After all, hadn’t Jesus been ever alert? How many times his enemies, the Pharisees, had tried to entrap him, but never successfully. Just one example of so many: when they challenged him on whether it was right to pay a tax to Caesar.
It was a source of constant frustration to the Jews that they were obliged to pay a tax to a foreign power. So, with their question, the enemies had Jesus on the horns of a dilemma. If he approved of the tax, he would needlessly have lost most of his following. Needlessly because it was not a relevant question, since the presence or absence of Caesar had nothing to do with his mission.
On the other hand, to oppose the tax would put him on a collision course with civil authorities—again needlessly. But he was ready for them. He asked to see the coin Caesar claimed as a tax. He demanded to know of his enemies whose image and inscription was on the coin. They could answer nothing but “Caesar’s.” “Then,” he told them, “render to Caesar the things that are Caesar’s. And to God the things that are God’s.”
Magnificent! But hardly something done in the heat of the moment. Jesus consistently outsmarted his enemies because he was prepared for them. He anticipated them. He was ready for them at whatever time, theirs or his.
And so would Ridley Groendal be ready for his enemies. He would anticipate and defeat them. Just as Jesus had.
His enemies might find it hard to believe, but Groendal prayed regularly and frequently. However, his meditations were subconsciously programmed to fit his new lifestyle. In effect, he was not trying to conform his life to that of Jesus. Rather, he was “prayerfully” twisting the life of Christ to fit the new theology of Ridley Groendal.
Thus, Groendal climbed over the torpedoed careers of reporters, columnists, here and there an editor, staff writers, authors, playwrights, actors, musicians, musical directors, and such, across the nation.
The higher he climbed, the more human debris he left in his wake. And the more angry people he left behind, the more he was forced to keep looking over his shoulder. For his newly made enemies, sorely wounded, would not forget. Almost to a person, they sought revenge. While churning ahead toward the pinnacle of success, Groendal also needed to protect his rear.
Constant vigilance took its toll. Groendal began to suffer from high blood pressure. It would get worse. He comforted himself with the thought that Jesus probably had high blood pressure too, what with all the enemies he had.
Eventually, all this skullduggery won him the highest status of all, a place as one of the New York Herald’s fine arts critics. Ostensibly, his responsibility was to review the stage and serious music. But he was also a book reviewer. And though he was not in charge of the book section, due largely to his burgeoning reputation in the other arts, he quickly became the most influential of all critics—theater, music, or literature.
Along the way, he also learned that he was homosexual.
Until he left Detroit for the University of Minnesota, he’d had but two overt sexual experiences, one hetero-, the other homosexual. At that time, he’d been confused as to his own sexual preference.
At the university, it did not take long for him to establish that preference. At first, he had begun to date girls. He had the tentative attitude of sitting back to see what might develop. Some coeds found his gentlemanly passive behavior oddly stimulating. Some sought to fill the sexual void by initiating physical foreplay. He found that repulsive. They found his disgust contagious.
Briefly, Groendal considered the possibility that he might be asexual. That was what the seminary system of his day was programmed to produce. Was it possible his peculiar Catholic upbringing had accomplished in him what it aimed for in its priests—the assembly of a macho asexual?
No. He was gay. He had to conclude that his single episode with Jane Condon was a fluke. He had been passionately overcome by accident exacerbated by some mind-numbing alcohol. Once he gave the homosexual style a chance, it did not take long to know he belonged there.
But it was depressing. Oh, not the sexual expression. No, the impermanence, the ephemeral, little more than one-night stands. Something in him demanded permanence, indissolubility—a quality that was most elusive in the gay community.
When he finally made it to New York, he was determined things were going to change. Either he was going to find a stable relationship, or be continent.
Thanks to his superlative Herald salary, he was able to afford a sumptuous apartment in the heart of Manhattan. He was not far from St. Patrick’s Cathedral. Although proximity was not a factor to choosing the Cathedral to be his parish. For Catholics, St. Patrick’s was the prestigious church of New York City. A lot of time could be passed just in counting the deceased Cardinals’ red hats hanging from the high ceiling. (One could count on it: Whoever was Archbishop of New York was pretty sure to be a Cardinal.)
The length of the nave of St. Pat’s was one of those famous-but-smaller churches measured against St. Peter’s in Rome. At one spectacular funeral Francis Cardinal Spellman was celebrant, Bishop Fulton J. Sheen preached, and Jim Farley and Fred Allen were two of the ushers . . . leading a Jewish gentleman present to whisper, “What a cast!”
St. Pat’s always had lots of visitors. As far as tourists were concerned, there was only one Catholic church in all of Manhattan. Anyone could find it right across Fifth Avenue from Rockefeller Center.
One could go on and on . . . but St. Patrick’s Cathedral was the one and only parish for the infinitely upwardly mobile Ridley C. Groendal.
He favored the early Sunday morning Mass—less crowded. Of course he never got the Cardinal at that time, usually just a monsignor or a bishop, but it was sufficient. The routine was early Mass, then one of the attractive, pricey brunches.
Attending the same Mass week after week, one gradually becomes at least casually familiar with the other regulars. There were many couples, a great number of young, middle-aged and elderly unaccompanied women, but not that many single men. Not as regulars.
Something about one solitary regular attracted Groendal’s interest. Not only could he not help studying the man from time to time, occasionally he caught the stranger studying him.
Without words, with no conscious sense of purpose, the two began taking pews closer to each other. Thus, just before Communion, eventually they were able to shake hands during the greeting of peace. Groendal did not know what it was, maybe something in the man’s eyes, that communicated tenderness and interest.
It began one Sunday, months after they had first noticed each other in church. They were leaving after Mass when the stranger dipped his hand in the holy water font and offered some to Groendal.
“I don’t mean to be forward,” Groendal said, “but would you care to join me for brunch?”
A look of extreme relief passed over the other’s face. “I thought you would never ask.”
They brunched at a nearby hotel. It was Groendal’s choice. He sensed the conversation would be more important than the food. It was.
As they settled in and the waiter brought coffee, Groendal began. “I’m—”
“Ridley C. Groendal, fine arts critic of the New York Herald.”
“How—?”
“Your picture is with your column, and I read you faithfully.”
Groendal was pleased. “I regret I can’t return the courtesy. You are . . .?”
“Peter Harison. No reason you should know me. I too used to be a critic—for a chain of papers on the West Coast.”
“And now?”
“Now, I’m vice-president of the Art Guild Book Club.”
“Of course. Peter Harison. I’ve heard of you. I hope none of my reviews have compromised any of your selections.”