Deadline for a Critic Page 5

  “Portals, by Carl Ruggles.”

  “Sort of strange, isn’t it?”

  Harison looked offended. “Ruggles was a champion—an early one, I might say—of contrapuntal sound and dissonance. He employed the ten-tone serial technique.”

  It was Greek to Koesler. He knew only that he did not like it. “Interesting.” A comment befitting a strange hairstyle, bizarre clothing, an ugly baby—or aberrant music.

  The ambiguous remark seemed to mollify Harison. “Rid would have liked it. He enjoyed fearless creativity. I gave the tape to Mr. Morand and asked him to play it.” Harison seemed pleased with his choice. “But, I suppose we shouldn’t be talking about that now.”

  “We can talk about whatever you’d like.”

  Harison tilted his head slightly as if understanding something that should have been obvious. “This is what you ordinarily do at wakes, isn’t it Father? You get the mourners to talk about the deceased so you will have relevant material for your eulogy.”

  Koesler smiled briefly. “I’m afraid you’re right”

  Harison smiled more broadly. “Well, you certainly don’t have to quiz me. You knew Rid as well as anyone.”

  “Not really.” This was getting into dangerous territory. It was true that for quite a few years, as youthful contemporaries, Groendal and Koesler had been classmates and, if not the best of friends, friends nonetheless. Groendal had indeed confided some very personal secrets to Koesler. But their paths had parted shortly after college.

  Koesler had chosen the local Catholic seminaries for his education. He’d gone through the seminary high school, college, and theologate and been ordained a priest for service in the Archdiocese of Detroit. He’d been assigned to several parishes before being named editor of the local diocesan newspaper. Later, he was named pastor of St. Anselm’s parish. And that, in his rather prosaic curriculum vitae, brought him up-to-date.

  Groendal too had entered the seminary in the ninth grade. But he had left, just before graduation from college. Thereafter, with only three early exceptions, he had had no connection with Koesler until moving into St. Anselm’s parish a little more than a year before his death.

  Koesler knew, mostly from mutual acquaintances, that Ridley had earned a doctoral degree from the University of Minnesota. Later, he’d worked at a series of newspapers until he’d landed that prestigious job with the New York Herald. Thereafter, since he’d become a celebrity, it had been rather easy to follow his career.

  “What do you mean, ‘not really’?” Harison pressed. “You knew him during his most vulnerable years, when he was growing up. And now you’ve known him during the last years of his life.”

  Koesler was unsure how to reply. It was more a challenge than a question. Fortunately, at that very moment, another visitor demanded Harison’s attention. Excusing himself, Harison rose to greet the newcomer, leaving Father Koesler to ponder a response, as much to satisfy his own curiosity as Harison’s.

  Could Harison be jealous? Of what? Of no more than a passing adolescent friendship. True, during the past year, Groendal had made it a point to visit Koesler with some regularity. But that was on more of a casual than a friendship basis. The problem was not Koesler’s relationship with Groendal. The problem was the connection between Groendal and Harison. The tie between them had complicated Koesler’s life during the past year and continued to do so even now.

  During the past year, Rid Groendal had come by appointment to see Koesler about two or three times a month. They had been unconventional visits in that they involved neither confession, instruction, counseling, repartee, or even reminiscences of the good old days. Mostly, the evenings were spent with Koesler listening to the “Gospel According to Groendal.”

  Koesler put up with it because, on the one hand, on Sundays Groendal joined himself to the captive audience in St. Anselm’s church and turnabout was fair play; and, on the other hand, while the Gospel According to Groendal had little to do with that of Jesus Christ, it was at least provocative.

  Perhaps the most startling thing disclosed in these visits was that Groendal’s Catholicism was of the rock-ribbed traditional variety. Curious for one whose avowed artistic tastes ran to avant-garde music, bizarre stage productions, and unconventional literature. But when it came to religion, Groendal favored the Latin liturgy—with the Tridentine, rather than the modern Mass. His theology had not advanced much beyond the basic Baltimore Catechism. And the Church was not the People-of-God, but the Pope, who would let everyone know of the slight possibility that there might be a doctrinal change.

  Groendal assured Koesler that this entire theological viewpoint was shared by Peter Harison, boon companion.

  However, Groendal and Harison were a homosexual couple. It was the only chink Koesler could find in their otherwise conservative theology. Both men were well aware of the official Church teaching that, while preaching tolerance of the people involved, condemned homosexual acts as sins against nature. A classic interpretation of the principle—hate the sin, love the sinner. They were aware of the teaching. They chose to ignore it.

  While their rationale on this subject was extremely unorthodox, it was by no means unique. As happened so frequently, it all depended on whose ox was being gored. Koesler knew many liberals who themselves demanded freedom from authority while demanding that all others conform to their views. And conservatives who insisted on absolute unanimity with the Pope in all things—except for those issues on which they disagreed with the Pope.

  So, in the course of the past year, Koesler had become quite familiar with the Gospel According to Groendal and Harison. There had been times when the priest had tried to insert a divergent word; but, finding that fruitless, eventually he just sat back, relaxed, and listened.

  One thing he had wondered about all those months was whether Groendal ever shared with Harison what had been told to Koesler. From Harison’s comment a few minutes ago, Koesler now guessed that Groendal had kept Harison in the dark as to what had been discussed in the rectory. In one unguarded moment, Harison had given the unmistakable impression that he envied Koesler’s relationship with Groendal—whatever it might have been.

  But since Koesler was not one to needlessly chance betraying a confidence, Harison’s curiosity would have to remain unsatisfied.

  The priest’s musings were terminated when Harison returned and resumed his adjacent chair. “So, Father, what will you talk about in your eulogy tomorrow?”

  Koesler rubbed his chin, “To be frank, I don’t know yet. There are so many things . . .”

  “But to be specific . . . ?”

  “I truly don’t know, Peter. I even thought of asking someone else to give the homily. I’m afraid I’m a little too close to be as objective as I’d want to be.”

  “Oh, no, Father! Believe me, Rid would want you to speak over him. You’ve got to do it!”

  Koesler smiled. “Peter, I only said I’d thought about asking someone else. I wouldn’t, really. It’s my place to do it. It’s just that I’m not sure what tack I’ll take. But don’t worry: I’ve had enough experience so that something will come to mind.”

  Harison seemed apprehensive. He placed his hand on Koesler’s arm. “Father, there’s something you may not know. It may have a bearing on the whole funeral. It’ll probably be in the paper tomorrow anyway. But you should know beforehand. It’s only fair.”

  “Peter, what are you getting at?”

  “Father, Rid had AIDS.”

  “He did!” Koesler shook his head. “I guess that explains that weight loss. I’ll be darned.”

  “But he didn’t get it from me.”

  “He didn’t?” Koesler did not succeed in keeping the surprise out of his voice.

  “No. It was the only time he was ever unfaithful. He had to go back to New York—something about settling details of his pension. There was a lot of pressure . . . stress. It was a weak moment. Can you imagine that, Father? One unfaithful moment and then . . . that!”

 
Koesler thought for a minute. “Peter, why are you telling me this?”

  “Because once they publish the results of the autopsy, everyone will know. You might get in trouble with the Church . . . having his funeral.”

  “Peter, do you think the Church would deny Christian burial just because someone contracted AIDS?”

  “One never knows what the Church might do these days.”

  “Well, at least that one is not on the books. There won’t be any difficulty in having Rid’s funeral.”

  “Thank God!” Harison’s great relief was evident. “I’ve been wrestling with my conscience for days wondering whether to tell you. Rid told me he confessed his unfaithfulness—oh, not here . . . not to you. In another parish.”

  That must have been some confession; Koesler wondered which priest got that one.

  “Rid just wasn’t himself lately, since it happened—the thing in New York, I mean.” Now that he had broken the ice, Harison seemed intent on unburdening himself. “Have you dined with him lately?”

  Koesler shook his head.

  “He’s been killing himself. Deliberately. Eating all the wrong things. Drinking all the wrong things. It was remorse. I’m sure of it. I think he was just never able to forgive himself for what happened. And then with AIDS . . . well, it was just a matter of time. Watching him punish himself was killing me too. It was such a tragedy, Father. One time . . . one time! It’s so unfair!”

  Harison began to sob. Bystanders shuffled and moved away. Most found it awkward to stand helpless in the face of such grief, let alone seeing a grown man cry.

  Koesler placed an arm across Harison’s quivering shoulders.

  How very odd, thought the priest. Two men whose very lifestyle has been roundly and consistently condemned by the Church—the Church that they fervently believe in. Yet they simply deny the condemnation and go on acting as—so far as they are concerned—devout and practicing Catholics. Then, when one of them contracts a disease associated with the lifestyle, they’re sure all hell is about to break loose. None of it made any sense.

  Harison’s sobbing had caused a hush to fall over the large room.

  Koesler wished someone would turn off that damn music.

  Part Two

  Greeting the Body

  5

  “Happy New Year.”

  “Yeah. Same to you.” Koesler returned the greeting even though there was still a full day before New Year’s Eve. “How’s the new job?”

  Raising his eyes as if in supplication, Father Jerry Marvin breathed a sigh of anxiety. “Jeez, I don’t know, Bob. It was a straight player trade but I think there should have been some cash involved.”

  Marvin, one of Koesler’s priest-classmates, had just assumed his new assignment as rector of Sacred Heart Seminary. The former rector had become pastor of Marvin’s former parish, SL René Goupil. The switch was the choicest bit of clerical gossip making the rounds. In obedience to his bishop’s will, Marvin had left a thriving suburban parish to take a post that was a mere shadow of its former self. In the early to mid-sixties, Sacred Heart had bulged with seminarians. Now there were so few students that every movable archdiocesan department had been pushed into the seminary building just to keep as much of the edifice as possible open and operating.

  “Look at it this way,” Koesler kidded, “you are no longer merely Father Marvin. You’re a rector. You are the Very Reverend F. Gerald Marvin.”

  “A consoling thought,” Marvin replied. “I’ll have that stitched on my underwear. That way I’ll be sure to get it back from the laundry.”

  “You moved in yet?”

  “Uh-huh. Just in time for the second semester. It’s like Sklarski said when he got old St. Vincent’s: ‘Yeah, boys, a plum . . . a little wrinkled, but a plum.’ I had Mass a few times with the kids. I can’t quite decide whether to tell them about the Good Old Days or not”

  “Tell them. By all means, tell them. There was nothing like it. But try not to sound too much like Inspector Frank Luger, NYPD.”

  Marvin, a fellow devotee of the old “Barney Miller” TV series, laughed. “I’d better get out of here and let you get ready for the funeral. Talk to you after.” Marvin, already vested in cassock and surplice, left the sacristy to take his place in one of the pews reserved for the visiting clergy.

  Koesler had guessed correctly that Ridley C. Groendal would be recognized as a Very Important Catholic and would thus draw quite a few priests to his funeral. It had been wise to reserve several of the front pews on the “Gospel side” of the church. It was 9:45 A.M., fifteen minutes before the cortege was expected, and already the reserved pews were almost filled.

  Looking out the door of the sacristy into the body of the church, Koesler was engrossed by the difference in demeanor between the laity and the priests.

  Lay people, arriving singly, in couples, and groups in advance of the cortege, entered the church, generally awkwardly. Non-Catholics usually gave themselves away immediately. They were out of their element and showed it. Ill at ease, they glanced about awkwardly, trying to pick up some acceptable liturgical action from those who might be Catholic. Even then, few attempted a genuflection before entering a pew. And though most Catholics knelt for at least a few moments before seating themselves, Protestants regarded kneelers as, perhaps, the instrument that caused the Reformation.

  Catholics, on the other hand, entered with assurance and familiarity. But also with a reverence that was more habit than conviction. Genuflections were abortive. Signs of the Cross were truncated. And the hands: What to do with the hands? For some reason, Catholics in church could not let hands dangle at the side as was natural in any other sphere of life. So, usually, hands were carried folded over the pubic area for no other reason than that Catholics were accustomed to joining their hands in prayer with elbows propped on the pew ahead. Since this was a place of prayer, and while walking there was no place to prop one’s elbows, hands joined in front fulfilled the happy medium of hands both dangling and folded.

  In contrast, it was a joy to watch priests gather. Like fish returning to water, church was home for priests. They entered casually, genuflected fully, knelt naturally, and had no problem whatsoever with their hands. Not infrequently, priests carried something. With some of the older priests, that might well be a breviary, the almost extinct special monastic prayer book. If they carried nothing, their hands hung quite naturally. They were, after all, home.

  Most gratifying was the way priests greeted each other. Almost every priest knew almost all the others. As they gathered, there were smiles of recognition, nods, nudges, a few words, but mostly the nonverbal communication that marks a uniquely shared life and experience.

  Koesler glanced at the wall clock. One minute past ten. Not unusual. Funerals had a habit of tardiness. So did weddings. Weddings were much worse.

  Activity in the vestibule. The outside doors propped open, letting out a healthy chunk of heat. It was all so familiar. Ridley C. Groendal was arriving for his last visit to church, a little late and literally breathless.

  Koesler nodded to the Mass servers, altar boys and girls, and in silence the small altar procession moved through the sanctuary, down the middle aisle, to the rear of the church.

  The burnished metal casket containing the mortal remains of Ridley Groendal was placed on its carrier. The morticians in attendance stood impassively at the head and foot of the casket. Six pallbearers stamped snow from their shoes. Breath was exhaled in visible vapors as cold air invaded the church. Only the first few mourners stood in the church. The others would have to wait until the procession moved forward. Peter Harison, of course, was first among the mourners.

  Koesler opened the ritual and read, “The grace and peace of God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ be with you.”

  “And also with you.” Everyone was supposed to respond. Only the servers and Peter Harison did.

  Koesler sprinkled the casket with holy water as he read, “I bless the body of Ridley with holy
water that recalls his baptism of which St Paul writes: All of us who were baptized into Christ Jesus were baptized into His death. By baptism into His death we were buried together with Him, so that just as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father, we too might live a new life. For if we have been united with Him by likeness to His death, so shall we be united with Him by likeness to His resurrection.”

  As a white ornamented cloth was spread over the coffin, Koesler read aloud, “On the day of his baptism, Ridley put on Christ In the day of Christ’s coming, may he be clothed with glory.”

  He continued, “Let us pray. Lord, hear our prayers and be merciful to your son, Ridley, whom you have called from this life. Welcome him into the company of your saints, in the kingdom of light and peace. We ask this through Christ our Lord. Amen.”

  Koesler nodded to the server carrying the processional cross and the group began retracing its path through the church. As they slowly walked up the aisle, the organist and choir—the choir because a Very Important Catholic was being buried—began the hymn, “I Will Raise Him Up.” Most of the priests joined in the refrain. In all, this was a much grander greeting of the body than in a common garden variety Mass of Resurrection.

  While processing down the middle aisle and managing to maintain custody of the eyes, Koesler did glance from side to side occasionally.

  He was very surprised to see one of them. He was astonished to see the second. At that point, he decided to put the remainder of his amazement on hold until he checked out the rest of the congregation. Sure enough, he spied the third and then the fourth. All four of the original suspects in the investigation of the death of Ridley C. Groendal were present. Five, if one counted Peter Harison among the original suspects. That all were able to attend this funeral was due entirely to a decision of the Deputy Chief of the Criminal Division of the Wayne County Prosecutor’s Office.