He turned and ran, stumbling, to the stairs.
Palmer yelled after him. “When you try to get even, just remember what happened here today. I’m always going to have the last laugh. Do you hear that, Groendal? I’m always going to have the last laugh!”
Nearly two months later, it was announced that David Palmer had been awarded a scholarship to the National Music Camp at Interlochen. A school assembly was held in his honor and congratulations poured in from nearly everyone but Ridley Groendal.
From the recital until the end of the school year, not a word would pass between Groendal and Palmer. After that, as they entered high school, their paths would diverge until many years later, when Groendal would have become a professional critic and Palmer a professional musician.
Palmer attended Holy Redeemer for the first two years of high school. Then, as part of an augmented scholarship, he was able to become a full-time student at the Interlochen Arts Academy, whence he then graduated.
Groendal, mostly as a result of frustration over his scuttled musical ambition, decided to become a priest. So he, along with Robert Koesler, attended Sacred Heart, Detroit’s high school and college seminary.
One incident before the end of that fateful final year in primary school would have serious repercussions many years later.
It was a fire that threatened to burn down Redeemer auditorium. The fire department termed it arson. The culprit was never identified. It was started on the stage of the auditorium but destroyed only the grand piano and a relatively small portion of the hardwood flooring.
Shortly after the fire, David Palmer approached Robert Koesler. “I’ve got something to show you.” Palmer handed Koesler a photograph.
Koesler studied the indistinct picture, “Okay, I give up; what is it?”
Palmer ran his finger over the photo. “This is the stage of our auditorium . . . see, there’s the Redeemer shield on the back curtain. And there are the two chairs that we usually use when we need them for props.”
“Uh-huh,” Koesler agreed. The landmarks were clear only after identification.
“Okay. Then here is the grand piano. It’s on fire . . . that’s why it’s hard to see what’s on the picture: because of all the smoke.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And this,” in a tone of triumph, “is your pal, Ridley C. Groendal, starting a fire at the other end of the piano.”
“What? Wait a minute! You can’t tell that; there’s too much smoke. It’s somebody, but you can’t tell who.”
“Oh, no? Who else do you know who looks exactly like this?” He assisted Koesler’s inspection with a magnifying glass. “The baggy pants with a hole in the knee. But now, look! See on the tennis shoes: ‘R.C. Groendal.’ Oh, it’s Ridley, all right. He set the fire!” Again the triumphant tone.
“He didn’t see you take the picture?”
“I didn’t care whether he did or not. But he didn’t. He was behind the worst of the smoke. See: You can barely make out his head. It’s all covered with smoke.”
“He doesn’t know you’ve got this?”
“Nope. You’re the only one who knows.”
“So . . . why are you showing it to me?”
“’Cause you’re the only one I can trust to keep the secret. And I wanted somebody besides me to know.”
“Well . . . what of it? They put out the fire before it did any really serious damage. And Ridley probably was doing nothing but taking out revenge on the piano he thinks failed him. What are you going to do with this?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing . . . for now.”
“What do you mean, ‘for now’?”
“I’m going to save it.”
“Save the picture? What in heaven’s name for?”
“For someday.”
“Someday? What do you mean someday?”
“I don’t even know when that’ll be. I sure as hell don’t need it now. I’ve got the poor bastard where I want him right now. I don’t need to drop this on him. I’m just going to hold onto it. Maybe someday I’ll need it. Maybe someday I’ll have to settle the score with him once and for all. Then I’ll use it. Maybe someday it’ll drive him nuts for everybody to know he’s nothing but a sneaky firebug.”
Koesler said no more. His mind was swimming in these revelations. He had never before known an arsonist. He was devastated that one of his friends was a firebug. But he could not deny Palmer’s proof.
Koesler was even more disconcerted that another of his friends could be so mean-spirited. He would not have thought David Palmer capable of blackmail.
Koesler’s premonition that a horrendous evil would evolve from an otherwise innocent music recital had proven accurate.
Part Three
Liturgy of the Word
6
Father Koesler hoped his mouth was not hanging open. It often did when he was lost in thought. And he had, indeed, been lost in the memory of Robert Koesler, the musical hack; David Palmer, the gifted musician; and poor Ridley Groendal, talented, but not quite up to his own or others’ aspirations and expectations.
By simply bringing his eyes into focus once more, he saw David Palmer seated in the congregation. He appeared to be musically evaluating the motet just rendered by the choir. There seemed no other thought or concern on his mind.
There should have been.
Koesler forced his attention back to the Mass of Resurrection. It was time for the Liturgy of the Word. There would be three readings from the Bible: one from the Old Testament, one from the Epistles, and one from the Gospels. Since the Second Vatican Council, there had been a reemphasis on the importance of Scripture in the Mass. Before Vatican II, Scripture readings had been more or less perfunctory. Nor had much importance been made of drawing upon the Scriptures for homiletic purposes.
All that had been changed. Now, Catholics were encouraged to find the living presence of God in “God’s Word.”
Willliam Doran, one of St. Anselm’s lectors, stepped to the podium to read from the Second Book of Samuel.
“The king was shaken and went up to the room, over the city gate to weep. He said as he wept, ‘My son Absalom! My son, my son Absalom! If only I had died instead of you. Absalom, my son, my son!’ Joab was told that the king was weeping and mourning for Absalom; and that day’s victory was turned into mourning for the whole army when they heard that the king was grieving for his son. The soldiers stole into the city that day like men shamed by flight in battle.”
Doran closed the lectionary and held it high, saying, “This is the word of the Lord.”
To which the congregation replied, “Thanks be to God.”
Koesler reflected that while Doran read well, there was one in the congregation who would have read even better. That would be Carroll Mitchell. Although he was a playwright and a screenwriter, his earliest training and experience on stage had been as an actor. And he had the actor’s finely trained voice and presence. He would have read the Scripture excerpt magnificently. But that, of course, was out of the question under the circumstances.
The sight of Carroll Mitchell brought Koesler’s memory back to his earliest days at Sacred Heart Seminary. When he had first entered that specialized high school in the early forties, he had known no one but his fellow Redeemerite, Ridley Groendal.
In those days, seminaries were well supplied with candidates for the priesthood. They would become steadily more crowded until the dramatic drop of the seventies.
Seminary faculties of that era liked to think that they conscientiously promoted only the best and brightest. In reality, as time would tell, it was a buyer’s market. Because there was such a record number of students, the administration had the luxury of being very selective in their choice of who would move on to the priesthood. The weeding-out process went on inexorably from year to year. While great numbers of students were dropped for intellectual, moral, or medical reasons during high school and college, it was not rare for some to be asked to leave even during the final four years of theology.