Koesler paused momentarily at Ridley Groendals coffin. Briefly he visualized Ridley’s mortal remains as last seen before the casket was closed. Koesler remembered Ridley as he had lived. The two of them as young boys sharing their secret hope of becoming priests. Koesler’s dream unalloyed; Ridley torn between becoming a professional musician and a priest. That dilemma solved for him when Dave Palmer sabotaged the musical career with a deliberate, if childish, trick. Then his seminary progress seriously threatened when Carroll Mitchell discovered Groendal to be a plagiarist, even though, in Ridley’s view, Mitch was the cause of the incident. Groendal’s priestly vocation finally ending with a one-sided homosexual “relationship” with Charlie Hogan. Again, Groendal managed to blame Hogan for that disaster.
Finally, what Groendal considered the disgrace of a nervous breakdown, triggered by Jane Condon’s pregnancy. Once more, as far as Ridley was concerned, it was somebody else’s fault, even though in actuality Groendal was undoubtedly the father of Jane’s child.
A strange man, thought Koesler. If there was any consistency to his life it was that he seemed constantly prone to shift the responsibility and blame for his own actions to others. Maybe it made him a happier person. Certainly it was not a realistic way to go through life.
In point of fact, such behavior was Koesler’s pet peeve. He had long since been disenchanted with those who refused to accept responsibility for their own actions.
Well, whatever. It was over. Ridley was gone. According to Koesler’s belief, Groendal had been judged. But Koesler was of two minds about that judgment. He liked to believe that when we die we will be judged by Love.
It was a consoling theology offering almost infinite understanding and forgiveness. On the other hand, there was that admonition by Christ that on earth we should judge others with understanding and forgiveness—for we will finally be judged in the same way we judge others.
In all truth, Groendal had left no legacy of understanding, forgiveness, or even fair judgment. In any case, whatever judgment Groendal deserved from God had already been given to him. What more could Koesler do than remember Ridley and pray for him for whatever good that might do.
“May Christ’s peace be in your heart today, Peter,” Koesler said as he shook hands with Harison.
Harison could not speak. He merely nodded as tears—unique at this funeral—streamed down his cheeks.
As Koesler finished greeting as many in the congregation as possible in a brief time, his eyes swept the rest of the people. Smiling, he tried to communicate a peaceful wish to all. His gaze was arrested by the face of Carroll Mitchell. Koesler flashed the “V” for peace sign. Mitchell smiled and nodded, as if to say, “Yes, I am indeed at peace . . . now.”
Koesler’s mind returned to the seminary of his day. Then, the greeting was called “the kiss of peace.” But it was about as removed from a “kiss” as possible. The “giver” placed his hands on the shoulders of the “receiver,” who supported the other’s elbows. The greeting was, “pax tecum”—peace be with you.” The response was, “et cum spiritu two”—“and with your spirit.” Koesler, Mitchell, and Groendal had exchanged this greeting many, many times.
Koesler now wondered what might be on Mitchell’s mind. Would Mitch be generous enough to wish that Groendal be at peace now in death? Koesler was fairly sure that Mitch himself felt a greater sense of peace. If there were any doubt whatsoever in Koesler’s mind, that doubt would have been dispelled by a conversation the two had had recently.
Koesler and Mitchell had not crossed paths for many years. That was to be expected; they traveled in vastly different circles. It was difficult enough for Koesler to keep in touch with all his priest friends without keeping in contact with someone he once knew in the seminary—even if they had been, at that time, good friends.
Then, one day about two months before Ridley’s death, they chanced to meet in downtown Detroit. Mitchell’s wife was with him. It was midafternoon. The three found a quiet cafeteria where they could sit and visit over coffee.
It did not take them long to review their histories since last they had met. Mitchell was far more familiar with what had been going on in Koesler’s life than vice versa. Koesler had been editor of the Detroit Catholic and had been involved in helping the police in several criminal investigations. So he had had some measure of publicity.
“Well, I’ve read about you, too,” Koesler said. “Something about Hollywood?”
“Something about Hollywood,” Mitchell repeated as if Hollywood had been a disease instead of a place. “Yeah, I go there from time to time. Screenplays. I go to L.A. either to write them or fix something somebody else wrote. It’s a living.”
“It’s better than that” Lynn Mitchell amended. “It’s a darn good living.” She spoke with an unmistakable sense of pride in her husband.
Mitch chuckled. “At least we don’t have to live there.”
“You don’t?” Koesler had no idea what screenwriting involved, but he was not uninterested in learning something about it.
“No. Generally, if I’m commissioned to write a screenplay, I do my research here or, if where the story takes place is vital, I go to the location. Whatever, I don’t write in L.A.—unless of course that’s the location of the story.”
“But you must go to Hollywood sometime.”
Mitch nodded. “When I finish the script. To present it to the producer and director. Once they read it and okay it, I get out of town until they start shooting.”
“You’ve got to go back?”
“It changes.”
“It does?”
“Once they begin filming, the script is likely to change by the day.”
“After the producer and director already approved it?”
“Yeah, that’s right. But that’s a problem right there. I figure not only can’t they write, they don’t read very well, either. So when they get together with the actors, it gets kind of existential. The actor isn’t comfortable with a scene. He or she wants a change in dialogue. Or the director wants to throw his weight around. So he calls in the writer and tells him to change everything.”
“Why doesn’t he change it himself?”
“Like I said, he can’t write.”
“So what do you do then?”
“I usually take the script he’s hacked to pieces and let it rest a while. Then I retype it just the way it was and give it back to him. And,” Mitch gestured offhandedly, “this time he loves it.”
“But it’s the same material.”
“I told you: He can’t read either.”
“I’m beginning to see why you want to spend as little time there as possible.”
“And,” Lynn added, “Mitch is considerate enough not to insist that I go along . . . unless I feel I need a vacation, that is.”
“A vacation from the kids?” Koesler asked.
“Thank you very much, Father.” Lynn smiled. “From the grandkids.”
Koesler was thankful he had erred on the diplomatic side of flattery. But he was also taken back. This couple was his age, almost exactly. They were grandparents. With no children and thus no grandchildren he never consciously thought of himself being of a grandfatherly age. Maybe it was because everyone—whether they were much older or much younger than he—called him “Father.”
Or, perhaps because he had no family of his own, he could not appraise himself as most other people. In the mainstream of life, human beings begin as children, then they marry, have children, watch those children mature and marry. Soon there are grandchildren; perhaps great-grandchildren.
Seeing oneself reproduced through generations probably is nature’s way of reminding one of the aging process—and a preparation for one’s own death. The priest found that a rich thought. He would have to develop it in meditation sometime soon.