In the church, incense filled the air with its special churchy odor and alleluias were exchanged between priest and choir celebrating this special season.
But Koesler’s attention wandered. By now, the ritual and his function as master of ceremonies were so familiar to him that he could function quite adequately even with his attention sharply divided. And it was understandable that he should be thinking about Ridley Groendal and wondering about his absence from this scene. In the rotation these two classmates had established, Groendal should have been master of ceremonies at this Easter Mass. It was his turn. But, as far as Koesler could learn, Ridley was still at the seminary and still in sickbay.
Koesler had heard all the rumors and, in hindsight, could not deny them. From the shreds of evidence the students were able to gather, it was arguably possible that Groendal and Hogan had fought. And that, preceding this, they had formed a “particular friendship.” In fact, about the only indication that this might not be so was Ridley’s previous liaison with Jane Condon. And Koesler alone knew about that.
That episode to the contrary notwithstanding, Koesler was forced to ponder the consequences if the rumors should be accurate. In which instance, he could not clarify his confusion.
His religion currently taught him that homosexuality was not merely a sin but an abomination. In years to come, that position would be modified to state that the sexual preference for the gay life could be considered as neutral and only the acting out of that preference an abomination. This clarification was of small comfort to the homosexual since it slotted the person in not only a celibate, but a chaste life.
And that was the precise problem presenting itself to Koesler’s logical young mind. The Catholic priesthood of the Latin rite demanded nothing less than a chaste celibate life. What difference could it make if one’s inclination were homo- or heterosexual? In neither case was one allowed any sexual expression.
Yet, if the seminary authorities were to discover that Groendal had committed sin with Jane Condon, he undoubtedly would be reprimanded and punished.
If they discovered he’d sinned with Charlie Hogan, Groendal likely would get the ax.
True, Carroll Mitchell had been expelled for his sexual escapade with Beth Yager. But that punishment hadn’t been inflicted so much for the act itself as for the flagrant flouting of the rule.
So Koesler was left wondering. He could not envision Groendal as an “abomination.” No matter what he’d done.
The priest-celebrant turned to the congregation and sang, in Latin, “Ite, missa est” (Go, the Mass is ended), “Alleluia! Alleluia!” The choir responded, in Latin, Deo Gratias” (“Thanks be to God”), “Alleluia! Alleluia!” Koesler’s mind turned again to Ridley. Go? Go where?
Which, at that moment, was exactly what Ridley Groendal was wondering. Go? Go where?
There was no longer any compelling reason to remain in the infirmary. He—or rather, his body—was healed. At least enough to function without professional care. On the other hand, there was no possibility of his leaving. Not till the other shoe dropped.
This week’s silence had been deafening. Someplace out there, people were talking about him, determining his fate. But not a word had been spoken to him about it. That word would be spoken; of that he was certain. But when? He would go out of the infirmary in the very near future. Of that there was no doubt. But to where?
Monsignor Cronyn appeared at the open door. He wore his black cassock with the red trim, buttons, and sash. He wore his black biretta with its red pompon. Somehow the biretta seemed to formalize the occasion.
“How are you feeling now, Mr. Groendal?” Nothing special was intended by that address. Cronyn always used that title when referring to senior students.
“Hurting a bit.”
“Otherwise okay?”
“Yes, Monsignor.”
“Sit down, Mr. Groendal.” Cronyn gestured toward the bed while he sat on the room’s only chair. “Care to discuss how you were injured?”
Groendal thought a moment, then shook his head. A little more than a week had gone by. Impossible that the authorities didn’t know what had happened. Better not to volunteer any information. Better to play it by ear.
“Yours were serious injuries, Mr. Groendal.”
“Yes, Monsignor.”
“They could not have happened by accident, now, could they?”
“No, Monsignor.”
“You appeared to have been beaten rather severely. The doctor provided us with that information.”
Groendal nodded.
“Are you going to tell me about it?”
Groendal shook his head.
“Are you going to tell me your side of it?”
So, one side of it already had been told. Groendal simply waited. The other side would undoubtedly come out now.
“Very well,” said Cronyn. He handed Groendal a manila folder containing two typewritten sheets, the second of which bore a signature. “Read this, Mr. Groendal.”
Groendal read carefully. Several times he had to stop to rub his tearing eyes. It was “the other side of it”—Hogan’s side. As he read, Groendal had to admit it was a fairly factual, objective account of what had happened between himself and Hogan over the past several months, along with a detailed and again objective narration of what had taken place a-week-ago Saturday.
Missing from the account were the involuntary but compelling feelings Groendal had experienced about Charlie Hogan. Groendal understood there was no way Charlie could have been aware of those feelings. Obviously the feelings had not been reciprocated.
Besides, in a situation such as this, people were interested only in the facts and nothing more. No set of extenuating circumstances could mitigate what Groendal had done—certainly not as far as Monsignor Cronyn was concerned.
Groendal finished reading. The statement had been signed, Charles Hogan. Groendal closed the folder and handed it back to the monsignor.
“Well?” said Cronyn.
There was no response.
“Well, is what you read an accurate account of what has happened?”
“Yes, Monsignor.” Groendal knew there was no point in going into those intense, driving feelings. Feelings which undoubtedly Cronyn had never experienced toward anyone.
“In the interest of fairness,” Cronyn said, “I should point out that Charles Hogan did not offer that statement spontaneously.”
It helped that Charlie had not come forward voluntarily.
“However,” Cronyn continued, “it was not difficult for us to deduce, at least in general terms, what had happened. From my interrogation of young Hogan, it seemed likely that a ‘particular friendship’ had been formed not by both of you but by you alone. Therefore, I placed Hogan under the obligation of fraternal correction.”
That was it! Suddenly, it was so obvious that it might have been spelled out in neon. It came through in Cronyn’s tone and in the hint of a smirk that appeared briefly. It wasn’t so much that Cronyn had been patiently waiting and expecting turnabout to become fair play. It was more that he would be glad to see it happen.
It had been almost exactly one year since Groendal had invoked “fraternal correction” as the principle under which he had denounced and exposed—some would say betrayed—Carroll Mitchell. It was, Cronyn had thought at the time, a rather craven use of a device that had originally been intended more as an adjustment for the common good than as a means to satisfy spite.