Frustrating.
But among Ridley’s strong points were patience and perseverance.
Actually, his most difficult task at this time was to keep Greg Larson on the case. There just wasn’t much to report. And what news there was was so depressing that Larson was tempted to write only happy news to Groendal.
Ridley was in no position to argue against whatever Larson chose to write. The idea was to keep him going until something broke, as Groendal hoped, prayed, and knew it would.
As it turned out, Jane did exactly what Groendal supposed she might. She returned to Detroit and got a job as a salesclerk in Hudson’s department store. With this and the little her mother was able to pass on surreptitiously, Jane made ends meet. There was almost nothing else in her life. She rarely splurged on entertainment of any sort. She couldn’t afford it.
She was still attractive, but she never dated. Her life revolved around her son. Outstandingly lovable and sweet, as many Down’s Syndrome children are, he needed Jane constantly. And so, outside of the times she had to leave him with a sitter while she worked, Jane spent nearly every free moment with him.
Down’s Syndrome children frequently have health problems that reduce the normal life span. Jane’s little boy, Billy, lived ten years. And then he broke her heart once more and died.
Billy’s death did not move Groendal one way or the other. He was interested only in what might happen next.
According to Greg Larson’s infrequent but faithful letters, nothing much happened next. Jane kept her sales position at Hudson’s. Her social life remained a cipher. She went out infrequently, as far as Larson could tell, usually with “the girls.”
Groendal found maintaining the correspondence with Larson more and more taxing. Jane’s life—Ridley’s sole genuine interest in this communication—seemed to be going nowhere.
It happened in March of 1964. Jane was thirty-three. She got married. In old St. Mary’s downtown, near the apartment complex where she lived. Somehow the courtship had escaped Larson’s notice.
The event piqued Ridley’s curiosity. At first blush, the marriage did not appear to lend itself to any purpose Groendal had in mind. Jane’s husband, William Cahill, was a skilled worker at a Ford automotive plant. Groendal could not wreak revenge on Jane through her husband. Jane as a sales clerk, and William, as an automotive worker, were outside the sphere of Ridley’s influence.
But once more Groendal’s patience and perseverance paid off. A little more than a year after their marriage, a daughter was born to Mr. and Mrs. William Cahill. She was to be their only child.
Here was a distinct prospect. How better to get revenge against Jane than through her daughter, her only child. The potential increased when Larson was finally able to send a photo of Valerie Cahill, age seven, on the occasion of her First Holy Communion.
She was, by anyone’s standards, an outstandingly beautiful girl. With her childish yet evident comeliness and charm, there was a possibility that she might choose to be an actress.
Ridley’s prayers paid off. Through her high school years, Valerie was not only the most desirable girl on the Redford High campus, she was the staple star of virtually all the plays staged by the school. In three out of four major stage presentations—Arsenic and Old Lace, Meet Me in St Louis, and Annie, Get Your Gun!—Valerie played a female lead.
Annie, Get Your Gun! was the annual school play during Valerie’s senior year. For that, Ridley Groendal actually returned to Detroit. He attended one performance of the musical, taking care not to be noticed or recognized.
From far back in the crowd, Groendal was able to spot Jane. Her hair was now entirely gray. But she’d kept her figure. Groendal had not seen her since that Sunday afternoon in the park those many years ago. From the distance that separated them, he could see no great change in her. A more mature way of walking and moving, perhaps, but he would have recognized her anywhere. And, my God, he thought, it had been more than thirty years!
If he had seen her at close range, which he would never again do, he would have seen the difference. It was in her eyes. They reflected the suffering, sorrow, and hard times she had undergone.
The man with her had to be her husband. They took each other for granted after the fashion of long-married couples. He certainly was nondescript.
Groendal had no fear of being recognized. Though his photo appeared frequently enough in New York and national publications, who would expect him to be attending a high school presentation in Michigan? And even if any present thought they might know him, they would dismiss the idea out of hand. What would a nationally famous critic be doing there?
The only one who could undoubtedly recognize him—and perhaps even guess why he was there—was Jane. But she and her husband were occupied greeting friends and acquaintances.
The lights dimmed; those still in the aisles scrambled for their seats.
The “orchestra”—piano, drums, and bass—struck up an abbreviated version of the overture. Groendal sighed and slumped in his seat. He was going to have to endure the tortures of purgatory. But he had already determined that it was worth the discomfort to see and hear his next victim. And there was always the chance that it might be a better than average performance.
Alas, it was what one would expect based on the age of the actors. Blown cues, misread lines, vibratoless voices, awkward interaction. Scenery and costumes obviously made by the loving and unprofessional hands of proud parents, relatives, and classmates.
With one glowing exception: the lead—Annie Oakley—Valerie Cahill. She was good. Not just the promise of developing into an adequate actress. She was good right now. If she had been Jane’s first child, Groendal might have considered himself the girl’s father. But that little mistake of nature? Forget it.
At intermission, Groendal buried himself in the program. Carefully, he studied the brief biography of Valerie Cahill. Unlike classmates headed toward college, Valerie intended to get right into show business while working on a college degree in her spare time.
Right into show business, eh? Delightful. We’ll see about that!
Part Six
Communion
18
Mass is, essentially, a reenactment of the Last Supper. As that event is narrated in the three synoptic Gospels, the setting is the ceremonial Passover meal. After that dinner had been completed, Jesus took bread and wine and told his Apostles to eat and drink, “Take this and eat it, this is my body.” And, “All of you must drink from [this cup], for this is my blood, the blood of the covenant, to be poured out in behalf of many for the forgiveness of sins.”
The reenactment is set not at a dinner but in a liturgical rite that has evolved very slowly over the centuries. At the Last Supper, the words of consecration were followed immediately by the eating and drinking of the bread and wine. In the Mass, the two rites are separated by many prayers.
The Communion Rite begins with the Lord’s Prayer, which is followed by the greeting of peace. Members of the congregation are urged to turn toward each other, shake hands, and offer a prayerful greeting, ostensibly wishing each other the peace of Christ.
At the appropriate time in this Mass of Resurrection, Father Koesler announced the greeting of peace. This was taken up with enthusiasm by the priests in attendance, and with restraint by the laity.
Koesler shook hands with several of the priests concelebrating with him in the sanctuary. Then he walked down into the nave of the church to greet some of the laity, certainly Peter Harison.