Deadline for a Critic Page 25

  Catching Mitch’s eye and directing his gaze briefly at Lynn, Koesler asked, “Have you ever told—?”

  Mitchell shook his head. “No reason to. It’s between Rid and me.”

  Interesting, thought Koesler. Mitchell had freely shared with his wife a most embarrassing and compromising incident that had happened to him. If he had been in Mitchell’s shoes, he might have hesitated many times before telling his wife about having been in bed with another woman, no matter how innocent it might have been or how long ago it had happened.

  Yet Mitchell told Lynn that, but hadn’t revealed to her that the man she so heartily disliked, the celebrated critic, had once been guilty of a most deliberate and flagrant plagiarism.

  Koesler’s respect for Mitchell increased; he had done very well, indeed, at keeping secrets.

  “What it comes down to, dear,” Lynn said, “is that you can’t think of a reason why that creep has done this to you. So, because you can’t come up with a motive, you deny a proven fact. I talked to them! I talked to producers, directors, even other critics. Some of them weren’t even all that aware of what had been going on until I came right out and asked. Then, almost all of them could recall times when Groendal had put you down, denigrated you, both personally and as a writer; made it evident that they would be fools or jackasses to stage any of your work, or even to be kind—much less fair—to you.

  “He let it be known—made it very clear—that were they to ignore his advice, his future reviews—not only of your plays, but of all their productions in general—would be critical and belittling. And because he wielded a long pen—and a long memory—it would have taken a very gutsy—foolishly gutsy—director to cross him.”

  She turned to her husband. “These are the facts, whether you can find a motive for them or not!”

  Mitchell didn’t reply, though the conversational ball was definitely in his court. Finally, he said, “I can’t help it. It just doesn’t make sense . . . oh, don’t get me wrong, Lynn; I don’t doubt for a moment that the people you talked to said what you say they said. And I’m not ungrateful for all your legwork. But it just doesn’t make sense. Maybe they’re confused. Or maybe they’ve got an axe to grind with regard to Rid. Maybe that’s it. I don’t know.” He looked at Koesler. “What do you think, Bob?”

  “I don’t know. It’s hard to say. Rid always had a . . . different mind. It’s just hard to tell.”

  “Hmmm. Well, you know him better than I do. Hell, you both came from Redeemer parish, didn’t you? And now . . . God, now he’s your parishioner! But I just can’t see it.”

  “Well, it’s very interesting,” Koesler said. “Tell me, Mitch: Suppose it were true. Suppose what Lynn discovered is absolutely true. Supposing Rid has effectively blocked your whole career as a playwright. Just suppose, for whatever reason it’s true. Then what?”

  A long period of extended silence followed while all three pondered the question, What if . . .

  “What if, eh?” Mitch said, finally. “What if Rid has actually blocked me from what I love most next to Lynn and the kids? What if he’s done that?

  “I’d kill him!”

  Lynn laughed, a bit nervously. “Well, that just proves that Mitch can keep up his sense of humor.”

  They all laughed.

  But Carroll Mitchell and Father Koesler both knew the laughter was not genuine.

  19

  “The body of Christ.”

  “Amen.”

  Father Koesler had been distributing Communion for slightly more than thirty years. Unlike many other priests, he never tired of it.

  The distribution of Holy Communion had gone through many stages, as had almost every other ritual in the liturgy since the Second Vatican Council.

  At the time Koesler was ordained, and for hundreds of years prior to that, Communion was given by the consecrated hands of a priest alone. Outside of the most dire emergency, no lay person ever touched a consecrated host. That was a time when there were, proportionately, more priests and fewer communicants than today. When the balance tipped in the other direction, the laity was urged to exercise the “priesthood of baptism” and become “extraordinary ministers” of the Sacrament. It was, Koesler believed, a variation of Parkinson’s Law. In this case, lay sacramental functioning tends to multiply in direct proportion as there are fewer priests around to perform sacramental tasks.

  The pre-Vatican II formula for distributing Communion was a comparatively long Latin invocatory prayer. Now, the minister of the Sacrament merely held aloft the consecrated host and announced, “The body of Christ.” And the recipient responded with the affirmation, “Amen.”

  Koesler remembered well when that formula was in transition and the current form was in vogue but still in Latin. He recalled a Sunday when he presented the host to a young lady, saying “Corpus Christi.” To which she responded, “Texas.”

  Gaffes like that could be expected but not foreseen. But it added a measure of innocent humor to what could easily become stuffy repetition.

  The line of communicants kept coming. Evidently, there were a surprising number of Catholics at this funeral. Even though several priests were helping with the distribution, the time for giving Communion was proving to be unexpectedly long. Of course, it took longer now since communicants had the option of receiving under the form of wine as well as bread, and the chalice had to be wiped after each person sipped.

  Koesler selected another wafer, held it over the brim of the ciborium and looked at the next communicant. It was Charles Hogan.

  “Charlie, the body of Christ.”

  “Amen.”

  While he continued the distribution of Communion, Koesler’s thoughts, as usual, wandered. Jogged by the memory of his conversation with Carroll and Lynn Mitchell, Koesler recalled a similar talk he had had recently with Charlie Hogan.

  That Hogan and Koesler had remained active friends was a little out of the ordinary. Generally, after leaving the priesthood, a man quite naturally traveled in different circles, made new friends. No longer sharing common interests, the resigned priest usually drifted away from former comrades. It was an understandable phenomenon. But with Koesler and Hogan it had been different.

  That Koesler had been selected and invited to witness Charlie’s marriage to Lil was evidence of the depth of this friendship. Seldom does a bride or groom know a priest well enough to request him to witness their wedding. But when such a request is made, it usually signifies some degree of friendship along with a good measure of respect.

  This demonstration of friendship by no means ended with the Hogans’ wedding. Koesler and Charlie met periodically. Occasionally Koesler would dine with the Hogans. The priest was aware that Charlie and Lil were far from wealthy. The fact that they were meticulous in keeping up their house and that they ate simple though nourishing meals did not conceal their comparatively spartan existence.

  As far as Koesler could tell, Charlie’s membership in a local health club was his sole “extravagance.”

  Several months ago, Koesler had joined Hogan at the club. On the agenda were a few games of racquetball, a swim and sauna. Not slated was a conversation about Hogan’s material status, his work, his income, his prospects. The conversation did not take place until the sauna. The swim and particularly the racquetball had pretty well wiped out Father Koesler, who was breathing heavily while perspiring freely.

  Hogan grinned. “Winded?”

  Koesler barely nodded as, head bowed, he watched droplets fall from his face to his lap.

  “You ought to do this more often, you know,” Hogan said.

  “What are you trying to do, kill me?” Koesler panted.

  “It’s good for you.”

  “Like the relatives of Don Quixote in Man of La Mancha, you’re only thinking of me!”

  “You’re not fat, Bob. But you could lose ten pounds or so. And the exercise is good for you.”

  “I’m too old for this sort of nonsense.”

  “You’re only
four years older than I am; don’t go pleading old age on me.”

  Koesler thought about that. He was determined not to add this much activity to his regimen. He just had to find some acceptable excuse. “We’re gearing up for the Fall Festival. I’ve got too many things going on in the parish now.” He glanced at Hogan to gauge the effect of his words.

  Hogan shook his head. He would not accept the priest’s attempted evasion. “Come on; I know you better than that. Other pastors may worry themselves sick about how much money the festival will make. Not you. If anything, you’ll be concerned about whether the folks are having enough fun with the games and rides.”

  Koesler shrugged. He couldn’t argue the point.

  “It’s a nice attitude,” Hogan continued, “and I admire you, I guess. I also envy you.”

  “Envy me?”

  “It’s a healthy attitude. Other pastors are nursing ulcers and worrying themselves sick over finances. They’ve got to keep the damn school open or keep the church heated, or air conditioned. They’ve got to pay for a religious education coordinator. And on and on and on.”

  “Those are realistic concerns,” Koesler said.

  “But they’re not yours,” Hogan insisted. “Oh, I’m not saying you’re not concerned about all those things. But they don’t eat you up. If the people want a school, they’ll support it; otherwise, it’ll close. It’s their school; it’s their choice. No?”

  “Well, isn’t that realistic? It is their school. The parishioners built it long before I got there. It may be there long after I’m gone . . . maybe. But my job is to make sure we offer a quality Christian education. It’s not my job to finance the thing. No?”

  “Maybe,” Hogan said. “But you’d never know that by the way other pastors do it. When it comes to finances, you are about the most laid-back person I know.”

  “Really!”

  “And that’s what I envy. I think you’re correct in your basic approach to finances. Priests, generally, don’t have to be terribly concerned about personal income. Not unless they have to support an indigent relative, or unless they’re living way over their heads.

  “Maybe the ones who worry themselves sick over collections and festivals are concerned about their parishioners’ finances. Who knows? The thing is, they don’t have to get all worked up about their own income.”

  “Aren’t you generalizing, Charlie?”

  “Bob, I’ve lived both lives. I know. Let me tell you, the overpowering feeling you get when you leave the priesthood is that you are letting go of maybe the greatest security in the world. And you’re trading it for maybe the greatest insecurity in the world.”

  “Is your experience typical?” Koesler spoke hesitantly.

  “Maybe, maybe not. I know a lot of guys who quit the priesthood who are doing a lot better than I am. I also know some who aren’t doing nearly as well. But if it weren’t for Lil and her job at the clinic . . .” Hogan added more water to the hot coals, decreasing visibility to near zero.

  Koesler was too tired for more than token objection. “But you’re working, Charlie. I see your byline all the time. That’s pretty steady.”

  “It just seems as if I get published a lot because you’re aware of my name on articles. And, fortunately, I do get a lot of assignments in local publications. But that’s partly because they like the luxury of using free-lance writers. Then they’re not stuck with a union wage and they also get out of paying the fringes.”

  “But you do get paid.”

  “They pay me.” Hogan sounded as if he were smiling. Koesler couldn’t tell; the steam was too intense.

  “But not enough?”

  “It’s not so much a case of enough or not enough. It’s not consistent, not dependable, not predictable. That’s it. There’s no foretelling what I’ll be able to scrounge up. Some years it’s pretty good, sometimes not. Sometimes I earn more than Lil. But one thing’s for sure: We wouldn’t survive without her health care package that covers both of us.”

  “But you are surviving—and a bit better than that.” Koesler was still trying to find a silver lining. “You do get your assignments. And Lil’s insurance takes care of the both of you.”

  “You don’t understand. Or maybe I’m just not making myself clear.

  “When a guy leaves the priesthood, he isn’t prepared for much of anything else. Just remember our education. Plenty of the classics. An excellent liberal arts program. Very good so far. A nice broad base on which to build.

  “But after that, we began to separate ourselves from the rest of humanity. Along about college, certainly postgrad, the others began zeroing in on a career: law, premed, accounting, journalism, mechanics—you name it.

  “Well, so did we prepare for a career, but a unique career, administering sacraments, preaching, instructing in the Catholic faith. Nothing the world is interested in. But then, we weren’t preparing for life in the mainstream. See, when you leave the priesthood, necessarily you enter the mainstream—the very place that has no room for you. So you begin to scramble. You’ve got to make a living in a hostile environment.’”

  Another spa member entered the sauna. He moved toward the far end, so as not to inhibit their conversation. But, as he passed the hot coals, he dumped a large supply of water on them. The steam rose immediately. It took Koesler’s breath away for a moment. He waited till he was sure his lungs were not seared before speaking again.

  “Charlie, you make it sound like it’s Us against Them—that everybody outside the priesthood is lined up, waiting for one of us to leave so they can pounce on us.”

  Hogan coughed. Apparently the steam had gotten even to him. “Okay, that’s a bit melodramatic. But look at it this way: I left in my mid-thirties. At that age, my peers, with a few exceptions, were already working away at whatever they were going to do for a living for the rest of their working lives. Guys in business were up to middle management—or higher.

  “They’ve got their homes, maybe their second or third home. They’ve got their families, maybe all the kids they’re ever going to have. All of a sudden, here I come. I join them, only I’ve got nothing. I’m starting where they did when they were in their late teens, early twenties. Except that I’m in my mid-thirties. And starting on the bottom, I’m competing against guys in their teens and twenties.

  “So I had to scramble, see? I figured I’d never catch up if I started in something based on strict seniority like the postal service or some other civil service job. On the other hand, I’m no good at selling. So that cancels something like insurance. I chose newspapering because it takes only four to five years to reach top scale in a union wage and also because I knew I could do it.”

  “But that’s a crowded field, Charlie.”

  “But I knew I could make it. I still know that. Hell, I’m making it right now. My pieces are getting published regularly. Seldom do I get any rejections.

  “Oh, I can do it, all right. It’s just that I can’t do it where I want to do it—working steady at a major newspaper, where I could bank on a regular paycheck and good income. Where I could support Lil without her having to work. Where we could have a family. That’s what we wanted from the beginning, Bob; you know that. We wanted a family. We never had one. Probably we’ll never have one. Lil has to keep working. Together, we just get by. And without her insurance coverage, neither of us could afford to get sick.”

  Koesler, well remembering how much Charlie and Lil had wanted children, was painfully aware that, on the one hand, they would have made excellent parents and on the other, in all likelihood, they never would be.

  “If you don’t mind—” Koesler stood, “—let’s get out of here before I turn into a lobster.”

  They showered and started dressing.

  “I’ve never talked to you about this—” Koesler had feared he might be prying, “—but what about your books? It’s not everybody who’s a published author. I’ve got all three of them—autographed, of course.” Koesler smiled.

&n
bsp; “Yeah, you and not enough others.”

  “Not enough others?”

  “None of them sold more than 5,000 copies.”

  “That’s bad?”

  “Think of Michener with well over 100,000 hardcover copies, book clubs, paperback, foreign sales, big screen movies or a TV mini-series. That’s success.”

  “That’s a bit extreme, isn’t it?”

  “Granted. But if I were going to make a living at this sort of thing, my books would have to sell at least 25,000 copies in hardcover, along with some of those auxiliary sales. And, as you can see, I’m a long way from that.”

  “But they were good books.”

  “I thought so. And so did a couple of thousand readers. But that’s just not enough.”

  Koesler pondered for a few moments. “I don’t understand. They were good books. Why didn’t they sell?”

  Hogan shrugged.

  “If memory serves,” Koesler continued, “they got good reviews in the News and the Free Press . . . didn’t they?”

  “As a matter of fact, the reviews were mixed. Actually, I guess I was lucky to have them reviewed at all.”

  “You were?”

  “Bob, there are about 400,000 book manuscripts submitted every year. About, roughly, 40,000 of them get published. And only a very small percentage of that number are even reviewed, let alone get a favorable review. Take a look at the Free Press and the News. Each paper uses a single page on Sundays for books, with, once in a while, another review or two during the week.”

  “You’re right . . . I guess I never gave it much thought. When you consider the number published, I guess comparatively few do even get reviewed.”

  “It doesn’t really matter that much. Most authors seem to feel that reviews neither sell books nor discourage people from buying them. A few readers, maybe, but not many . . . certainly not enough to make a difference.

  “From my relatively narrow experience, I didn’t mind so much when a reviewer simply didn’t like my book. What bugs me—and I suppose most other writers—is when the reviewer is just flat-out wrong—incorrect. It happens. You knock yourself cold researching—and you’re accurate. You have experts in the field read and okay your manuscript. Then some reviewer, based on nothing but his or her own ignorance, right off the top of his or her head, says you’re wrong.” He grinned ironically. “If I had my way, reviewers would have to be licensed.”