Deathbed

8

“You did what!”

“Easy!” the First Man cautioned. “You’ll attract the guard.”

“You did what?” the Third Man repeated, more quietly but just as furiously.

“We all heard him,” the Fourth Man said. “He said he made a mistake. What kind of mistake, Bruce?”

“An honest mistake,” Whitaker replied.

“What mistake?” the Third Man said through clenched teeth. “What the hell did you do, you idiot?”

“Now, now, there’s no need to drop lugs on poor Bruce,” the Fourth Man tempered. He turned to Whitaker. “Tell us what you did, Bruce.”

“Well, I made a mistake . . .uh . . . instead of altering IUDs, it turns out I mutilated several boxes of curtain hooks.”

“You what!” all three exclaimed simultaneously.

“Hey, what’s goin’ on here, anyway?” A burly guard rapped his knuckles on their table. “You wanna hold it down, or what? You get loud like that again and this visit’s over. You’ll get outta here, Whitaker. And the three of you’ll go down with a recommend that y’ll be put in the box and forgot. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

“Perfectly clear, Captain,” the Fourth Man said.

“Okay, then.” The guard walked away and resumed his post against the wall not far from their table.

“Bruce,” the Fourth Man said, “do I understand you to say that you mistook curtain hooks for IUDs? How in God’s name did you do that?” His knuckles were white from gripping the table’s edge.

“It was an honest mistake—”

“It was a stupid mistake.”

“Honest.”

“Stupid!” the Third Man insisted. “Incredibly, supremely, unforgivably stupid! IUDs look nothing like curtain hooks!”

“How was Į to know? I’ve never seen an IUD. Besides, I’ll bet these curtain hooks look like an IUD. They were S-shaped and made of strong metal.”

“That doesn’t make any difference. They were curtain hooks! Goddam curtain hooks!”

“Watch your language,” the First Man cautioned.

“And,” Whitaker continued, “they were in the drawer reserved for IUDs.”

“That’s different,” the Fourth Man said. “That provides a logical explanation for why you might have confused them. Why didn’t you tell us this in the beginning?”

“You didn’t give me a chance. You jumped all over me when I told you I made an honest mistake. Now do you see how honest that mistake really was?”

“All right,” the Fourth Man said in a conciliatory tone. “Tell us what happened so we’ll be better able to plan for the future.”

Whitaker began recounting the events of the night on which he successfully attacked the curtain hooks. He reached the point where he was almost detected by the guard.

“You mean you were seen! You could be identified?” the First Man challenged.

“Well, no, not really. At that point something else happened.”

“What?”

Whitaker’s face broke into a beatific smile. “A miracle.”

‘A miracle!”

“A miracle. Remember that nurse’s aide I told you about? Well, she helped me. She happened to be in the hospital at the same time. She saw me sort of sneaking down the main floor corridor and she noticed the guard was about to intercept me . . . and she . . . uh . . . . intervened.”

“Intervened?”

“She said she . . . distracted him.”

“How?”

“I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. However she did it, she saved me from being discovered. That’s the important part. Not how she did it.”

“I don’t like it,” the Third Man said.

“Why not? Did you want me to get caught?”

“Frankly, I’m beginning to care less and less whether you get caught. Probably the worst that could happen is that you’d be thrown back in here, or DeHoCo, or Jacktown. I’m worried about us. We’ve only got a bit left. I don’t want ‘all day’ time added to what we’ve got. Or to have to go back to Jacktown.”

“What does Ethel have to do with all this?” Whitaker was getting defensive.

“Oh, it’s Ethel, is it?” the Third Man said. “All right then, Ethel. I don’t like the fact that she just ‘happened’ to be at the same place at the same time as you were when you were carrying out our mission. Or trying to carry it out. And I don’t like that she knew you were sneaking around at night. And I don’t like that she got involved. Just how much does she know about you? About us?”

“Okay, she doesn’t know anything at all about you, about us. And she knows next to nothing about me. We’ve just eaten together a few times and went on a date. But she doesn’t know anything about us or our mission.”

“Are you sure?” the Fourth Man asked.

“Absolutely.”

“So you went on a date,” the First Man said.

“You as much as told me to. You told me to get acquainted with her. And I did. And I have.”

“All right,” the Fourth Man said. “But be careful. It’s vitally important that she doesn’t find out about us or our mission.”

Everyone nodded agreement.

The Fourth Man continued. “How about the rest of the people at the hospital? Do they know about the curtain hooks?”

“Yes.”

“Have they associated them with you?”

“No. They think it was a manufacturer’s error.”

“All right, then,” the Fourth Man said. “What happened after your friend . . . uh . . . distracted the guard?”

“Then the way was clear to the clinic—wait ... no; I almost forgot the old nun.”

“The old nun?”

“Sister Rosamunda. She was sneaking along the hallway ahead of me.”

“What is this, a Mack Sennett comedy?”

“No. She went into the clinic ahead of me. Then I went in and was able to see what she was doing. But she never saw me. Do you know what she did?”

He had their attention.

“She took some bottles out of a cabinet after she unlocked it.”

“She stole!” the First Man exclaimed. “An old nun stole! Is nothing sacred? What was it? Did you get a chance to check it out—Lourdes Water or something like that?”

“It was Terpin Hydrate Elixir . . . whatever that is.”

“Whatever that is!” the Third Man exclaimed. “What did you do with your time in here anyway? They call that GI Gin. It’s potent. Got lots of codeine in it. And alcohol. A few slugs of that and you’re out. Either that nun has got one hell of a cold or she’s bending the old elbow.”

“You mean she’s an alcoholic! An alcoholic old nun! Nothing is sacred,” said the First Man.

“She has to be,” the Third Man affirmed. “She’s not picking up GI Gin with a prescription. She’s stealing it. She’s a lush. Just an old religious lush.”

“Very interesting,” the Fourth Man observed. “We’ll have to keep that in mind. It may help us somehow. You never can tell. All right, then, after the nun, you made your . . . honest mistake. And that was all there was to it? There was no further incident?”

“None.”

“All right, then. What we have is a failure . . . albeit an honest mistake. But no other harm done. We can go on from here.”

“What about that newspaperwoman?” the First Man asked. “The one you said came to do the story on St. Vincent’s?”

“I can’t figure that out at all. I went out of my way to personally make sure she saw the clinic. And she did see it. And she saw the evil things that are going on there. And I know that she knew they shouldn’t be going on in a Catholic hospital. And because it’s such a little hospital and rumors get around pretty quickly, I know that she had a couple of meetings with Sister Eileen. But nothing came of it.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing. Well, not so far, anyway. It’s probably too soon to tell for sure . . . but she was back the next day having lunch with the staff as if nothing had happened. I don’t know why, but it looks to me as if she isn’t going to do an investigative story on the clinic after all. Maybe Sister Eileen talked her out of it . . . although that seems hard to believe. But whatever the reason, it just doesn’t seem that she’s going to follow up on that situation.”

“Unless we force the issue,” the Fourth Man said pensively. “I’ve been spending some time in the library. They’ve got a good collection of old newspapers from around the country. I’ve been looking through them for hospital stories. You don’t have to look far. The papers are running stories all the time about things going wrong in hospitals. If you put all these stories together, why, hospitals are simply filled with accidents.”

“Something like ourselves,” the First Man admitted.

“Speak for yourself, Rumdum,” the Third Man said.

“Now, now,” the Fourth Man cautioned, “let’s not have any falling out. We’ve got to be united to be effective.”

“Yes, you’re right. It’s like what I saw in the emergency room the other day. A man was brought in unconscious. They almost sent him up for X-rays. But at the last second, one doctor decided to give him some test. Then they gave him some medicine and he recovered. Like almost immediately. It was like a miracle. And if they’d sent him up for the X-rays, he would have died. Is that your idea?”

“Yes. The idea is that newspapers—and magazines, for that matter—feature prominently the mistakes, blunders, and accidents that happen in hospitals. They happen all the time. But even though there are many, many accidents, there are never too many, it seems, for the media to overlook.”

“I think I understand,” the First Man said. “Sometimes so many instances of a normally noteworthy occurrence take place that the news media tend to overlook the latest happening. Like there are so many murders in a city like Detroit or New York or Chicago, that not all of them get big headlines or are even reported. Whereas, when a murder occurs in someplace like Kalamazoo, that gets a lot of notoriety there.”

“That’s it,” the Fourth Man chimed in. “But somehow, for some reason, when major blunders happen in hospitals, they always seem to get well publicized. I guess it’s because on the one hand, you come to expect a certain level of violence in a big city. But hospitals are supposed to be places where, even if cures can’t be worked all the time, at least you expect good care to be taken of the patients. So when the wrong fluid is injected in a spinal column or the wrong kind of anesthetic is used and the patient ends up as a vegetable, crippled, or dead, that’s big news as far as the media are concerned.”

“Sort of like when a dog bites a man as opposed to when a man bites a dog,” Whitaker added. “But what has this to do with where we are now in our project?”

“Only to put it in perspective,” the Fourth Man said. “We had a good plan and we still have a good plan. All right, so we suffered a minor setback when somebody put the wrong thing in the right drawer. And so the lady reporter at St. Vincent’s, for whatever her reason, seems to be avoiding a story that’s right there in front of her. It’s still a good plan. If we can make something happen at that hospital that is newsworthy, somebody in the media is going to pick it up and use it. And all we need to do is get one segment of the media to use it prominently and all the rest of the media will jump on board.

“Once we do that, the spotlight of investigation and publicity will be on St. Vincent’s and the evil that’s going on there will be exposed. Then the archdiocese will be forced to act. And then we will have achieved our mission.

“Now, what do you say? Let’s get back in this and see what we can do. Any suggestions?”

“Well, yes, “ Whitaker said. “I have a few ideas. I’ve been reading up on this. But mostly I’ve been trying to overhear some of the doctors when they are talking over some of their problems. And from all this, I have a few ideas, one of which I’d like to try next. Want to hear it?”

“Yes, yes, of course.” The Fourth Man was enthusiastic. Among other goals, he hoped to infuse his colleagues with a new sense of confidence.

“Would anyone like something to eat?” the First Man inquired.

“What!” the Third Man exclaimed. “You didn’t do it again! Tell me you didn’t do it again!”

“It’s just a slice of baloney.” The First Man removed his right hand from his trouser pocket. Clutched in his fist was what at one time had been a thick slice of baloney. It now resembled modeling clay squeezed into the shape of inverted brass knuckles. Also, it was beginning to lose much of its savory piquancy and take on the stench of sweaty prison clothing.

“God! How can you do that to food?” the Third Man demanded.

“Where did you get that?” the Fourth Man asked.

“The chow cart. There’s never enough to keep from getting hungry between meals.”

“You idiot!” the Third Man exclaimed. “We’ve got to get rid of that somehow. You try eating that and the guard will be on you in a minute. And the way it’s beginning to smell, we’re not going to keep it a secret much longer. You stupid bastard! This is just like the goddam cheese!”“Cheese?” Whitaker asked. “You mean the cheese you hid in the heat duct last time?”

“That’s it.”

“What happened? I thought you hid that good enough.”

“Not quite,” the First Man explained. “At first, they thought they were looking for a dead animal. Then they found the cheese. I guess they knew it didn’t get in the heat duct all by itself. So they looked some more.”

“And it wasn’t all that difficult an investigation,” the Third Man continued. “Dumdum here couldn’t get the odor out of his armpit.”

“So,” the First Man said, “they knew we had been sitting together in here. So they took good time away from all three of us.”

“And now,” the Third Man said, “this idiot comes in with a putrid piece of baloney. So what the hell are we going to do?”

“I’ll take it,” Whitaker volunteered. “I’ll be leaving in a few minutes. They won’t check me on the way out. I’ll get it out of here.”

“I hate to say this,” the Third Man said, “but I guess we owe you one.”

Keeping an eye on the guard, who had wandered slightly further away, and assisted by Whitaker, the First Man pried the baloney out of his fist. Whitaker then plunged the gook into his pocket without being discovered.

“Now, then, what is it you have in mind?” the Fourth Man asked.

“Okay.” He was eager to explain his plan. “Get close.”

The four huddled. Noting this, the guard returned to his vantage near their table.

After several minutes, the Third Man fairly shouted, “You’re going to do what? That’s insane!”

His outburst activated the guard, who strode to their table. “Okay, okay, okay, that’s it. I told you no commotion, no commotion! Now break it up! Break it up! Let’s go! This visit’s over! Move it! Move it! Move it!”

They had no alternative. The three, still muttering, were herded to their cells while Bruce Whitaker and his contraband baloney returned to the streets, confident of his plan despite the incredulity of his colleagues.

* * *

Father Koesler studied his patient chart. It was run off each day and contained such information as the patient’s name, room number, nature of illness, religion, and doctor’s name. Other information was added as needed.

He noted that several patients had requested the Sacrament of Reconciliation. Odd. From his limited experience, as well as the briefing he’d received from the now-vacationing Father Thompson, he knew confession was rarely requested in this hospital. This was due partly to the fact that Catholics did not go to confession nearly as frequently as they once had, and partly to the fact that there just were not very many Catholic patients in St. Vincent’s.

One of the confession requests had been penned in by a nurse’s aide. The patient was on one of Sister Rosamunda’s floors. Another oddity. Sister of course was not empowered to hear confessions. So when one of her patients asked for the sacrament, Sister routinely would communicate the request to the priest-chaplain. In this case, she had not.

He decided to look in on this patient first.

Alva Crawford was in Room 2214, Bed A, which meant she was near the window. Near the door was one Millie Power. Both patients were in their beds. Koesler’s luck was holding; more often than not when he went to call on a patient, the bed was empty and the patient was anywhere from the bathroom to therapy to the operating room to wandering the halls.

“Hello.” He approached the window bed. “Are you Mrs. Alva Crawford?” Always well to check; hospital lists were by no means infallible.

“Yes, sir, Reverend.”

Odd again. If she wanted to confess she must be Catholic. But if she were Catholic, why was she calling him “Reverend”? Well, he would push on.

“Did you want to go to confession, Mrs. Crawford?”

“Uh . . . no, sir.”

It was evident that the thought of confessing had not occurred to her in recent memory.

“It says on this list that you wanted to go to confession.” As soon as he said it, he regretted it. He was asking her to explain something for which she had no responsibility whatever. Without waiting for her response, he continued, “Are you a Catholic, Mrs. Crawford?”

“No, Reverend, I can’t say as I am.”

“Ah-ha. Somebody has made a mistake.” Stupid aide, he thought. Koesler glanced at Mrs. Crawford’s bedstand. No sign of the familiar pink brochure given patients by the chaplains on their first visit. However, he glanced at her neighbor’s bedstand and there it was, the welcoming brochure.

“Has Sister Rosamunda been in to see you, Mrs. Crawford?”

“Sister what?”

“Rosamunda,” said Mrs. Power in the next bed. “No, she ain’t been in for a day or so, Father. “

Mrs. Crawford seemed thoroughly confused.

“Here . . .” Koesler took one of the brochures from his jacket pocket and handed it to her. “You can read this later, Mrs. Crawford. It explains a little bit about what we in pastoral care are up to. We aren’t so much interested in your liver or gall bladder as just in you. We want to help any way we can. We’ll be eager to be with you, to pray with you, or just talk, or just be with you. You’ll also find some prayers on the back and inside of that brochure . . . see?” He took another brochure from his pocket and indicated the prayers. “There: Morning Prayer, Evening Prayer, For This Hospital, For Doctors and Nurses, and Their Assistants”—stupid ones as well, Koesler added silently. “For Healing, For Relief From My Sickness, In Time of Distress, In Time of Discouragement, In Time of Great Suffering, Before an Operation—”

“That’s it.”

“That’s what?”

“A operation. I’m gonna have a operation.”

“You are? When?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

“Oh, my.”

“I gotta swallow a tube.”

“You have to what?”

“Swallow a tube. I don’t like that much at all.” She stroked her throat in anticipation of swallowing some foreign substance.

“I told you before it ain’t so bad,” Mrs. Power said. “You just go in there and do what they tell you. You ain’t gonna have no trouble. You just do what they tell you and relax.”

“I don’t jes’ know.” Mrs. Crawford continued to stroke her throat. Her eyes showed there was real fear in her heart.

“I told you, child,” Mrs. Power said, “you gonna be okay. You got Doctor Jesus with you!”

That stopped Koesler cold. He was unaware of a Dr. Jesus on staff. Then it occurred to him that the “doctor” was an outgrowth of Mrs. Power’s beautiful faith. He consulted the patient chart once more and found Mrs. Millie Power. She too was not a Catholic. While admitting he could easily be mistaken, Koesler supposed the average Catholic would not be on familiar enough terms with the Lord to call Him “Doctor Jesus.” Too bad; Mrs. Power’s was a touching faith.

“Says here on the chart, Mrs. Power,” Koesler said, “that you’ve got pneumonia. That right?”

“That be right.”

“How do you feel?”

“Some better. Some better. Coulda been lots worse though.”

“How so?”

“Doctor was gonna put me in some kind of test group or somethin’. But just at the last moment, I ’membered I’m allergic to penicillin. So I ain’t in the test. See: Doctor Jesus was with me.” She nodded confidently.

“I’m sure He is. Well, Mrs. Crawford, since you’re going for an operation tomorrow, either Sister Rosamunda or I will call on you tonight. Somebody from pastoral care always calls on a patient before an operation. It’s nothing to worry about or to be concerned about. We just like to make sure that somebody’s with you the night before surgery. Just to talk, maybe pray.”

Before leaving the room, Koesler assured Mrs. Power he would also return to visit with her.

Outside the room he paused to think this through. When he’d agreed to be a substitute chaplain, he had not anticipated any problem such as this. But here it was. Sister Rosamunda was not doing her job. Probably was not her fault. But disregarding accountability, she still was not doing her job. This was Alva Crawford’s second day in St. Vincent’s and the nun had not yet visited. Thus in all probability, Sister was not aware that Mrs. Crawford faced surgery on the morrow. Among the duties the importance of which had been impressed upon him, high on the list was the necessity of visiting one’s patient before surgery. What to do about this?

If he did nothing—by far the easier choice—it was likely the patient would be in and out of the hospital without having received the requisite visit from pastoral care. Not good, especially for a Catholic hospital.

On the other hand, what right had he, a mere substitute chaplain, to offer correction to a lady who had been in hospital work before he’d been ordained?

He checked his watch. If Sister Rosamunda’s routine was on schedule, she should be just finishing up lunch now. He’d give it a try.

Sure enough, she was in the cafeteria and, fortunately, seated alone at a small table. Koesler got coffee and made his way over, greeting several employees as he went. He was pleased at the number of St. Vincent’s personnel he’d become acquainted with in a relatively brief time.

“Mind if I join you, Sister?”

“Oh . . . oh.” She had been deeply preoccupied. “Father Koesler. Yes, of course.” She rearranged some dishes. It was no more than a welcoming gesture; there was not enough crockery on the table to cause Koesler any problem. Rosamunda, tiny and frail, ate very little. “How is your new career as hospital chaplain going?”

“Not so bad.” Koesler wrapped both hands around the coffee mug. He wondered if this cafeteria ever became comfortably warm. “It kind of wears on you, though. I mean, this unremitting dealing with the sick and dying. I can see how you could burn out in this work.”

“Oh, it’s not as bad as all that. You get used to it. If you didn’t, I’d have been in the loony bin long ago, in nomine Domini. Part of the saving grace is that far more often than not, the patients are happy to see you. After all, you’re not going to plug another tube in them or take any more blood from them. If for no other reason, you are a pretty welcome sight. You just haven’t given yourself enough time.”

“Time. That’s what you’ve given. Lots of time in hospitals. Lots of time in this hospital.”

“Lordy, yes.” The hint of a smile crossed her face.

“The memories you must have!”

“The memories. Oh, yes, the memories. Funny thing, as the years go by, the memories of the distant past grow clearer. But I have some trouble remembering what happened yesterday.”

“Tell me some of them, Sister.”

“Oh, they’re not all that interesting.”

“Try me.” Koesler genuinely loved stories of the past from those who had lived them.

“Silly. Well, I remember all the way back to my first day on the job. I was only a novice then. Hadn’t been in the convent little more than a year. But they put you to work in a jiffy back then.

“Well, I was assigned to give baths. And I tell you, the only thing that got me out on the floor with a basin and cloth was the vow of holy obedience. Lordy, I was embarrassed! I’d never seen an unclothed man before, let alone touched one. And, as it happened, my first patient was a hirsute creature, a bear of a man. He had hair on his chest like a shag rug.

“Well, I can’t tell you how nervous I was. The only way I could get through it was to concentrate on not spilling the water basin. But in the process, I put so much soap on the poor man’s chest that it got all matted in his hair. And this was long before there was a water faucet in each room. I had to go all the way down the hallway to get water. I think I spent most of that day getting water and coming back to try and get the soap out of his chest hair.”

Koesler was laughing.

“I suppose the only good thing to come out of that, as far as me and my innocence were concerned, was that I never got beyond the man’s chest.”

“That was nice of God to protect your modesty.” Koesler smiled. “More.”

“I think about this sort of thing from time to time. But you know, most of the things we find funny now were not at all funny when they happened. For instance, I recall a time when the nurses had to provide most of the equipment they used. Very little of it was supplied by the hospital.”

“I didn’t know that. That must have been a terrible burden for the nurses. They don’t make all that much even now. They must have made considerably less years ago. And then to have to buy equipment!”

“Yes. And—you may find this hard to believe—but back in those days most of the nurses used to sharpen their hypodermic needles by scraping them across the terrazzo floor.”

Koesler winced as he smiled. “Nothing like giving the patients something genuine to complain about.”

“As I was saying, it sounds odd and a bit humorous now. But back then it was pretty grim. Dreadful for the nurses and frightful for the patients. But the poor girls simply were unable to buy new needles all the time.”

“And now in this plastic age, most everything is used once and then discarded.” He shook his head. “Tell me some more.”

“Oh, you’ve got better things to do than listen to an old biddy tell stories about long ago.”

“I will never have anything more important to do.”

“Well, I do remember a time—and not all that long ago—when the second floor of this building was reserved for black people. We called them Negroes then.”

“Segregated! St. Vincent’s was segregated?”

“Hard to believe, isn’t it? But it did happen. I don’t suppose there’s any way to remember a time when just about everything in this country was segregated. And it all seemed right and proper. We’ve had the civil rights movement with us now for so many years. But that’s the way it was. As far as I can remember, our black patients got the same kind of care and treatment as the whites, but they were all on the second floor.”

“Incredible.”

“But true.

“Sometimes a very light-skinned black patient would be assigned to one of the other floors on admittance. We never asked people their race, you know, just looked at them. That was enough in most cases. But visitors would come. And that light-complexioned person would get a lot of dark-complexioned visitors. Then, without anyone’s saying anything, the patient would be moved to the second floor.”

Koesler shook his head. “And now, it’s rare to find a white patient here. Sister, you know you really ought to write these things down, get them published. The present and the future need to know the past. You could just turn your memory on and record these marvelous anecdotes for the rest of us. And for those who will follow us.”

“In nomine Domini, who’s got time for that?”

“Well, you, for one. Now don’t be offended, but it’s no secret around here that you are more than eligible for retirement.”

Rosamunda’s countenance changed swiftly and dramatically. Koesler was aware that he had skated onto thin ice.

“I just want you to know,” he plunged ahead, “that I can understand your reluctance to go into retirement.” He paused, hoping she would contribute something. She did not. “I’m sure you have no fear that retirement will only lead to consequent death as it does for some people. I’m sure you are not afraid of death. It isn’t that, is it?”

Steely silence.

“I can remember when nuns did not retire. They died teaching school or nursing or whatever else they had been actively involved in. They didn’t retire unless they were physically unable to put one foot in front of the other.

“I can also remember—and so can you—when priests didn’t retire. They died giving absolution or hanging on until the end of Mass. It was a disgrace to retire.” The last was said with deliberation.

It did the trick. Koesler could see the sudden spark in Rosamunda’s eyes. That was it. She equated retirement with what it had been throughout most of her long career: disgrace. Was there some way he could dislodge her mental equating of retirement with disgrace? He waited to see if she would respond. Time passed. Though little more than a minute, it seemed much longer.

“Why are you doing this to me?” she said finally.

“Doing? I’m not doing anything to you, Sister. I’m trying to help you. That’s all.”

“It’s none of your affair. You have nothing to do with it. It’s between me and Eileen. And that’s bad enough. Eileen has all the power of the administration behind her. How can anyone expect me to fight all that and the rest of you too? It’s unfair. It’s just unfair!” Her lower lip trembled. It was as close as Koesler had come to seeing her break down and cry. It was about as close as anyone had come to that.

“Sister, I just called on one of your patients.”

“How—” Koesler broke in before she could finish the sentence—”dare you!”

“It was a mistake that called me there. Some nurse’s aide had noted that the patient had requested confession. So I called on her. Turned out she isn’t Catholic. It also turned out that she’s been here a couple of days and you haven’t called on her. She’s going for surgery tomorrow morning and it was even money you wouldn’t be seeing her before the operation.”

“How can you . . .”

“Because it’s been happening a lot lately. Others have been talking. Sister, no one wishes you any evil. Everyone here has the highest regard for you. I was just trying to help. There is no disgrace in retiring. I’ve suggested only one of many contributions you could make if you didn’t have the pressure of this active life to weigh you down. All of us just want to help.”

“Then get out of my way. Stay out of my way. I am not going to retire. Things will be much clearer for all of you who ‘just want to help’ if you will only understand one simple fact: I am not going to retire!”

“Sister, as I understand it, you have no choice.”

“This is between Eileen and me. The rest of you stay out of it! Do you hear? Eileen may have the administration on her side. But I’ve got a tad more experience. I am not going to retire!”

She rose unsteadily and turned to leave. Abruptly, she turned back. Koesler thought it was as much to give herself time to regain her balance as it was to ask her final question. “Who is it who’s going to surgery tomorrow?”

“Mrs. Alva Crawford . . . 2214-A.”

“I’ll see her tonight!”

The implication clearly was that he was to stay out of her business entirely.

Koesler sipped at his lukewarm coffee. He had not anticipated the response he had triggered from Rosamunda. He shook his head sadly at the futility of it. There was no way she could stave off an inevitable retirement. She might, as she claimed, have a tad more experience. But Eileen, as her superior and with the rules on her side, held all the cards.

There was no doubting Rosamunda’s determination. But what could even that degree of determination do? How far would Rosamunda be willing to go in her battle to stay active? In her war with Eileen? As he drained the now tepid coffee, Koesler began to wonder about that. How far would Rosamunda go to stop Eileen? He did not like to consider the perimeter of those possibilities.

* * *

Seated at another table in the refectory was Bruce Whitaker. He had carefully selected this table because it was adjacent to the table where two specific doctors were eating lunch. These doctors were select because they were conducting a study among the hospital patients. A study in which Whitaker was intensely interested.

A very recent addition to Whitaker’s table was Ethel Laidlaw. This to Whitaker was the source of both positive and negative vectors. He was, of course, happy to see and be with Ethel. At the same time, it was most important that he be able to pay close attention to what these doctors were talking about. And of course Ethel would want to talk. Whitaker did not command the language to tell Ethel to be quiet. All in all, he felt, it was going to be a challenge to listen to both the doctors and Ethel.

“I’ve been thinking,” Ethel began, “about your offer to help with my problem . . . you know, with Sister Eileen. I don’t really think you have to go out of your way to help with this. I mean, there are other ways.”

Ethel was holding a cup of very hot coffee near her mouth, absently blowing over its surface, attempting to cool it. But she was paying little attention to it. The cup had tipped over so slightly and the coffee began dripping ever so slowly into Ethel’s lap. The old water torture with caffeine overtones.

“I think I may have a plan that would surprise you,” Ethel continued. “It’s just kind of hard to talk about it, especially with you. I don’t understand it all that well myself. It’s something that’s going on in my head. Like maybe there are two persons there. One of them is the usual bonehead me. The other one seems much more clever. I guess I just don’t know how to explain it very well . . . do you know what I’m talking about, Bruce?”

“What?”

Ethel began, again, to explain her conundrum, trying to find clearer language. All the while, Whitaker tried to catch the doctors’ conversation.

“Are there really that many people in here with pneumonia, do you think?” said one doctor.

“Oh, yeah,” said the other. “At least enough for the study. Don’t need that many.”

“What’re you using?”

“One group gets penicillin, the other tobrimycin.”

“What are the protocol numbers?”

“Ouch!” Ethel cried.

“Not now!” Whitaker warned.

“Whaddya mean, ‘not now’?” Ethel almost shouted. “I burned myself with coffee. It’s scalding. Look! It’s been dripping in my lap. It hurts! Whaddya mean, ‘not now’!”

“Sorry, Ethel.” Whitaker strained to hear the doctors. Fortunately, the doctor who was to respond with the protocol numbers had taken a bite of food and was chewing. And fortunately, his social code did not countenance talking with a full mouth.

Thus, Ethel was well done complaining about the burn, the stain, and Whitaker’s failure to offer solace when the doctor replied.

“Odds and evens. Odds get tobrimycin. Evens get penicillin.”

“Sounds good to me. Got your ass well covered?”

“God, I hope so. We’ve checked out the stickers as carefully as possible.”

“Check out the crew, too?”

“Yeah. Pretty good, at least for this place. There shouldn’t be any slipups.”

“’samatter, you don’t believe in Murphy’s Law?”

“Oh, yeah, I believe in it like hell. I just think we’re gonna get through this study in one piece.”

“Well, good luck. Lemme know how it goes.”

“Sure. Right.”

The two doctors picked up their trays with the used crockery, deposited them, and left the cafeteria.

Whitaker hoped against hope that he could remember what he had just overheard. He would have a difficult enough time carrying out his plan even if he had all this information accurately recorded. It would be doomed if but one detail were incorrect.

But he would get it right this time and he would confound his colleagues back at Van’s Can. They thought he couldn’t do it. But with the help of Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, by God, he would!

The most crucial bit of information he had just learned was the protocol numbers. As it happened, it was the easiest to forget. He would jot the numbers on his paper napkin. And, he was pleased to submit, for this very necessity he had planned ahead. He removed a number two pencil from his breast pocket and pressed the point to the napkin. The point broke.

“Quick, Ethel, do you have a pen or a pencil?”

“What is this with a pen when I’ve been burned half to death?”

“Please, Ethel, I’ve got to write something down. It’s an emergency.”

“Oh, all right already.” She offered him her pen. It was a fountain pen. One seldom saw such an instrument in these days of throwaway plastic ball-points.

Frequently fountain pens tend to leak. Ethel’s did.

When Whitaker finished, the figures were barely legible. The rest of the napkin was saturated with blue ink.

Ethel had watched the process with interest. “Here,” she said, offering her napkin. “Wipe your fingers.”

He accepted her napkin and wiped vigorously. It didn’t do much good. It never did, not since his days in parochial school, when, over the months, ink had gradually become the finish for his desk and chair.

“What’s with that?” Ethel asked. “‘Odd tobrimycin, even penicillin’ . . . what does that mean?”

“It’s just a project I’ve got to do. It’s not important.”

“But you said it was an emergency.”

Whitaker despaired of ever getting his hands clean with a paper napkin. He crushed it into a ball and dropped it on the table. Whence Ethel retrieved it and began dabbing at her coffee-stained white skirt, thus dying it a light blue. The blue ink dabs, together with the brown coffee stains, gave her uniform the appearance of a painful bruise.

“What was it you were saying, Ethel?”

“You should listen more careful, Bruce. It isn’t like you not to listen.”

“I’m sorry. I really am. But I just had to hear what those doctors were talking about.”

“Whyever for?”

“It’s just this project I’ve got. Now, please: What were you telling me?”

“Well, I was just telling you not to feel bad if you can’t help me.”

“If I can’t help you!” Whitaker sounded offended.

“I mean with my job here and my problem with Sister Eileen.”

“Oh, but Ethel, I am going to help you. That’s why I had to pay such special attention to those doctors. They don’t know it, but they’re helping me help you. Help us.”

“Bruce . . .” Ethel’s brow was furrowed. “I don’t understand you. I really don’t.”

“Ethel, you said that if Sister Eileen were gone from here, your job would be secure, didn’t you?”

“Well, yes. It’s Sister Eileen who’s threatening me. If she weren’t here, there’d be no one to fire me . . . far as I can see.”

“Well, that’s it. Just trust me and I’ll get you through this.”

“Gee, Bruce, I’ve never had anyone take care of me like you do. Not even my parents. It’s a funny feeling . . . but I kind of like it.”

It was a bit of a magic moment for them. They leaned closer across the table, both spilling their coffee. Fortunately, by now there was very little left to spill.

Ethel’s nose wrinkled. “Bruce what is that smell?” She glanced under the table. “Did something die?”

Whitaker sniffed. He did not detect any particular odor. But then the sensory perception of smell does tend to neutralize itself over a period of time. “I don’t get any smell, Ethel.”

“Oh, yes, Bruce. If you don’t mind me saying so, it seems to be you.”

“Me?”

“You.”

Whitaker sniffed again, more intently.

“I believe you may be right, Ethel.” Gradually, he was remembering. He reached into his trouser pocket. It was there, all right. It blended into his hand and fingers the way the handle of a good golf club should. Very carefully he removed it, keeping it close to his side so onlookers couldn’t see it. Ethel, of course could.

“Oh, my God, Bruce, what is it? Is that a fetus, Bruce? Oh, my God, Bruce, why would you carry a fetus around in your pocket? Oh, my God, Bruce, that is gross!”

“Quiet, Ethel. It’s not a fetus.” But Whitaker was studying the object as if it might be something akin to a fetus. “Ethel, do you know if penicillin can grow on baloney?”

“Baloney! Do you mean to tell me that is baloney?”

“Well, yes, as a matter of fact ... at least it was baloney.”

“Where in the world did you get it? And why would you carry baloney around in your pocket?” For the first time in their relationship, Ethel began to seriously wonder about Bruce. After all, she began to reason, how far can you trust someone who carries a slice of baloney around in his pants’ pocket until the meat begins to grow a culture?

“Ethel, you’ll just have to trust me on this. I did somebody a favor by taking this baloney. Honest. Then I forgot all about it until now. Honest, Ethel, it is just a fluke. Forgive me?”

Ethel thought about that one for a while. “Well . . . okay, I guess. But I still think this is a bit strange.”

They continued to sit across from each other but the magic moment had been somewhat spoiled. Not unlike the baloney.

Ethel had to think things through once more. It was a new and wonderful feeling being protected and looked after by someone for the first time in her life. But when that someone carried dead baloney around in his pocket, the rapture becomes somewhat modified.

* * *

“That is almost unbelievable: The entire riot was caused by inferior marijuana?” Inspector Walter Koznicki observed.

“Yup,” Lieutenant Ned Harris replied. “One kid bought a bad joint from another kid. The trouble was the one kid was Hell’s Kitchen and the other guy was Devil Drivers. And both gangs were at Cobo in force.”

“So what began as a war between two gangs grew into a full-scale riot.” Koznicki frowned. “It makes me wonder whether everything that goes wrong in this city is caused by drugs or dope.”

“Kinda seems that way don’t it,” Harris agreed. “Even muggers usually go through a pawnshop to support a habit. I guess some of the domestic disturbances are just bad blood between a couple or a triangle. But even some of them start when somebody is snorting . . . or drinking.”

“What are the damages for the other night?”

Harris consulted his note pad. “Let’s see . . . seventy-three injured—twelve still hospitalized—luckily no one killed.”

Koznicki shook his head.

“And all over a lousy joint!” Harris added.

“Do the media have the complete story yet? Including the marijuana?”

“As far as I’ve been able to tell, so far only Cox of the Free Press has it.”

Koznicki smiled. “Ah, yes, Cox of the Free Press.”

“He got it about the same time we did, I think. So far, it’s his exclusive.”

“There is no reason to hold it any longer. You might as well hold a news conference. Mr. Cox will still have his scoop.”

Harris was about to leave the office. He hesitated. “Is there something else, Walt? You’ve been sort of glum the last day or so.”

Harris, tall, handsome, black, had moved through the Detroit Police Department virtually in Koznicki’s shadow. Koznicki, almost ten years Harris’s senior, had gone rather quickly from patrol to homicide, from sergeant to lieutenant to inspector. Harris had followed suit and everyone believed that one day he too would be an inspector. In the homicide department, Koznicki and Harris had been partners at one time. They remained close friends. They were sensitive to one another.

Koznicki waved a hand, as if brushing away Harris’s concern. “It’s nothing.”

“Something.”

“Oh, I’ve been a bit concerned about Father Koesler.”

“Koesler! What’s he been up to?”

The priest’s involvement in several homicide investigations over the past few years had never set well with Harris. He was a strong believer that murder was a matter for professionals to investigate. There was no room for amateurs in something so serious.

The fact that Koesler would have agreed wholeheartedly with Harris made no difference. With Harris it was an emotional reaction. Intellectually, Harris would admit that the relatively few times Koesler had been involved in police business, he had been practically dragged in because he was a natural source for consultation on religious matters, or because he was simply there on the scene and thus involved. Intellectually, too, Harris would have had to admit that when drawn into an investigation, Koesler had proven helpful. Sometimes to the point of actually solving the case. And this, emotionally, was Harris’s complaint.

If there were a reasonable aspect to Harris’s standpoint, it would be that the department might be mesmerized by Koesler’s luck and grow somewhat dependent on him. Down that road, Harris was certain, lay disaster. Thus he was not overjoyed when Walt Koznicki dropped Koesler’s name.

“Is your Father Koesler ill or something?” Harris inquired with no noticeable concern.

“No; nothing like that. He is substituting as a chaplain in St. Vincent’s Hospital.”

“Right in our backyard,” Harris commented, not happily. “But why should that give you concern? Nothing wrong with being a chaplain, is there? I mean, he’s qualified; he is a priest, after all.”

“No, no. It’s just that he has a premonition that something bad is about to happen at St. Vincent’s.”

“A premonition! Really, Walt!”

“You do not know him as I do, Ned. Father is not one to cry wolf. And when it comes to an intuitive sense, he has been right more often than anyone else I know. So if he has a premonition of evil, I tend to pay attention.”

“But, Walt, that’s something like saying that things come to a conclusion at a mortuary. Things like that happen in a hospital. People are sick. People die. It happens whether Father Koesler is there or not.”

“He is not concerned with the ordinary, expected occurrences of hospital routine. He is worried that something extraordinary might happen at St. Vincent’s.”

“‘Something extraordinary,’ Walt? You’re talking about murder, aren’t you?”

“That was the ultimate concern.”

“Even then—even if he’s right—there’s nothing we can do about it. We’re not in the business of preventing homicide; we just investigate it.”

“I am well aware of that. I am concerned mainly because if he is proven correct, he is there in the midst of it. He could be drawn into it innocently.”

“There is always another possibility, Walt.”

“What?”

“That he’s wrong.”

“I hope you are right.”

“I have a premonition. It’s that Father Koesler is wrong. And I’ll match my premonition against his any day. Make you feel any better?”

Koznicki sighed deeply. He wanted to argue the point no more. “You win, Ned. All is well.”

* * *

Sister Rosamunda was making her rounds. She was trying not to be bitter. It was not easy. Her bones seemed to ache clear through to the marrow. She was feeling her years and trying not to show it.

Put her on the shelf, would they? Well! We’ll see about that!

She had checked the Crawford woman and her neighbor, Millie Power. All appeared normal there. Power’s pneumonia seemed stabilized and Crawford was just scared, as well she might be, being operated on tomorrow. Rosamunda promised herself and Crawford a visit tonight to try to quiet and reassure the patient into a decent night’s sleep.

The next patient on her list was an Alice Walker in 2218-A, who had been admitted earlier this day.

Rosamunda entered the room, her practiced eye catching all the essentials at a glance. The bed nearest the door was vacant. Too much of that going on at St. Vincent’s. A hospital’s financial situation is not helped by empty beds.

Obviously, Alice Walker was very elderly and very ill. She seemed to be sleeping, but you could never tell just by looking. Her wispy white hair was matted from perspiration. Her cheeks and eyes were sunken. She lay perfectly still. Only the merest periodic rise and fall of her chest indicated she was breathing.

There was nothing on her bedstand next to the window but a bare tray on which was a water pitcher and an empty glass. No card, no flower, no personal effect. Likely, Alice Walker’s friends and relations were gone before her or were unable to visit her. Rosamunda had seen it hundreds of times. An old person, usually a woman, who had outlived her contemporaries. There is no one as alone as one who reaches the end of life without anyone left who cares. Well, Rosamunda would be the one who cared.

The nun made a conscious effort to see not a barely animated relic, but a total woman. She had been a child, a young woman, a mother, a grandmother. Once she had given life to others, cared for them. Now she was in desperate need of care for herself. Everyone she might have depended on was gone. If help came now, and that was not likely, it would have to come from some stranger.

Rosamunda stood at the bedside. She could tell the patient was resting and not in deep sleep.

“How do you feel, dear?” Rosamunda touched the woman’s shoulder.

Alice Walker opened her eyes and seemed startled to see someone in a traditional religious habit. “All right, I guess. Tired. Sister . . .”

“Rosamunda. We’re about the same age; why don’t you call me Rosey. Other people do, but mostly behind my back. “

Alice Walker smiled weakly.

“What’s ailing you, Alice?”

“Oh, gall bladder. Been acting up. I guess they’re going to take it out. Another part of me in the grave ahead of time.”

It was Rosamunda’s turn to smile. “Cheer up, Sweetie, gall bladder’s the in operation these days. All the swells have it. You’re just being fashionable. Says here on the chart that you’re a Catholic. Would you like Communion tomorrow morning?”

“That would be nice. Can I go to confession first?”

“Uh-huh. We’ve got a priest for that. I’ll ask him to see you before Communion. I can bring you Communion but we’ve got to hunt up a priest to absolve you. Just as well! Give them something to do.” It was said only partially in jest. She still smarted from what she considered Koesler’s meddling. “In the meantime, let me leave this little brochure with you. Explains the pastoral care department. Got some handy prayers, too. Read it once if you get a chance. Then I’ll be back later on and we’ll have a nice chat.”

“That would be good.” Alice, sensing she had found a friend, was grateful.

Rosamunda was about to leave but hesitated. There was something . . . something unspoken, but something wrong. Her extensive experience suggested there was something more that needed attention. She returned to the bedside.

“Alice, something else is wrong, isn’t it? Something besides your gall bladder.”

“I’m an old lady. There’s lots wrong with me.”

“No, there’s something you want to tell me about. What is it? Are you ashamed or embarrassed? Don’t be. By now, you and I have heard everything.”

“Well . . . there’s my feet.”

“Let’s see.” Rosamunda pulled the sheet and light blanket away from Alice Walker’s feet. They appeared to be in a terminal state of trench foot. Rosamunda was startled, mostly that she had not detected the odor.

“It’s hard to keep them warm in the wintertime,” Alice Walker said apologetically.

“I know you’re here for your gall bladder . . . but hasn’t anyone done anything about your feet?”

“No, I guess not.”

This was by no means a unique case. Not long before, Rosamunda had encountered a patient with horribly ulcerated legs, who was about to be discharged after a successful colon resection. It was one of the nastier byproducts of the DRG—Diagnostic Related Group—approach to health care. The patient’s care was limited in time and cost to that allotted by the government to colon resections. His time and money was used up. Any additional cost would have to be borne by the hospital. And that would not do.

Rosamunda had been unable to aid that patient; his discharge had been too imminent. So he had been forced to depart from the hospital with a repaired colon and bad legs. The same would not happen to this patient!

“The priest will be in to hear your confession, darling, and I will bring you Communion. And there will be a podiatrist in to see you and take care of those feet. You can depend on that!”

Alice Walker knew she could depend on it.

Try to put her on the shelf, would they! Well, thought Rosamunda, we’ll just see about that!

* * *

It hadn’t been that long since George Snell had been forced to promise a reformation. The three pledges he had made to his superior burned in his memory. But so far—to his amazement—he had kept them. He had arrived for patrol on time and had not left early. He had faithfully kept up the log of his tour of duty. And—by far the most difficult—he had kept moving when on patrol. He had not succumbed to any of the upholstered chairs or couches in any of the visiting parlors. He had not sacked out in any empty one-bed patient rooms. And, most sadly, he had not philandered with any of the many nubile nurses or aides.

In short, George Snell had kept his nose clean. On the one hand, he was rather proud of his—albeit short-term—achievement. On the other, he was concerned that he might be sinking into middle-class morality.

These and kindred thoughts buzzed through his brain as he began this evening’s tour of duty.

Once again, he had begun on time; he had manfully walked on by any number of comfortable chairs and couches as well as the occasional empty bed.

“Good evening, Officer Snell,” a crisply dressed nurse’s aide greeted as they passed in the corridor.

There it was, thought Snell, in a nutshell. A pretty young thing, chipmunk cheeks, nice trim body, perky steatopygic bottom, long dark hair, and willing. God, was she willing! But he was pledged to walk on by. So he did.

Besides—he continued to develop the thought—why was she so instantly willing? Prior to the other night when he had been instrumental in saving the CEO from probable death, that aide would have walked by without even acknowledging his existence. It had happened too many times for him to doubt it.

So why was she now greeting him so brightly? Because now he was a hero. Suddenly, the security guards’ image had prospered. Before his ostensibly heroic action, the entire service had been lightly regarded. Now the guards, and especially and naturally George Snell, were treated with a measure of respect. With that in mind, Snell found himself reluctant to exploit the situation.

That little aide back there, for example: Only a few evenings ago, she might not have greeted him as brightly, but with any effort at all he could have charmed her into bed long before his tour of duty was over. As it was now, he couldn’t bring himself to take advantage of the circumstances. But then, as he had already admitted, he was becoming a victim of middle-class morality. March on! he commanded himself like the shining knight he envisioned himself to be.

Meanwhile, in the medical office into which a stolen key had admitted him, Bruce Whitaker had prepared and was gathering his stickers. All was ready. How proud of him his colleagues would be when he carried off this gambit. Yet he readily would admit that he was far more concerned with Ethel Laidlaw’s reaction. Without doubt, he was about to become her hero. That was proving to be a dandy feeling. He had never before been anyone’s hero. And to be considered a champion by the object of one’s love was particularly delicious.

He had, of course, some lingering doubt about the coming adventure. On the face of it, this was a complicated and ambitious project. But he had carefully prepared for it. If not for his lifelong and virtually uninterrupted history of screwing up, he would have felt considerably more assured. Yet he could not deny his history. So he began the adventure as cautiously, deliberately, and carefully as possible.

He departed the medical office with mixed feelings of apprehension and enthusiasm. He had planned to be nonchalant but he found he could not carry that off. Unconsciously reverting to form, he found himself slinking along the shadows of the corridor. Now, instead of heading for the main floor clinic, he was headed for the second floor.

Whitaker was seldom in the hospital at this time of evening. Volunteers ordinarily served during the day shifts. He found the milieu peculiar to this period between the close of visiting hours and lights-out. It reminded him of what choir vespers used to be. Something between the busy prayer hours of day and compline, the night prayer. For those patients who were not suffering, this was a restful period. Everything gradually slowed in preparation for sleep.

No one on the elevator. Good. He hadn’t really expected anyone, but there was always the chance. Actually, every successful step he took was for him a pleasant phenomenon. He was almost beginning to permit himself the thought that he might succeed at this. Was it possible?

The door hissed open. The second floor and no one in sight. He walked quickly to the end of the hallway and peered around the corner. A miracle: No one was at the nurses’ station! Of course that was as he had planned it.

At this time of evening, a reduced nursing staff was usually busy bringing final medications and answering call bells. It was a good possibility that the station would be vacated. Whitaker just couldn’t believe his luck. It was working!

He moved into the station, trying, despite his excitement, not to botch this just when everything seemed to be moving like clockwork.

Just as Whitaker began fingering through the medical charts, George Snell turned the corner at the far end of the corridor. Immediately, Snell spotted him. Whitaker was too far away for Snell to be able to identify him in any fashion. But something wasn’t right. Snell was certain of that. He moved rapidly toward the station.

“You! Down there! What are you doing?” Snell spoke just loudly enough to be heard by the person in the nurses’ station without disturbing the patients.

Whitaker heard the challenge. No doubt about it: The ball game was over. He had not planned for the eventuality of being discovered. It would not have mattered. Even if he had prepared some sort of explanation, Whitaker knew he would be too nervous and nonplussed to carry it off. And so he was. He stood frozen while his knees turned to pudding.

“Where ya goin’, big fellah?” a sultry voice called out.

Snell froze in midstride. The voice was familiar. Familiar enough for him to turn and investigate. Aha! The terrific aide of the evening of his triumph . . . what was her name? Helen. Helen Brown. But what a time to show up! What a goddam time!

“Well, where are you going, anyway?”

“There’s somebody . . .” Snell had no idea what to do next. He was the human embodiment of the donkey standing between two bales of hay.

“C’mere, big fellah,” Helen Brown beckoned.

Snell had to give this situation serious, if hurried, thought. He had no idea who was in the nurses’ station. It could very possibly be a legitimate staffer. It probably was. Why would anybody else be there checking things out? Especially someone in a hospital frock?

Added to which, there was this willing young woman. And, added boon, she was the sole person in the world who knew he was no hero. She had been alone and very intimate with him when he had tumbled from the bed and flattened the CEO’s assailant. With her, he would betray no trust . . . there was no trust to betray.

No contest. Time enough to find out more about whoever was in the station. For the moment, he would explore Helen Brown. It was kismet.

From his vantage under bright lights, Whitaker could not see clearly down the corridor, although he could see well enough to identify his challenger. He did not know the man’s name, but he knew it was the guard who had almost apprehended him the other night.

What Whitaker found utterly incredible was that the guard had stopped halfway down the hall. Whitaker could not see Helen Brown standing in the shadows of a patient’s room. All he could know was that, for whatever reason, the guard had halted and had apparently lost interest in him.

It was so unexpected and unlikely a development that Whitaker could take it only as an act of God. As far as he could figure things, he had been on God’s side through thick and thin. But now God seemed to be on his side. Well, it was about time.

Whitaker returned to his endeavor with renewed confidence. For once, things were working out perfectly. Until now, he would not have described anything in his entire life as “perfect.”

“Well, if it ain’t Ms. Brown.” Snell had turned his complete attention to the task at hand. “Have somethin’ in mind?”

“Seems to me we got some unfinished business from the other night. When we were so rudely interrupted you was about to show me some kind of movement.”

“Maneuver,” Snell corrected.

“Whatever.”

“Well,” Snell looked about, “not in the hallway.”

“Follow me, big boy.” Helen led the small procession down the hall in the direction whence Snell had come.

Snell followed gladly, focusing intently on the rhythmic undulation of her tight bottom.

Helen Brown entered Room 2218, tailed, almost literally, by George Snell. Almost at once, by a magical wave of her hand, Helen’s clothing dropped on an empty chair. As wondrously expeditiously as Helen disrobed, Snell would have won that race, but he was momentarily distracted.

“Somebody’s in here! There’s a patient in the other bed,” he protested.

There was. Even though the curtain had been pulled shut around the bed near the window, a soft light outlined the bed and its diminutive occupant. And there was the steady, muted sound of chewing.

“Don’t you worry your head, big boy. That’s just old Alice Walker. She’s been in here off-and-on a hundred times maybe. Believe me, she don’t know what’s going on. She’s just chewin’ her crackers before she goes to sleep. Believe me, this room is the best shot we got tonight. Come on, big boy, I’m waitin’ for your movement.”

“Maneuver.”

“Whatever.”

George Snell decided to take his time. By his standards, it had been a long while since he had frolicked in the sack, an activity which showcased perhaps his greatest talent.

Having completed his disrobement, Snell observed Helen Brown as she climbed onto the narrow hospital bed. Such confined quarters might have proven too constricting to the average practitioner of concupiscence. To Snell, it was no more than a small challenge inventively met.

When it came to women and sex, a single concept in Snell’s lexicon, he was an omnivoluptuary. He lusted after them all. Each had her own peculiar attraction. Of course some were declared off limits by society due to the veneration of old age or the proximity of relationship. Snell was willing to go along with this. There were some conventions of middle-class morality that made some sort of sense. But George remained eager to accommodate all women not proscribed by society’s mores.

However even an omnivoluptuary had his predilections. And among George’s favorites was a zaftig frame such as that of Helen Brown. Which is why he derived particular joy and arousal from studying Helen in bed nude. The soft light from behind Alice Walker’s curtain highlighted the curves, the hills and valleys, of Helen’s tantalizing body. As far as Snell was concerned, the greatest declarative statement in the English language, whether or not the Ape Man ever said it, was, “Me Tarzan! You Jane!”

But enough of philosophy—to bed!

He clambered onto the bed and enveloped her body almost as completely as water in a pool.

“Do we start where we left off, big boy?”

“Oh, no. That’s the piece of resistance. We’re gonna start with the hors d’oeuvres.”

“If they’re as good as last time, that’ll be fine with me.”

Both George and Helen could testify that hors d’oeuvres could be better the second time around and their barely restrained moans and groans blended with Alice Walker’s barely audible, rhythmic mastication.

In the nurses’ station, Bruce Whitaker’s hands trembled as he manipulated stickers on a medical chart.

Whitaker’s amazing string of luck would, in an ordinary human, have engendered feelings of growing confidence. The ordinary human might well feel that this was his lucky day and be loath to go to sleep and end that day.

Not Whitaker. The longer his good fortune continued, the more he expected doom to strike at any moment.

It almost did.

He had almost completed his work when an aide came out of a nearby utility room and entered the nurses’ station. Whitaker allowed himself only a furtive glance, but he didn’t think he’d ever seen her before. That was probably true, he assured himself, since most of the staff worked the same shifts each day. And ordinarily, Whitaker was not active in the hospital at this hour.

As he pretended to study the chart he had been altering, he kept turning so that his back was to the aide. At every moment he expected her to notice his peculiar behavior and challenge him. Or even worse, to summon that guard who had disappeared somewhere.

Once challenged, he knew he would become a blithering idiot. Oh, God, he prayed, I don’t know how you’re going to get me out of this, but please, please, get me out of this.

As if in answer to his prayer, the aide left the station. He watched her out of the corner of his eye. She walked down the hall and into a patient’s room. She did not reemerge. She stayed in. Miraculously, yes miraculously, she had paid no attention to him. His mission was still intact. And it was nearly completed.

He examined the stickers. They were not neatly placed, that he had to admit. The out-of-sync positioning of the stickers was attributable to his nervousness and consequent trembling hands.

And yet, as he checked the chart critically once more, it looked quite normal. After all, genuine hospital personnel spent no time at all on producing a neat chart. They slapped things together in a perfunctory manner born of necessity. Yes, it looked better, more authentic, this way than if he’d been able to be precise.

His work was done. It looked to be a success. But, as he replaced the chart and departed, he was more than willing to give the entire credit to God, whose humble and unworthy instrument Bruce Whitaker was pleased to be.

Meanwhile, back in room 2218, two exhausted, perspiring bodies panted in Bed B. There was no sound but the heavy, satisfied breathing of George and Helen—and that of Alice Walker’s methodical chewing.

“Oh, oh!” said Helen.

“Oh, oh!” said George.

“Oh, George! I’ve never . . . come . . . like that . . . before!”

“Matter of fact . . .” Snell thought on what he was about to admit. “. . . matter of fact. . . neither have I. Amazing!”

“You are something else, my man!”

“I know that. What I can’t quite figure out is, so are you.”

“We-ell, thanks . . . I guess.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Give me just a couple of minutes to get my breath, then we can get dressed.”

“Get dressed! We’re only halfway through.”

“Halfway! You’ve got to be kidding! I’ll be lucky if I can walk!”

“Baby, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet!”

“Oh, God! You mean—”

“The Maneuver!”

“George, I don’t know what you’re talking about. But whatever it is, I think I’ll break in half if you try it.”

“Baby, you are about to find out what a climax is.”

“George, you’re out of your mind! You can’t dish out any more just the same as I can’t take any more. You’re going to kill the both of us!”

“What a way to go!”

Snell raised himself on one elbow; he seemed to need more room, but was willing to go with what he had. He raised one arm high above his head and reached back as far as he could without falling out of the bed. With the other hand he began positioning Helen to receive him.

“George! George!” Helen was close to instant panic. “George! She stopped breathing! She stopped breathing! George, stop! We’ve got to help her! George! Alice stopped breathing! We’ve got to help her!”

George did not seem so inclined. “There are some things once you start ’em, there’s no stoppin’ ’em!”

“George!” Helen pushed as hard as she could.

* * *

By now it was becoming almost routine.

It was late at night. The bright overhead lights in the corridor should have been off, but they were on. A crowd of staff and patients had gathered. At the center of the group stood Guard George Snell and his superior, Chief Martin. There was much hubbub. People who could inch close enough tried to touch Snell or pat him on the back. All seemed very pleased, with the exception of Chief Martin, who was wearing his usual look of skepticism.

“So,” Chief Martin began to recapitulate, “you just happened to be walking down this corridor at the right time. And what made you go into Mrs. Walker’s room?”

“Well,” said a modest George Snell, toeing the carpet, “she had stopped breathing.”

“You heard her stop breathing.” Martin used his most incredulous tone.

“Uh . . . no . . . ’course not. I heard her choking. That’s it, I heard her choking.”

“Then what?”

“Well, I looked around for some help. But all the nurses and aides were occupied, I guess.” Snell glanced down at his side where Helen Brown stood, a smug smile on her face. For some unaccountable reason, Snell feared that Helen might mention how it was she was occupied. But she said nothing.

“So?” Chief Martin prompted.

“So there being no one else around, I entered the room and ascertained that she was indeed not breathing . . . uh . . . choking.”

“So?”

“So then I picked her up out of bed and performed the Himmler Maneuver.”

“Heimlich,” Helen whispered.

“Heimlich!” Snell corrected himself. “And then this lady”—he gestured toward Helen Brown—“came in and . . .”

“I see,” Chief Martin said. “How did you happen to know about the Heimlich Maneuver?”

“Uh . . . I read about it, I guess. Shoot, everybody knows that. It’s all over the place. Information on how to do it.”

“Then how is it that Mrs. Walker has bruises all over her side?” Chief Martin pressed.

“I guess she must have hit her side on the guardrail when I picked her up out of bed. I didn’t have time to be very delicate, you know.”

“What is this, Chief, the Inquisition?” one of the nurses challenged. “After all, Officer Snell just saved a woman’s life. This is a time of celebration, not incrimination.”

“All right! All right!” Chief Martin knew when he was creating a needlessly hostile crowd. And he knew when to retreat. “I just have to get the facts for my report. But you’re right. Congratulations, Snell! Drop into my office before you leave in the morning and we can finish this report.”

Snell might just as well have been revealed to be Superman in disguise. Patients and staff pushed forward to congratulate him. It was clear that everyone felt safer physically, emotionally, medically, and spiritually for having this shining knight on duty to protect them. If an election had been held at that moment, Snell would have been a shoo-in chief executive officer against whoever else might be running.

Only one person other than Snell knew the truth. But Helen Brown was not talking. If she had . . .

Helen Brown could not recall the exact moment when she became aware that something was wrong. It had to have been sometime between their initial torrid coupling and George’s yet-to-be-demonstrated bravura performance. It must have been a reflex of her health-care training. There was a moment when that hypnotic chewing sound was supplanted by a small inoffensive strangling noise, followed by an ominous silence.

It was at that moment, as George was about to strike, when Helen realized that they had only a few seconds to act or a fatal calamity would occur in the neighboring bed.

She had been unable to convince George that this was an inopportune moment for his beau geste. So she had shoved him—hard. Taking into account their comparative size, a shove, no matter how vigorous, would have been fruitless had George not been in a state of precarious balance.

Balance upset, George had tumbled out of bed and hit the floor rolling. He struck Alice Walker’s bed with considerable force. Enough force to, in effect, knock the bed right out from under Alice. The bed eventually hit the nearby wall. Alice, proving again that what goes up must come down, landed atop George—which was fortunate for Alice since George broke her fall. As it was, she collected a few bruises from the impact. If George had not been beneath her, the fall easily could have been fatal.

The masticated crackers that had matted and lodged in her throat became dislodged in the fall and she began breathing again.

But Helen had no way of knowing whether any serious damage had been done by the crackers or the fall. So she signaled code blue. By the time the resuscitation team reached Room 2218, Helen and George were fully, if untidily, clothed and Helen had somewhat breathlessly instructed George on the basics of the Heimlich Maneuver to which he would attribute Alice Walker’s resuscitation.

Helen was able to run through her original and fictitious scenario with George while the code team checked Alice Walker and found that all was well, with the minor exception of the bruises.

By the time Chief Martin and the crowd had gathered, George had pretty well learned his lines and was letter-perfect—with the one flaw of not being able to remember the name Heimlich. But, as with most things in life, one need not be able to spell it if one can do it.

Beyond sotto-voce correcting George when it came to specifying the method used to revive Alice Walker, Helen had little to contribute. Thus, she had time to reflect on the incongruity that while she and George were bandying about the Heimlich Maneuver, she had yet to experience the storied Snell Maneuver.

She wondered if she ever would.

* * *

One pair of eyes had followed Bruce Whitaker throughout this evening with keen interest.

God knows what is going on down the hall. But as long as everyone is occupied with that, I have a chance to see what he was up to.

Now, which chart was he working on? Ah, here it is. He didn’t bother to push it back in place tightly. God, I can barely see, the pain in my head is so intense. Nothing to take for it either. Wait, give yourself a little time. There, it seems to be easing up a bit.

All right. He removed at least one sticker; that is obvious. He seems to have added one. But for what purpose? Let me think. He seems to be putting her on a program. But why? No, she can’t be on the program! Not as long as . . . Ah, I see what he had in mind. Hmmpf; all he had to do was remove one more sticker . . . how could anyone be so stupid!

But the final question: What does he hope to accomplish by this? If this were to go through the way he has set it up—if he had done it correctly . . . why . . . yes—this would be a blunder so egregious that the hospital would have no way of covering it up. This would indeed make the news media.

First the attempted mutilation of IUDs. Now this. He does not seem capable of carrying it off. Yet, all unknowing, he seems to be trying to do just what I would wish. But he needs some help. Oh, yes, he certainly needs help. And I can give it. I will just take this other sticker off the chart.

Now, Bruce Whitaker, your plot will work. It may prove a costly price to pay, but we will be rid of that troublesome nun before she gets rid of me.

I have no idea why you are doing this, Bruce Whitaker, but you are playing right into my hands. And with you as my emissary, I now hold all the cards.

At long last, farewell, Sister Eileen!

* * *

Pat Lennon lifted her glass of sherry in salute.

“Congratulations, Joe. You broke it.”

Joe Cox inclined his head ever so slightly in acknowledgment. Then he frowned. “But, when you think of it, what a waste! All that destruction and all those injuries because somebody was peddling substandard joints.”

Having accepted her toast and waited for her to take a sip of sherry, Cox tasted his Gibson. The smile returned. No water in the world, he thought, was as clear and inviting as vodka or gin.

They were dining at Joe Muer’s, an extremely popular seafood restaurant within strolling distance of their Lafayette Towers apartment. The walk had been complicated this evening due to near-blizzard conditions. But they made the trek anyway.

They were celebrating Cox’s reporting of the recent riot at Cobo Arena following a rock concert there. By now, of course, the rest of the media— the News, television, and radio—had the story. But Cox had gotten it first and had as yet exclusive access to the same essential source as the police had. The Free Press had copyrighted Cox’s account. Thus the rest of the media were forced to play catch-up to the Free Press.

As Lennon popped open her napkin and spread it on her lap, the fragrance of her perfume wafted in Cox’s direction. His smile widened. This was so much better than going out for drinks with the guys. No—Cox amended that—this was better than anything he had had in his entire life.

“What’s next, Joe?”

“I don’t know. Sort of between stories. But I’d better come up with one pretty damn quick or Nelson Kane is gonna nail me with one of those what-are-kids-doing-with-guns-in-school assignments.”

“Oh, yes. Where the parents jump all over the school, while their kids bring the guns in from home.”

“Exactly.”

“That, by the way, is how I got on this hospital story.”

“How?”

“Made it up so I wouldn’t have to cover the Cobo Hall fracas.”

Cox thought that over as he sipped his Gibson. “So,” Cox said, “how’s the hospital piece coming?”

“So-so. I’m not too enthused about it.”

“Oh?”

“I can’t quite put my finger on it. It’s not working out the way I planned. It was going to be a puff piece that highlighted this unsinkable nun. It’s still going in that direction. But I get the feeling that the story wants to take off on its own in another direction.”

“The contraceptive angle?” Cox caught the waiter’s eye and ordered another Gibson. Lennon passed.

“I’m not sure. But that has something to do with it. Right there—when I found out all that one Catholic hospital was doing what the Catholic Church forbids—the story wanted to go in that direction. But when I decided I wasn’t going to subvert all the good that the hospital was trying to do just for a story . . . well, at that moment I started steering the piece in a direction it didn’t want to go.”

“I know the feeling. I’ve done it.”

“But it’s still going on. As I stick to my original theme, it seems as if I’m forcing the story in a direction it doesn’t want to take.”

“How so?”

“Well, for instance, I’ve been interviewing staff personnel for possible side-bars. And instead of getting corroborating material I’m collecting bad vibes. Nothing explicit, mind you, but bad vibes anyway.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know if it’s unequivocal enough to put into words. Vibes aren’t admissible in court, you know; they’re just an impression. Now, as far as I can figure it, this Sister Eileen is the next best thing to Mother Teresa. But I don’t get that impression from all the people I’ve interviewed. Some, yes. Some, no. Why? I just don’t exactly know how to react to it.”

“You mean if she were a Mother Teresa, everybody’d love her?”

“Something like that. But there are at least three or four people at the hospital who definitely don’t love her. Again, I can’t get anything explicit from them. A couple are faced with compulsory retirement. A couple are on the verge of getting fired.”

“Hey, that’s the sort of thing that just doesn’t endear employers to employees.”

“Yeah, I know. But with these people there seems to be a feeling of personal bitterness. Like it’s her fault they’re old or not doing their jobs right. And then when she was attacked the other night—”

“What? Attacked! You didn’t tell me—”

“I didn’t learn about it until there wasn’t much news value in it any more. It was all internal, an accident of sorts. A mental patient got loose from the psycho ward. He grabbed her in a hallway but some guard broke it up before any major damage was done. By the time I got the story, it was all over. The patient was back in his ward under restraints and Sister Eileen was back at work. You know what they say: Nothing is as dull as yesterday’s news. Don’t worry, Joe; I’m not trying to hide a legitimate story from you.”

She knew him. That was precisely what he feared.

“Anyway,” she continued, “when I heard about the attack, it sort of intensified the vibes I’d been getting all along. Like maybe Sister actually is in some sort of danger.”

“I don’t know, Pat. That’s a big leap. People are retired and fired every day. I don’t suppose many of them, even the retirees, feel good about it. But that’s no reason to jump all over the boss. They may have a few harsh words. But in the end, they usually just fade away.”

Their dinner was served.

“I suppose you’re right.” Pat finished her sherry. “In fact, just articulating the possibility makes me feel a lot better about it. The talking cure.”

Cox squeezed lemon over his fish. “Have you noticed how warm it is in here? Maybe we can stay here all night. I’m not too eager to go back out in that blizzard. I never should have let you talk me into walking here.”

“The walk’ll do you good, lover. Besides, when we get home, I have a few ideas that may help us feel warm all over.”

From that point, Cox did not exactly wolf down his dinner. But then neither did he dawdle.