Deathbed

6

Father Robert came home to Father Harold.

Where else in the world, thought Koesler, as he parked in the garage adjoining St. Anselm’s rectory, would you hear anything like that except in the celibate world of the Roman Catholic priesthood?

A Catholic rectory, mused Koesler; a home for unmarried fathers.

This association between him and Father Harold was somewhat less than a marriage of convenience. It was more a union stemming from desperation.

Definitely, it was not a marriage made in heaven. But few rectory matchups were. In the good old days—in the sixties and before—when there were comparatively lots of priests, men were teamed at the whim of the bishop. Or, more likely, as the result of personnel juggling by the men of the Chancery, with a perfunctory blessing by the bishop.

Now, as the Church was running out of priests, all too frequently parishes were forced to shift for themselves. When it came to priests who would assist the pastor.

Thus it was by a combination of fidelity and luck that Koesler had managed to secure the parish-sitting services of Father Harold while Koesler played chaplain at St. Vincent’s. Fidelity in that Koesler faithfully led a group of St. Anselmites to an annual retreat at the Passionist Monastery. And luck, since the Passionists happened to have a surplus Father Harold for the first few weeks of the new year.

From frequent association, Koesler knew Harold quite well. He was a large man in his sixties, only slightly balding, and always, when on call, garbed in the religious habit of the Passionist order.

The Passionists had been founded in the early eighteenth century by St. Paul of the Cross for the purpose of preaching retreats and missions. The Passionists remained faithful to their roots as well as, and frequently considerably better than, any of the other old religious orders. But once in a while a Passionist could be cut from the herd to pastor a parish or, in this case, baby-sit one.

Friendly and reservedly gregarious, Harold hailed from somewhere out west—Oklahoma or Texas. It was never dear exactly whence. His theology was anchored squarely in the pre-Vatican II Church. A fact that left him a bit nervous, a condition betrayed by his darting eyes. He never quite knew when what was to him an innocent dogmatic statement might draw anything from good-natured laughter to derision to, at rare moments, agreement. So he seldom volunteered conversation. Mostly, he reacted to questions from others.

Koesler entered the kitchen from the connected garage. He heard some at first unidentifiable noise. It was television, the local evening news. He remembered now: Father Harold watched television a lot.

“Hello!” Koesler called above the TV noise. He placed on the dining room table the burger and fries he had picked up on the way home.

“Hello there, Father.” Harold greeted him warmly and moved from the living room to the dining area. Thus, as usual, he would be able to watch TV and keep Koesler company while he ate.

“What do we have on the evening news?” Koesler placed his hat and briefcase on the seat of a chair, draping his coat and scarf on the back of the chair.

“What?” Harold was able to focus on only snatches from both Koesler and the TV. But he was able to recall from his subconscious what he had missed from each medium. From experience, Koesler knew all he had to do was wait. “Oh,” Harold predictably continued, “it’s that skirmish they had the other night over at Cobo Hall. They’re just beginning to identify some of the people they arrested. Mostly kids.”

“I guess that’s who you’d expect to find at a rock concert.”

“What? Oh, yeah. I suppose so. Ought to be home. Only trouble when they’re out that late. Unsupervised.”

“I suppose.” It wasn’t worth arguing over. Koesler opened the foil that protected his steaming burger. Others came home to a prepared meal, he thought. Oh, well, this is considerably better than nothing.

From his briefcase he took a soft-cover booklet entitled, Ethics Committees: A Challenge for Catholic Health Care. Sister Eileen had lent it to him. He had paged through it earlier. He wanted to read a couple of sections more carefully.

“How’d things go at the hospital today?”

“Pretty good. I think I’m getting the hang of it.”

“Huh? Oh, yeah. It can’t be much different than making sick calls in the parish, eh, Father?”

“No, not much different. “ It was wildly different. Koesler did not care to seriously interrupt Harold’s evening news.

The ethics brochure contained a brief history as well as an explanation of the ethical directives. Koesler felt a twinge of parochial pride to learn that the first U.S. Catholic code of medical ethics, in 1920, was a reprint of the Surgical Code for Catholic Hospitals for the Diocese of Detroit. This basic code had been revised, in effect, only twice: in 1954 and again in 1971.

Briefly he wondered about updating such an important document only twice in more than sixty years. Especially since those years spanned a unique knowledge and information explosion, particularly in the field of medicine. The wheels of the Church grind exceedingly slow, he thought, but really!

He continued reading.

“Harold,” Koesler said at length, “do you know why doctors don’t tie a woman’s tubes in a Catholic hospital?”

“What?” Once he reran the tape, Harold blushed. He always got a bit flustered when confronted with anything even remotely sexual. “Uh . . . oh. It’s against the law. Isn’t it?”

Actually, Harold was quite certain it was against the law. At least it had been the last time he’d looked. But for all he knew, it might have been changed this morning. No telling what these hairy young whippersnappers were going to do next.

“Well, according to this, and I think it’s correct, it’s not so much laws that govern medical ethics as it is Church teaching.”

“Church teaching?” Harold’s mind might be partially tuned to a conversation with Koesler, but his eyes were riveted to the TV set. “Oh, the ordinary magisterium, you mean.”

“Precisely. The good old ordinary magisterium—the ordinary teaching authority of the Church.”

“That’s when the Church isn’t teaching infallibly.” Harold was just making sure that hadn’t changed either.

“That’s right. And there are those who claim there’s been only one infallible statement since the doctrine of infallibility was defined a little more than a hundred years ago at the First Vatican Council.”

“The doctrine of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary into heaven, wasn’t it?”

“Right. So everything else—and that’s a lot—falls under the ordinary magisterium. And do you know how they came up with this medical code?”

“Just look at this, Father. This was the only goal the Red Wings scored last night.”

Koesler craned sufficiently to see the TV screen. He was just in time to see a red-suited skater sweep across the ice, receive the puck in a pass from his wing man, fake the goalie, and slide the puck inside the crease.

“They’re not doing very well, are they?” Koesler did not follow sports as faithfully as he once had.

Harold shook his head sadly. “Not like the good old days with the Production Line—Lindsay, Abel and Howe. Man, that Gordie Howe—what a player!”

“Those were the good old days, all right.” If he was no longer an avid jock, Koesler could at least remember. “And those blood-and-guts games against the Maple Leafs and the Canadiens!”

“Umm—excuse me, Father, what did you ask me about?”

“The Code of Medical Ethics. Know how they arrived at it?”

Harold shook his head. “Not rightly.” He returned to the TV.

“They asked for it.”

“Eh?”

“Catholic hospitals kept bugging the bishops to spell out medical moral ethics. Can you imagine that, Harold? Talk about the good old days ! Nowadays we hope the bishops and the Pope will keep quiet and not muddle things any more than they already have. Back then they wanted the word. And they surely got it. The bishops even sent the question of tubal ligation and material cooperation to the Vatican. And they got their answer. Now we have to live with it.”

Harold clenched his jaws. He didn’t care for talk that made light of the bishops and the Holy Father. But he was a guest in this rectory. And his parents had raised him to be well-mannered.

“So,” Koesler continued, “to return to my original question about why Fallopian tubes aren’t tied in a Catholic hospital: The reason is because the Vatican said so. That’s it.”

Harold felt compelled to say a word for Holy Mother Church. “But Father, that is the ordinary magisterium!”

“I know that, Father Harold. But to demur from the ordinary magisterium is not to be branded a heretic.”

“No, you’re not a heretic if you deny the ordinary magisterium. But you’re wrong.”

“That’s one view.”

“Oh, really, Father!” TV was disregarded. “I must object. I believe that Catholics may not dissent from Church teaching. And—not that I mean for a moment to presume to tell you your obligation—but pastors may not accept dissenting views in their parochial ministry. And finally, Catholics who have any doubt about Church teaching may suspend or withhold assent while they take every opportunity to resolve their doubt through study, consultation, and prayer.”

“In other words, Harold, Catholics who don’t agree with Church teaching may pray until they do agree.”

“You’re oversimplifying, Father.”

“Am I? What about our obligation to form our own conscience and follow it?”

“That’s true, Father. But the Church helps us form a true conscience.”

“Sure, Harold, the Church is supposed to help us. But in your explanation, the Church is not so much helping as it has taken over the whole job. Instead of working to inform our conscience and help form it, the Church simply invites us to pour our conscience in her mold and all the Catholics come marching out believing in, and judging everything in, identical ways.”

“Do you have another explanation?”

“I think so. Try this, Harold. Suppose, to begin, that we have an obligation to recognize the Church’s teaching role. And we also have an obligation to know what the Church is actually teaching. I mean, Harold, how many times have you had a discussion or an argument with someone only to eventually realize that the other person doesn’t really know what he’s talking about—that he doesn’t know what the Church actually teaches about a given point.”

“That’s true.”

“Okay, so we’re together so far. We recognize that the Church is an authentic teacher. And we must know correctly what the Church is teaching. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Next step: If we’re uncertain or in doubt about a teaching of the Church, we give the presumption of truth to the magisterium. I think you’ll agree to that, too.”

“Right.”

“Okay, now for the final step. If it happens that our own experience and conviction—which we carefully and prayerfully reflect on—tells us that the Church’s teaching on a specific matter is inadequate, incomplete or inapplicable to our personal life, then we have the right—the responsibility—to depart from the Church’s teaching and follow our own well-formed convictions and conscience.

“What do you say to that?”

“Depart from the Church’s teachings! Oh, Father, I could never believe that!”

“How else could we possibly form our own conscience if we don’t have the freedom to do so?”

“But Father, the power of the keys! Christ said, ‘Thou art Peter and upon this rock I will build my church . . . and I will give you the keys of the kingdom of heaven. Whatever you bind upon earth will be bound in heaven. And whatever you loose upon earth will be loosed also in heaven.’”

“We’re all familiar with the ‘Tu es Petrus’. . . text, Harold. But, like everything else in Scripture, you’ve got to put it in context. How did Peter conduct himself in the early Church?” Koesler continued, answering his own question. “Read the first twelve chapters of Acts with the idea of checking out St. Peter’s role in the Church. He does not have anything close to the power and authority of the Popes of recent memory. Peter is challenged not only by Paul in their famous confrontation; the entire Christian community—which was then entirely Jewish—calls Peter to task for admitting Gentiles into the Church. And later, Peter doesn’t just decide to take a trip as a missionary; the whole group sends him off.

“Peter’s role in the Church is not that of an infallible potentate, but a coordinator, a leader. And that’s what I think we mean when we call the Pope the successor of Peter. So, the ‘power of the keys’ maybe isn’t as absolute as we’ve been led to believe.”

“I don’t know, Father. I just couldn’t bring myself to disagree with Church teaching.”

“And nobody’s asking you to, Harold. My point is, there is more than one view of the teaching Church. And our separate views represent the thinnest line between a liberal and a conservative attitude toward the Church. There are, for instance, Catholics who would not grant the amount of time you so generously concede to conform one’s conscience to Church teaching. As far as these people are concerned, if you doubt, you’re out.

“On the other hand, there are liberal Catholics who would not offer the magisterium the benefit of the doubt, as I would. These people are convinced that at least most of the bishops are far more concerned about preserving the institution than searching out evangelical truth.

“Then there are liberals who are so liberal they themselves admit they simply have left the Church altogether. Just as there are conservatives who have fashioned their own rigid Church that is far more Catholic than the Catholic Church.

“Then there are people like you and me, Harold, who differ minimally if radically.” Koesler smiled. “I’ll let you be a Catholic if you’ll let me be one too.”

Harold returned the smile. It seemed a happy compromise. Then he grew concerned. “But how will this look to outsiders, Father? Won’t this give scandal if we Catholics openly disagree with each other? If we’re not united?”

“It’s already happened. Pope Paul insisted that his encyclical, ‘Humanae Vitae,’ was not an infallible statement, but it certainly was the ordinary magisterium of the highest order. And in that document, he spelled out the traditionally approved methods of family planning: rhythm or abstinence. But Catholics, at least in the First World countries, have maturely and prayerfully decided that this particular Vatican decision is not for them. Has anybody confessed practicing artificial birth control to you lately?”

“No.”

“Remember how it used to be?”

“Yes.” Harold winced. “Almost all the marrieds either were expecting, or practicing birth control—and confessing it.”

“So family planning remains a moral problem for a few lay Catholics, some priests, most bishops. And of course the Pope. As a matter of fact, in the field we’ve been talking about—medical moral ethics—there is a bit of divergence.”

“There is?” Harold was surprised.

“The Code of Medical Ethics has been approved by the U.S. Conference of Bishops and supplemented by and blessed by the Holy See, but it is not enforced by any national conference of bishops. It is implemented by each individual bishop in his own diocese.”

“It is?”

“Uh-huh. So there is a bit of divergence. Generally, they try to overlook the differences within the good-old-boy network. But differences there are.

“Really! I had no idea! Father, will you look at that cloud pattern on the weather map. Looks like we’re in for some more snow.”

“I guess so. “ Koesler went into the kitchen to make some instant coffee. As far as he knew, he was the only one left in the world who would attempt to drink the coffee he made. The taste never offended him. And he was at a loss to know why others refused his coffee. He had forgotten that years in the seminary had made him an omnivore. And that if not for bread and peanut butter, he very probably would have starved long before ordination.

As he stirred his usual overabundant spoonful of instant coffee granules into the steaming water, he wondered what he had accomplished by his disputation with Father Harold. Probably not much. Harold would continue to let the Church Xerox his mind and conscience. At most, perhaps he would understand how others might responsibly differ with the ordinary magisterium. That alone was a not inconsiderable achievement.

* * *

In the brief time since his inadvertent rescue of Sister Eileen, George Snell had achieved the status of in-house hero. Singlehandedly he had raised the image of a ragtag protective service to a level of respectability. Nor had he himself been unaffected by the new image that had been created.

He had long considered himself God’s gift to womankind. Now he saw himself as fearless guardian of St. Vincent’s Hospital and all its personnel as well.

He had conveniently managed to blot out the stark reality of that fateful evening. If aide Helen Brown had not upset his balance while he was entering into the famed Snell Maneuver, Sister Eileen undoubtedly would have been strangled. As it was, she had come all too close to death. And she would have been murdered in the same room with him. He would have risen satisfied and sated from his unique maneuver to discover the corpse of the CEO he was supposed to protect.

As it was, he was a hero. And that was plenty good enough for him. So good, indeed, that since l’affaire Eileen he had taken to actually patrolling his beat. Who could ask for anything more? Certainly not his supervisor.

“Checkin’ in a little early, ain’t you?” Chief Martin asked.

“Early? Didn’t realize I was early,” Snell said virtuously.

“Yeah, early.”

“Better early than sorry. I made that up.”

“Yeah? Well, you ain’t gonna be paid overtime just ’cause you came in early. I made that up.”

“You don’t have to pay me overtime. I’m just here to do my job.”

The chief scratched his head. “What is it with you? Ever since you kayoed that detox guy, you act like a cross between Superman and Mother Teresa.”

“Oh, no sir, Chief. I’m just little old ordinary George Snell, doin’ my job.”

“Another thing, Snell. I paced off the distance down that hallway you said you covered when you seen that guy drag the nun into the room. I paced it off maybe a dozen times. No way I can see how you covered that distance in the time it had to take you to get to him in time to save the nun. You just ain’t in no way, shape, or form that fast.”

“You know how it is, Chief: In moments of stress you don’t know your own strength or speed.”

“I dunno. I guess you had to do it. But I’ll be damned if I can figure out how you did.”

“Chief, my strength is as the strength of ten because my heart is pure.”

It definitely bolstered Snell’s inward and outward credibility that he himself had come to believe this fairy tale.

“And now,” Snell said, “if you’ll excuse me, Chief, I’ll start on my rounds.”

“Go ahead. “ Martin turned toward the closed-circuit television monitor. “But you ain’t gettin’ any overtime.”

Snell sauntered off. After all, he was early. He began his patrol in the hospital’s basement. At this hour, it was the eeriest section of the plant. Housekeeping, the kitchen, and general cafeteria were all closed and the people who worked there were long gone home. No one else should be in the basement. No one else was.

That was a slight disappointment. George had been rather looking forward to another confrontation. Unarmed though he was, he was convinced he could handle any disturbance. So much had he come to believe in his own misbegotten reputation.

From the basement, he took the elevator to the fourth floor, which was completely residential. A skeleton staff of nurses and aides fluttered about answering patients’ summonses, delivering medication, in general being busy.

“Evening, Officer Snell,” one passing aide greeted.

It surprised him. He hadn’t expected to be greeted. In fact, he had never before been greeted by anyone on the hospital staff. He had been convinced that, on the one hand, no one knew his name and, on the other, that no one wanted to.

Evening, Officer Snell. It had a nice ring. He could grow to like it.

She was a pretty little thing, too. For a split second, he toyed with the idea that he might bestow God’s greatest gift to women upon her. But in that second she was gone, disappeared into one of the rooms. He might have pursued her. But he wasn’t going to do that any more. He was a celebrity now. If someone wanted his favors, she could at least inquire, if not beg.

He boarded the elevator to the first floor. Now he would work himself up to the third floor, the scene of his triumph both over the assailant of Sister Eileen and, literally, over nurse’s aide Helen Brown. As he recalled, and this he clearly recalled, the crescendo and climax of God’s gift had been denied Ms. Brown. That, he felt, should be remedied.

First floor, through the day busier than most downtown streets, was now deserted. And all the more creepy for its comparative silence and emptiness. Even though Snell felt slightly more invulnerable than Achilles, he moved through these corridors somewhat more cautiously.

What was that? Something had moved up ahead. It wasn’t just the movement. Anyone might have been walking in this hallway. It might have been a late departer from the day shift. It could have been someone going from one department to another. From, say, one of the residence halls to the emergency room. But, somehow, he was certain it was not. Whoever it was had been moving furtively, stealthily.

Snell’s only consolation was that the furtive figure had seemed very small. In a confrontation, he would have every advantage of size. If the figure were human.

Snell began to perspire freely. But if he were going to take this job seriously he would have to investigate. He really would.

Warily he quickened his pace, trying to close the distance between himself and the mysterious figure.

Once again, the figure stepped out of the shadows. By now, Snell had advanced to within a few feet. “All right!” he commanded. “That’s far enough! Stop where you are!”

Sister Rosamunda collapsed against the wall, clutching at her heart. Snell was overwhelmed with confusion. “Sister! S . . . S . . . Sister,” he stammered. “What . . . I had no idea . . . are you okay?”

“Whew!” She could say no more. Her eyes, as she looked up at him, exuded a mixture of fear and fury.

“S . . . S . . . S . . . . Sister, are you all right?”

“I think so. No thanks to you! Who are you, in nomine Domini?” She squinted through her bifocals. “George Snell, is it? Well, George, where did you get your training? With the Gestapo?”

“I . . . I’m sorry, Sister. I didn’t know who you were—I just saw you sneaking down the hall—”

“Sneaking! Sneaking, is it? I was not sneaking! Nuns don’t sneak! How dare you!”

“Like I said, Sister, I’m sorry. I didn’t know who you were. I had to find out. For the safety of the patients. I just had to find out. You could have been anybody.”

“No, I couldn’t be anyone but me, you ninny!”

“Well, I couldn’t tell that, Sister. All I saw was someone sneaking down the hall.”

“There you go again!”

“God, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean sneaking.”

“Then stop saying it, in nomine Domini.”

“Yes, Sister.”

“That’s better.”

“Well, anyway, where were you going? I mean, it was odd that you were snea—going down the hallway—so . . . uh . . . cautiously.”

“What business is it of yours, young man, where I’m going? I’ve been a part of this hospital since long before you were born. Can’t I go somewhere in the evening, down to the chapel to say some night prayers, without being scared half out of my wits by some ape!”

“Oh, to chapel, that’s different.”

“What’s different about it, young man? Is there any place in this hospital that is out-of-bounds to me? Has anyone given you any orders regarding my behavior in this hospital?”

“Well, no, ma’am . . .”

“What is this ‘no, ma’am’? I am a Religious Sister of the Order of St. Vincent de Paul.”

“Yes, ma’am, I mean, yes, Sister.” By this time, Snell would have been hard pressed to give the proper spelling of his own name. He just wanted out of this confrontation.

“Well, then, am I free to go, young man? Or do you have some more bizarre surprises for me?”

“Oh, no, Sister. I just . . . can I do anything to help you?”

“Get out of my way! And while you’re at it, get out of my life!”

Snell backed away. He had never attended parochial school. But in just a few moments, Sister Rosamunda had taught him all the abject terror and humiliation ever experienced by a nice little Catholic boy or girl in the good old days.

He was beginning to doubt himself and his newfound resolve. He needed something. Something to rekindle his confidence. If he had been a religious person, he might have said a prayer. As it was, though employed by a Catholic hospital, he was less an agnostic or atheist than simply a backsliding Baptist.

Yet, almost in answer to his unoffered prayer, he heard a sound. A metallic object striking the terrazzo floor. A sound that should not have been made at this hour. Who’d be carrying something metallic? Maintenance? If it were someone from maintenance, why didn’t he show himself? Someone was lurking in the shadows. Snell’s opportunity for self-redemption.

Turning on his powerful flashlight, Snell began to retrace his steps. Hugging the wall, he directed the beam all around, into corners and behind columns. The trouble with these old buildings, there were too many places a person could hide.

Pressed tightly against the opposite wall and partially hidden by a pillar, Bruce Whitaker cursed his luck. Why had he dropped the pliers? Everything had been going so smoothly. The plan laid out by his comrades had been working flawlessly until he’d dropped the damned pliers. The racket, enhanced by the night’s quiet, had alerted the guard. Now Whitaker had become fair game. He was being hunted down. The guard was only a few yards away.

What kind of explanation could he give when inevitably he was found out? A volunteer roaming the corridors at night? With a pair of pliers? What for? This could get nasty. Could he be thrown back in jail for something like this? Probably not. But he undoubtedly would be dismissed from the hospital as a volunteer. All their plans would be washed away. How would he be able to face his friends? Failed again! And all because he had dropped the pliers!

Well, there was no sense in continuing to try to hide. In a few seconds he would be found out. He might as well step out and surrender. One good thing, as far as he could recall, the guards were not armed.

Whitaker was just about to step out into the soft indirect light of the hallway when he heard a sound behind him, further up the corridor. He could not identify it, but it was a very specific sound. He was not the only one who had heard it. The guard’s flashlight beam swept by and focused further back up the hall.

“Who is that? Who’s there?” the guard called out.

No response. But there had been a sound. No doubt of that.

The guard walked past the column where Whitaker cowered, heading toward where the sound had come from.

Exhaling relief, Whitaker slipped down the hallway as the guard arid he passed as ships in the night. What luck! What outrageous luck! This, very definitely, was not the way it usually worked out for Whitaker. Could it be that things would turn about for him? Whatever. He must get on with his task.

“Who is it, I said! Who’s there?” Snell tried to focus the beam in the general area whence he thought the sound had originated.

A young woman stepped out of the shadows. She was dressed as a nurse’s aide. She seemed embarrassed. Whitaker was too far down the corridor to see who it was. Nor did he care. He was intent alone on his mission.

Snell relaxed. She presented no physical challenge. Still, he was puzzled. Who was she? What had she dropped? And what was she doing there, in the shadows, on the main floor at this hour? All questions that had answers. And he would have them.

Snell focused the beam on her identification tag. “Ethel Laidlaw.” He noted that she was small-breasted. But young enough so that they were still fairly firm. Firm little breasts. One could make a case for them, too.

“So,” he said, “Ethel Laidlaw. What is Ethel Laidlaw doing here now?” Snell stood close to her, emphasizing the disparity in their sizes. He was so big while she was so small. He liked to impress people with his bulk.

“Oh, I’m so embarrassed.”

“Now, why’s that, little lady?” Snell’s male-chauvinist-pig tendencies were beginning to blossom again.

“Well, I just wanted to meet you. And when you were on my floor, you walked by so quickly . . .”

“Wanted to meet me, eh?” Snell leaned forward, putting one hand against the wall and, in a way, trapping her. “Whatever would you want to do that for?”

“Well . . . because you’re a hero. I mean . . . you rescued Sister Eileen the other night . . .”

“Well, little honey, you don’t have to hide in the shadows to meet me. I’m just like everybody else. Put my pants on one leg at a time. Take ’em off the same way.” Snell tried to insert extra meaning in the statement. “Why, I wouldn’t even known you were here if you hadn’t dropped something. What was it you dropped, anyway?”

“Oh . . .” Ethel hadn’t dropped anything; she didn’t know what had been dropped. “My pen . . . I dropped my pen.” She held it up to prove that, if nothing else, she did indeed have a pen.

“It didn’t sound like a pen.” But, what the hell; who cared? It might just be possible that Ethel Laidlaw was in need of God’s greatest gift to women. “But, never mind. Well, here I am. Now you’ve met me, what do you think?”

“Well, there’s this reputation you got.”

“Yeah? No kiddin’.”

“Well, people talk. You know.”

“Yeah? What’re they sayin’?”

“Oh, I couldn’t repeat it.” She blushed.

“You can tell me. I mean, my God, it’s my reputation.” Is it possible she’s a virgin, he wondered.

“Well, there’s talk . . .”

“Yeah . . .?”

“Something about . . . a maneuver . . .?”

Damn! I haven’t even been able to demonstrate it fully to anyone here yet. And already they’re talkin’ about it. “So, what have you heard about it?”

“Only that it’s . . . uh . . . unique.”

“Well, you know, it is. I only . . . uh . . . do it with very special people.”

“Oh.” Blush.

“Would . . . uh . . . you be . . . uh . . . interested?”

“Oh, Mr. Snell! Me?”

“George.”

“George.”

“Once we get it together, baby, you will never be formal again.”

“Oh, George!”

“Oh, Ethel!” Snell began fumbling, rather expertly, with the buttons of her uniform.

“Wait!”

“Wait?”

“Yes, wait! I have an idea.”

‘An idea? Ethel, this is no time for thinking.”

“Well, yes. As a matter of fact, it is, George.”

“Well, what?”

“Don’t you think we ought to find a bed?”

“A bed.”

“Don’t you need something like a bed for your . . . maneuver?”

“Now that you mention it . . .”

“The pastoral care department.”

“Pastoral care?”

“They’ve got an empty bed. In an empty room.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Let’s get there.”

Pastoral care was only a short distance down the hall. They got there in world-record time.

Snell returned his concentration to Ethel’s buttons.

As he reached bra depth, Ethel said urgently, “Wait!”

“Again!”

“I’ve got another idea.”

“Ethel, has anyone told you you think too much?”

“It’s just something to make it better.”

“Baby, nothing make it better than I do!”

“I think it might.”

Snell considered the possibility that this simple matter was getting entirely too cluttered. “Well, what is it?”

“I can’t say it.”

“You can’t—!” On the other hand, this might be interesting. If Ethel were, as he suspected, a virgin, she may have been harboring fantasies. Snell always fancied fantasies and indulged them whenever possible. “But, if you can’t . . .”

“Let me whisper it to you.”

“Okay.”

Snell lowered his massive head to Ethel’s rosebud mouth and listened.

“Yeah . . . okay . . .” A smile began to form. “Well, why not . . . why the hell not?”

Snell stepped back from Ethel and began to disrobe himself, slowly, sensuously. It was a male striptease. Ethel appeared to be enjoying it immensely. But she sat there watching him without removing a stitch of her own clothing.

At last, George stood stark-naked. “Baby, I’m ready!” There was no doubting that truth. “Let’s go!”

“No! No! The rest of it too!”

“Oh . . . God . . . okay.”

After all, her suggestion seemed to be working so far. George found that his striptease, while she remained completely clothed, was a real and rare stimulant. Why not go along with the rest of her fantasy?

Leaving his uniform—indeed, all his clothing—on the chair next to the bed, Snell retreated to the bathroom and turned on the shower. He’d never tried anything like this before. The plan called for him to return soaking wet. She would be clad in her underclothing, which he would rip from her body. He, a Beast from the Ocean’s depths, taking her—the Earth Woman.

And, of course added to all this, like a preternatural gift, would be . . . the maneuver.

He completed the shower, stepped out, and was about to dry himself when he recalled he was supposed to present himself fresh from the Ocean. Kinky. He liked that in a woman.

“Aha!” He bounded into the room in a mikadoesque stance. By anyone’s standards, he was ready.

“Aha! Ethel! Prepare to meet your fate . . . Ethel? Ethel?”

She hadn’t mentioned anything about hiding. Besides, that was carrying this thing just a bit too far, dammit! There was such a thing as too much foreplay.

“Ethel?” He looked in the closet. He looked in the two adjoining offices. “Ethel?” He looked under the bed. That was it. There was no place left to hide.

She was not there. Could you believe it? After all, she was the one at whose initiative this whole thing had begun. Now she was nowhere to be found.

And that was by no means all.

His clothing was gone. All his clothing.

Whatinhell am I gonna do now? There’s nothing left. And I didn’t get to use the maneuver. In fact, I haven’t used it since I got to this rotten place. Use it or lose it.

But for the present, he had to get out of here, saving as much face as possible.

Reacting as much from panic as anything else, he stripped the bed of its brown blanket, which he wrapped around himself. Cautiously, he let himself out of the room. Step by step, he inched along the welcome shadows of the corridor. When he reached the seemingly empty lobby, he knew he would have to make a dash for it. The switchboard operator was the sole inhabitant of the brightly lit foyer. She seemed absorbed in a paperback romance.

He made a break for it, bare feet hardly making a sound as he pitterpattered over the terrazzo floor. No sooner was he outside the building than the bone-chilling cold of a January night hit his basically bare body with Arctic force. Cursing Ethel, he danced his way across the pavement and through the parking lot as if proving his faith over hot coals.

George Snell, macho man that he was, never locked his car. So it was no problem for him to hot-wire the vehicle and get the heat going. For the first time in many minutes he could now relax slightly. He would drive home, don his other uniform, and get back here to try to retrieve the missing uniform at least in time to check out.

As for Ethel, that crazy broad, he was unsure whether he never wanted to see that unmitigated pain again, or whether, to ease his dark night of the soul, he wanted just enough time with her to dissect her. Sufficient for later thoughts of revenge. Right now, he had to salvage what he could of his reputation as defender of the hospital and God’s gift to women.

* * *

Bruce Whitaker continued to make his way through the corridors as quietly and unobtrusively as possible. He had dropped the pliers only three more times. Fortunately, having eluded that guard, he was challenged by no one else.

From time to time he caught a glimpse of someone who seemed to be preceding him down the hallways. A small figure hugging the walls and courting the shadows, much as was he. Now that was puzzling. But, whatever; he had his mission, which happened to coincide with God’s holy will, and he must carry it out.

At long last, he reached the clinic. All along the way, he had wondered what had happened to the guard who had nearly discovered him. Strange. The man must have become preoccupied with whoever had made that distracting sound. Whitaker attributed it to providence. He had a tendency to attribute most of his luck to providence. Except that, in most instances, his luck was bad. This was an exception.

Which made him wonder why, with a run of good luck going for him, something was going on in the clinic. No one should be in there at this hour. Given the infamous security of St. Vincent’s, it had been relatively easy to get a duplicate key made. But now he didn’t need it. The door was unlocked. Someone was in there. He detected a wavering flashlight beam. Someone was moving about, surreptitiously.

Carefully placing the pliers inside his jacket pocket—a decidedly good move—Whitaker quietly eased his way into the clinic. He found a position from which he could see what was going on, yet be far enough removed so he would not, in turn, be seen.

Once his eyes grew accustomed to the dark, he could see rather well. The dim glow from the streetlight glinting off the fresh snow cover added to the small illumination of the flashlight, making it possible to identify the person who had preceded him into the clinic.

Sister Rosamunda. What in the world could she be doing here? She was rummaging about in a section that contained many bottles. She seemed to know what she was looking for and where to find it. She removed two bottles from a shelf and placed them within the folds of her ample traditional habit. Then she turned out the flashlight and moved toward the door.

As she departed, she walked within ten feet of him. Seemingly, she did not notice him. He stood stockstill and made no noise. That in itself was a small miracle. Under ordinary circumstances, in a situation like this, he would have sneezed, coughed or, in his very intention not to move a muscle, knocked something off a shelf.

This time, he did not. Providence. His good luck continued.

Sister was gone. Whitaker stayed motionless for a short while, letting the peace, quiet, and emptiness of the place wash over him. Of course there were those institutional noises that old buildings make—squeaks and groans. But, in time, they took on a lulling character.

He grew quiet within himself. He felt his pulse. It seemed regular, and slow enough. He guessed that his blood pressure might be close to normal—which, in itself, was a bit abnormal.

It was time. He must carry out the mission with which his colleagues had entrusted him.

He moved forward. Carefully, he picked his way among the cabinets filled with fragile containers. He could not believe he was doing all this, especially in relative darkness, without breaking anything or causing any commotion.

His narrow penlight beam fell on it. There it was. The drawer with the label reading, “IUDs.” He opened it. There were several boxes inside. He removed the first box, put it on a nearby counter, and opened it.

So this was what it was all about. Even so he was not sure what it was all about. Not only had he never seen an IUD, he was pretty much unfamiliar with female anatomy. But, putting two and two together, he came up with what he hoped was four.

This form of contraception, according to the best lights of Bruce Whitaker, took place in the following manner:

Through intercourse, the male deposited the germ of human life in the female’s womb (as in “. . . blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus”). This germ, or seed, grew in the womb for nine months. However, if an IUD were inserted, there would not be room enough for both the device and the baby. Thus, since the device was metallic and the baby mere flesh and blood, eventually the device would push the baby out before due time. There was no danger to the woman. She just let the baby and the device fight it out.

But all that was about to be changed.

Whitaker removed the first device from the box. So this was it. This was the tool of the devil that interrupted pregnancies against the teachings of the Holy Pope of God and his bishops.

With his pliers, Whitaker twisted one end of the device slightly out of shape, then with the side cutter pinched off one blunted end, creating a cruelly sharp point.

He deeply regretted the need to do this. But it was his mission. He must do it over and over—to each of these devices. It would take him the better part of this night. But never again, in this clinic at least, would women get away with forcing their babies out of their wombs with impunity. Now they would begin to pay for their crimes as the sharp, twisted edge of the device would tear at their wombs.

Actually, he and his colleagues were certain this bloody procedure would not be repeated that frequently. It wouldn’t take many perforated wombs before the attention of the medical and police establishments would be focused on St. Vincent’s. The hospital’s immoral practice of contraception would be publicized by newspapers, TV, and radio.

The local Church authorities would not have the luxury of looking the other way. They would be forced to take action against the sins of this hospital.

Then would he and his colleagues be vindicated. Of course their identity would have to remain secret. But the important thing would be that they had served God and the true Church. That would be reward enough.

Besides, the cloak of anonymity would protect them for further work for the Church. Then would their martyrdom of imprisonment be avenged.

He found it difficult to believe he was actually carrying this off. It was a smooth operation. As he went through box after box, altering the IUDs, he found it arduous, monotonous work. But, in his hands, it was a labor of love.

* * *

“I been tryin’ to raise you for ’bout an hour. Where you been?” Chief Martin seemed more amused than angry.

“Oh, around. “ Guard George Snell gave every indication that he would not go out of his way to communicate.

“Been quite a while since you started your tour of duty.”

“I guess.”

“Have any trouble?”

“Can’t say that I did.”

“Anything unusual happen?”

“Just the usual. Place’s pretty quiet now.”

“Uh.”

“Any calls?”

“Nope. Say, I see you’re not wearing your beeper. That must be why I couldn’t contact you.”

“Oh”—as if noticing for the first time—“I must have left it home.”

“Strange; I thought I saw it on you earlier . . . when you first got in tonight.”

“No... I musta forgot it.”

“Mmmmm. “ Martin reached under his desk, fished about, and came up with a small black electronic device. “Could this be yours?”

Snell’s jaw dropped. He felt as if he had stepped into a pit and was sinking deeper by the minute. “I don’t think so . . . couldn’t be: I forgot mine at home.”

“Oh, then this isn’t yours either. “ Martin edged a carton out from under his desk. It contained a uniform. Identical to that which George Snell was wearing.

Snell stared at the box, speechless.

“This is yours.” It was more a statement than a question.

“. . . uh . . . what makes you think so?” Snell tried to defer inevitability as long as possible.

“For one thing, it’s an extra-large that’s been let out. You’re my only guy who wears anything that big. For another, the jacket’s got a food stain—which I noticed when you showed up for work tonight and which the jacket you’re wearing hasn’t got. For another thing, your beeper was attached to the belt.

“And finally, you’re the only guy I know who would wear bikini undershorts with red hearts all over ’em.”

During the ensuing pause, Snell assessed the evidence. “That’s my uniform,” he finally concluded.

“I know it’s your goddam uniform! What I want to know is how you happened to lose a whole goddam uniform on duty—including your shoes, socks, and underwear!”

“. . . uh . . . where did you find it?”

“I didn’t. One of the other guys checked out the laundry. Somebody threw the whole goddam mess down the chute.

“I repeat: How’d you lose every stitch you were wearing—while you were on duty?”

“. . . uh . . . I’d rather not say.”

Martin leaned back in his chair. “Rather not say, eh? Well, I’m certain sure you’ll get bugged by the other guys, so, eventually you’ll talk.”

“. . . uh . . . the guy who found it: Does he know it’s mine?”

Martin shook his head. “So far, only me—and you.”

“What’s it gonna cost for you to sit on this?”

“I thought we’d get to that. One: From now on, you show up on time and don’t leave early. Two: You keep a log on where you are when you’re on duty. Three: No more loafing around. Keep movin’ all the time you’re on. And that, of course, means no more nookie.

“I may think of some more later on . . . but that’ll do for the moment. Deal?”

Snell, shifting from one foot to the other, gave it some thought. “Okay, deal.”

“Good. Might just as well start now. Get your ass moving; you’re still on duty. You can pick up your . . . spare . . . uniform after your shift.”

Snell resumed his patrol. He knew—there was no doubt—he’d never be able to live up to that agreement. He’d have to figure out how to explain tonight’s embarrassing episode or how to deal with unemployment. Neither alternative was attractive. But one had to plan for one’s future.

As soon as Snell left the office, Chief Martin began to chuckle. Then he began to laugh. He spent the rest of the night either chuckling or guffawing as he pictured Snell tiptoeing down the corridors, then dashing through the cold and having to drive home, all while virtually naked. Given Snell’s history and reputation, there was little doubt what had occasioned his nakedness. The only missing part of the puzzle was the identity of the broad who had turned the tables on Snell and screwed him. All in good time. All in good time.

* * *

“So what’s got you so preoccupied?” Joe Cox asked.

“What?” Pat Lennon had, indeed, been lost in thought. “Oh, sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry about . . . you’ve just been mighty quiet this evening.”

“Oh, a problem I’ve been trying to work out.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“Nothing much to talk about . . . it’s a decision I’ve got to make.”

“Okay.”

The television was on, but neither was paying much attention. Cox had been alternating between mild attentiveness to PBS’s offerings and the latest USA Today.

Lennon had been paying even less attention to TV. Mostly, she’d been staring out of the window both meditatively and absently. Reclining on the sectional couch, it was easy to be mesmerized by the view from their apartment high atop Lafayette Towers.

Only the main thoroughfares had been plowed and/or salted. Most of the side streets in Detroit had only one hope of snow removal: spring. From this perch, one certainly had an overview. One fascination was to watch two cars traveling toward each other on the same side street. Each had little opportunity but to follow the ruts carved out of the hardened snow. Eventually, that would lead the cars on a literal collision course. When that inevitably happened, it was interesting to see which driver would back off and how.

While watching the sparse traffic flow, Lennon was trying to reach a decision on how she should treat her St. Vincent’s story.

As far as she could judge, the raison d’etre of the hospital had become quixotic. More than a century ago, St. Vincent’s had been a necessity for the city—the region, for that matter. It had once been the only hospital in the Northwest Territory. But over the decades things had drastically changed.

Where once St. Vincent’s was Detroit’s necessity, now, arguably, the city could get along without the hospital. Particularly in the core city, the municipally owned hospitals were adequate—roughly—for the patient load. The well-to-do to the downright wealthy who inhabited downtown’s swank high-rises and townhouses would, outside of the most pressing emergency, never see the inside of any of the area’s hospitals. Their doctors were affiliated with only the better suburban health-care facilities.

As for the poor who were trapped in the inner city, they made few if any elective visits. Governmental charity addressed only the most crucial medical problems, and then only for the briefest periods.

Her original slant on this had been, she was convinced, an honest feature piece for the magazine. What she had stumbled on was quite another story. A Catholic hospital giving broad birth control counseling, providing contraceptives, even performing sterilizations, was front-page news. No doubt of it. She was too good a journalist not to recognize that.

The problem was the probable consequence following publication.

Could she blow the whistle on this operation? Certainly end the career of Sister Eileen Monahan? Likely cause the closure of this if nothing else historically important hospital?

Many nonjournalists would have little difficulty making the decision not to publish. Possibly only another journalist could understand her inner turmoil. As defense attorneys are expected to defend no matter how they feel about or what they know about their clients, reporters are expected to report. Editors and publishers are expected to be concerned about what to publish. Reporters report and frequently must struggle and scramble in order to do so.

That tendency to report is simply more finely tuned in the case of a staff writer of the caliber of a Pat Lennon.

At this moment, she was trying to reach a less drastic, but possibly contributory, decision: whether to let Joe Cox in on her problem.

Lennon and Cox were an interesting study. Few would argue that the two were among the best, if not actually the best, investigative reporters in the city. At one time both had worked out of the Detroit Free Press. Lennon had moved to the News several years ago. So now, while they competed for stories, they also worked for genuinely competitive publications.

In this, Detroit was among the dwindling number of fortunate major cities whose metropolitan newspapers were in sharp contrast with one another in almost every conceivable facet.

During the time both had been at the Free Press, Lennon and Cox had begun living together without benefit of clergy. Each had a previous marriage; neither had children. Both felt they had chanced upon something rare and fine: a relationship that found them loving each other and growing in that love. It was the epitome of what one might hope to find in an exemplary marriage. Neither wished to chance mucking up what they had by getting the certificate that society expected them to acquire stating they were married.

In addition, their sex was great.

The obvious pitfall, of course, was that their jobs frequently placed them in direct competition. By now, they had worked out some ground rules. Each recognized that if their self-made rules were not scrupulously observed, it could easily mean the end of their personal relationship. So the rules were scrupulously kept.

One of these rules would have to be invoked should Lennon choose to solicit Cox’s help in making her decision on how to treat what she’d uncovered at St. Vincent’s.

The rule was Confidentiality. And it was tricky.

Getting to know each other as well as they had, it was next to impossible to keep secrets. It was only natural that Lennon had mentioned to him that she was taking on St. Vincent’s as a feature piece for Michigan Magazine. And she had. So Cox knew what she was currently working on.

Then, being as upset over this decision on how to handle the story as she was, and having grown as familiar with him as she had, it was impossible to hide her distress from him.

For Cox, it would be simple to add this up and conclude that there was something bigger than met the expectation about this hospital story. At which point he might wander over to the hospital. It would take him no longer than it had her to find the piece that didn’t fit in the puzzle.

That must not happen. If it did, it would mean that one of them, by virtue of their personal relationship, had taken professional advantage of the other. And if that happened even once, it would spell the end for them.

So, in this supremely delicate matter of confidentiality, their attitude had to be comparable to the priest’s with regard to the seal of confession. There could be no exceptions. Each absolutely had to respect the other’s confidences.

Of course, again analogous to the priest’s treatment of the confessional, if either Lennon or Cox were to come into knowledge of something like this from another source, such as a snitch, or while on an unrelated editorial assignment, there would be no violation of the other’s confidence.

Reflecting on all this, Lennon determined she had little alternative but to include Cox in her decision-making process.

So she told him what she had discovered in the hospital’s clinic.

Cox whistled low and sincerely. “Wow! That’s a multi-installment story that could hover around page one for a long time.”

“I know.”

“And it’s been awhile since we’ve had the local Catholic Church embroiled in a hot little controversy.”

“And that makes it all the more sensational.”

“The only problem I find is that I don’t see your problem. Go with it! Right?”

“That’s the problem: I’m not sure.”

“What! It’s a legitimate news story, isn’t it?”

“Oh, sure.”

“You came upon it honestly. I mean, you didn’t even use any deception in uncovering it.”

“As a matter of fact, they just showed it to me. It was part of the tour.”

“Their tough luck, then.”

“I still don’t know.”

Cox moved to the couch and sat at her feet. “Look, I’d like to be able to play devil’s advocate. But I’d find that kind of hard. It’s a good story, a legitimate story. The kind of story you’re in this business for. Is it because the hospital’s Catholic, and your background—”

“No. Well, maybe yes. No, not because it’s Catholic. Maybe because it’s Christian.”

“Huh?”

“Broader than Catholic. The little place is there trying to do what Christ would do if he were here. To do that, according to their lights, they have to go against some of the official teachings of the Catholic Church. It’s . . . it’s more Christ-like.”

“The more you explain, the less I understand.”

“It would be almost like crucifying Christ again.” She was talking more to herself than to him. “No, I won’t do it. There are some things I cannot compromise, even for a good story.”

“You’re not going to use it?”

“And neither are you!” She looked him squarely in the eye.

“I know our agreement. No, I won’t use it. But, by God, I’m glad I’m not Catholic.”

“You don’t understand, Joe. It’s got almost nothing to do with being Catholic.”

“It’s certainly got nothing to do with being a journalist.”

“It’s what I’ve got to do.”

Cox shrugged. “That’s what you’ve got to do. There are things we just have to do. And times we have to do them.” Slowly he peeled off one of her stockings. Then the other.

She smiled. “It’s bedtime, isn’t it?”