“Especially good. The credit was to Mrs. Garson Kanin. But that really is the actress Ruth Gordon. How’s that for talent!”
“Who’s Ruth Gordon? No, wait . . . wait! I remember: She’s been in a million movies.”
“Right. And she came from the stage, too!”
All this talk about the stage brought to Koesler’s mind another person who idolized the stage, more, even than Groendal—Carroll Mitchell.
Funny, now that he thought of it, Koesler had never heard Groendal refer to either Mitchell or Dave Palmer after they had passed out of his life. It was as if they had never existed. Or more as if they had been merely stepping stones in Groendal’s development. They had been used and then discarded.
Actually, Koesler himself had had considerable difficulty in continuing his friendship with Groendal, particularly after Mitchell’s expulsion. Of course, Koesler did not approve of what Groendal had done, especially in informing on Mitch. But Robert Koesler from an early age had always been extremely nonjudgmental, a trait he had inherited from his Bavarian father.
Admittedly, in not sitting in judgment on Groendal, Koesler was stretching the spirit of understanding and forbearance to its breaking point. But it had not snapped—not yet. After all, Ridley was still a fellow seminarian, and, theoretically at least, a future priest.
Fleetingly Koesler wondered whether Palmer and Mitchell, in turn, had forgotten Groendal. After what they had been through, Koesler doubted it. Somewhere out there was proof that Groendal was an arsonist and a plagiarist. Whether or not Groendal ever reflected upon this, still it was so. Somewhere out there were weapons that were loaded and cocked, but not fired. Not yet.
Groendal, pumped up by his own meticulous research, seemingly could not dam his surge of information. “Can you believe,” he continued, “that George Cukor, the director, completed this movie in just thirty-seven days? That’s a record for a major movie! And that song at the end . . . the one that’s dedicated to Katharine Hepburn . . . what was it?” Groendal was piqued that he couldn’t think of the title.
“‘Farewell, Amanda.’” Koesler was self-congratulatory that he could contribute an essential bit of background.
“That’s it: ‘Farewell, Amanda.’ Know who wrote it?” Certain that Koesler didn’t, he swept on. “Cole Porter!” Groendal seemed as pleased as if he himself had written it.
“You’re pretty worked up about this, aren’t you?” Seldom had Koesler seen Ridley this high.
“It’s a great movie, Bob. I’m going to go back and see it again tomorrow.”
“See it again!”
“God knows if we’ll ever get to see it again if we don’t take this opportunity . . . want to come?”
“I don’t think so, Rid. It’s a great movie. They’ll probably release it again some year.”
“Maybe, maybe not.”
It could not have occurred to either that the movie would be shown any number of times on television. At that time, television was barely beginning its collision course with movie houses. And the movie houses were waiting for the TV fad to fade. Movie cassettes and VCRs were no more than a technologist’s dream.
They parted, going their separate ways through a light snow shower. On his way home, Koesler suddenly began to wonder how much Groendal’s projected return to the Stratford was predicated on a desire to see the movie again and how much depended on seeing that usherette again. Peculiar. Were they getting into another “Cherchez la Femme” adventure? If so, how odd! Rid was the one who had blown the whistle on Mitch.
On his way home, Groendal’s mind was in turmoil. He tried to focus on the movie. He wanted to remember everything, literally everything. But, as if it were a rubber band, his memory kept snapping back to that usherette. Jane Condon. As far as he could recall, he’d never seen her before. Yet, when he gave her his ticket, there was something about the way she looked at him . . . something in the eye contact. He was not sure what.
And all those times she had walked up and down that aisle! She didn’t have to do that. Each time she passed, she had looked at him. And stranger still, he had looked at her.
Maybe it was all just a fluke. Tomorrow evening when he returned to see the movie again, that would tell the tale.
He felt a moment of panic. What if she wasn’t there? What if tomorrow was her night off? Oh, what difference did it make? He wanted to see the movie. That’s why he was going back: to see the movie.
But, as he climbed the steps of his house, he had to admit that it made a difference.
10
His mother understood. His mother always understood. His father groused about the admission price. It was not like he stood in the way of Ridley’s seeing a movie, but my God, Mr. Groendal groused, he’s already seen it
Mrs. Groendal explained the importance, for one whose life is art, of being immersed in that art. She explained it once. She would not do so again. Having been cowed once more by his redoubtable wife, Mr. Groendal coughed up the money.
Ridley, almost at the last minute, decided to attend the 9:30 P.M. showing. A different sort of audience than the early crowd, he commented. His mother understood completely.
She was there. Taking tickets. His heart seemed to skip a beat. He did not understand it. He gave his ticket to Jane Condon. She tore it in half. But when she returned his half, she held on to her end of the ticket. Expecting simply to be presented with a ticket stub, Groendal was startled to be momentarily joined to this young woman by a scrap of cardboard.
“I guess you must have liked the movie.” She smiled, a very engaging smile.
“You remember me?” He had let himself doubt that she would.
“Sure! Who wouldn’t?” Didn’t he realize, she wondered, what a most attractive young man he was?
She released the ticket stub. But he did not leave . . . not immediately. He was aware that a line was forming behind him, a line of people waiting to get in. Although she did not tell him to, he would have to move along.
“I was wondering . . . if . . . I mean, do you get off after the movie . . . I mean after this showing?”
“Uh-huh.”
Some in the line were starting to complain and wonder aloud what was causing the holdup. Groendal knew he had to hurry. He was flustered.
“Well . . .. would you be willing . . . would you like to have something with me . . . I mean a snack after the show? I mean...”
“That’d be nice. I’ll meet you back here in the lobby after the show.”
It was good that the date had been accepted; the mood of the waiting line was growing ugly.
Groendal had to force himself to concentrate on the screen. His mind kept racing ahead to the date, his first ever with a girl. But by determined concentration, he did manage to pick up some additional nuances in the direction, lighting, and dialogue.
After the movie, Groendal waited until the theater had nearly emptied. He found Jane, overcoat over her uniform, waiting in the lobby. He held the door for her, then headed in the direction of the drugstore. There was no snow, but a sharp wind made it seem colder than the temperature. Jane put her arm through his. It was the first time anyone had done that to Ridley. It made him feel good. He felt protective.
Jane ordered a Coke; so did Ridley. He was grateful. Money was not abundant.
They talked for a long while about Adam’s Rib. Jane was duly impressed with Ridley’s knowledge of the film and its background. His information was quite comprehensive by almost any standards. But Ridley was running out of data. And he didn’t know what to do next. What happened when one got done telling a girl all one knew? What could they find to talk about then? As long as Ridley could expound on one of his favorite subjects, he felt relaxed and at ease. But one could not run on with technical information forever. Then what?