Deathbed

7

This was one of those days. One of those days you’d rather throw away. But, on the other hand, Sister Eileen did not favor wishing away any of her remaining days. There simply were a number of unpleasant things that needed doing. And she was the only one who could do them.

Already she had had to address a meeting of the nurses and nurses’ aides relating to some of the slipshod work going on in the hospital. Special mention had to be made regarding breakage. A great deal of that had been going on. The report given Sister Eileen identified the specific aide responsible for most of that, one Ethel Laidlaw. A notation had been added that aide Laidlaw apparently was not willfully careless or guilty of malicious destruction. It seemed to be a case of congenital clumsiness. Nonetheless, the damage was considerable.

In her lecture, Eileen went out of her way to, on the one hand, inform all present that the identity of the principal offender was known, and, on the other, not to mention her by name. Everyone there, including Ethel, knew exactly who Sister Eileen was talking about.

To cap the climax, during the session, Ethel managed to tip over the coffee urn. There was an unscheduled fifteen-minute break while the mess was cleaned up.

Sister Eileen was seated at the desk in her office sorting the mail, separating those matters that demanded immediate attention from those that allowed some procrastination. She also was awaiting the next bit of unpleasantness on today’s agenda.

Her secretary spoke through the intercom: “Sister, Dr. Kim is here to see you.”

That was it.

“Send him in, Dolly.”

Kim entered and went immediately to the chair at the visitor’s side of Eileen’s desk.

Trim and tall, Kim was cursed—as far as Sister Eileen was concerned—with more than the average Oriental inscrutability. He had come to Detroit and St. Vincent’s from Chicago, where he had interned at an even poorer hospital than St. Vincent’s. Chicago had been his first step after leaving his native South Korea.

Chicago had recommended him as having impeccable credentials and as specializing in general surgery. At St. Vincent’s he was expected to soft-pedal his specialty in favor of doing a bit of everything. Interns and residents all were expected to do a bit of everything.

There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that Dr. Lee Kim had definite plans and a timetable in which to accomplish his objectives.

One of those objectives most definitely was to not linger overly long at St. Vincent’s. Kim planned to move up and out of Detroit. In which direction, initially, was not of prime importance.

Kim crossed his legs. He exuded confidence. His performance deserved an award; in reality, he was not all that confident. Inside, he was a nervous wreck. He was well aware of his problem. His enemy was time. He had too little of it.

By his timetable, he should have been long gone from St. Vincent’s. Every time he walked its ancient halls, he was reminded that this institution had gobbled up any number of doctors in its time. It could too easily happen to him.

Look what had happened to Fred Scott, Kim’s superior in Emergency. Kim both admired and despised Scott. Scott was the most amazing technician Kim had ever experienced in emergency situations. At the same time, Scott had let his remarkable skills take root at St. Vincent’s. Kim’s greatest fear was that the same thing would happen to him. That years from now, he would be mired in Detroit’s core city in a health-care facility that should have closed its doors decades ago. He would still be patching stab wounds and removing slugs from people who’d been fighting over the final swallow of cheap wine. Still be exposed to their vomit and feces.

So, he tended to hurry things along. He really couldn’t help himself. It was late. Late in his ball game.

He hurried things along. Sure he didn’t spend a lot of time with the immediate families of terminal patients. It was, after all, up to them to inform themselves of their options. Surely they’d seen enough movies and television to know what life-support systems were all about. If they wanted their kin to be maintained in a vegetative state, what concern was it of his?

Same with the whores who were forever getting pregnant. Too dumb to stay on the Pill. Just as likely to pull out their IUDs as their tampons. Counseling was a waste of time. Far easier to scrape out their prematurely tired uteruses, and the fetuses in there as well. The dumber ones you could always badger into agreeing to a hysterectomy. And while that could be time-consuming, it was good practice.

Time was better spent being in the right places, being seen by the right people, talking to the movers and shakers of the local medicine scene, brown-nosing them. The big thing is to get St. Vincent’s behind you. Get into the real world of the Caddies, country clubs, influential patients. And get there yesterday. Time was an enemy.

The other enemy, perhaps even more threatening than time, was sitting across from him. Sister Eileen Monahan. He knew she had her suspicions. He was also pretty sure that she had no proof. Without proof, she would never bring him up on charges. Which didn’t mean she didn’t want to get him. Only that, for now, she couldn’t.

But he also knew that the very instant she could, she would get rid of him. And then where would he be? Dismissed from St. Vincent’s! Who would consider him after such degradation?

That was why he was in such inner turmoil. He had no way of telling what she knew. He would soon find out. Meanwhile, it was crucial that he present a calm and tranquil exterior.

They sat across from each other for several moments in silence, each measuring the other.

Eileen opened a file folder and began paging through it. Kim shifted in his chair. It was increasingly difficult to retain an unruffled exterior.

“Dr. Kim,” she said at length, “is all going well for you here at St. Vincent’s?”

“As well as can be expected.” He was pleased to use the bromide response traditionally given in hospitals to almost any question.

Eileen smiled tightly. “And how ‘well’ may we expect that to be?”

“I have no complaints.” Pause. “Have you?”

Pause. “Doctor, when you came here from Chicago last year, we had a long talk.”

“I remember it well.”

“Good. Then you’ll recall that I spoke at considerable length about the spirit here at St. Vincent’s.”

He did remember it well. At the time, he had thought her a bit over-age to be a cheerleader. “May I again remind you,” Eileen continued, “that this is only a small health-care facility, in precarious financial balance at best. So much so that, in order to survive, we must work together in a spirit of trust unequaled in most similar institutions. We lack the numerical strength to carve out a niche for ourselves and bury ourselves in some specialty. But, most of all, among the capabilities we lack—and I wish we could afford—is we have no ‘watchdog’ committee to police our operation. So, to a greater extent than most health-care facilities, we must function on an honor system. We must police ourselves.”

“I remember all of that very well, Sister.”

“As you complete your first year of residency, Doctor, I thought it would be good to evaluate your position here.”

“Have there been complaints? Has not my work been satisfactory?”

“Satisfactory? Technically, yes. Every evaluation of your work has been more than satisfactory. In emergency situations and particularly in the OR, you are reported to be calm under fire and a gifted surgeon.”

“Then all is well.”

“Not quite. And this is not merely hearsay. It’s your attitude toward people. Toward patients and their families.”

“Attitude?”

“I know that’s difficult to define. For one thing, among our patients, an unusually high percentage of those on life-support systems are yours.”

“Without the systems, they’d be dead now.”

“With the systems, they are already dead now, for all practical purposes.”

“If it is the cost of maintenance—”

“Of course it isn’t the cost. No more than it would be in any other hospital. If someone’s life can be prolonged for any positive purpose, then of course we must do everything we can. But many of your patients are vegetating. Many have reached a terminal state even as you order procedures to begin.”

“If the wishes of the family—”

“I know all about the wishes of the family. And I’ve heard about your routine in getting their consent to put the patients on the machines.”

“Is there anything medically improper in all this?”

“Not technically. But one tends to wonder why so high a percentage of the families you talk to decide that we must, in your phrase, ‘do everything.’ One wonders if you are doing this just to save yourself the time it would take to sit down with the families and explain the options available to them.”

“Sister, do you not think your conclusion is a bit farfetched and rather unsubstantiated?”

“All by itself, perhaps. But then we have your rather cavalier attitude towards D & Cs.”

“What do you mean by that?” He knew she was coming close to pay dirt.

“The word I get—”

“From whom, may I ask?”

“We won’t get into that just now. These are not formal charges.”

He breathed a bit more easily.

“I’ve heard that you frequently don’t even order a pregnancy test when it is called for, before going right into a D & C,” she continued, “and there are times that you’ve removed a fetus.”

“That is not unique.”

“It isn’t unique unless it happens again and again. Then it’s another name for abortion.”

“Do you not think that is a bit strong, Sister?”

“No, I don’t. And you well know our policy on abortion at St. Vincent’s.”

“I see.

“Is there anything else on your mind, Sister, before I reply to all this?”

“No. And I am eager to hear your reply.”

Kim relaxed measurably. She hadn’t mentioned all those unnecessary hysterectomies. Was it possible she hadn’t heard about them? In any case, she wasn’t going to bring them up. So much the better.

“Since you want to know what I think,” Kim began, “I think it is easy for you as a Caucasian American to apply a racial stereotype to one such as I.”

“Racial stereotype!”

“Yes. It is very easy for you Americans to group us Asians into one category and claim that we have no respect for life.”

“That has nothing to do with this!”

“Is that so? Do you have any documentation for the charge that I perform a D & C merely in order to abort?”

“I told you I am not concerned at this time with formal charges or documentation. I can only tell you that I have heard about it from more than one source. Sources, I might add, who are most trustworthy.”

“I cannot allow my life, my professional conduct, to be affected by innuendo and rumor—and that is what I consider these unsubstantiated charges to be based on.” Kim realized he was moving into dangerous ground, almost challenging Eileen to bring formal charges. He decided to turn the tables. “And, as to the allegations regarding my handling of the terminally ill, does that not argue just the reverse of the first charge—that I have no regard for life? How very unAsian of me to want to prolong someone’s life, do you not think?”

“Dr. Kim, one look at your patients while they are being mechanically sustained will tell anyone worlds about the quality of life to which they’ve been relegated.

“Besides, you have twisted and jumbled everything I’ve said with your gratuitous reference to an Asian prejudice. There may be some in our society who feel that Asians prize life less than do we in the West. But I am very definitely not in that number. I am too well aware that we in the United States have less than an enviable record when it comes to racism. So I am conscious of our own failings. But being conscious of racism does not necessarily mean being guilty of it.

“No, Dr. Kim, I am not dealing in stereotypes. I am talking about one doctor—yourself—who has determined to disregard the cautions I gave when you joined us.” She closed the file folder, indicating their meeting was drawing to a close. “Dr. Kim, my purpose in meeting with you is simply this: I want you to consider this a formal warning. You are perilously close to facing dismissal from the staff of this hospital. If I were forced to the point where I must bring formal charges against you, I have every confidence that I could do so effectively.

“Doctor, I don’t want to be forced to affect your career adversely. But I may have no choice in the matter. And this may happen very soon. It would be wise for you to prepare yourself for the worst.

“I’m sorry. That will be all for now.”

Wordlessly, Kim rose and left the room. His departure was one fluid motion. There was no betrayal of nervousness or embarrassment. There was no show of emotion whatsoever.

However, after he exited the secretary’s office, Dr. Lee Kim leaned back against the wall and forced himself to breathe deeply and slowly. His emotions, held in such excellent check while with Sister Eileen, were in turmoil.

In his mind’s eye, he could see the fissures forming in the plan he had laid out for his life. This damned nun held the hammer and chisel that could bring him down. That must not happen. It would mean the end of his dream, the end of the good life he envisioned.

Earlier, he had known there was trouble—a lot of trouble. He had known, more in the abstract than in the concrete, that something would have to happen—something drastic. Now there was no question. He would have to think this out to the last detail. And then act.

Sister Eileen shifted papers on her desk without paying them much attention. She felt drained, not completely, but substantially. She could not afford a thorough draining. She had yet at least two more extremely taxing encounters to handle.

The necessity of scheduling unpleasant meetings was what she most abhorred about any effective leadership role. But such meetings were inescapable. She owed it to poor old St. Vincent’s to do all she could to keep her baby alive and well. But no consideration could keep these meetings from being unpleasant.

She opened the file folder of the next person on her schedule. She didn’t need to study this person’s background. She knew it almost completely by heart. She closed the file, folded her hands, and lowered her head in prayer. She had just begun to lose herself in meditation when the intercom brought the message that her next visitor was waiting.

John Haroldson, chief operating officer of St. Vincent’s, entered. A broad smile broke his heavily creased face. But his eyes betrayed a worried mind.

They exchanged hearty greetings. It was ever thus, thought Eileen. John, the hail fellow well met. But only on the surface. Underneath, there were always troubled layers in John’s life. Layers that would be revealed in good time. Inevitably.

“Your summons surprised me, Sister. It isn’t time for our monthly meeting.”

It made Haroldson nervous not to be in control of any situation. And since he had little inkling as to Eileen’s purpose in calling this meeting, this situation was, at least initially, not in his control.

“It wasn’t a summons, John,” Eileen sighed. “It was an invitation.”

“Whatever”—still the confident smile, the worried eyes—“it didn’t seem like an invitation I ought to refuse.”

“John, John . . . can we never stop playing games?”

A flash of anger. “I don’t play games, Sister. I know a summons when I get one.”

“Have it your way, then.”

Haroldson nodded curtly. The smile was gone.

“I want to talk to you about the future, John.”

“The future?”

“Yes, yours and St. Vincent’s.”

“Oh?” He was withdrawing.

“You’re getting close to the Michigan Catholic Conference retirement age, John. It’s just four months down the line. Are you giving any thought to your retirement?”

“Retirement? Why, no. No reason to. I’m fit. You’ve got the results of my latest physical. I’m in fine shape, even leaving my age out of it. Why should I think of retirement?”

“Because you’re nearing the compulsory age for it, John.”

“But . . . but you can waive that . . . as . . . my superior.” He seemed loath to acknowledge her position.

“I can. But there’s no reason I should.”

“My health—”

“Exactly. Your health. It’s fine. Where did you ever get the idea one must be at death’s door in order to qualify for retirement?”

“Sister . . .” His tone came close to pleading; only with effort did he stay in control of himself. “. . . this hospital has been part of my existence. After Elizabeth died, in time, this place has gradually replaced her in my life. I can’t leave here.”

“John, you’re not the first person who felt there was no life after retirement. But you know as well as I that most people get over that feeling and really come to enjoy retirement. You can, too.”

Haroldson was silent. Head lowered, he seemed to be studying his clasped hands. “You’re serious, aren’t you?” There was a touch of panic in his voice.

“Yes. I am. But it’s not going to happen overnight, John. There are months between now and then. Months when you can continue your contributions to St. Vincent’s and, at the same time, do a little planning for retirement.”

Silence.

“With your background, John, there are lots of things you might do in very productive fields. With your education and experience, you could teach. You could teach part-time in the seminary, or in a business school. You could teach a medical morals course in one of our colleges. There are so many opportunities for a man with your talent.

“Or, on the other hand . . .” She found herself reaching to fill the vacuum left by Haroldson’s lack of response. “. . . you might just want to relax for a while . . . get accustomed to being out of this routine of getting up and out every morning and spending so many demanding hours on the job. Just leaving the routine might put an entirely new perspective on your whole future.”

There was a prolonged silence. Eileen decided she would not try to fill it. All it could have been was idle chatter.

“You don’t like me, do you? You never did, did you?”

Good God. The same as with Lee Kim. Neither man would stay with the subject. She was not prejudiced against Kim because of his race. And her feelings toward Haroldson had nothing to do with his retirement. If Kim and Haroldson had been women, some man undoubtedly would’ve blamed the digressions on their hormones.

“John,” Eileen said rather firmly, “we’re talking about retirement because you are nearing the age of compulsory retirement. That makes sense to me!”

“I knew it shortly after I came here to work. You and I never had the same vision for St. Vincent’s. And it’s gotten worse over the years. It’s not secret. Everybody in the hospital knows it.”

“John!”

Haroldson lowered and shook his head. He was almost talking to himself. “We climbed the ladder together here at St. Vincent’s. Except you were always a rung ahead of me. Always my ‘superior.’ Even when I became chief operating officer, you were chief executive officer. Always above me. Always over me. Always opposing me.” He looked up, directly at Eileen. “And now the coup de grace. Forcing me into retirement.”

“John . . .” Eileen shook her head in frustration. “I’m not forcing you. You’ve reached retirement age. That can’t come as any surprise to you.”

“The fact is, you could waive that requirement.”

“The fact is, I happen to believe that, under ordinary circumstances, retirement is a good idea.”

“Oh, do you? Then what about your retirement, dear Sister? Are you going to follow me on this lovely path you’ve outlined for me? Will you retire?”

Eileen felt herself reddening. “That’s a different matter, John. And you know it.”

“Because you’re a dedicated religious and I am a mere layman?”

“Of course not, John. You know as well as I that the powers that be are eager to close down St. Vincent’s for good and all. If I were to retire, that would be their green light. I’d like to leave the hospital in viable enough shape so that it could continue under its own steam. And that may be possible one day if my plans work out. But it certainly is not the case now. If I were to leave here now or in the foreseeable future, it would be the end.”

“Not necessarily.”

“What? What can you mean, John?”

“I could keep it open. I’ve been here nearly as long as you. I know this place as well as you. Maybe better. My policies would be as good as, or better, than yours. I could win over more of the board members.” The tone of flustered panic was evident. “You wouldn’t even have to retire. We could work together. We complement each other. If we were to work together, we could unite the board. We could make the hospital what it once was!”

“John, John,” she said softly, “don’t. Don’t do this to yourself. Although you’re making this resemble death, it’s not. And you’re not dying. Think about it. You’re a spiritual man; pray over it. Give yourself some time to consider it seriously. You’ll come to terms with the notion of retirement. You’ll have to,” she concluded firmly, “because, in the final analysis, you are going to retire. Do it well. You can, you know.”

He seemed drained. But in a few moments of quiet, he appeared to have regained control of himself. “Yes, yes, of course. There is no alternative. I just need a little time.”

There was another pause. Eileen had no inclination to hurry him. Better that he take a few moments to compose himself.

“Sorry about my behavior back there,” he said. “It shouldn’t have taken me by surprise. Just as you said. I know what the retirement age is. And I certainly know how old I am.” He smiled, but it was forced. “If there’s nothing else. . .”

“No, John, that’s all.”

He rose to leave, but almost stumbled. Eileen half stood to go to his aid, but he waved her back.

“Just a bit disoriented, I guess. I’ll be okay.” He departed.

Haroldson had planned to go over some of the accounts payable this morning. To him fell the regular burden of deciding which bills must be paid and which could be delayed. Cash flow was a near-mortal problem at St. Vincent’s.

But now he was too shaken to be able to concentrate on business. He went directly to the chapel, knelt in the back pew, and buried his face in his hands. In no time he was lost in reflection.

Leave St. Vincent’s. Leave St. Vincent’s under his own power. He smiled. He rarely thought of leaving his hospital. But when he did, he always pictured himself being carried out, probably dead.

The anger rose again. He tried to hold it in check. Anger was a sin. And sin was a failure Haroldson steadfastly tried to avoid.

But, wait a minute . . . anger wasn’t always a sin. It couldn’t be. Jesus had been angry at the moneychangers in the temple. Moses had been so angry with the chosen people and their golden idol that he smashed the Commandment tablets.

These thoughts he’d been having lately, these emotions he’d been experiencing, perhaps they were not as sinful as he had feared. What was it Eileen had just said . . . with his background . . . with his background he might be able to work it all out. All it required was some thought, some definitive plan. And then, put it all into action. Certainly. He could expect to be able to do that.

* * *

Eileen had barely had time to compose herself after meeting with Haroldson when her secretary entered Sister’s office.

“I don’t know what to do with this one, Sister.”

“What is it, Dolly?”

“Sister Rose is here for her appointment. But Pat Lennon, that newspaper lady, is here too. And she hasn’t got an appointment. And you know how Rosie gets when her schedule is upset.”

Despite the way she felt, Eileen smiled. “Rosamunda will keep. She has all these years. Ask her to come by right after lunch. And show Ms. Lennon in.”

Dolly winced. It was she who would receive the brunt of Rosamunda’s cantankerous disapproval of a fractured appointment. But she would, of course, carry out her assignment.

Lennon entered and was seated.

The nun was impressed. Lennon was wearing an entirely different ensemble from yesterday’s. But like yesterday’s, today’s outfit was functional, while at the same time extremely attractive. And expensive. Pat Lennon must buy her clothing at one or another of the super-swank suburban boutiques. Heretofore, the nun had given little thought to the wages of journalism. Now that the consideration occurred naturally, Eileen supposed a reporter’s salary must be handsome. She also supposed that Pat’s fine wardrobe was extensive. This supposition was valid.

At their previous meeting, Pat had explained why she felt it her duty to do what would amount to an exposé on the family-planning service offered at St. Vincent’s. Eileen had not expected to see the reporter again. She had assumed Pat would go about completing her research and, one day soon, Detroiters would be reading all about it. So she was unprepared for Lennon’s present unscheduled appearance.

“Yesterday,” Lennon began, “I dropped one shoe, as it were. And it’s just not fair not to let you know that I’m going to hold on to the other shoe . . . at least for the time being.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Yesterday, I told you all the reasons why I couldn’t overlook this story on contraception in a Catholic hospital. But last night, I got to thinking it over and, well, to cut it short, I decided I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t chance derailing the service this hospital is trying to provide. It gets complicated . . . but there are just some things I’m not prepared to compromise for the sake of this job.”

“Well, I must say that is easily the best news I’ve had today.”

“At the same time,” Lennon continued, “I don’t want to create any false impression. I’m not . . . I can’t make any promises down the line. I can’t foresee what may happen. There may be complications later; circumstances could change. I can’t even be specific. Something could happen. Another reporter, say, could stumble onto the story. I couldn’t allow him or her to beat me. You see?

“But, for now,” Pat took out her note pad, “let’s forget your family planning policies and get back to the original thrust of this story—the hospital, its past, its present, its future, and you.”

Eileen sighed in relief. “Fair enough. I must admit that the possibility of your doing that story has been like a cloud hovering over me ever since we talked about it. This is welcome news!”

“But . . .”

“Yes, I understand your reservation. And if another reporter were going to develop the story, I would make certain you got every bit of cooperation we could provide. It would be the least we could do in return for the favor you’re doing us. Now,” Eileen checked her watch, “how about joining me for a little lunch?”

“Could we talk during lunch?”

“Better. You can meet more of the staff.”

“It’s a deal.”

* * *

“What were you doing here last night?”

“Huh?”

“I mean, it was the evening shift. And you never volunteer for that. We don’t even have volunteers for that shift.” Ethel Laidlaw lifted her cup and allowed the excess coffee to drip back into the saucer. There had been a spill.

“What makes you think I was here last night?” Bruce Whitaker moved his glass about, making thin white circles on the table. He’d had a spill.

“’Cause I seen you. “

“You did?” Pause. “Are you sure?”

“Certainly! I know who you are. I seen you on the main floor after visiting hours.”

Trepidation welled up in Whitaker. She had seen him. Of that there was little doubt. But where had he been when she saw him? How much had she seen? How much did she know? Could she, as his colleagues had warned, prove to be a serious barrier to his goal? And what would he do—what could he do—if she became an obstacle in his path?

“So . . .”A little more milk slopped over and he began making new thin white circles on the table. “. . . you think you saw me, eh? Well, then, smartie, where was I when you saw me?”

“Down around pastoral care. What’s such a big deal anyway? So you were here after hours. So what? What I couldn’t figure out was why you were slinking around. Why was that?”

“What?” He was stalling, shamelessly stalling, to figure a clever way out of this without having to do something drastic.

“Sneaking around! Why were you sneaking around?”

“I . . . I was on a special mission, Ethel. I can’t go into it in any kind of detail. But I was on a special mission. A secret mission.”

“Okay.”

She bought it! He couldn’t believe it. Maybe he had missed his calling. Perhaps he should have been a spy. Or maybe ambassador to the U.N. He had never before tried his hand at subtle equivocation. It wasn’t so difficult.

“So, Ethel . . .”He ceased creating circles; he had used up all the excess milk on his glass. “. . . what were you doing on the main floor at that hour, if I might turn the tables?”

“Saving you.”

“What?”

“From the guard.”

“What guard?”

“The one who was about to find you when you were hiding against the wall.”

“Uh . . .”

“You remember: You were going along the wall, keeping in the shadows, on your secret mission. And that guard challenged you. He was about to shine his light on you.”

“Uh . . .then what happened?”

“I coughed. Didn’t you hear me?”

“No.”

“Well, the guard did. Then he found me instead of you.”

“No kidding? No kidding! Then what happened?”

“Then I . . . uh . . . distracted him.”

“Why’d you do that?”

“To help you, Bruce. You looked like you needed help. I mean, I didn’t know you were on a secret mission. But it did look like you didn’t want that guard to find you. So I made sure he didn’t.”

“And you don’t know where I went after that?”

“No, silly! I was distracting the guard. So your great big special mission is still a secret.”

“Gee, Ethel, that was really great of you! That was a big help. And I didn’t even know. Gosh, I wish there was something I could do for you. I mean, in return for what you did for me.”

Ethel sighed elaborately. “Maybe there is.” She bit into her sandwich and realized that she should not have ordered egg salad. She had been trying, not altogether successfully, to convince Bruce that she was not a congenital klutz. Now here she was with egg salad squeezed out the other side of her sandwich, dripping from her fingers to the plate. It was not a good show.

“You mean there’s some way I can help you?” Bruce seemed not to notice Ethel’s eggy predicament. He might have been preoccupied with renewing the white circles. He had had another spill.

“I need to get that nun out of my hair. But for the life of me, I can’t think how to do it.” She licked her fingers, but to little avail. The egg salad was now dripping from the other side of the sandwich.

“What nun?”

“Sister Eileen.”

“You mean the head of this hospital?”

“Uh-huh.”

His heart soared. Could they be in on the same mission? “But why?”

“Because if I don’t get rid of her, she’s going to get rid of me. “

“But why?”

“There have been reports, entirely unproven, that I am . . . uh . . . clumsy. And that I’ve caused some damage.”

“Ethel!”

“Yes. And at a meeting just this morning, she threatened to fire me if she heard any more of those unfounded rumors. And . . . and . . . Bruce, Bruce, what am I going to do if she fires me? I’ll never be able to get another job. There just aren’t that many jobs around now. And getting fired . . . and not having a recommendation . . . oh, Bruce, I don’t know what to do!”

She was on the verge of tears. As she reached for her cup, a gob of egg salad dropped into the coffee, splashing some into the saucer. When she lifted the cup, there’d be another slop-over.

Bruce was confused. Which was bad news for the integrity of the food in front of him. He did not know how to handle a woman under the best of circumstances, let alone one on the verge of tears.

“That was cruel of her, Ethel.” He tried to touch her arm reassuringly, but managed only to spill more coffee. “But I don’t understand. What did you mean when you said something about getting rid of Sister? How do you mean ‘get rid of’?”

“Oh, I’d just like to kill her!” She shook her head. “I’ve been having such terrible headaches. I even think I may be having one of those—what do you call them—personality changes. It scares me!”

“Ethel . . .” Bruce leaned forward, dragging his tie through the gravy. “. . . you don’t mean . . . m . . . m . . . murder!”

“Oh, Bruce, I don’t know,” she almost wailed. “I just can’t think.”

“Ethel”—by now his tie was stirring the gravy—“I may be able to help you. To solve your problem. Not the way you have in mind. But just as good.”

“It would get rid of her? Get her out of my hair? Before she could get rid of me? Oh, Bruce—”

“Leave it to me, Ethel.” He noticed his tie. He pulled it free of the gravy. The tie fell against his white hospital jacket, mottling it.

Till now, Whitaker had been torturing himself thinking of the damage he would be causing women who would use the IUDs he had altered. But, he kept reminding himself, it was for a good cause. The greater honor and glory of God, for starters. Next, the triumph of the traditionalists’ cause.

Now there was an added dimension. He could do it for Ethel. Which was a little odd, since he had already done it. Maybe he could dedicate it to Ethel. Or just let her in on it. That was it.

When the matter came to a boil, when women who’d been hurt by the IUDs—Whitaker had never been clear on just how the IUDs would damage women, but he had been assured it would happen—returned complaining, and the media would be eager to report this news, then would the administration of Sister Eileen topple. The hospital would be forced to abide by the laws of Holy Mother Church.

At that time, when it had become a fait accompli, he could tell Ethel what had happened and, modestly, who had caused it all.

It was not a bad scenario. He let it develop in his imagination while leisurely making more circles with the bottom of his glass.

Meanwhile, at a table just a few feet away, Father Koesler was captivated by the bizarre dining behavior of the bunglesome duo.

“Hey, Father, come back to earth,” Dr. Fred Scott said. “Here poor Dr. Kim is telling us his troubles and you’re a million miles away.”

Koesler returned to awareness with a start. “Oh . . . I’m sorry.”

“What in the world were you thinking of?”

“I was watching that odd couple at the next table destroy their lunches and ruin the table. Most remarkable. The man looks familiar. But I can’t place him. Probably reminds me of some movie personality I can’t recall. Does anyone know them?”

Seated with Koesler and Scott were Dr. Lee Kim and Sister Rosamunda. In response to Koesler’s question, Scott and Kim shook their heads.

“Sister Rosamunda . . .” Scott tugged gently at her sleeve. Her aural senses were adequate. But, taking advantage of her advancing years, she chose to hear selectively. “Rosey!” Scott said more loudly.

“Eh?”

“Do you know those two at the next table? The guy with the two-bit toup and the girl sitting in all that mess?”

Rosamunda peered intently. “No ... no, I don’t think so. From her uniform, I’d say the woman is an aide. But I don’t know about the man. Can’t say I’ve ever seen him before. Probably a volunteer. They come and go.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Koesler said. “I just thought I knew the gentleman from somewhere. I’m sorry . . .” He returned his attention to Scott. “You were saying . . .?”

“Lee was telling us about his meeting with Sister Eileen this morning. Disaster,” Scott continued. “Lee feels he’s on the verge of being dismissed from staff. He claims it’s racial . . . thinks Eileen is prejudiced against Asians.”

“Oh, do you think so?” Koesler said. “I really find that hard to believe. I get the impression Sister hasn’t a prejudiced bone in her body.”

“You don’t know her, “ Kim said. “And she is not unique. Many Westerners presume that because someone comes from the East, he automatically has a lesser concern for life. I am only one of many Asian doctors on this staff whose position is threatened.”

Scott looked askance as if he were hearing this indictment for the first time and not believing a word of it.

“And when you come to think of what it would mean to be dismissed from this hospital,” Kim continued. “Just look at those two. . . .”He gestured toward the next table. “They appear to be a good example of people who could find a job nowhere. They are the kind of people your welfare state takes care of. But they are employed here. With that in mind—the sort of people who are permitted to continue working here—think of what would go through the mind of a prospective health-care employer when he heard that you had been dismissed by St. Vincent’s! No other hospital would ever consider you.”

“Kind of put a crimp in your career, eh, Lee?” Scott said.

“The end of my career.”

Koesler hoped he would be ignored for a few moments so that he could reflect on this turn of events.

Undoubtedly, Dr. Kim’s position at St. Vincent’s was threatened. No one would have any reason to mislead anyone about that. The question was why.

Was it, as the doctor claimed, a matter of prejudice? Koesler supposed it possible. He himself had harbored some notions relating to the Asian concept regarding the sanctity of life. Notions that traced back to the event that had plunged America into World War II: the attack on Pearl Harbor and the wanton destruction of all those young servicemen. Notions that were reinforced during the Korean conflict when American soldiers testified to North Korean and Chinese troops attacking in wave after wave until lethal machine guns became too hot to continue firing.

On the other hand, the U.S.A. was the only nation thus far that had actually used a nuclear weapon against humans. And almost singlehandedly devastated Vietnam and Cambodia.

Koesler guessed that something pejorative could be said about militaristic nations in general.

But he found it ludicrous to think of Sister Eileen as prejudiced. In her time at St. Vincent’s she had been responsible for racially integrating the hospital, both patients and staff. That the patient population was now almost completely black was an accident of geography. But that there was a heavy percentage of Orientals and blacks on the staff was in good part the handiwork of Sister Eileen.

On the face of it, Koesler tended to give credence to the information Dr. Scott had offered earlier: that Dr. Kim was not relating generously to the patients and that there was some question of his performing clandestine abortions as well as unnecessary hysterectomies.

There was one other possible consideration. What if Dr. Scott were not on the up and up? After all, why should Scott have taken Koesler under his wing and shared all these secrets with him? Koesler had experienced the oversolicitous helper many times in the past. All too often such a person had an ulterior motive. Covering up for a personal involvement by focusing attention on others. Could this be the case with Scott? Or was Koesler being paranoid?

Once again, he became conscious of the table conversation. The thread had not developed much beyond the point at which he had dropped out of the verbal exchange.

“Well, I don’t believe it for a moment, Lee,” Scòtt said. “I don’t see any problem with your career. But,” he nodded, “there is somebody whose career definitely is coming to an end.”

“Oh? Who?”

“That venerable gentleman just sitting down over there by himself.”

“Haroldson? You must be joking!”

A very solemn-faced John Haroldson was seating himself at an adjacent empty table. His expression would discourage anyone from sharing the table.

“John Haroldson?” Kim said. “Why, he goes back almost to the beginning. Along with our beloved Sister Eileen.”

“Not any more.”

“Why not?”

“Retirement. Haroldson’s reached the mandatory retirement age.”

“How do you know?”

“Small hospital.”

“One of the dinosaurs will live,” Sister Rosamunda broke in, “the other must die.”

“What do you mean by that?” Koesler asked.

“They’re both retirement age.” Rosamunda smiled innocently. “But only one of them will retire.”

Scott nodded. “She’s forcing Haroldson.”

“You mean Haroldson doesn’t want to retire?” asked Koesler.

Scott shook his head. “This place is his life. I wouldn’t be at all surprised to read his obituary shortly after he’s forced out of here. We’ve all seen it happen countless times. It’s frequently a widow or widower, or a guy married to his job; take away what they’re living for and they die.”

“Do you really think so?”

Scott nodded. “Well, now, threatening Kim here, pushing Haroldson out, promising a crackdown in the nursing staff. . . one wonders where Sister’s broom is going to stop.”

“She is cracking down on the nurses?” Kim asked.

Scott nodded and ran his hand again and again through his beard.

“How do you know that?” Koesler asked.

A strange look came over Scott’s face. “Small hospital.” Koesler had never seen him look so . . . was it menacing?

It suddenly occurred to Koesler that, for someone who had seemingly gone out of his way to clue Koesler in under the guise of enlisting the priest’s support of Sister Eileen, Scott was certainly muddying the waters.

What was his motive? Did he have something to gain from staff unrest? Were his comments designed to foment upheaval? Or was he merely playing the wry observer?

At best, concluded Koesler, Dr. Fred Scott was certainly being provocative.

Suddenly, Koesler became conscious of an undercurrent throughout the cafeteria. Sister Eileen had arrived.

That was not unusual and, clearly, it was not her presence that was causing the stir. With Eileen was Pat Lennon. She it was, who, outstandingly attractive and stylishly attired, was turning heads.

Koesler was reminded of his school days in the seminary when Detroit Red Wing Hockey Coach Jack Adams occasionally dined with the priest-faculty. As unusual as it was for the students to see a layman dining with their faculty, the single time Adams brought with him defensive star Red Kelly, the students were awed into near silence. The shock of red hair plus celebrity status did it. The momentary stunned silence had been broken by enthusiastic applause.

Those dining in St. Vincent’s cafeteria did not applaud. But it was evident that they very definitely approved.

After helping themselves from the buffet counter, Eileen and Lennon threaded their way toward the far side of the cafeteria. They stopped momentarily at the table where John Haroldson sat. The COO’s customarily effusive greeting was muted this day.

The two women moved quickly to the next table, and Eileen introduced Lennon to Sister Rosamunda, Doctors Scott and Kim and Father Koesler.

Lennon had met only Koesler previously, and she showed some wonder at his presence. Occasionally in the past, Lennon had covered news stories that had involved Koesler. In addition, Koesler was a periodic source for her on religious stories, particularly those involving the Catholic Church. Now he briefly explained to her his substitute status at the hospital.

Table conversation was at first stilted. Neither Lennon nor Sister could know that Eileen had been the principal subject of dialogue only a few moments before.

But Lennon quickly became the cynosure, with questions coming from all sides about newspaper work and routine, stories she had covered, and the feature she was now developing on the hospital for Michigan Magazine.

This was acceptable to Lennon. She could not have interviewed these people in such a group in any case. Now, as they questioned her, she could make assessments and decide which of them might make better subjects for interviews.

Among the judgments she made was that Sister Rosamunda would make a smashing interviewee. She seemed the embodiment of that sweet little old nun of the past. The one who, in full religious garb, would be photographed swinging a bat, riding a roller coaster, or wearing a funny hat atop her headpiece.

Lunch was pretty much over for everyone when a rather round lady entered the cafeteria, glanced around obviously looking for someone specific, then headed purposefully toward Sister Eileen. As the expression has it, the lady wore the map of Ireland on her face. Wheezing up to the table, she stood facing Eileen. Held before her in both hands was a large rectangular box, apparently the cause of the lady’s concern.

Bruce Whitaker recognized the box instantly. He would never forget it. It was one of the three boxes containing the IUDs he had altered! Somehow, someone had uncovered the plot.

Bruce had been wishing it would just be over by now . . . that the damage had been done and, he hoped, repaired. And that this hospital’s policy had been exposed by the news media.

Instead, the plot had been discovered. He would be found out. At best, he would have to begin again. The blood drained from his head. He felt giddy and faint. Only with massive determination was he able to remain conscious.

“Sister,” announced the lady holding the box, “and you too, Mr. Haroldson, would you ever be lookin’ at this! Now, I’m well aware that the two of yez are lookin’ to hold down costs and manage the place’s money as best ye can. But if anybody pays for these things, it’ll be a crime callin’ to heaven for vengeance. Just look at it, would ya!”

She took an object from the box and held it high for everyone’s inspection. Clearly, she was seething.

The object she was holding suggested an S-shaped piece of metal, but one end appeared to have been clipped off and the new terminus was twisted out of shape.

“All right,” Eileen said at length, “I give up. What is it?”

“What was it supposed to be is maybe the better question, Reverend Sister.”

“All right then: What was it supposed to be?”

“This is one of a new shipment of curtain hooks. They came in just the other day. I didn’t have a chance in heaven of inspectin’ the delivery what with everything else I had to be doin’ at the time. So I took them three boxes and shoved them in the IUD drawer—we’re running low on them too, wouldn’t ya know. So today, I gets me first chance to get ’em up on the rods in the clinic—and what should I find? All three boxes of the blessed hooks is deformed!

“Now I ask yez, do they expect us to pay for them things? Why, if they’d fit in the curtains at all, they’d rip the poor things to shreds as well. What with their bent ends and all. It’s a disgrace, it tis. And Mr. Haroldson, sir, if I was you, I’d stop payment on this. Honest to God, the workers today couldn’t hold a candle to the good men and true of just a generation back!”

She was breathing heavily. It had been a long and impassioned speech for one struggling with a weight problem.

Bruce Whitaker could scarcely believe his hearing. Curtain hooks? Curtain hooks! Fate had been unkind to him for too long. Granted he had never seen an IUD and had only a vague notion of what its function might be. But dammit, that S-shaped device certainly looked as if it were what the doctor ordered, literally. And the damn things had been in the goddam IUD drawer.

Under ordinary circumstances, Whitaker was neither vulgar nor did he blaspheme. But this was one of those moments that tried men’s souls. Now what was he to do? How could he ever tell his colleagues that he had penetrated St. Vincent’s security systems, crept through the hospital after hours, and—with the unexpected help of Ethel—made it into the sin-wracked clinic, only to spend hours mutilating curtain hooks?

At this point, life was not pretty.

“Well, you’re absolutely correct,” Eileen said. “And it was good of you to find these things so promptly and bring them to our attention. We’ll certainly not pay for such execrable workmanship. Please give all the details to Mr. Haroldson. He’ll take care of it.” Then, to the others at table, in effect dismissing the lady with the mutilated curtain hooks, “Can you imagine! I’ve seen some shoddy work in my day, but that ranks with the worst I’ve ever seen.”

“Probably a disgruntled worker at the factory.” Lennon was trying not to laugh. Likely it was not funny if one was fighting to contain costs with extremely limited funds as was surely the case with St. Vincent’s Hospital.

But one person was taking this very seriously. No sooner had the lady drawn the connection between the curtain hooks and the IUD drawer, than did this person begin to draw another connection. It was most tenuous at first, but the longer this person thought about it, the more sense the hypothesis made.

This person had observed, over the past several days, with growing interest, the behavior of one Bruce Whitaker. There was an incredible series of disasters that seemed inevitably to follow in Whitaker’s wake. Whitaker definitely seemed to march to a different drummer.

There was no telling where Whitaker might turn up next. His whereabouts in this institution had little, if anything, to do with his services as a volunteer. Of course there were times when he would be delivering or gathering or on some assignment. The sort of thing that a volunteer should do.

But most of the time, if one were paying careful note, Whitaker seemed to be on some inner-directed mission. Doing his own thing . . . whatever that might be.

Now, put it all together.

Who in his right mind would mutilate curtain hooks? No one at the factory. If someone at the factory-level, for whatever reason, wanted to sabotage a shipment of curtain hooks, he wouldn’t go to all the trouble of clipping off an end and bending the hook out of shape. Simply snapping it in two would serve the purpose better and more expeditiously. In addition to which, the quality inspector would have caught it before it got out of the plant.

No, the boxes of curtain hooks had been placed—misplaced really—in the compartment reserved for IUDs and identified as such.

Supposing someone wanted to mutilate IUDs—whatever the person’s reason for doing so would have to wait for additional revelation—but supposing that, for whatever reason, someone wanted to mutilate the IUDs. Botching the job as incredibly as this had been bungled would require an amazing degree of ineptitude. The kind exhibited by Bruce Whitaker.

If this hypothesis were correct, Bruce Whitaker had tampered with some harmless curtain hooks, mistaking them for IUDs. So far, that fit perfectly into his blundering method of operation.

But why would he want to monkey with the IUDs?

This would bear watching and Bruce Whitaker warranted a most careful surveillance. He might prove very useful indeed.

* * *

Lunch was over. The case of the mutilated curtain hooks had been delegated to John Haroldson. Patricia Lennon, wearing the identification tag that had been prepared for her, had been sent off on her own—she preferred it that way—to develop her feature story.

Sister Eileen sat at her desk dictating into a machine replies to that mail she judged most urgent.

“Sister Rosamunda is here.” Dolly’s voice squeezed through the intercom. “Her appointment was before lunch, but you saw Ms. Lennon instead,” Dolly reminded.

“Yes. Send her in, Dolly.” Eileen had not forgotten. She wished she had. It promised to be one more unpleasant interview. If Pat Lennon had not come in with her announcement that she was not going to pursue the contraceptive story, it would have been well-nigh impossible to find a silver lining in this day.

Rosamunda entered and took a chair near the desk. Her face was inscrutable as always. She’d had years, lots of years, to perfect a stolid expression. More traditional years as a postulant, a novice and, finally, as she took her solemn perpetual vows. This, followed by almost sixty years as a religious. All these years, most of them in various hospitals, she’d been holding in her emotions and feelings. That’s what she had been taught. That was the way in which she had been trained.

She was the sweet little old nun. People looked upon her as a curiosity, a relic of an irretrievable past. Some laughed at her. She did not much care. There wasn’t a great deal of time left. Her vast hospital experience made her cognizant of the signs. Nothing of magnitude, like cancer. Just the slowing down of overworked organs and systems.

Sister Rosamunda now had but one goal: to stay in the saddle until the end.

It was a modest aim, but one in which she encountered determined opposition from divers quarters. Many in the administration of her religious order made reference annually to the fact that she was well-beyond retirement age. Not the least, Mother General herself. These were not mean-spirited women; they had her best interests in mind. They persistently mentioned that de Paul Center in suburban Farmington was a far better than average retirement facility. There she would be able to join sisters her own age and even older, friends of hers. With companionship, arts and crafts, and many other goings-on, she could remain as relatively active as she wished.

She fought them every step of the way.

So far, the only reason she had been able to win this annual battle was that Sister Eileen had been in her corner arguing that Rosamunda was a valuable contributor to the health care at St. Vincent’s Hospital. Even the most determined religious superior was unwilling to take on Sister Eileen.

But lately, Eileen’s support seemed to be wavering. It showed in the little things—attitude, a sharp word now and again, unaccustomed impatience.

Rosamunda prayed that Eileen would be able to persevere in supporting and defending the aging nun for at least a short while longer. That should be all she’d need. Rosamunda could feel herself letting go little by little. She felt certain that one night she would go to sleep and simply never awaken, A good way to go. And not long more to wait. It was desperately necessary for her to greet that moment still active in service and not on the shelf.

Rosamunda had been dreading this meeting. She had a premonition it would be bad news. But she did not dread it any more than did Eileen. Because it was bad news.

“Sorry I couldn’t see you before lunch, Sister,” Eileen opened. “Ms. Lennon came unexpectedly and I couldn’t postpone dealing with her.”

“It happens.”

“How’ve you been feeling?”

“Fine . . . Fine . . . No complaints.”

“Oh . . .” Eileen had hoped the older Sister might have been more open and frank. They both knew she was not well. It would have put their dialogue on a more productive footing if she had admitted that.

“Is there something . . .?” Rosamunda wanted to avoid specifics if possible.

“Yes, there is.” Eileen pushed the mail aside, folded her hands on the desk, and looked squarely at Rosamunda. “Quite a few things, in fact. For example, you were scheduled to lead morning prayers this week. Two days you’ve been late and one day there were no prayers at all.”

“Uh . . . perhaps it would be better if I were to be responsible for night prayers alone. It would be easier . . . I am sort of a night person.”

“Come on, Sister, you have been a religious for more than half a century. What’s more, you began back when we were all getting up practically in the middle of the night for prayers. And you’ve been doing it all these years. Now you tell me you’re a night person?”

“People change. We’re not as young as we used to be.”

Eileen opened a file and studied it briefly. “How long has it been since you did intake interviews on your floor?”

“Uh . . . I don’t know just offhand . . . not long.”

“According to this record, two weeks. And that was one of the things you always said you most enjoyed. And you’re good at it. Nobody, to my knowledge, was ever better than you at greeting new patients and making them feel welcome and at ease. But for some time, even before these past two weeks, your record has been very spotty on intakes.”

“Uh . . . I’ll pay more attention to that. I’ve slipped, I’ll admit. But I’ve not been feeling all that well lately. Maybe the onset of a cold. Maybe the flu.”

“I thought you said you were feeling fine . . . no complaints.”

“Uh . . . well, nothing serious. A cold is not serious. Just takes a little starch out of a person.”

Eileen shook her head. “It’s more than a cold or even the flu, Sister. Your behavior has changed radically over the past year. It’s not just morning prayers and intake interviews; it’s your entire contribution to this hospital. You’re not pulling your weight. And that’s not like you. Not like you at all. Over all the years we’ve been together, you’ve always faithfully performed all your duties. You are one of the few people whose work I’ve never had to be concerned about. Till now.”

Rosamunda studied her hands folded in her lap. Still there was no discernible expression on her face. Perhaps just a slight twitching at the corners of her mouth. “It’s not as easy anymore. You’ll get there in due time. There comes a time when all the easy things get hard.

“But,” she raised her head, “I will do better. Just give me another chance. I’ll be faithful to the morning prayers. And I’ll do the intake interviews.”

“Sister . . . oh, Sister, don’t do this to yourself. You are not the type who would neglect your duty through any fault of your own. If you could help it, you would. If it were physically possible for you, you would be doing your job. If you could still do your job, I would not be having this meeting with you or telling you the things I must say.”

“I can do it.”

“No, you can’t.”

For the first time, Rosamunda met Eileen’s eyes. Prescinding from humor or amusement, this was the first time Eileen had ever seen a clear emotion etched on the old nun’s face. It was a barely controlled panic.

“Don’t put me away.” Rosamunda made it sound as if she were a candidate for euthanasia. “I have so little time left. I want to spend my last days at St. Vincent’s. I’ve never asked for anything before. I’ve always done what the Church—what our order—has directed. This is the first favor I’ve ever asked of a superior.” Pause. “Please.”

“You know you’re making this much more difficult than it should be. The de Paul Center is a very nice place. Some of your contemporaries are out there. It’s a beautiful setting. You can relax. There are no pressing duties. You won’t have to greet newcomers. Life is leisurely. You won’t have to get up early for morning prayers. You can rise pretty much when you feel like it.

“Sister, that is the life for you now. Your body and your spirit want it. Need it. Retirement is no disgrace. People do it all the time, routinely. You have done a magnificent job over a great number of years. You’ve held on longer than just about anyone else. You have a proud record. Take that unblemished record with you into a more relaxed life.”

Rosamunda was rubbing her hands together as if she were working out a reluctant stain.

“Why can’t you understand how desperate I am to stay active until the end? What must I do to stay here? What do I have to promise?”

“Go now, Rosamunda. Go now while there is still time.”

“Time? What are you saying?”

“Sister, did you ruin those curtain hooks?”

“What? You must be joking. Why would I do a thing like that?”

“Because you were not yourself, perhaps. Because you were not in full possession of your faculties?”

“How can you say that? This is impertinence. You have no right to speak to me this way.”

“I don’t want to speak to you this way. You are giving me no alternative. Last night you took two more bottles of Elixir Terpin Hydrate from the pharmacy.”

“I did what?”

“The pharmacist has been keeping track of them over the past few weeks. Recently, he became aware of a gradual loss of Elixirs. So he started keeping special track. They’ve been disappearing by twos and threes. And the other day, the pharmacist happened to see you take a couple. Did you become intoxicated and cut up the curtain hooks? Can you even remember what you did last night?”

“This is humiliating.”

“I know it is. I wanted to avoid this.”

“I only take a little. It helps me get to sleep.”

“Sister, you’re an alcoholic. You need help. You can get it at the Center, in retirement.”

“An alcoholic! That’s insulting! I just need a little help getting to sleep.”

“No, you need ‘help’ all day long. That’s why we changed the combination on the sacristy safe. We knew you were using the Mass wine all day long. It’s very possible the Elixir is the reason you can’t get up in time for morning prayers.”

“How can you say such a thing? Why you’ve got a bottle of Terpin Hydrate right there on your shelf. What makes you so different from anyone else?”

“Sister, Terpin Hydrate is a medication. It is one thing to use it as medicine and quite another to become intoxicated by it.”

Rosamunda seemed close to tears. Yet she continued to suppress any emotional demonstration. Eileen wished to God the old nun would—could—just once dissolve and be human.

“You’ve disgraced me, you know.” Rosamunda barely whispered it.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. But it doesn’t have to be. What has been said here today, as far as I’m concerned, remains here. No one else need ever know. For my part, it simply had to be said. Sister, you are not only in need of retirement, but also in need of help with your . . . dependency. It has to be. It has to be . . . .”

Rosamunda appeared to have gotten a grip on herself. “How long do I have?” she murmured.

“I thought the end of this month.” Eileen tried to sound positive and encouraging. “February is a good time to get out of the city, anyway. You’ll be going to the Center at the very best time of the year. Nothing will be happening here except the snow will continue to fall and the ruts will get deeper. At the Center, you’ll be able to renew acquaintances with so many of your friends. They have common prayer, you know. You’ll be able to recite the Holy Office in common. And the Rosary. You’re going to like it. I know.”

Eileen sensed that Rosamunda had tuned out and that these words were lost and wasted. She dismissed the older nun. As she did so, Eileen offered a brief silent prayer that Rosamunda would be able to reconcile herself to what had to be.

Eileen could not bring herself to say it, but the matter was no longer in her power in any case. For once, she had been overruled by the Provincial Council, which, after a long and sometimes almost acrimonious exchange, had ordered Rosamunda’s retirement. And the Council did not even know about her chemical dependency. That would be a problem routinely dealt with once retirement had begun.

Eileen did not want Rosamunda to enter retirement bitter at her religious order to which she had devoted so many years. Bitterness directed at the order was likely to be renewed daily. Resentment directed at Eileen could be forgotten once Rosamunda had left the hospital scene. It would be better this way for all concerned.

It was, of course, depressing that Rosamunda would depart feeling animosity toward her. But, all things considered, it seemed the better course.

Rosamunda went directly to her room. She knelt at the prie-dieu before the small statue of Mary, the mother of God. But she wasn’t thinking of statues or saints or God. She could think of nothing save the extinction of her final hope. She felt desolate. Beyond even the power of prayer.

And yet, it was not that she hadn’t seen it coming. Eileen’s attitude had changed markedly over the past several months. Rosamunda had known something was up. In fact, had known exactly what was up. She simply had not let herself admit it.

Now there was no hope. Her greatest fear would be realized. She would be put out to pasture with all those other nuns who were now of no value to anyone.

This is how one—at least one of her vintage—came to perceive oneself in religious life: One was of value in direct proportion to one’s usefulness to the community. In the old days, no one had retired merely because of old age. Sickness, some sort of debilitating illness, was the only reason one was put on the shelf.

This was how she had been trained. This had been her attitude throughout her religious life. She was of value as long as she was of use.

Now she would be of no use and of no value.

She had fought it with every strength of her being. But to no avail. She was doomed to retirement in less than a month.

There was no avoiding it now. Not as long as Eileen was there.

The thought had crossed her mind before. Usually accompanied by a splitting headache and to be prayed away. But it was true: The force that was sending her into hated retirement was no more nor less than Sister Eileen.

What would happen if—but no, that was unthinkable!

Or was it?

* * *

“It was kind of you to meet me, Inspector.”

“Not at all, Father. We cannot have you working in downtown Detroit without our getting together occasionally.”

Inspector Walter Koznicki headed the homicide division of the Detroit Police Department. Years ago, coincidence had brought Father Koesler and Inspector Koznicki together. As the police unraveled a series of killings that had become known in the media as “The Rosary Murders,” Koesler had been helpful in the crime’s solution. Since then, coincidence again had drawn the priest into the investigation of other murders with some regularity. And over these years, Koznicki and Koesler had become fast friends.

At Koesler’s invitation, they had met and were dining in St. Vincent’s cafeteria.

“Sorry about the ambience,” Koesler said. “Not even any wine.”

“Father, we cannot continue eating at the London Chop House every evening. “ A private joke; neither of them could afford to eat at that restaurant, among Detroit’s most expensive. “This is good for the pocketbook if not the digestion.”

Briefly, as they picked at their salads, Ķoesler explained his substitute status at the hospital.

As they conversed, they became the center of attention. This was entirely due to Koznicki’s presence. Not that he was a celebrity; he shunned publicity. It was his size. He was a larger person in actuality as well as in bearing, creating the impression of being larger than life.

“So, Father, you are learning something new after all these years in the priesthood?”

“Well, yes. In a way. Ministering to the ill on a day-to-day basis is a lot different from visiting with them only occasionally as one does in a parish. Some of the clichés have to fall by the wayside when the person you’re visiting is no better today than he was yesterday—maybe worse. It’s different, it’s rewarding . . . but it has also been draining. I don’t know how people are able to do this as a career. But my hat’s off to them.”

“This is indeed a most important apostolate—to the sick.”

“That’s right. You don’t see very many ill people, do you, Inspector? They’re usually dead.”

Koznicki smiled. “A bit of an oversimplification, Father. But, yes, most of my ‘clients’ are either dead or they are suspects. On the other hand, not all of your clients recover. Death plays a significant part in your work here too.”

“You may not know the half of it, Inspector. Here, nobody dies alone.”

“How is that?”

“If a chaplain is not with the patient when he or she dies, the chaplain will be along in a minute to try to comfort the survivors.”

“I was not aware of that. At each death a chaplain is required?”

“Yes. It reminds me of what in effect is a second-class monsignor. It’s been so long since we had a new monsignor named in the Archdiocese of Detroit that I’m not sure what the protocol is now. But there used to be two ranks. One had the title for life and was called a Right Reverend Monsignor. The other was a Very Reverend Monsignor and remained a monsignor only as long as the contemporary Pope lived. When the Pope died, the Very Reverend Monsignor ceased being a prelate. They used to call them shirttail monsignors. I was never clear whether the sobriquet came from the type of their ecclesiastical garb or because they were, in effect, hanging on to the Pope’s shirttail.

“In any case, a bunch of us always thought it was rather consoling that no Pope ever died alone. As he drew his last breath, a whole bunch of prelates around the world were ceasing to be monsignors.

“And so it is in the hospital. Nobody dies alone. Always, in the wings at least, there’s a chaplain.”

“Leave it to you, Father, to find an ecclesiastical analogy for just about everything.” Koznicki chuckled. “As a matter of fact, the chaplain is not the only nonmedical person who may be found with the dead and dying at this hospital.”

“Oh?”

“I have no way of knowing whether you have noticed it, but frequently there will be a police officer present.”

Koesler scratched his head. “Now that you mention it . . .”

“Some of our investigations begin right here in the hospital. In the emergency room.”

“Of course they would. A fatal knifing or shooting would end up as a homicide investigation. As a matter of fact, we almost had one for you the other night.”

“You mean one of the staff?”

“The Chief Executive Officer.”

“Sister Eileen? What happened?”

Koesler recounted the story of the patient’s attack on Eileen. “Of course no one was seriously hurt and since the assailant was a mental patient, the hospital handled it internally and the police weren’t called. But if it hadn’t been for that alert guard, Sister might have been seriously hurt or even killed.”

“Any place these days can be dangerous,” Koznicki commented. “But a hospital with its mental patients, and many other patients disoriented, has always been a dangerous place to one degree or another. It was fortunate for Sister Eileen that, as you say, the guard was alert. To be perfectly frank, Father, it surprises me more than somewhat that the security guard was that effectual. At least judging by its reputation, the security service at this hospital is not all that reliable.”

“That’s not very encouraging. Especially since I have the feeling that Sister Eileen may indeed be in some danger. And not just from unbalanced patients.”

“Why do you say that, Father?”

“Actually, I shouldn’t say anything. There is no hard evidence that something’s wrong. It’s just a feeling. Don’t pay any attention to me, Inspector.”

But Inspector Koznicki had far too much respect for Father Koesler’s intuition to discount a matter about which the priest felt strongly. “No, Father, go on. Tell me what you think may be happening.”

“Well, that’s just it: Nothing is happening. It’s just that I can’t get rid of this feeling something is about to happen. It’s like a dormant volcano that is rumbling: It may erupt; it may not.”

“It has to do with Sister Eileen?”

“Well, yes. From some things I’ve been told and from what I’ve observed, there are a few people on this staff—I really have no idea how many—whose positions would be vastly improved if either this hospital closed or something happened to Eileen. Or both, since Eileen and St. Vincent’s seem to be, in some sense, synonymous.”

“Who might these people be, Father?”

“This is just between the two of us?”

“Of course.”

“There’s a Korean doctor, Lee Kim, who apparently has been playing fast and loose with hospital policy. Eileen has threatened to dismiss him from the staff. That seems to be kind of imminent. Evidently a dismissal from this institution would cripple his medical career. For the hospital to close, or for something to happen to Sister Eileen before any action were taken in his case, would be extremely helpful to him, to say the least.

“Then there’s John Haroldson, the chief operating officer. He’s at the age of compulsory retirement. And, while Eileen could waive that requirement, reportedly she will not do so. Haroldson lives for this place. But if Sister Eileen remains here for the foreseeable future, he’ll be gone.

“And Sister Rosamunda. She is well beyond retirement age. She’s still here because Eileen has waived the requirement in her case. But according to today’s scuttlebutt, Eileen will do so no more. Something to do with Rosamunda’s waning efficiency and also a bit of a drinking problem. Rosie, as nearly everybody calls her, is terrified of being tucked away in some home for ancient nuns. But if Eileen is still here and healthy at the end of this month, Sister Rosamunda will be forced into retirement.

“On top of that, rumor has it that some nurse’s aide is going to be canned if she happens to break just one more thing in this hospital. And the poor girl apparently can’t put on her shoes without breaking a lace. I mention her not as a particularly strong suspect—for what? . . . nothing’s happened yet—but just to indicate the underlying threat of something that might befall Sister Eileen.

“And finally, there is Dr. Fred Scott, who has been a source for much of what I’ve just told you. He seems to be the ‘good guy’ in this drama. But I’ve never been completely comfortable with his having taken me into his confidence so completely and so soon after my arrival here. It’s sort of a case of Dr. Scott’s having protested too much.

“And there you have it, Inspector—for what it’s worth. And it isn’t worth very much. Sort of a scenario without a play. Or a murder without either a crime or a corpus delicti.”

The Inspector did not reply immediately. When he did, he spoke slowly as if choosing his words carefully. “May I suggest, Father, that perhaps our past professional association—your involvement in some, shall we say ‘lurid’ murder investigations—has sensitized your perception to a degree where you have come to see a prospective homicide around every corner?”

Recognizing from the priest’s expression that his friend was not all that happy with his analysis, the Inspector hastened to add, “Nevertheless, it is good that you are aware of these possibilities. Sometimes merely the awareness of possible danger helps to avert it.” He grew reflective. “All too often when a homicide does occur, friends, relatives, and acquaintances of those involved profess astonishment, with comments along the line of, ‘I never would have dreamed . . .’Or they express amazement at what they consider the tenuousness of the killer’s motivation.” He shook his head. “One can never gauge the extremes to which a fellow human may be driven by what the rest of us would dismiss as a mere pinprick.”

He smiled reassuringly. “If nothing else, Father, yours is an interesting conjecture. But,” he added seriously, “it is quite possible, even probable, is it not, that all these things may happen—doctor dismissed, aide fired, older couple retired—without any harm coming to either Sister Eileen or the hospital?”

“Perfectly possible, even probable,” Koesler replied. He shook his head ruefully. “You’re right of course. And I must say I feel more at ease just for having expressed my fears to you. This must work as confession sometimes does. The talking cure. Just saying it out loud, telling someone, takes a good deal of the onus from what’s been bothering one.

“So, Inspector, I don’t know whether anyone in this hospital is any safer for my telling you my concerns, but I feel better.” Koesler laughed self-consciously.

Koznicki joined in the laughter. “Well, then, Father, the evening has not been a total waste.”

“I’ll just get us some coffee and I’ll shut up so you can tell me what’s going on in your interesting life. We can drink a toast to the prospect of your not being called in here on any official business in the foreseeable future.”

“Father, gladly will I drink to that.”

* * *

Bruce Whitaker was surprised to find that the tacky marquee of the Back Porch Theatre announced a change in the bill of fare. The Manic Sperm had enjoyed one of the briefer runs in show-biz history. After less than a week, The Manic Sperm had been mothballed in favor of a new and equally experimental production of an original drama entitled, The Roamin’ Ovum.

En route to his attic room, Bruce halted at the rear of the tiny theater. He could not see clearly through the dark and smoke, but there seemed to be no more than the usual handful of patrons, some noisily taunting the actors, who, between trying to remember their lines and their cues, returned the ridicule.

In the brief time Whitaker watched the performance, he had a devilish time trying to make some sense of what was going on. It appeared to be a two-character play. At least there were but two people on stage and no indication anyone else either had preceded or would follow them. He was unable to tell whether the actors were men, women, or one of each. Both had very long hair, both wore bulky and indiscriminate costumes, and both yelled so much their voices were hoarse.

The plot, as near as Whitaker could define it, seemed to be a contest of shouted insults and imprecations. If there was anything else of substance to the plot, it was the posed question of who was more important in love-making, the male or female. Or, as the actors themselves put it: Who had more fun, the sperm or the ovum? At this point, their clothing dropped to the floor rather astonishingly quickly. Thus solving one puzzle: It was a man and a woman onstage.

In no time at all, the woman clutched herself into a fetal position and began to roll toward the male. That, Whitaker reasoned, must be whence the play’s title, The Roamin’ Ovum, had originated. Though he had seen neither play from start to finish, it seemed to Bruce that there were great similarities between The Manic Sperm and The Roamin’ Ovum. Now that he thought of it, the playwright’s name on the billboard out front had seemed familiar. The same author had written both plays. Apparently the playwright’s talent was limited to one thought. And that not a very advanced one.

Whitaker did not wait to learn whether the sperm or the egg had more fun. He didn’t care. Besides, he was very depressed over those damned curtain hooks.

He continued up to his attic room, an extremely appropriate place in which to feel depressed.

If all this were not enough, after the performance of The Roamin’ Ovum, Whitaker’s landlord, who had portrayed the Sperm in the theater’s previous and current productions, stormed up to the attic and pounded on the door until it almost came off the one hinge that held it to the frame.

Strangely, Whitaker never could recall the landlord’s name. Bruce always thought of him as “The Sperm,” though he was never brazen enough to address him as such.

In any case, The Sperm upbraided Whitaker mercilessly for everything from not sweeping the theater clean enough to not attending any of the performances. This after having ordered Whitaker not to return after he walked out on one of the very few performances of The Manic Sperm!

Bruce felt very low.

At the core of his dejection, of course, was his failure to mutilate the IUDs, having attacked instead boxes full of curtain hooks. Added to that was his frustration, fast on the heels of his promise to her, in not having aided Ethel in her quest for security.

Now he faced the painful necessity of telling all this to his colleagues tomorrow.

Bruce was strongly tempted to skip the whole thing. What could they do to him if he never again visited Van’s Can? They were in. He was out. If he never returned, they could do nothing till they got out. By then, his parole would be completed and he could get out of town.

This was a more pleasant thought, so he dwelt on it. Leaving town, all the bad incidents behind him. Maybe—could he dare think it?—Ethel would go with him. He was utterly devoid of any experience in this field. Ethel was the first female, with the possible exception of his mother, who had ever seemed to take a real interest in him. He did not know how to handle this. But he was eager to learn.

First, he would have to justify Ethel’s faith in him. And he did have more plans. Lots more. He had been studying, asking questions, and making some personal observations. It was quite possible that one or another of these plans could do the job.

He could see it now: The first of his clever plans that worked would bring the media down on St. Vincent’s Hospital like dry sponges that needed news instead of water. As soon as the glare of publicity hit the hospital, the archdiocese would be forced to take action. And that, without doubt, would push Sister Eileen out of her position in the hospital. St. Vincent’s would once again be a Catholic hospital loyal to the Pope and his teaching authority. And, added boon, he would fulfill his pledge to Ethel. Sister Eileen would be removed and Ethel’s job would be unthreatened.

He wondered if it would be difficult to convince her to go somewhere else with him. She would have to leave a secure job. But it would be his success that would have secured that job. Given all this, would she see that he was her security and leave with him?

God, he hoped so.

This was such a pleasant thought he decided to go to sleep dreaming about it. The whole concept gave him strength to confront his colleagues on the morrow.

* * *

Joe Cox lay on his side looking out the window. A light snow was falling. From the high-rise apartment at night, the city resembled a large, self-motivated toy.

There wasn’t much traffic at this hour. One could watch headlights or taillights, depending on the cars’ direction. Here and there in apartments and offices soft lights illuminated late labor or the winding-down after a day’s work.

Most hypnotic were the traffic lights regularly signaling nonexistent traffic to stop or go. Cox, with a quiet wish that nothing exceptional would happen this night and that the Free Press would not summon him to report a fast-breaking story in a slow-moving city, had almost drifted off.

“Whatcha thinkin’ ’bout?”

Called back from slumber, Cox looked over his shoulder. “For a change, not a thing. I was letting the city lights put me to sleep.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Cox rolled over on his back. He looked appreciatively at Pat.

She was propped against a couple of pillows, working a crossword puzzle. She looked as if she were ready to attend a concert rather than retire for the night. Her hair was spread alluringly over the pillow as if it had been carefully arranged. It hadn’t.

She was working the puzzle with a pen.

“I swear, someday I’ll see you doing a puzzle on the typewriter.”

“What was a typewriter?”

They both chuckled. Neither was sold on the Word processor. As often as possible they would hammer out their stories on typewriters before transferring them to the compulsory processor.

“How was your day? I haven’t gotten around to asking.” She continued to fill in squares.

“The ordinary. They’re dragging out that Cobo Hall incident. As usual, they’re trying to nail the mayor on this one. Some on the city council are charging that Maynard Cobb should have insisted on more police protection for that rock concert.”

Lennon gratefully recalled that if she hadn’t in effect assigned herself to the hospital story, she would be covering the Cobo Hall incident. “Was it poorly policed?”

“Not really. But who can say? The usual contingents of cops and security guards. The problem is the muggers forgot to tell the cops that it was going to be their night to howl.”

“At least nobody got killed. How many injured?”

“I forget. I think about thirty or forty—two or three rapes—less than ten still hospitalized. All in all, a bad show.”

Lennon reflected that the whole nasty incident had occurred less than a couple of miles from this, their apartment. The sort of affair that contributed mightily to Detroit’s less-than-savory reputation. But that reputation had become a self-fulfilling prophecy. Detroit wins the World Series, and the aftermath, due to a few flare-ups, is described by the nation’s media as a riot. San Francisco wins the Super Bowl and the aftermath, despite a great number of flare-ups, is termed a celebration.

“Business as usual,” she said. “Everybody wants all the cops in the city at the trouble spot. Yet when there’s no one to respond to a 911, all hell breaks loose. How much longer you think this story’ll run?”

“A few more days. Cobb will certainly respond to the council’s criticism. Then that should pretty well be that. Unless some of the injured decide to sue this city.” Cox rolled back facing the window. “How’s your hospital story coming?”

Absently, Lennon touched Cox’s shoulder and began lightly massaging it. “Okay. The nice thing about one of these magazine pieces is that nobody’s in much of a hurry to get it. Compared with the average news story they want yesterday, there’s a kind of eternal air to a magazine piece.”

“That nun must’ve been grateful when you told her you weren’t going to get into the contraceptive lead.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Probably the nicest present she’s gotten since Christmas . . . wait a minute: They’ve got a vow of poverty, haven’t they? Kill that and write: nicest present she’s gotten since she was a kid.”

“Uh-huh.”

Lulled by the gentle massage on his shoulder, Cox began to once more drift toward sleep.

“Funny thing, though,” Lennon said, “there’s something going on in that hospital.”

“Huh? Sure, sick people get better or they die.”

“No, something to do with the nun—Sister Eileen.”

“What?”

“I’m not sure. But I’ve got this feeling.”

“Your spider-sense tingling, Spider Woman?”

Lennon chuckled. “No, seriously. Like when she took me to the cafeteria for lunch. She introduced me to some of the staff—by the way, I didn’t tell you: Father Koesler is filling in for the regular hospital chaplain.”

“Koesler . . . Koesler . . . where have I heard that name?”

“Friend of Walt Koznicki. We’ve covered him a few times in some homicide cases. Don’t you remember?”

“Oh, yeah . . . chaplain to the homicide department.”

“He is not.”

“I know. It’s my mnemonic for him.”

“It doesn’t work very well: You forgot him.”

“Then I remembered him again. What about the staff you met?”

“Well . . .” Lennon set aside her puzzle and pen on the nightstand. “. . . it was in the atmosphere when we sat down to eat with them. Very stilted.”

“What do you expect? You were the new guy on the block. Having you sit in killed their normal conversation.”

“No, I expected that. It was something more. And if I’m right, it wasn’t directed at me; it was aimed at the nun.”

“So? Deference to a superior.”

“You’re not getting the drift, Joe. Please hear me out.”

“Okay.” Cox pulled the quilt up. This would have to be a pretty interesting story or he would soon be asleep.

“There was an air of hostility toward the nun. It was palpable. It was coming from several people. I don’t know what they’ve got against her, but I’m going to find out.”

“You’re serious. You really think there’s something going on?”

“Yeah. It’s a physical thing. Like someone is out to get her.”

“Get her? You mean harm her?”

“I think so.”

“Okay. But if something like that should happen, it’s open season on this story.”

“I know.”

“You know Nelson Kane—you should, you worked for him long enough. You know how he salivates when somebody comes up with a crying statue or the figure of Christ in a burning chicken coop. He is just not the type of city editor to overlook a hospital nun under attack.”

“Nelson Ka—you didn’t tell Nellie about the contraceptive angle of this story!”

“Of course I didn’t. He’d have my ass in a sling if he knew about our nonaggression pact. Matter of fact, I think he kind of suspects. But if he knew for sure . . . wow!”

“Well, anyway, at the moment, it’s just a feeling. I’ll have to check it out. There may be nothing there.”

“Backing away, are you? Just remember: If you come up with an injured or dead nun . . .”

“Heaven forbid.”

“Okay, heaven forbid. But if you do, then it’s open warfare, no holds barred.”

“Joe, you wild and crazy guy, you never get it straight, do you?”

“Huh?”

“It’s not when making war, it’s when making love that there’s no holds barred.”

“I lie corrected.”

Lennon smiled, turned off the lights, and slid beneath the quilt and Cox.