Deathbed

5

Bruce Whitaker had been nervous. He had had that feeling—all too usual for him—of being very much alone in attempting to accomplish something for which he was inadequate.

And he was not even anywhere near carrying out the group’s goal yet. First he was supposed to find the nurse’s aide with whom he’d come in contact yesterday. Then he was to discover how much, if anything, she knew about him. It had not occurred to him that there weren’t that many nurses’ aides in this relatively small hospital. And that she very probably would be assigned to the same floor she’d been on yesterday.

As was so often the case, his fears were out of proportion to reality. Finding her had not been nearly as difficult as he had anticipated.

He had found her on the floor. At just about the same spot he’d first met her. She was cleaning up after dropping a breakfast tray. At least he hadn’t been the cause of this spill. While he scraped the egg and cereal off the carpet, he was able to scrutinize her ID. Her name was Ethel Laidlaw and she was, indeed, a nurse’s aide.

He had just delivered a tray of medications to the nurses’ station. Thus he was between assignments. He volunteered to assist Ethel. Together, they managed to spill only three more breakfasts, disconnect two telephones, tip over a bedpan, and unplug a patient’s oxygen supply. They had had the presence of mind to call a nurse to reconnect the oxygen tube.

Over a coffee break, Bruce informed Ethel, in response to her question, that he worked part-time as a janitor at the nearby Back Porch Theatre. Ethel had never known anyone in show business. She was impressed.

Fortuitously, she had the afternoon off and there was a matinee at the theater. Bruce, being an employee, could get tickets at a moment’s notice.

Actually, with the average size of the audience at the Back Porch, anyone could get any number of tickets to any performance. In any case, Bruce took Ethel to the 2:00 p.m. performance of The Manic Sperm, an avant-garde drama by one of Detroit’s fledgling playwrights.

Perhaps it would have been wiser if they had not bought popcorn. But then, as janitor, he would clean it up later.

Ethel told Bruce she’d never been to theater-in-the-round before. He confessed that neither had he. In fact, this was the first performance he’d ever attended at the Back Porch Theatre, even though he worked here.

The Manic Sperm opened with an irregular, frenetic beat of bongos and the resonance of loud snoring from the nearly vacant back row.

It did not take long for Bruce and Ethel to decide this play was not for them. The drama contained virtually all the usual four-letter words, repetitiously.

The final straw fell when the female lead whipped off her blouse, revealing small, very firm breasts. This was closely followed by the male lead’s removing his trousers and slinking briskly across the stage, serpentine fashion, toward the leading lady. He resembled a . . . well . . . a manic sperm.

The departure of Bruce and Ethel was underscored by the abrasive sound of popcorn being crunched underfoot. Several catcalls were directed at them. Some by members of the cast.

Bruce took Ethel to one of downtown’s famous Coney Island eateries. They were seated at a table for two.

“I’m terribly sorry about that play.” Bruce dropped his wallet to the floor.

“That’s okay. You hadn’t seen it before. You didn’t know.” In trying to be helpful and retrieve the wallet, she hit her head on the table.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Bruce’s gesture to touch her hand was aborted. He was not sure how a relationship between a man and woman should begin. But his intuition told him Ethel was not the sort of girl one touched on the first date.

“It’s okay. I only wish I had a nickel for each time I’ve bumped my head.”

This was a no-nonsense place whose intent was to move customers in and move them out. Bruce and Ethel ordered Coney Islands and coffee.

They shared an awkward silence until the coffee was served. Both added cream and sugar to their coffee. Both slopped some coffee on the table. The spilled coffee mingled in the middle of the table. It seemed significant. Both blushed.

“Ethel, I’ve been meaning to ask you. I mean . . . well, this may be impolite. I’m not sure how to put this, but . . .well . . . are you married?” He stirred his coffee vigorously, spilling more of it.

“Why no, of course not. You don’t think I’d go out with you if I was a married woman, do you? What do you take me for?”

“Oh, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to insult you. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No, no, it’s okay. We don’t know each other at all. Or we don’t know very much about each other, at least. I guess questions are okay. Else we’ll never get to know each other. How about you? You married?”

“Me? Oh, no. No.”

“Not never?”

“No, oh, ha-ha, no. Never.”

“C’mon! A good-lookin’ guy like you? I’ll bet you’ve had your share of girls. Haven’t you?”

He knew he was blushing violently. “No, not really. Would you believe this is the first honest-to-glory date I’ve ever had.”

“Would I believe that? I’d have a hard time, I’ll tell you that.”

“Well, it is. Honest. How about you? I don’t want to embarrass you, but you’re pretty good-looking yourself. I’ll bet you’ve had lots of dates.”

“Well, you’d lose. Oh, I’ve had a few. But usually only one per fellow. I’m really not all that good-looking. And besides, I tend to be a little on the . . . uh . . . clumsy side.”

“You too! Did you notice the first time we met we ran into each other and spilled someone’s supper?”

“Yeah, I did notice that.” She couldn’t help being self-conscious.

Bruce felt a strong urge to be as honest as possible with this woman. “Actually, this is not exactly how I look. I don’t need these . . .” He removed his eyeglasses. “. . . and this hair is not mine.” He removed his toupee and stuffed it in his pocket. He felt naked, but relieved that at least part of the truth was known.

She seemed surprised but not shocked. “Well, you do look different, I must say. But . . . well, I mean ... I did know that wasn’t your real hair. But I had no idea what you might look like without it. Well, you look great. I think you look better without the hairpiece than you do with it. I really do.”

He was extremely pleased. He hoped they’d be able to strike up a real friendship. And that never would happen if he could not be honest with her.

“Now, there’s one question I’ve got to ask, and it’s very important.” He leaned across the small table. “You’ve got to be completely honest with me, Ethel.”

“Yes?”

“Now that you’ve seen me with and without a disguise, have you ever seen me before? Do you know me from anywhere?”

She looked at him thoughtfully. “Why, no, Bruce. I never set eyes on you before. Not never!”

“Good. Very good.”

“But why didja ask a question like that for?”

“No real good reason. Only that you seemed to be following me around. I mean, after we bumped into each other, then the next time I looked up—in the clinic—there you were, telling me my sleeve was in a solution.”

She wouldn’t look at him. “Well, I kinda likedja. You didn’t yell at me when we bumped into each other. And then you stayed and helped me clean up the mess. And all the time, you seemed so apologetic. Nobody ever treated me so swell before. I guess I kinda likedja at first bump. I was so hoping and praying that you’d come look me up today. I guess this is one time when my prayers really got answered. “

Bruce could scarcely be happier. There was only one more possible fly in his ointment; he’d better get that cleared up immediately. “Speaking of prayers getting answered . . . well, this is a delicate area, but, well, you work at a Catholic hospital, and I was wondering . . .”

“Am I a Catholic?”

“Well, yes.”

“Oh, yes, I’m a Catholic. That’s for sure. How about you?”

“Oh, yes. Yes, indeed.” Bruce realized he was still only halfway there. These days it was by no means enough merely to be Catholic. One was either a liberal or a conservative Catholic or, if one were neither but still claimed the designation, such a person hardly deserved to claim any religion. And if one were a liberal Catholic, he or she might just as well be a Protestant. That left only one acceptable category.

Which slot was Ethel in? The answer, Bruce knew, was crucial to their continued friendship. But how to discover . . .?

The waiter brought their Coney Islands, basically large hot dogs heaped with chili sauce. In lifting the chock-full bun from her plate, Ethel spilled some sauce into her coffee.

“Waiter!” Bruce found himself speaking more forcefully than was his custom. “There’s been an accident. Bring this lady another cup of coffee!”

The waiter, with a look and a gesture that said it’s easier doing it than arguing with this turkey, did as Bruce had commanded.

Ethel was most impressed.

“Ethel . . .”—Bruce tried very hard not to ruin his sandwich—“are you aware of what goes on in that hospital? In St. Vincent’s?”

Ethel considered that question, evidently for the first time. “Well . . . operations, treatments, therapy, uh . . . health care—was there something else?”

“I mean, in the clinic, for example.”

“The clinic?”

“Yes. Giving information, counseling, devices for the practice of artificial birth control. Like that!”

“Oh, policy! No, I never pay any attention to policy. I got enough problems with bedpans and the food trays and keeping the patients in water. Things like that.”

“But, now that I brought it up, Ethel, what do you think of that kind of thing?”

“What?”

“Artificial birth control.”

“It’s wrong, ain’t it? Ain’t it against the Church? I mean, there was a lot of talk about it some years ago. And didn’t the Church settle it? Didn’t they say it was a sin? Seems that’s how it came out. I guess I didn’t pay much attention. I mean,” she blushed, “it didn’t have much to do with me. If you know what I mean.”

“Sure. But that means that you accept the official teaching of the Church? The ordinary magisterium?”

“The ordinary what?”

“Never mind. If the Pope says it, you believe it?”

“You’d better believe that! Good heavens, if you can’t trust the Pope, who can you trust? I mean!”

“You don’t know how happy that makes me!”

“Really! I wouldn’t have guessed.”

Bruce was elated. In his excitement, he fumbled his Coney Island. He saved the sandwich, but his napkin fluttered off the table. Ethel dove to save it before it hit the floor. In doing so, she again banged her head against the table. She sat up a bit dazed. She rubbed her forehead. They both laughed.

Bruce was more and more convinced he had found a kindred klutz. Talk about relationships formed in heaven!

Contentedly, they finished their Coney Islands and coffee. The check the waiter had left was saturated with coffee and stained with chili sauce. Nevertheless, Bruce was able to make out the total. He left payment plus a small tip.

As the couple left, the owner breathed a silent prayer that they would forget his location and never return.

Ethel lived in a downtown apartment complex owned and operated by the League of Catholic Women. Bruce accompanied her home. As no male visitors were allowed beyond the lobby, they parted with a hearty handshake just inside the front door.

Ethel went immediately to her efficiency apartment. It was still early. She turned on the television. It was either game shows, soap operas, or an old movie. Ethel did not watch much daytime television. When she did, it was usually the soaps. Most of them featured a healthy measure of romance, even if it did tend to be a bit heavyhanded.

While the old black-and-white set was warming up, Ethel decided to shower.

Naked, she stood before the full-length mirror. She had only a few minutes before the shower steam would fog it.

Ethel tended to be ruthlessly objective, which could be—and frequently was—discouraging. Face: very plain. Her dishwater blonde hair was adequate, though it tended to be a bit stringy. Her eyebrows matched the coloration of her hair. Thus, they were almost invisible, adding little character to her nondescript oval face.

As for the rest of her, what could she say? It was a thirty-seven-year-old body that had never been pampered. The skin was no longer tight. Things were starting to sag. On the plus side, her frame contained not too many extra pounds. So she still possessed curves. But, standing there unclothed, she did not remind herself of a Hollywood starlet or even a go-go dancer. If anything came to mind, it was those pictures of women—naked and shamed—marched off to an open grave by a bunch of Nazi animals.

Steam obscured the mirror. End of speculation.

Hot showers felt particularly welcome on cold winter days. God, she hoped she would see Bruce again. It was the truth. She had never had a second date with a boy, or with a man for that matter. Once they discovered her essential clumsiness—the discovery never took long—they could not end the relationship quickly enough.

Maybe Bruce was different. He certainly was not Mr. Suave. But, more important, he was patient and understanding. She hoped against hope that she was not mistaken. That something could be developing between them.

But then what would come of it? There was a moment of panic. She had never been . . . intimate with a man. How would that work?

She decided to hurry her shower and get down to those soaps with a more active interest. Maybe she could learn something from them. Maybe she could get a book or two from the library that might prove helpful.

Of one thing she was certain: If the opportunity for romance and love presented itself, she would not muff it. She might fumble everything else in life. But by God, she was not going to fumble this.

* * *

On the way to the garret he called home, Bruce was stopped by the general manager/owner/producer/director/male lead of the Back Porch Theatre. The man did not allude to Bruce’s job as janitor, mostly because he knew they could not get a dog to clean up for what they were paying Bruce. However, Bruce was advised that he would never again be welcome in the audience; the Back Porch’s presentations were intended for mature adults, not for easily shocked children, and Bruce had better not forget it!

Bruce absorbed the abuse as he always did—in silence. He was convinced that if things did not always go as they should in this life, there would be another life wherein wrongs would be corrected and justice done. Slime who would stage an immoral drama and then excoriate someone who walked out on it, well, according to Brace’s theodicy, they would be dealt with by a harsh and avenging God.

Until then, as his leader had pointed out, the lot of the just was martyrdom, in one form or another.

He made his way to the partially furnished attic that was home. While changing into his denim shirt and overalls, he studied himself briefly in the mirror.

It didn’t really matter whether he was wearing his glasses and toupee; he was a cipher. Sort of round. A round head and a round body. An awkward gait. He wondered why he bothered with a disguise. From long experience he knew that no one ever noticed him.

One exception to this rule of oblivion was Ethel. Or was she too good to be true? Only time would tell. But he felt good around her. More surprising than that, he felt comfortable with her. She was the first female he’d ever met who did not make fun of his clumsiness.

But what if it did work? What if they . . . fell in love? His concern became apprehension. He’d never loved a woman. Not romantically. Here he was, thirty-two years old, and he’d never even had a conscious orgasm. Oh, sure, there’d been nocturnal pollutions. But nothing awake. He subscribed to that theological persuasion that held, for all practical purposes, that sex was dirty and so one should save it for a loved one.

In any case, Brace could not afford the luxury of daydreaming about romance. He had a task to perform. He had a mission. It was God’s work against an evil empire of sin. That came first. It had to. After that—and only after that—could he see if something might develop between him and Ethel.

He could, of course, pray over it. And he would. While he cleaned up the popcorn.

* * *

Sister Eileen Monahan sat idly at her desk. Since the attack, she’d had difficulty concentrating, particularly when alone. There was a tendency to relive in memory the panic that had overcome her when she was grabbed from behind and choked—the feeling that she was about to die.

Her struggle to remain conscious and stay alive had surprised her somehow. She had always assumed that when the time came to face death she would be able to abandon herself to the will of God and go with a sense of peace. And when she was attacked, she’d had no doubt that she was about to die. Now, as a result of that incident, she was trying to better prepare herself for death under any eventuality.

As for the hospital staff, fortunately the turmoil over the incident was quieting down. After the initial brouhaha, everyone recognized that it had been no more than a freak occurrence. The assailant had been suffering the early symptoms of withdrawal from a drug overdose. He’d had no real idea of what he was doing. He would have attacked anyone walking down that corridor at that time. That she had been the victim had been her bad luck, but no more than a coincidence. The main benefit of the episode was that security had been tightened in the detox unit.

“There’s someone to see you, Sister.”

Sister Eileen glanced up at her secretary. Then she squinted through her half-glasses at her appointment calendar. She had a meeting in half an hour. Blindly she could have bet there’d be a meeting in a short while from anytime. But there was no appointment scheduled for this time.

“She doesn’t have an appointment.” There were times when Dolly came close to reading Sister’s mind.

“Who is it, Dolly?”

“A Miss Patricia Lennon.”

Patricia Lennon. Patricia Lennon. The name rang a very definite but ill-defined bell.

“From the Detroit News.”

“Oh.” Pause. “Give me a couple of minutes, Dolly, then show her in, will you?”

“Yes, Sister.” The door closed behind her.

Pat Lennon.

The full given name had fooled her. With Patricia Lennon she was unfamiliar. With Pat Lennon she was right at home. Sister had been reading Pat Lennon’s byline for what seemed like ages. First in the Detroit Free Press, where she’d been a reporter for several years before moving down West Lafayette to the “Old Gray Lady,” as the News was known.

But what was Pat Lennon doing at St. Vincent’s? From all Sister could recall, Pat was one of the city’s top reporters. What did they call them . . . investigative reporters. Yes, from all Sister had heard and read, Pat Lennon was one of the best investigative reporters around. Which brought Sister back to the beginning: Why would a top investigative reporter be calling at St. Vincent’s? To investigate? What?

That, thought Sister, is all we need. Here we are, hanging on by a thread and here comes someone to unravel that thread.

St. Vincent’s existence was so increasingly precarious that Sister Eileen had lived through its death in anticipation many times. It was anyone’s guess how much longer the institution might endure. But she had poured so much of herself into it that she had figuratively joined her life to that of the hospital. She guessed she might die a little if St. Vincent’s were to close.

She could not see the presence and interest of Pat Lennon as anything but a threat. But, like all the other threatening realities of life, this one too must be faced.

Pat Lennon entered Sister’s office, smiled and, hand outstretched, approached the desk. Sister Eileen stood and they shook hands. Briefly but thoroughly the two appraised each other.

Lennon was surprised. Newspaper photos did not do Sister Eileen justice. She seemed a warmly attractive woman. Lennon had been through parochial school, even a Catholic college. She was used to nuns in traditional habits. She reflected on what a waste it would be to wrap this woman in yards and yards of wool. Any woman who could keep her figure into late middle age deserved to let others know.

Sister Eileen was surprised. While she had seen Pat’s byline many times, as was so often the case with reporters there was never an accompanying photo. Columnists were well recognized, because their photos usually ran with their columns. But reporters, who were easily of equal or greater importance, lived lives of personal anonymity. Over the years, Sister had seen her share of reporters, but this one was different. Why, she could easily have been a motion picture or stage star.

Beyond appearance, each woman realized and acknowledged that the other was both expert and extremely competent in her field. They respected each other.

Sister gestured to Lennon to be seated. “So, what brings you to St. Vincent’s, Miss Lennon?”

“Pat.” Lennon invited the use of her first name.

Sister Eileen nodded. However, as was the case with Father Koesler, she herself would be more at home with her title.

“For the longest time, I’ve sort of had St. Vincent’s in the back of my mind,” Lennon opened. “I mean, here it sits in the middle of downtown Detroit. And yet, in a way, it isn’t here. With no disrespect, Sister, St. Vincent’s is one of the last refuges anybody thinks about. There are so many big hospitals, like Receiving or Harper or Grace—and some, like Children’s, that specialize—that not too many people think very often of St. Vincent’s.”

“So, you’ve come here just to think about St. Vincent’s?” It was more a voicing of incredulity than a question.

“I want to do a feature on St. Vincent’s for our Sunday magazine.”

“Oh.”

“Is there a problem?”

“I hope not. What do you intend to do?”

“Start by interviewing you. Then, tour the hospital. Sort of get the feel of it. Talk to some of the staff. If it’s okay, spend some time in various departments like the emergency room, the X-ray lab; maybe talk to some patients. I’m not sure where this will lead. But it’s supposed to be a feature article, so it should be fairly comprehensive. It can’t do St. Vincent’s any harm. Most hospitals have gotten into advertising. An article in the Michigan Magazine could prove to be a better ad than money can buy.”

She doesn’t know where this will lead, but it can’t hurt, thought Sister. We’ll just have to see about that. “We’ll do our best to cooperate,” she said. Realistically, there wasn’t any alternative.

“Can we start with your interview?”

Eileen checked her watch. “I’m afraid I haven’t much time. I’ve got to attend a meeting in about fifteen minutes.”

“Let’s see how far we can get.” Without being able to structure her story before all the interviews were completed, Lennon thought of making Sister Eileen the article’s centerpiece. Only time would tell. “Would you mind if my photographer joins us?”

“Photographer?” Eileen had not counted on pictures. This thing was escalating. “Oh, you must have some photos of me in your files at the paper.”

“Nothing up-to-date. We’ll want fresh shots of you and the hospital. We can contrast the way the building looks now with some of those ancient stills we’ve got in our library.”

Sister chuckled. “You’re not going to contrast my present appearance with some of those ancient stills of me that you’ve got in your morgue, are you?”

“Not likely. You probably don’t look a lot different.”

“That was a long time ago.” Just the suggestion of days gone by brought a flood of memories. She forced herself back to the present. “Very well. What’s your photographer’s name?”

“William Arnold. He prefers William, not Bill.”

She spoke into the intercom. “Dolly, there should be a photographer named William Arnold out there. Would you send him in, please.”

A moment later, a young black man entered. Eileen did not count the cameras suspended from his neck and shoulders, but there seemed to be many.

Introductions were exchanged. Then, “Don’t pay any attention to William, Sister. Just talk to me naturally. William will get some candid shots of you.”

Eileen was not happy with this arrangement. She did not photograph well under the best of circumstances. And with a candid shot, the likelihood was great that her mouth or eyes might be opened too wide, or she might be grimacing. But, as with the interview, there was nothing much to do but cooperate. A lack of collaboration would only antagonize. And in a feature article, St. Vincent’s needed all the help it could get.

Lennon opened her notepad as William began checking the lighting and moving things around. He was distracting; no two ways about that.

“So, Sister, when did you come to St. Vincent’s?”

She needed only a moment to recall the date. “In 1936, I was just out of the convent with temporary vows.”

Lennon’s pen stopped, poised over the pad. She was figuring.

Eileen laughed. “I was eighteen at the time.” Pause. “Which means I’m now sixty-eight.”

Lennon looked at her. Incredible. For Pat, in her early thirties, the late sixties spelled “old.” She would never have imagined anyone would look so good at sixty-eight. “Then you have been here . . . fifty years!”

Eileen smiled. She knew what Lennon was thinking. That she had been at St. Vincent’s longer than Pat had been alive. “Well, off and on. There was some time taken out for further training, some degrees. But, it’s true, St. Vincent’s has been my one mission.”

William was moving around behind and on either side of Lennon, snapping pictures madly. Sister Eileen found this quite disconcerting. But . . . there was no help for it.

“Isn’t that a bit unusual, Sister? I mean, don’t nuns and priests—especially nuns, get moved around a lot?” Lennon was remembering the nuns who had been her teachers. One of the most difficult challenges in tracking down one’s former religious teachers was locating their present assignment.

“I guess that’s true of most Sisters. It’s hard to say how it happened that I’ve been here all these years. Timing has a lot to do with it. Some might say it was providence. I just happened to be here and ready to assume it each time a new position opened up. Now,” Eileen shook her head, “I don’t know that anyone wants the job.”

“That brings us down to the bottom line, Sister. Something I want to explore in some depth. I know it will be the question uppermost in my readers’ minds: Why? There doesn’t seem to be any earthly reason why St. Vincent’s should still be here. Why?”

“That is, indeed, a very big question, Pat.” Eileen glanced at her watch. “Far too big for us to get into just now, since I’ve got a meeting to attend. Maybe we can pick it up later.” She stood, as did Lennon. William mercifully stopped shooting.

“You did say you wanted to tour the hospital, didn’t you, Pat?”

“Very much so.”

“It will be a bit delicate. You’ll have to be most careful when it comes to our patients. They are likely to be frightened of you. And we can’t have anyone disturbing the routine.”

“Trust us, Sister. We won’t take anyone’s picture without his or her permission. We’ll be very circumspect. Maybe it’ll be possible for us to talk again after we’ve been around the hospital and you’ve finished with your meeting.”

“That will be quite late in the day. But, we’ll see.”

Eileen arranged with Dolly to have credentials made up for Lennon and Arnold. An aide was summoned to escort the two newspeople to the various nurses’ stations and the various hospital departments.

As she left them, Eileen breathed a prayer that all would go well. For things to go well, particularly if they visited the clinic, would require a miracle. But then, Sister Eileen believed in miracles.

Because she knew how to cut through red tape, and because she was secretary to the CEO, Dolly was able to get credentials and an ID pass for Lennon and Arnold in record time.

Bruce Whitaker, who had just come back on duty, noticed Lennon and Arnold immediately. In this, he was not alone. The two made an odd couple even in the hospital setting. Lennon’s striking beauty alone was enough to turn heads, female as well as male. And it was definitely noteworthy to see in the corridors a young black man with cameras hanging all over him.

Although he was scheduled to check in and receive an assignment, Bruce had not yet done so. Clad in hospital coat and ID badge, he now trailed the touring group at what he considered a discreet distance.

With Whitaker in tow, the trio visited for varying lengths of time: the noninvasive diagnostic lab, where EMG, EKG and EEG tests were evaluated; the renal unit; art therapy; the mental health unit; the open and closed psychiatric wards; the alcohol and detoxification units; the protective services department, and the respiratory therapy unit.

During the visit to each unit, Whitaker tried to get close enough to hear what was going on without having his presence noted. But invisibility eluded him. Especially when, while walking down the hallway on 2-B, he kicked over the IV stand, pulling down the patient attached to the IV. Then there was the nasty incident when Whitaker knocked the plug out of the wall socket in the renal dialysis unit.

At the scene of the first commotion, Lennon had assumed that Whitaker was a doctor. She also assumed that the patient, weak or awkward, had crashed into him. But at the second imbroglio, she began to doubt her earlier assessment. Why would a doctor be following them? And how could one so clumsy be a doctor? In a whisper, she asked William to keep an eye on the singular man, try to find out who he was and what he was doing.

Lennon had the vague impression that she had seen the man before. Something about him reminded her of some story she had covered. Other things about him argued against any previous meeting with or knowledge of him. Odd.

“So, how’s it goin’, uh . . . Bruce?” Arnold got close enough to read Whitaker’s ID.

“Oh!” Whitaker was startled. He was sure he hadn’t been noticed. The recent catastrophes that had been visited upon him were, in his frame of reference, quite ordinary occurrences. But, having been addressed, Whitaker squinted to make out the other’s ID. “Things are okay, I guess . . . uh . . . Bill.”

“William.”

“Oh, excuse me . . . I thought . . .”

“William.”

“Yes, of course. Whatever. William.”

“You work here, Bruce?”

“Well, sort of. Not work, really. Well, not employment. Actually, I’m employed at the Back Porch Theatre.”

“No shit! Whaddya do there, Bruce, Baby?”

“Well, it’s part-time work, really. I’m the janitor.”

“Ha! The kind of crazy stuff they do there, they’ll probably write a whole goddam play around your broom. But whaddya do here, Bruce?”

“I’m a volunteer. But I’m sort of between duties right now. And I was kind of interested in you and the lady. Did I hear her say she’s with the DetroitNews?”

“Oh, yeah. That’s Pat Lennon. A really neat lady.”

“And you, Bill-er, William?”

“Staffer with the News.”

“Staffer?”

“Staff photographer. I drew this assignment to go with Pat. My lucky day. She’s a real pro. Fun to do a job with.”

“So. What is she doing here? What are both of you doing here?”

“She’s doing a feature on the place for Michigan Magazine. An’ I’m taking a zillion shots so some editor can pick out the ones he wants to use with the article.”

“You’re going to do a feature article for the News’ Sunday magazine on this hospital? On St. Vincent’s?”

“That’s about the size of it.”

It was a miracle. The answer to prayer. Their entire plan had been to somehow get the news media interested in this hospital so that the authorities would be forced to confront the violations of Church law that were going on here.

Now here were a reporter and a photographer from one of Detroit’s major newspapers. It was an answer to prayer. God was good.

But so far, nobody had shown these News people anything. Just routine stuff . . . treatment centers, machines, busy staff people, and sick patients. None of the evil stuff.

It figured. The nurse’s aide had probably been warned not to show them any violation of Church law.

Now that he thought of it, Whitaker wondered if this reporter would recognize a sin if she saw it. He had no idea whether she was Catholic. Oh, God, this golden opportunity mustn’t slip through his fingers.

Wait! The clinic! It was his best shot.

“How about the clinic?” Whitaker asked Arnold.

“I give up. How about it?”

“Don’t you want to see it?”

“Not particularly.” Arnold was growing bored.

“I think you should see it.”

“Oh? Why?”

A good question. Not because they were advocating contraception. Although that was, indeed, the underlying reason Whitaker sought to interest them in the clinic.

“Because it’s an integral part of the hospital . . . and you’ve seen just about everything else.” It was the logical reason. Whitaker was grateful to the Holy Ghost for that inspiration.

“Makes sense. Hey, Pat, this guy says we should see the clinic.”

“That’s where we’re going now”—Lennon looked at the aide-guide for confirmation—“isn’t it?” The aide nodded.

That’s odd, thought Whitaker. The aide had apparently planned to take them to that cesspool regardless.

As they made their way to the clinic, the aide continued her explanation of those sections of the hospital through which they were passing. Lennon took notes and occasionally asked questions. For the most part, Arnold let his cameras dangle. Tagging along behind the threesome was Whitaker.

Evidently, Arnold found the clinic interesting. He took light readings and began snapping pictures. The aide flagged a nurse, made introductions and stepped back to allow the nurse to take over explanations.

The nurse guided Lennon and Arnold through the clinic. Fortunately, it held few patients at the moment.

There had been no ostensible purpose for Whitaker to accompany them through the clinic. His presence was in no way called for. Nor could he think of any pretext to stay. So, reluctantly, he left the group and went to volunteer his services elsewhere.

Later, he overheard the clinic nurse tell someone that Lennon had taken particular notice of the family planning services. All was well as far as Bruce Whitaker was concerned.

Meanwhile Arnold had gone through almost two rolls of film and had decided that was about all he’d need. He started to pack his gear.

Lennon, too, felt she had heard enough and closed her notepad. She noticed several pamphlets displayed on a counter. She picked one up and paged through it. Clearly, she found it interesting. She began reading in earnest.

“Excuse me,” she addressed the nurse, “but these pamphlets—are they available to the patients? The clients who come to the clinic?”

The nurse scanned the pamphlets. “Why, yes, of course. Is there something wrong?”

“They’ve got family planning information.”

“We get quite a few pregnancies in here. Not as many as some hospitals. But that’s because we’re in the core city. Lots of older people. Still, we do get our share of preggies.”

“Do all pregnant women get this material?”

“Routinely, yes. You’d be surprised at how little some of these women know about getting pregnant. Even some who are already mothers. Oh, they know enough about coitus. But when it comes to sperm and ova and menstruation, more often than not you can forget it.”

“But these pamphlets have information on . . . uh . . . ‘artificial’ contraception.”

“Yes?” The nurse was surprised that a contemporary woman—let alone an urbane reporter—would take issue with contraception. Of course, the lady was from the News, which was a rather conservative paper. But, really!

“Well, unless I am seriously mistaken,” Lennon said, “the Catholic Church still condemns contraception.” Pause. “And this is a Catholic hospital!”

“Lady, I don’t make policy here; I just follow it. But I can tell you one thing: It’s like shoveling sand against the tide.”

“Oh?”

“Well, like I said before, most of the girls who come in here pregnant don’t know how they got that way. They just know they’re pregnant. And even after counseling and literature like this, or even after giving them anything from the Pill to an IUD, they still come back pregnant again. About the only time it ends is when they get a tubal ligation.”

“You do that here?”

“Uh-huh. Actually it’s simple out-patient surgery now. Usually there aren’t any complications.”

“But that’s sterilization.”

“Well, it’s not as if we did it as a regular practice. Only in some extreme cases.”

“Such as?”

“There was a typical one the other day. A lady who’d been here before. Thought she was pregnant again. Turned out to be a false alarm. But she’s a diabetic. And that condition seriously complicates pregnancy. So the doctor did a tubal. Really, it was the only humane thing to do.”

“How about vasectomies?”

“No. Not usually. Something like that can be done in the physician’s office.”

“How about abortions?”

“Oh, no. That’s where the hospital draws the line.”

“None of your doctors perform abortions?”

“Not here. But most of them are accredited at other hospitals—all of which permit abortions. Of course, some of our doctors simply don’t perform abortions, period. But those on our staff who do just take their patients across the street.”

“But you do provide contraceptive counseling and devices . . . and you do perform sterilizations?”

“Oh, yes. But keep in mind that as far as the counseling is concerned, we are just supplying information these women should have received somewhere else—school or home or someplace. The devices are supplied only with the patient’s knowledge and consent. And that, of course, holds true for sterilizations. We don’t even recommend tubal ligations unless there are some additional extenuating circumstances. Like the diabetic I told you about.”

Lennon packed her notepad and pen away. “Well, thank you. You’ve been very helpful. Very.”

She concurred that William Arnold’s job was done, at least for the moment. He returned to the News where he would submit his film for development.

* * *

A reporter! And a photographer! News travels fast in this little hospital.

Why would the Detroit News be interested in St. Vincent’s? No matter. If what is going on here is reported, all hell will break loose. I will be able to share my private hell with the rest of the world.

Most of all, it will be the end for that damnable nun. The light of day can destroy her as thoroughly as I ever could.

And, if it doesn’t . . .?

I still can act.

That poor, miserable acid-head! He almost did my job for me. If it had not been for that stupid guard, it would be all over now. Dumb luck. She would be dead. It would be no one’s fault. And it would be over.

All right. I will give the Detroit News its chance to bring her down. That way, once again, it will be no one’s fault. No one’s fault but hers.

All right. We’ll see about the power of the press.

But God, it can’t take long. The pain in my head! It is driving me mad!

If someone does not get rid of her soon, I will! By God, I will! One way or another, I will bring her down.

In the meantime, smile, clown! No one must know. No one!

* * *

Lennon retraced her steps to Sister Eileen’s office to await the nun’s return. She paged through several magazines, but was unable to concentrate.

Eventually, Eileen returned. She seemed startled to find Pat there. “Waiting long?”

“Not really.”

“Sorry. Meetings have a way of dragging on.”

They entered her inner office and sat where they had hours earlier. Eileen looked intently at Lennon. Something was troubling the reporter. “Have an interesting tour?”

“Very. Basically, it seems you have a rather smooth-running operation here. I think I noticed an extra something in the personnel. I’m not sure what it is—more sensitivity, more personalized care, Christianity—something. That I will have to check out more thoroughly. But I’ll get right to what interests me the most—your clinic.”

“Ah, yes, the clinic.” She was not a crack reporter for nothing.

“Admittedly, it’s been a long time since I’ve had any formal training in Catholicism. But I try to keep up with reading and some study. Some of the stories I work on require some specialized knowledge. For instance, I did a story not too long ago on Casa Anna out in Dearborn Heights. It’s a home for adolescent girls who are in trouble. Usually a lot of trouble.”

“Yes. I know it well.”

“The average inmate is unmarried and pregnant. I interviewed the psychologist-social worker about their pregnancy counseling.”

“You don’t have to go any further, Pat. I know what you’re driving at: The girls get no contraceptive information whatsoever.”

“That’s what I learned. And that, as the social worker explained, is because Casa Anna is a Catholic institution.”

Eileen continued to gaze at Lennon, but merely nodded.

“But that’s not the case in your clinic. Of course, I don’t have to tell you that. My question may be a little complex, but . . . what’s going on here?”

Even though Sister Eileen had feared that Lennon would ferret out some of St. Vincent’s less kosher secrets, the nun was unsure how best to explain it all.

She silently welcomed any help the Holy Spirit might send.

“The first thing you ought to know,” she said, finally, “is that a considerable amount of the clinic’s budget is underwritten by federal money. And I tell you quite frankly that if we did not offer the full spectrum of family planning, that money would be withdrawn.”

“Oh?” Lennon had not expected such a candid statement. She flipped open her notepad and began writing.

Eileen sighed. But it was inevitable. “Having said this, I can only hope you will trust that I am being totally honest with you.”

Lennon nodded. She continued writing.

“The second thing, and, I believe, the more important thing you should know, is that the policies of this hospital are set quite independently of any financial consideration. In the case of our clinic, it just so happens that government funding is available for that operation only as long as clients are given information and counseling on family planning without any reservation. And, since it is our policy to provide the full scope of family planning information, we gratefully accept the much needed government funding.”

She paused. Lennon looked up from her writing. Her countenance betrayed her thoughts.

“You find this rather hard to believe?”

“Frankly, uh-huh.”

“Frankly, I must admit I don’t blame you.”

“Look, Sister, reporters—sportswriters mostly—still once in a while talk about little St. Ambrose High back in the fifties and sixties, winning all those city football championships. Beating big public-school teams like Cooley and Chadsey. There was no earthly way a little Catholic school could just happen upon so many huge young boys who were so good at football and all conveniently living within parish boundaries. No way, that is, unless the school was shamelessly and illegally recruiting.

“So, an enterprising reporter one day went over to interview the principal. When asked if the school recruited its players, the nun said, ‘Of course not.’ Well, because a nun said it, the reporter dropped the story. But most of the rest of us believe that in her next confession, that nun confessed that she had stretched the truth a bit—once—in a good cause.

“I want to believe you, Sister. But I can’t just because ‘Sister said . . .’ Especially when what you say doesn’t seem to add up.

“Let me put it to you the way I see it. Casa Anna has girls who get pregnant with the frequency other people catch colds. But the social worker tells me the girls can’t be given counseling in contraception because this is against the rules of the Catholic Church. Okay. I think this is a pretty dumb rule—but a rule is a rule. And they’re following it.

“Now we come to St. Vincent’s ... a Catholic hospital. As far as I can see, you are bound to the same rules as Casa Anna. Yet you offer counseling in contraception. If you didn’t, government funding would be cut off. But you do offer it and you get the funding. Finally, you tell me you’re not doing this for the money. Does this add up, Sister?”

Eileen smiled. “You say it doesn’t add up, Pat. But that’s because you’ve left out one very important number.”

“What’s that?”

“We’ve gone further than the government demands. If we were offering this service solely to get government funds, there would be no earthly reason why we would not provide contraceptive counseling and leave it at that. That’s all the government requires. But, as you have undoubtedly learned, we supply contraceptives and even perform sterilizations. That’s considerably more than the government requires. So, if we are adopting a policy on family planning for the sole purpose of being funded, why do we go well beyond what is required for that funding?”

Lennon stopped writing and was perfectly still as she considered what Sister had said.

“Okay,” Lennon said, “you win that round. But it leaves the basic question: Why are you offering contraceptives and performing sterilizations?”

“A good question. An honest question. And a difficult question. I suppose the only responsible answer is that it was my decision. It was a prayerful, conscientious and hard-fought decision.

“St. Vincent’s has been in this area of Detroit since 1845. It has changed with the city and it has changed with the neighborhood. It started on the corner of Larned and Randolph, moved to Clinton, and finally here on St. Antoine.

“Pat, some people believe in luck, chance, coincidence. I believe in all those. I also believe in divine providence. I think it was providential for St. Vincent’s to have been created in Detroit. I think God intends it to be here now, for this community.

“But, Pat, this community, among many other things, does not understand self-control or abstinence or rhythm as a means of family planning. Such concepts are utterly foreign to the culture of most of the people we serve.

“And I know the question that’s on your mind. How can we bend our principles, compromise our standards to conform to the morality we find around us? Two wrongs do not make a right. And all that. Well, we cannot compromise the teachings of Christ for any reason whatsoever. And here it gets a bit difficult. I don’t know that I can explain everything to your satisfaction. But there are some of us who do not believe the Church is entirely correct in each and every one of its teachings. We believe it is at least possible that the teaching of Christ and the teaching of the Church are not identical in each and every case.

“You must know that this is not a conclusion lightly reached. It is achieved only through much prayer and much consultation. And even then it is a conclusion painfully reached. But when reached, it must be followed.”

“Must be followed . . .” Lennon laid the pen on her pad and sat back in her chair. “Must be followed . . . it rings a bell. Someplace back in high school or college. Of course! Your conscience . . . one’s conscience . . . you have to follow your conscience.” Pause. “But there was a hook in that . . . wasn’t there?”

Eileen smiled. “I guess you could call it a hook. You have to have what was called ‘a normal conscience.’”

“That’s right!” Lennon seemed to be enjoying recalling ancient rules and regulations that she had at one time been expected to memorize. “There were different kinds of consciences, weren’t there?”

“Yes.” Eileen, considerably earlier than Lennon, also had memorized rules and doctrines. The difference was that Eileen never forgot what she’d learned. “There were scrupulous, lax, normal, correct, and erroneous consciences.”

“That’s right!”

Eileen felt as if she were passing a test.

“And,” Lennon continued, “you figure you have a normal conscience in this and so you find you have to follow that conscience.”

“That’s exactly correct.”

Lennon was lost in thought for several silent moments. “But what about Casa Anna?”

“What about it?”

“No contraceptive counseling there. Does that mean the nun in charge of Casa Anna doesn’t agree with your assessment of Church law?”

“Pat, I’ve always found it a mistake to judge others. There’s no way of telling all the circumstances that go into a person’s decision. It’s possible that Sister Ludmilla simply goes along with official Church policy in this matter. I don’t know. We’ve never discussed the matter.

“But I would suggest one very conceivable, if not plausible, possibility. You said it yourself just a few minutes ago when you mentioned that Casa Anna is in Dearborn Heights.”

“What has that to do with it?”

“Most of the local Church authorities prefer not to want to be informed of what’s going on in the core city as far as things Catholic go. Certainly that’s true of Cardinal Boyle. He understands that if we are to be relevant to the communities we serve, we cannot do things the way they are done in the suburbs.

“A suburban parish, for instance, conducts the Sunday liturgy just exactly as Rome has specified. The local liturgical commission insists that the parochial Mass be celebrated exactly as the liturgical texts direct. But, far more importantly, suburban Catholics want everything to be done correctly.

“However, St. Hugo’s in Bloomfield Hills is not St. Patrick’s in Detroit. What relatively few parishioners St. Patrick’s has are mainly blacks, most of whose tradition is Baptist. And if St. Patrick’s were to offer Sunday liturgy precisely as St. Hugo’s does, St. Patrick’s would be left with virtually no congregation. So that if someone were to phone on a Sunday morning and ask, ‘What time is Mass?’ the priest probably would reply, ‘What time can you get here?’

“So, St. Patrick’s has one of the better blends of a Catholic-Baptist service on Sundays. The parishioners of St. Patrick’s greatly enjoy this liturgy. It makes sense to them. It touches them. No one takes any offense. On the contrary, they are very much at home with that blend of the known and the unfamiliar. Or, the unfamiliar ritual of the Catholic Church is understood and recognized in the blend with the Baptist expression.

“So, it is certain that some parishioners of St. Hugo’s would be very much disturbed if they were aware of what was going on at St. Patrick’s Parish. And if they were disturbed enough, they would undoubtedly have recourse to Cardinal Boyle. And then he would have no choice but to take some action against what is going on at St. Patrick’s Parish.”

Sister Eileen fell silent. The impression was that it was not a silence during which she was thinking of something else to say. It was an invitation for some sort of comment.

“Wait a minute, “ Lennon said, at length, “I think I see what you’re driving at. You’re saying that you don’t want the authorities to know what’s going on in this hospital. And you’re also claiming that the authorities don’t want to know. And who’s likely to break the news to everyone? I am.

“Is that it?”

Eileen sighed. “That’s it.”

“You want me to sit on this story! Do you know what you’re asking me to do?”

“I think so.”

“I don’t think you do. Hunters wait for a deer. Kirk Gibson waits for a fast ball. Priests wait for a repentant sinner. Reporters wait for a good story. And believe me, this is a good story. The story I came here to get was a puff piece—a good story, but not a news story. But what I’ve got here could take this out of the Michigan Magazine and put it on the front page with lots more news to come as people react to the story.

“Sister, this is my job! If my editor found out that I was sitting on a story like this, he’d have my scalp. And he’d have every right to. It would be downright unprofessional.”

“I suppose that’s all true.” Eileen’s eyes were downcast.

“You can’t ask me to do this!” Lennon’s resolve was showing a chink.

“No, I suppose not.”

“It’s my job!”

“So you’ve explained.”

After a lengthy pause. “What would happen after we published this story?”

“Probably just what I suggested. Cardinal Boyle would have to take some sort of action.”

“Like what?”

“That’s difficult to predict. He might demand that I change the policies of St. Vincent’s to conform with Church directives. Although I doubt that some influential Catholics would be satisfied with that.”

“Would you change the policies if he—they—demanded it?”

“No. I couldn’t. Not in good conscience.”

“If you didn’t, then what?”

“I might be asked to leave the order.”

“Leave the order?”

“Leave religious life. Stop being a nun.”

“He’d do that?”

“I don’t see how he could avoid it. No matter how he felt about it.”

“And what would happen to St. Vincent’s?”

“That’s a prognosis I can’t make with any certainty. In its present state, with the clientele that come here now, I suppose eventually it would close. I know that we are having a difficult time staying open now. But we’re surviving. This is just not a facility for white middle-class suburbanites. No more than is St. Patrick’s a parish for the affluent. That’s not our community. We are doing our best now to relate to our community, such as it is. We are trying to bring a distinctly Christian attitude to this health care facility. And Christianity knows no color, no class, no restrictions in its Christlike love.”

Lennon shrugged and packed away her pen and notepad. “I shouldn’t have asked you any of these hypothetical questions. That was not professional of me. I can’t afford to consider consequences of a legitimate story. If I did, I’d be a basket case in no time. And the public would be denied its right to know.”

Lennon rose and smoothed her skirt. “I hope you understand, Sister. But whether you understand or not, it is my job.”

“I understand, Pat. It’s not going to make my day. But that has nothing to do with your job. You’ve got to be faithful to that. Just as I must be faithful to mine. No matter what happens, know that I will not hold you responsible. The decisions were mine. I made them. Now I must live with the consequences. Maybe it will not be as bad as I anticipate.”

“I certainly hope not.”

Lennon left the office. She did not look back. She couldn’t.