“That was cruel of her, Ethel.” He tried to touch her arm reassuringly, but managed only to spill more coffee. “But I don’t understand. What did you mean when you said something about getting rid of Sister? How do you mean ‘get rid of’?”
“Oh, I’d just like to kill her!” She shook her head. “I’ve been having such terrible headaches. I even think I may be having one of those—what do you call them—personality changes. It scares me!”
“Ethel . . .” Bruce leaned forward, dragging his tie through the gravy. “. . . you don’t mean . . . m . . . m . . . murder!”
“Oh, Bruce, I don’t know,” she almost wailed. “I just can’t think.”
“Ethel”—by now his tie was stirring the gravy—“I may be able to help you. To solve your problem. Not the way you have in mind. But just as good.”
“It would get rid of her? Get her out of my hair? Before she could get rid of me? Oh, Bruce—”
“Leave it to me, Ethel.” He noticed his tie. He pulled it free of the gravy. The tie fell against his white hospital jacket, mottling it.
Till now, Whitaker had been torturing himself thinking of the damage he would be causing women who would use the IUDs he had altered. But, he kept reminding himself, it was for a good cause. The greater honor and glory of God, for starters. Next, the triumph of the traditionalists’ cause.
Now there was an added dimension. He could do it for Ethel. Which was a little odd, since he had already done it. Maybe he could dedicate it to Ethel. Or just let her in on it. That was it.
When the matter came to a boil, when women who’d been hurt by the IUDs—Whitaker had never been clear on just how the IUDs would damage women, but he had been assured it would happen—returned complaining, and the media would be eager to report this news, then would the administration of Sister Eileen topple. The hospital would be forced to abide by the laws of Holy Mother Church.
At that time, when it had become a fait accompli, he could tell Ethel what had happened and, modestly, who had caused it all.
It was not a bad scenario. He let it develop in his imagination while leisurely making more circles with the bottom of his glass.
Meanwhile, at a table just a few feet away, Father Koesler was captivated by the bizarre dining behavior of the bunglesome duo.
“Hey, Father, come back to earth,” Dr. Fred Scott said. “Here poor Dr. Kim is telling us his troubles and you’re a million miles away.”
Koesler returned to awareness with a start. “Oh . . . I’m sorry.”
“What in the world were you thinking of?”
“I was watching that odd couple at the next table destroy their lunches and ruin the table. Most remarkable. The man looks familiar. But I can’t place him. Probably reminds me of some movie personality I can’t recall. Does anyone know them?”
Seated with Koesler and Scott were Dr. Lee Kim and Sister Rosamunda. In response to Koesler’s question, Scott and Kim shook their heads.
“Sister Rosamunda . . .” Scott tugged gently at her sleeve. Her aural senses were adequate. But, taking advantage of her advancing years, she chose to hear selectively. “Rosey!” Scott said more loudly.
“Eh?”
“Do you know those two at the next table? The guy with the two-bit toup and the girl sitting in all that mess?”
Rosamunda peered intently. “No ... no, I don’t think so. From her uniform, I’d say the woman is an aide. But I don’t know about the man. Can’t say I’ve ever seen him before. Probably a volunteer. They come and go.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Koesler said. “I just thought I knew the gentleman from somewhere. I’m sorry . . .” He returned his attention to Scott. “You were saying . . .?”
“Lee was telling us about his meeting with Sister Eileen this morning. Disaster,” Scott continued. “Lee feels he’s on the verge of being dismissed from staff. He claims it’s racial . . . thinks Eileen is prejudiced against Asians.”
“Oh, do you think so?” Koesler said. “I really find that hard to believe. I get the impression Sister hasn’t a prejudiced bone in her body.”
“You don’t know her, “ Kim said. “And she is not unique. Many Westerners presume that because someone comes from the East, he automatically has a lesser concern for life. I am only one of many Asian doctors on this staff whose position is threatened.”
Scott looked askance as if he were hearing this indictment for the first time and not believing a word of it.
“And when you come to think of what it would mean to be dismissed from this hospital,” Kim continued. “Just look at those two. . . .”He gestured toward the next table. “They appear to be a good example of people who could find a job nowhere. They are the kind of people your welfare state takes care of. But they are employed here. With that in mind—the sort of people who are permitted to continue working here—think of what would go through the mind of a prospective health-care employer when he heard that you had been dismissed by St. Vincent’s! No other hospital would ever consider you.”
“Kind of put a crimp in your career, eh, Lee?” Scott said.
“The end of my career.”
Koesler hoped he would be ignored for a few moments so that he could reflect on this turn of events.
Undoubtedly, Dr. Kim’s position at St. Vincent’s was threatened. No one would have any reason to mislead anyone about that. The question was why.
Was it, as the doctor claimed, a matter of prejudice? Koesler supposed it possible. He himself had harbored some notions relating to the Asian concept regarding the sanctity of life. Notions that traced back to the event that had plunged America into World War II: the attack on Pearl Harbor and the wanton destruction of all those young servicemen. Notions that were reinforced during the Korean conflict when American soldiers testified to North Korean and Chinese troops attacking in wave after wave until lethal machine guns became too hot to continue firing.
On the other hand, the U.S.A. was the only nation thus far that had actually used a nuclear weapon against humans. And almost singlehandedly devastated Vietnam and Cambodia.
Koesler guessed that something pejorative could be said about militaristic nations in general.
But he found it ludicrous to think of Sister Eileen as prejudiced. In her time at St. Vincent’s she had been responsible for racially integrating the hospital, both patients and staff. That the patient population was now almost completely black was an accident of geography. But that there was a heavy percentage of Orientals and blacks on the staff was in good part the handiwork of Sister Eileen.
On the face of it, Koesler tended to give credence to the information Dr. Scott had offered earlier: that Dr. Kim was not relating generously to the patients and that there was some question of his performing clandestine abortions as well as unnecessary hysterectomies.
There was one other possible consideration. What if Dr. Scott were not on the up and up? After all, why should Scott have taken Koesler under his wing and shared all these secrets with him? Koesler had experienced the oversolicitous helper many times in the past. All too often such a person had an ulterior motive. Covering up for a personal involvement by focusing attention on others. Could this be the case with Scott? Or was Koesler being paranoid?
Once again, he became conscious of the table conversation. The thread had not developed much beyond the point at which he had dropped out of the verbal exchange.
“Well, I don’t believe it for a moment, Lee,” Scòtt said. “I don’t see any problem with your career. But,” he nodded, “there is somebody whose career definitely is coming to an end.”
“Oh? Who?”
“That venerable gentleman just sitting down over there by himself.”
“Haroldson? You must be joking!”
A very solemn-faced John Haroldson was seating himself at an adjacent empty table. His expression would discourage anyone from sharing the table.
“John Haroldson?” Kim said. “Why, he goes back almost to the beginning. Along with our beloved
Sister Eileen.”
“Not any more.”
“Why not?”
“Retirement. Haroldson’s reached the mandatory retirement age.”
“How do you know?”
“Small hospital.”
“One of the dinosaurs will live,” Sister Rosamunda broke in, “the other must die.”
“What do you mean by that?” Koesler asked.
“They’re both retirement age.” Rosamunda smiled innocently. “But only one of them will retire.”
Scott nodded. “She’s forcing Haroldson.”
“You mean Haroldson doesn’t want to retire?” asked Koesler.
Scott shook his head. “This place is his life. I wouldn’t be at all surprised to read his obituary shortly after he’s forced out of here. We’ve all seen it happen countless times. It’s frequently a widow or widower, or a guy married to his job; take away what they’re living for and they die.”
“Do you really think so?”
Scott nodded. “Well, now, threatening Kim here, pushing Haroldson out, promising a crackdown in the nursing staff. . . one wonders where Sister’s broom is going to stop.”
“She is cracking down on the nurses?” Kim asked.
Scott nodded and ran his hand again and again through his beard.
“How do you know that?” Koesler asked.
A strange look came over Scott’s face. “Small hospital.” Koesler had never seen him look so . . . was it menacing?
It suddenly occurred to Koesler that, for someone who had seemingly gone out of his way to clue Koesler in under the guise of enlisting the priest’s support of Sister Eileen, Scott was certainly muddying the waters.
What was his motive? Did he have something to gain from staff unrest? Were his comments designed to foment upheaval? Or was he merely playing the wry observer?
At best, concluded Koesler, Dr. Fred Scott was certainly being provocative.
Suddenly, Koesler became conscious of an undercurrent throughout the cafeteria. Sister Eileen had arrived.
That was not unusual and, clearly, it was not her presence that was causing the stir. With Eileen was Pat Lennon. She it was, who, outstandingly attractive and stylishly attired, was turning heads.
Koesler was reminded of his school days in the seminary when Detroit Red Wing Hockey Coach Jack Adams occasionally dined with the priest-faculty. As unusual as it was for the students to see a layman dining with their faculty, the single time Adams brought with him defensive star Red Kelly, the students were awed into near silence. The shock of red hair plus celebrity status did it. The momentary stunned silence had been broken by enthusiastic applause.
Those dining in St. Vincent’s cafeteria did not applaud. But it was evident that they very definitely approved.
After helping themselves from the buffet counter, Eileen and Lennon threaded their way toward the far side of the cafeteria. They stopped momentarily at the table where John Haroldson sat. The COO’s customarily effusive greeting was muted this day.
The two women moved quickly to the next table, and Eileen introduced Lennon to Sister Rosamunda, Doctors Scott and Kim and Father Koesler.
Lennon had met only Koesler previously, and she showed some wonder at his presence. Occasionally in the past, Lennon had covered news stories that had involved Koesler. In addition, Koesler was a periodic source for her on religious stories, particularly those involving the Catholic Church. Now he briefly explained to her his substitute status at the hospital.
Table conversation was at first stilted. Neither Lennon nor Sister could know that Eileen had been the principal subject of dialogue only a few moments before.
But Lennon quickly became the cynosure, with questions coming from all sides about newspaper work and routine, stories she had covered, and the feature she was now developing on the hospital for Michigan Magazine.
This was acceptable to Lennon. She could not have interviewed these people in such a group in any case. Now, as they questioned her, she could make assessments and decide which of them might make better subjects for interviews.
Among the judgments she made was that Sister Rosamunda would make a smashing interviewee. She seemed the embodiment of that sweet little old nun of the past. The one who, in full religious garb, would be photographed swinging a bat, riding a roller coaster, or wearing a funny hat atop her headpiece.
Lunch was pretty much over for everyone when a rather round lady entered the cafeteria, glanced around obviously looking for someone specific, then headed purposefully toward Sister Eileen. As the expression has it, the lady wore the map of Ireland on her face. Wheezing up to the table, she stood facing Eileen. Held before her in both hands was a large rectangular box, apparently the cause of the lady’s concern.
Bruce Whitaker recognized the box instantly. He would never forget it. It was one of the three boxes containing the IUDs he had altered! Somehow, someone had uncovered the plot.
Bruce had been wishing it would just be over by now . . . that the damage had been done and, he hoped, repaired. And that this hospital’s policy had been exposed by the news media.
Instead, the plot had been discovered. He would be found out. At best, he would have to begin again. The blood drained from his head. He felt giddy and faint. Only with massive determination was he able to remain conscious.
“Sister,” announced the lady holding the box, “and you too, Mr. Haroldson, would you ever be lookin’ at this! Now, I’m well aware that the two of yez are lookin’ to hold down costs and manage the place’s money as best ye can. But if anybody pays for these things, it’ll be a crime callin’ to heaven for vengeance. Just look at it, would ya!”
She took an object from the box and held it high for everyone’s inspection. Clearly, she was seething.
The object she was holding suggested an S-shaped piece of metal, but one end appeared to have been clipped off and the new terminus was twisted out of shape.
“All right,” Eileen said at length, “I give up. What is it?”
“What was it supposed to be is maybe the better question, Reverend Sister.”
“All right then: What was it supposed to be?”
“This is one of a new shipment of curtain hooks. They came in just the other day. I didn’t have a chance in heaven of inspectin’ the delivery what with everything else I had to be doin’ at the time. So I took them three boxes and shoved them in the IUD drawer—we’re running low on them too, wouldn’t ya know. So today, I gets me first chance to get ’em up on the rods in the clinic—and what should I find? All three boxes of the blessed hooks is deformed!
“Now I ask yez, do they expect us to pay for them things? Why, if they’d fit in the curtains at all, they’d rip the poor things to shreds as well. What with their bent ends and all. It’s a disgrace, it tis. And Mr. Haroldson, sir, if I was you, I’d stop payment on this. Honest to God, the workers today couldn’t hold a candle to the good men and true of just a generation back!”
She was breathing heavily. It had been a long and impassioned speech for one struggling with a weight problem.
Bruce Whitaker could scarcely believe his hearing. Curtain hooks? Curtain hooks! Fate had been unkind to him for too long. Granted he had never seen an IUD and had only a vague notion of what its function might be. But dammit, that S-shaped device certainly looked as if it were what the doctor ordered, literally. And the damn things had been in the goddam IUD drawer.
Under ordinary circumstances, Whitaker was neither vulgar nor did he blaspheme. But this was one of those moments that tried men’s souls. Now what was he to do? How could he ever tell his colleagues that he had penetrated St. Vincent’s security systems, crept through the hospital after hours, and—with the unexpected help of Ethel—made it into the sin-wracked clinic, only to spend hours mutilating curtain hooks?
At this point, life was not pretty.
“Well, you’re absolutely correct,” Eileen said. “And it was good of you to find these things so promptly and bring them to our attentio
n. We’ll certainly not pay for such execrable workmanship. Please give all the details to Mr. Haroldson. He’ll take care of it.” Then, to the others at table, in effect dismissing the lady with the mutilated curtain hooks, “Can you imagine! I’ve seen some shoddy work in my day, but that ranks with the worst I’ve ever seen.”
“Probably a disgruntled worker at the factory.” Lennon was trying not to laugh. Likely it was not funny if one was fighting to contain costs with extremely limited funds as was surely the case with St. Vincent’s Hospital.
But one person was taking this very seriously. No sooner had the lady drawn the connection between the curtain hooks and the IUD drawer, than did this person begin to draw another connection. It was most tenuous at first, but the longer this person thought about it, the more sense the hypothesis made.
This person had observed, over the past several days, with growing interest, the behavior of one Bruce Whitaker. There was an incredible series of disasters that seemed inevitably to follow in Whitaker’s wake. Whitaker definitely seemed to march to a different drummer.
There was no telling where Whitaker might turn up next. His whereabouts in this institution had little, if anything, to do with his services as a volunteer. Of course there were times when he would be delivering or gathering or on some assignment. The sort of thing that a volunteer should do.
But most of the time, if one were paying careful note, Whitaker seemed to be on some inner-directed mission. Doing his own thing . . . whatever that might be.
Now, put it all together.
Who in his right mind would mutilate curtain hooks? No one at the factory. If someone at the factory-level, for whatever reason, wanted to sabotage a shipment of curtain hooks, he wouldn’t go to all the trouble of clipping off an end and bending the hook out of shape. Simply snapping it in two would serve the purpose better and more expeditiously. In addition to which, the quality inspector would have caught it before it got out of the plant.
No, the boxes of curtain hooks had been placed—misplaced really—in the compartment reserved for IUDs and identified as such.
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