Deadline for a Critic Page 9

  He couldn’t put his finger on it. Somehow the back seat of a car meant a momentary fling while a bed conveyed the idea of a commitment. Permanence. Marriage.

  He sat bolt upright. He’d been challenged. All thought of resumption of necking and petting was wiped away. This had to be settled first. “Well, you know, Beth, this isn’t as easy as saying, ‘Your place or mine?’ Our parents would not be nuts about the idea of us going to bed.”

  “There are other beds.”

  “Can you afford a motel? I can’t.”

  “How about where you live?”

  “I told you—”

  “I mean the seminary.”

  “The seminary! You must be out of your—”

  “They’ve got beds there.”

  “Of course they’ve got beds there. They just don’t allow women in them.”

  “Why not be a pioneer? Be the first to have a room with a girl instead of a room with a view.”

  “That’s impossible. The place is packed with men. How would you get in there? How could I get you past the guys on duty? There are some rules I can get away with breaking. But this! I’d be out on my ear in a minute.”

  “Impossible? For you? Afraid to take the chance?”

  Afraid to take the chance? Now, there was a gauntlet. His mind raced. Was there a chance in a million of pulling this off? There were many more doors besides the front door. There was the matter of time and timing. The best time of day or night and gauging the amount of time it would take to get from here to there and from there to there. With some cooperation and a barrel of luck, a guy might just pull it off.

  Yeah, with scrupulous planning and a lot of luck, it might just work.

  The idea was beginning to intrigue him. To the best of his knowledge, it had never been tried before. What a challenge!

  And what a risk! In a sense, his entire future in the Church would depend on success or failure in an enterprise like this.

  “Okay, let’s do it! Just give me time to set it up.”

  Her eyes flashed. “How much time?”

  He thought. “A few weeks ... a month at most.”

  She frowned. “That’s pretty close to the end of school. You’re not trying to put this off till summertime, are you?”

  “No, no . . .” He was still thinking. “Not summertime. If anything, that’d be more chancey. There’s no tight schedule then. There may be fewer people around but there’s no predicting where they may be or when.

  “No, it’s chancey as hell. But the only time to try it is when everybody’s there and on schedule.”

  She caught his excitement. “You mean you’re really going to try it?” She had not planned this. It had just happened. But she couldn’t have been more thrilled.

  “I couldn’t resist.”

  She crushed out her cigarette in the ashtray, smiled at him with a new, warm welcome, and slid down until she was reclining on the seat.

  He flicked up her skirt, placed his hand firmly on her inner thigh and got back to the serious business of heavy breathing.

  7

  Robert Koesler would never forget the final few months of his junior year in college. Too many traumatic events took place to forget any of them.

  This, the third collegiate year, marked the first time seminarians were allowed to have private rooms. Previously, those who boarded at the seminary had slept in huge dormitories where there was a minimum of privacy and a maximum of adolescent horseplay.

  Individual rooms were awarded students for the junior and senior years of college. The rooms—very small and spartan—were located in a section of the building called St. Thomas Hall. No conversation or fraternizing was permitted in the Hall, only study and sleep. Leading one wag to suggest that if any student were to die in St. Thomas Hall, when at long last the body was discovered, they would just put handles on the room and bury him in it.

  Beginning shortly after Christmas, at the start of the second semester, the faculty announced an open competition for members of the Philosophy Department—third and fourth college. It was a voluntary arts and letters contest with many categories to choose from. Entries and entrants were to be prepared by the final week in May. The competition would be judged the first week in June.

  Characteristically, Koesler chose the category of declamation in which to compete. All he had to do was memorize a lengthy speech from Shakespeare, and recite it while acting it out.

  Carroll Mitchell was very serious about the competition. He volunteered to write an original play. It would not be performed, but judged as a written work.

  When he learned what Mitchell had planned, Groendal of course decided to join in the combat. He too would write a play.

  They were now nearing the time of judgment, a unique event in the annals of the seminary. It was an exciting time. Very shortly, winners from the various categories would be announced. The school year was coming to a close. Summer vacation would begin in a matter of weeks.

  To cap the climax there was Mitchell’s saucy plan to smuggle a girl into his room. To be sure, few knew of this daring project. From the start, Mitchell knew he couldn’t complete this caper without some minimal conspiracy. But it would have to be confined to as few trusted friends as possible. Among those let in on the secret were Koesler and Groendal.

  Least apprehensive of all involved in this adventure—which had been lightheartedly code-named “Cherchez la Femme”—was Mitchell himself. To him it was no more than a game, a game for which he had carefully prepared and was destined to win. To the others, it was one gigantic and needless risk. If they were caught, they had no idea what sort of punishment would be meted out. Aiding and abetting fornication, as far as they could discover, was an as-yet uncodified offense against seminary order. But there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that the administration would be creative in finding a penalty.

  Of course there was no uncertainty as to what lay before Mitchell should he be caught. He would be out on his ear before that day was done. So the principal peril was Mitchell’s. But there was enough ancillary hazard to go around for everyone.

  The only reason Koesler agreed to collaborate was out of loyalty to Mitchell. It would not by any means be the first time Koesler had been in violation of a seminary rule, only the most serious. Why Groendal was aboard was anyone’s guess. Even he was not quite sure. Ridley, a very complex person, was little understood by anyone, including himself.

  Now it had come down to the final meeting for “Cherchez la Femme.” This was a summit assembly of only the principals. Mitchell, Koesler, and Groendal. Each clad in cassock and Roman collar, a privilege granted from third college on, the three walked briskly in endless wide circles around the seminary grounds, firming up the plot.

  “Does it have to be this Sunday?” Koesler asked.

  “What’s the matter with this Sunday?” Mitchell countered.

  “I don’t know. It’s so soon.”

  “What do you mean ‘soon’? We’ve been talking about it for almost three weeks. This is the final Visiting Sunday of the year. The place will be lousy with guests. That’s what I’m counting on.”

  “He’s right, Bob,” Groendal said. “There’s always plenty of confusion on Visiting Sunday. Parents, grandparents, sometimes brothers, sisters, cousins, friends . . . all ages. The perfect time to smuggle somebody in, particularly a girl. It’s just about the only time there are girls in the building.”

  “But there aren’t any girls in St. Thomas Hall,” Koesler insisted.

  “There aren’t any visitors permitted in St Thomas Hall. So what’s the good of the crowd as a camouflage?”

  Mitchell sighed. “We’ve been over this before, Bob. The idea is to get her into the building without raising any suspicions. When we get to St. Thomas Hall, that’s where you guys come in.”

  “I don’t know . . .”

  “Bob,” Mitchell said, “if you want out, say so. Nobody’s making you do this. I just asked you because first, you can keep a secret. And
second, I thought you’d be willing to help me.”

  “I’m not begging off,” Koesler said. “It’s just that since I agreed to get involved, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. Too much, in fact. It’s getting in the way of just about everything—studies, exams. The more I think about it, the more I ask myself. Why? So, why?”

  “I told you: I promised her.”

  “But it’s so silly. You, maybe we, are toying with expulsion. And for what?”

  “I promised. But, if you want out . . .”

  “I can’t handle it alone,” Groendal protested.

  “We can always get somebody else.” Even as he said it, Mitchell was not at all sure he could come up with a replacement for Koesler, particularly on such short notice.

  “No, no; I’ll do it. You promised her. I promised you. I just think we should have been more prudent before any of us did all this promising.”

  “Relax, will you. Both of you! Nothing’s going to go wrong. It’s all very simple. What is it? An afternoon. One afternoon out of your whole life?”

  Neither Groendal nor Koesler cared to comment on that. For a few moments, they were silent as they broke off their circling pattern and headed for the building.

  Perhaps, thought Koesler, Mitchell was right. It was just an afternoon. And Mitch had planned things carefully, as he always did. Nothing could go wrong. It was futile and foolish to worry.

  As they entered the building and headed for their rooms in St. Thomas Hall, Mitch began to recapitulate. “Now, Beth will get here right at two o’clock, one hour after visiting time begins. There will be a big crowd here by then. It’s always that way. The main bunch gets here right off the bat. By two, more will be coming. But nobody will be leaving yet. Bob meets her at the front door. You got that, Bob?”

  “Yeah, okay. But . . . what if she’s not the only one wearing a green dress?”

  “You forget: She’s looking for you, too. How many girls in green dresses will be looking for you?”

  “Okay.”

  “All right,” Mitchell continued. “Then what?”

  “Then I escort her down the first-floor corridor. We go all the way around the first floor and end up at St. Thomas Hall. Then I check things with Rid.”

  “And what do you do, Rid?”

  “I’ve already checked out the first floor and made sure there’s nobody around. When Bob gets there with Beth, I go through the Hall and make doubly sure there’s nobody around. Then I stay at the far end, while Bob lets her in the Hall.”

  “And Bob?”

  “I let her in the Hall. She already knows the number of your room. When she goes in, I stay at my end and make sure nobody enters until she gets to your room and goes in. And . . .. that’s pretty much it.”

  “Right. Neither of you will be needed again until four, when she leaves. And the process will be just reversed, with the two of you at either end of the Hall making sure the coast is clear. Then she’ll come out and mingle with the crowd that’s leaving at the end of visiting hours. And that’s it.”

  They arrived at Mitchell’s room. Neither Koesler nor Groendal made any move to enter. After all, it was against the rules for any student to be in any other student’s room.

  Oddly, it did not seem strange to either of them that they were observing a rule that they would help smash to smithereens in just a few days.

  “By the way,” Groendal said, “now that all the plans are made, what are you going to do in here for two whole hours on Sunday?”

  Mitchell looked at Groendal in amazement. “You mean you actually don’t know?”

  The superior tone did it. Groendal dissolved in embarrassment.

  Mitchell looked knowingly at Koesler, who had a blank expression.

  Mitchell shook his head. Neither of his confederates had any real idea why they were putting their careers at risk. If truth be known, even Mitchell had no practical knowledge of what might follow necking and petting. But he was more than willing to find out.

  In any case, there was nothing more to say. All plans had been made and checked. Everything was prepared. Each was ready to go to his own room.

  “By the way. Rid, how did your play go?”

  The question took Groendal by surprise.

  “My play? Oh, you mean for the arts contest. Okay, I guess.”

  “I would have helped you with it,” Mitchell said, “but I was entered in the same contest. Somehow it just didn’t seem kosher.”

  Groendal recoiled. “I don’t need any help from you or anybody.”

  “Sorry.” Mitchell knew he was the better playwright. He also knew he had touched a nerve. “Anyway, it’s all over except for the judging. You make a copy of yours?”

  “Sure.”

  “So did I. Let’s trade off. We can read each other’s play.”

  “Why?”

  “No reason. I’d just like to read your work and I’d like you to read mine. I mean we both really like the stage. It’d be fun to read each other’s work. Unless a miracle happens, one of our plays is going to win. Then the school year’ll be over and we’ll never get to read each other’s stuff.”

  “I don’t know . . .” Groendal seemed most reluctant.

  “Hey, it’s okay, Rid. Just a thought. Forget it.”

  Groendal’s expression changed. “Okay. It might be fun. I’ll go get it now and we’ll trade.”

  In the ensuing couple of days, Mitchell found little time for anything other than cramming for final exams. He was able even to keep from thinking about “Cherchez la Femme.” On Saturday afternoon, he found a little spare time. He also found Groendal’s manuscript and decided, since the exchange had been his idea, he’d better read it.

  Mitchell studied the title. “The Biggest Miracle.” He smiled. How like Rid to write a religious play. Appropriate too, since the judges would all be priests of the seminary faculty.

  Mitchell began to read. As he turned the pages, a frown appeared. The more he read, the deeper the furrows. Several times he put the manuscript aside and sat lost in thought. When he finally finished reading, he went immediately to the library, where he spent nearly an hour in the reserve stacks until he found what he was seeking. He checked out a small black book. Then he went to the recreation rooms in the basement of St. Thomas Hall where, as he had expected, he found Ridley Groendal listening to classical records and smoking a cigarette. There was no one else in the room, so Mitchell took a chair next to Ridley.

  Mitchell gazed intently but wordlessly at his classmate.

  Groendal finally broke the ice. “Good play. I finished it last night. Sort of a downer, though . . . I didn’t think you tied up all the loose ends at the conclusion.”

  “They weren’t supposed to be tied, Rid.” Mitchell paused. “Rid, why’d you do it?”

  “Do what?” But Groendal’s eyes betrayed awareness; he knew.

  “You’re a creative person, Rid. I know that. You’ve done some pretty good stuff in the past. You didn’t have to steal a play!”

  “What?” Groendal did a bad job of stubbing out his cigarette. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Your play.” Mitchell tapped the manuscript in his lap. “It’s about a seminary faculty composed of very educated men—as a matter of fact, it’s an all-male cast.”

  “It was written to be performed by a seminary. And they’re always looking for all-male casts.”

  “One faculty member is deathly ill,” Mitchell continued as if he’d never been interrupted, “and one is having serious problems with his faith. And there’s an agnostic doctor who is taking special care of the sick priest.”

  Groendal nervously lit another cigarette.

  “So there’s a miracle. Or at least it seems like a miraculous cure of the sick priest. And this partially restores the faith of the doubting priest. Until the doctor goes to confession and tells the doubter that the cure wasn’t a miracle. The sick priest simply responded to the medication. So the doubter is torn up by a knowledge he
can share with no one because of the ‘seal’ of confession. And then at the end there’s a real miracle that restores the faith of the doubting priest.”

  Groendal anxiously tapped a long cigarette ash into a tray. “Sounds like a pretty good plot to me.”

  “It seemed like a pretty good plot to Emmet Lavery, too.” From beneath Groendal’s manuscript, Mitchell extracted the small black book he had checked out of the library. “Except that Lavery called it ‘The First Legion.’”

  “A coincidence,” Groendal murmured.

  “Coincidence! Change your seminary faculty to his small Jesuit seminary and everything is pretty much the same. Oh, I’ll give you credit for rewriting the ending . . . and I think yours is better, more believable. But the rest of it you stole.”

  “Oh, come on, Mitch!”

  “Sometimes word for word. Look at this . . .” Mitchell indicated parallel passages in the bound play and in Groendal’s manuscript. In both versions a character says, ‘I . . . begin to see . . . the biggest miracle . . . is faith . . . and to have faith is the miracle!’ To which another character responds, ‘I have prayed for faith like yours, but it won’t come.’

  “And that,” Mitchell continued, “is only one example, Rid. They’re all over the place. And what’s more, you know it! You have to know it! You copied them!”

  Groendal lit a fresh cigarette from the butt of the previous one. Ordinarily, he did not chain-smoke.

  “This is why you were reluctant to exchange manuscripts with me, wasn’t it?”

  “At first, yes,” Groendal admitted. “But then I wanted to see if it could get by you. Obviously, it didn’t.

  “I knew I was taking a chance—with you and, to a lesser degree, with the faculty.” He shrugged. “I figured it was worth the gamble.” He looked at Mitchell. “What are you going to do about it?”

  “The question, Rid, is what are you going to do about it?”

  Groendal exhaled a long stream of smoke. “Nothing.”

  “Nothing! Rid, don’t you understand? This is plagiarism. It’s a crime!”

  “There’s no guarantee that it will be performed even if it wins.”