In the silence, he let his gaze drift through the congregation. Predominant in that group were, of course, the two-and-a-half pews of visiting priests. Briefly, Koesler wondered how his sermon had gone over with his confreres. He surmised that most of them held the attitude that they had heard it all. He’d bet a good number had been daydreaming throughout. It didn’t matter. He didn’t need the approval of his peers. He enjoyed it and welcomed it but didn’t need it.
Seated, it was difficult for Koesler to find the person he was looking for. Then, a rather large man leaned forward to retrieve something from the floor, disclosing, seated behind him, Charlie Hogan.
That made four: Hogan, Valerie Walsh, Carroll Mitchell, and David Palmer. Five, if one included Peter Harison. Strange that all the original four would be here in person—or, in the case of Jane, at least represented.
On the other hand, it would have been unusual, given the interplay between them and the deceased, had they passed up this occasion.
Charlie Hogan was special, at least to Koesler, for Charlie had been a Catholic priest. And while he was no longer functioning as a priest for ten years he had been an integral part of this amazingly homogeneous fraternity. As such, there existed between him and all other priests, functioning or not, an enduring camaraderie. A silent acknowledgment that “we alone” know the life. Know its secrets, its rewards, its demands. Others may guess at what this life is like, but more often than not, they will be mistaken. Only we know because we have lived it. And lived it together.
Charlie had been ordained in 1958, four years after Koesler. Both had been ordained for service in the Archdiocese of Detroit But of greater importance to Hogan’s relationship with Groendal, Charlie had been a seminary high school senior when Groendal and Koesler were college seniors.
Under other circumstances, Koesler would consider such thoughts distractions from the Mass he was celebrating. But, strangely, when the gifts were brought to the altar, beginning that part of the Mass called the Offertory, he felt momentary impatience that his reminiscences had been interrupted.
The “gifts,” of course, were the bread and wine, which would be “consecrated.” In Catholic belief, the bread and wine would, at the priest’s hands, be changed into the presence of Jesus Christ. For centuries, until the coming of Vatican II, bread and wine were either placed on the altar before Mass or were adjacent to the altar and simply moved there by altar boys.
Now, regularly, they were placed on a table out in the congregation and brought to the priest in a more or less solemn procession. On Sundays, the gifts of bread and wine were accompanied by the more mundane gift of the monetary collection. Collections are not taken up at weddings or funerals. Even among Catholics, some things are not seemly.
Peter Harison, naturally, was one who presented part of the gifts. At almost any other funeral there would be little difficulty finding additional volunteers. But this was not a run-of-the-mill funeral. And it was not all that easy to find the remainder of a retinue to complete the procession.
Fortunately, there were a few actors, authors, and musicians who had been favored by Groendal in life, so they served him as pallbearers in death. They also presented the remaining gifts.
While waiting at the front of the sanctuary for the presentation, Koesler pondered the coffin before him. If not for the white cloth and closed lid, he would be looking at Groendal more or less face to face. Lay people were wheeled into their funerals feet first. Thus, if they could see, they would be looking at the altar just as they had in life.
Priests were carted in headfirst, so that they would be looking at the congregation, just as they had in life.
That bit of trivia reminded Koesler that Ridley might have been a priest. He might well have been a priest, if not for . . .
After their talk following the eventful Christmas Vacation of 1949, Groendal did not mention Jane Condon to Koesler again. But Ridley changed. Initially, he became more reclusive. Koesler found him in the recreation rooms far less frequently. When he was there, he was usually off in a corner by himself chain-smoking. He played the piano only if coaxed and then not the bright show and pop tunes the guys wanted to hear.
Soon, nearly everyone could not help but notice that some sort of change had come over him. Only Koesler had a clue as to the cause. Of course he said nothing to anyone, including Groendal.
It was not until the last year of Groendal’s life, when he and Koesler renewed their relationship, that Ridley hinted at what had happened to him during that period.
Partially due to Koesler’s expressed concern for Jane Condon, Groendal could not get her out of his mind. The possibility that he had inflected a massive emotional trauma upon her haunted him. He thought of confessing this possible additional sin. But, on the one hand, it was not a certainty, just a possibility. And, on the other, none of the present priest-faculty was deaf or even slightly hard of hearing.
Added to this was a recurring nightmare. In the dream, Groendal, in one way or another would get involved with some girl. Always it was a puzzling person. The heart of the dreams usually differed one dream from another. But all ended in the same terrifying nightmare.
He and the girl—both nude—would be wrestling. As they fought Groendal would enter her. Then she would pull away, taking his genitalia with her, leaving him covered with blood.
He would wake with a start, dripping with perspiration, heart pounding.
In time, he grew to fear sleep. After the mandatory lights-out at 10:00 P.M. , Groendal would cover the transom with a blanket, turn on a small reading lamp, and read well into the night.
When at last he would topple over from sheer exhaustion, he might be spared the nightmare only because he had somehow driven all dreams away. However, he would then pay the price of achieving no release from tension through dreams. It became a vicious cycle.
All of this he kept carefully locked inside. As a result he began to suffer from increasingly deep depression.
As the weeks passed, Koesler became more concerned. He had noticed Ridley’s decline earlier than anyone else because, knowing what was bothering Groendal, Koesler had been alert to the problem almost from the first manifestations.
Koesler tried to interest Groendal in something, anything, to get his mind off the problem. Very little besides music, literature, and theater interested Ridley. And he was, consciously or not steeping himself in the gloomiest and most melancholy expressions in each of those arts.
Sports could have been a healthy outlet, especially since it was basketball season. There is little time for introspection or deep thought during a basketball game. Unlike football, wherein there is a good bit of standing around waiting for the action, and baseball, where there is even more of that inactivity basketball is a game of almost constant motion favoring reflex action more than deliberate activity.
But despite his considerable—for that era—height Groendal had never been very serious about basketball—or any other sport for that matter.
Koesler, on the other hand, while not one of the seminary’s foremost athletes, was actively involved in sports. As a member of the college basketball varsity, he was helping coach the high school varsity. Eventually, he determined that might be his best chance to help Groendal. If Koesler could get Ridley involved in the high school basketball program, maybe that could be the vehicle out of this lethargy into which Ridley seemed to be sinking.
Interesting Groendal in assisting him to coach basketball proved easier than Koesler had anticipated. Inwardly, Groendal remained indifferent to the game. But he thought the exercise forced on him by the commitment might help him get some decent restful sleep.