was early Mass, then one of the attractive, pricey brunches.

  Attending the same Mass week after week, one gradually becomes at least casually familiar with the other regulars. There were many couples, a great number of young, middle-aged and elderly unaccompanied women, but not that many single men. Not as regulars.

  Something about one solitary regular attracted Groendal’s interest. Not only could he not help studying the man from time to time, occasionally he caught the stranger studying him.

  Without words, with no conscious sense of purpose, the two began taking pews closer to each other. Thus, just before Communion, eventually they were able to shake hands during the greeting of peace. Groendal did not know what it was, maybe something in the man’s eyes, that communicated tenderness and interest.

  It began one Sunday, months after they had first noticed each other in church. They were leaving after Mass when the stranger dipped his hand in the holy water font and offered some to Groendal.

  “I don’t mean to be forward,” Groendal said, “but would you care to join me for brunch?”

  A look of extreme relief passed over the other’s face. “I thought you would never ask.”

  They brunched at a nearby hotel. It was Groendal’s choice. He sensed the conversation would be more important than the food. It was.

  As they settled in and the waiter brought coffee, Groendal began. “I’m—”

  “Ridley C. Groendal, fine arts critic of the New York Herald.”

  “How—?”

  “Your picture is with your column, and I read you faithfully.”

  Groendal was pleased. “I regret I can’t return the courtesy. You are . . .?”

  “Peter Harison. No reason you should know me. I too used to be a critic—for a chain of papers on the West Coast.”

  “And now?”

  “Now, I’m vice-president of the Art Guild Book Club.”

  “Of course. Peter Harison. I’ve heard of you. I hope none of my reviews have compromised any of your selections.”

  “Oh, no, dear boy. We generally select books before they’re published and reviewed. Although there have been times when we’ve taken a book and have gotten burned by your review later. Fortunately we can always find somebody’s favorable review to add to our hype.”

  Groendal laughed. “I suppose that’s so true.”

  “I think,” Harison continued, “what I like most about your opinions is that they’re so original. Ridley—may I call you Ridley . . .?”

  “Rid. And please do.”

  “Rid, a case in point is your review last month of the Brigadoon revival.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “I can’t remember any other critic that took the musical itself apart. The only thing one ever gets from a presentation of a war horse like Brigadoon or Oklahoma! or Carousel or any of that ilk is that the voices were good or bad, the staging was inventive or inadequate, the sets were imaginative or pedestrian, and so forth. Nobody, but nobody looks at the vehicle itself. That’s what I find exciting about your reviews.”

  Groendal beamed. “Well, it’s true. The music is second-rate, sometimes third-rate . . . and has been vastly overrated through the years. Simplistic melodic lines and no development at all. One of those things where if Freddie Loewe hadn’t had his name on it, no one would ever have heard of it. And the story line . . . incredibly unbelievable!

  “I suppose it is possible to want us to imagine, in an excess of fictional credulity, that there could be a little village in Scotland that sleeps away a hundred years between each working day. But to think a modern-day New Yorker would choose to enter that never-never land is just preposterous!

  “And it’s not even a matter of being swept up in the emotion of the moment. The hero makes his mature decision to come back to the real world and let Brigadoon sleep away the next century. Then Lerner asks us to believe that after returning to civilization for a while, he would, after plenty of time for mature deliberation, return to Scotland and voluntarily lose himself in the village forever—never to see civilization again! Well, really! Every time I’m subjected to that drivel I feel like yelling out, ‘Don’t do it Tommy Albright! Think it over! It’s not worth it!’”

  They laughed.

  “You’re right, of course, Rid. But most critics wouldn’t have the nerve to write it. You did!”

  “And I paid for it. Peter, you have no idea how many idiots there are out there who are willing to accept something as senseless as Brigadoon. But I heard from them . . . all of them, I think.”

  They laughed together and enjoyed their time together. By Groendal’s gourmet standards, several dishes were unforgivable. But in honor of this occasion, he forgave.

  Before
parting, Harison eagerly accepted Groendal’s invitation to accompany him to the Met’s new staging of La Bohème that week. Groendal would not like it. But then, Groendal did not like La Bohème itself. In honor of Harison’s being with him and sharing his dislike of the opera, Groendal wrote a particularly scathing review. So biting, indeed, was the critique, that it was all the company could do to prevent “Rodolfo” from going down to the Herald and punching Groendal in the nose.

  The following Sunday, Groendal and Harison sat next to each other at the Cathedral. It took no time for their mutual discovery that each was gay. And not much more time to be convinced they were in love. Blessedly for both, it was evident from the outset that this was no ephemeral fling. It was the real thing, permanent and indissoluble.

  If any law would have recognized their marriage, they would have entered into that solemn contract. Since no law would legitimize their union, they exchanged vows quietly and privately in a side chapel of the Cathedral with no one but God in attendance.

  They became conversant with each other’s history. There were no secrets between them.

  Unlike Groendal, Peter Harison had learned early on that he was gay, and had suffered accordingly, especially since he was a Catholic. After being humiliated, ostracized, and beaten, Peter opted for the closet approach.

  In fear for his very life, he stayed in that closet, venturing out only most infrequently and guardedly. Occasionally, he would try a gay bar. But his experience in that milieu was no different from Ridley’s. One-night stands, brief encounters, guilt, disappointment, and danger.

  As a result, he, like Groendal, had virtually retreated from social contact. Peter was quite positive that no one at work was aware of his sexual preference. He had never before had the happiness he now shared with Ridley Groendal.

  Groendal, on his part, held nothing back of his life’s experience. As a lad, Peter had thought long and hard about the priesthood. But just about the time he would have entered the seminary high school he discovered his homosexuality. With that knowledge he decided—and correctly so at that time—that a religious vocation was doomed.