Supposing someone wanted to mutilate IUDs—whatever the person’s reason for doing so would have to wait for additional revelation—but supposing that, for whatever reason, someone wanted to mutilate the IUDs. Botching the job as incredibly as this had been bungled would require an amazing degree of ineptitude. The kind exhibited by Bruce Whitaker.
If this hypothesis were correct, Bruce Whitaker had tampered with some harmless curtain hooks, mistaking them for IUDs. So far, that fit perfectly into his blundering method of operation.
But why would he want to monkey with the IUDs?
This would bear watching and Bruce Whitaker warranted a most careful surveillance. He might prove very useful indeed.
* * *
Lunch was over. The case of the mutilated curtain hooks had been delegated to John Haroldson. Patricia Lennon, wearing the identification tag that had been prepared for her, had been sent off on her own—she preferred it that way—to develop her feature story.
Sister Eileen sat at her desk dictating into a machine replies to that mail she judged most urgent.
“Sister Rosamunda is here.” Dolly’s voice squeezed through the intercom. “Her appointment was before lunch, but you saw Ms. Lennon instead,” Dolly reminded.
“Yes. Send her in, Dolly.” Eileen had not forgotten. She wished she had. It promised to be one more unpleasant interview. If Pat Lennon had not come in with her announcement that she was not going to pursue the contraceptive story, it would have been well-nigh impossible to find a silver lining in this day.
Rosamunda entered and took a chair near the desk. Her face was inscrutable as always. She’d had years, lots of years, to perfect a stolid expression. More traditional years as a postulant, a novice and, finally, as she took her solemn perpetual vows. This, followed by almost sixty years as a religious. All these years, most of them in various hospitals, she’d been holding in her emotions and feelings. That’s what she had been taught. That was the way in which she had been trained.
She was the sweet little old nun. People looked upon her as a curiosity, a relic of an irretrievable past. Some laughed at her. She did not much care. There wasn’t a great deal of time left. Her vast hospital experience made her cognizant of the signs. Nothing of magnitude, like cancer. Just the slowing down of overworked organs and systems.
Sister Rosamunda now had but one goal: to stay in the saddle until the end.
It was a modest aim, but one in which she encountered determined opposition from divers quarters. Many in the administration of her religious order made reference annually to the fact that she was well-beyond retirement age. Not the least, Mother General herself. These were not mean-spirited women; they had her best interests in mind. They persistently mentioned that de Paul Center in suburban Farmington was a far better than average retirement facility. There she would be able to join sisters her own age and even older, friends of hers. With companionship, arts and crafts, and many other goings-on, she could remain as relatively active as she wished.
She fought them every step of the way.
So far, the only reason she had been able to win this annual battle was that Sister Eileen had been in her corner arguing that Rosamunda was a valuable contributor to the health care at St. Vincent’s Hospital. Even the most determined religious superior was unwilling to take on Sister Eileen.
But lately, Eileen’s support seemed to be wavering. It showed in the little things—attitude, a sharp word now and again, unaccustomed impatience.
Rosamunda prayed that Eileen would be able to persevere in supporting and defending the aging nun for at least a short while longer. That should be all she’d need. Rosamunda could feel herself letting go little by little. She felt certain that one night she would go to sleep and simply never awaken, A good way to go. And not long more to wait. It was desperately necessary for her to greet that moment still active in service and not on the shelf.
Rosamunda had been dreading this meeting. She had a premonition it would be bad news. But she did not dread it any more than did Eileen. Because it was bad news.
“Sorry I couldn’t see you before lunch, Sister,” Eileen opened. “Ms. Lennon came unexpectedly and I couldn’t postpone dealing with her.”
“It happens.”
“How’ve you been feeling?”
“Fine . . . Fine . . . No complaints.”
“Oh . . .” Eileen had hoped the older Sister might have been more open and frank. They both knew she was not well. It would have put their dialogue on a more productive footing if she had admitted that.
“Is there something . . .?” Rosamunda wanted to avoid specifics if possible.
“Yes, there is.” Eileen pushed the mail aside, folded her hands on the desk, and looked squarely at Rosamunda. “Quite a few things, in fact. For example, you were scheduled to lead morning prayers this week. Two days you’ve been late and one day there were no prayers at all.”
“Uh . . . perhaps it would be better if I were to be responsible for night prayers alone. It would be easier . . . I am sort of a night person.”
“Come on, Sister, you have been a religious for more than half a century. What’s more, you began back when we were all getting up practically in the middle of the night for prayers. And you’ve been doing it all these years. Now you tell me you’re a night person?”
“People change. We’re not as young as we used to be.”
Eileen opened a file and studied it briefly. “How long has it been since you did intake interviews on your floor?”
“Uh . . . I don’t know just offhand . . . not long.”
“According to this record, two weeks. And that was one of the things you always said you most enjoyed. And you’re good at it. Nobody, to my knowledge, was ever better than you at greeting new patients and making them feel welcome and at ease. But for some time, even before these past two weeks, your record has been very spotty on intakes.”
“Uh . . . I’ll pay more attention to that. I’ve slipped, I’ll admit. But I’ve not been feeling all that well lately. Maybe the onset of a cold. Maybe the flu.”
“I thought you said you were feeling fine . . . no complaints.”
“Uh . . . well, nothing serious. A cold is not serious. Just takes a little starch out of a person.”
Eileen shook her head. “It’s more than a cold or even the flu, Sister. Your behavior has changed radically over the past year. It’s not just morning prayers and intake interviews; it’s your entire contribution to this hospital. You’re not pulling your weight. And that’s not like you. Not like you at all. Over all the years we’ve been together, you’ve always faithfully performed all your duties. You are one of the few people whose work I’ve never had to be concerned about. Till now.”
Rosamunda studied her hands folded in her lap. Still there was no discernible expression on her face. Perhaps just a slight twitching at the corners of her mouth. “It’s not as easy anymore. You’ll get there in due time. There comes a time when all the easy things get hard.
“But,” she raised her head, “I will do better. Just give me another chance. I’ll be faithful to the morning prayers. And I’ll do the intake interviews.”
“Sister . . . oh, Sister, don’t do this to yourself. You are not the type who would neglect your duty through any fault of your own. If you could help it, you would. If it were physically possible for you, you would be doing your job. If you could still do your job, I would not be having this meeting with you or telling you the things I must say.”
“I can do it.”
“No, you can’t.”
For the first time, Rosamunda met Eileen’s eyes. Prescinding from humor or amusement, this was the first time Eileen had ever seen a clear emotion etched on the old nun’s face. It was a barely controlled panic.
“Don’t put me away.” Rosamunda made it sound as if she were a candidate for euthanasia. “I have so little time left. I want to spend my last days at St. Vincent’s. I’ve never asked for anything before. I’ve always done w
hat the Church—what our order—has directed. This is the first favor I’ve ever asked of a superior.” Pause. “Please.”
“You know you’re making this much more difficult than it should be. The de Paul Center is a very nice place. Some of your contemporaries are out there. It’s a beautiful setting. You can relax. There are no pressing duties. You won’t have to greet newcomers. Life is leisurely. You won’t have to get up early for morning prayers. You can rise pretty much when you feel like it.
“Sister, that is the life for you now. Your body and your spirit want it. Need it. Retirement is no disgrace. People do it all the time, routinely. You have done a magnificent job over a great number of years. You’ve held on longer than just about anyone else. You have a proud record. Take that unblemished record with you into a more relaxed life.”
Rosamunda was rubbing her hands together as if she were working out a reluctant stain.
“Why can’t you understand how desperate I am to stay active until the end? What must I do to stay here? What do I have to promise?”
“Go now, Rosamunda. Go now while there is still time.”
“Time? What are you saying?”
“Sister, did you ruin those curtain hooks?”
“What? You must be joking. Why would I do a thing like that?”
“Because you were not yourself, perhaps. Because you were not in full possession of your faculties?”
“How can you say that? This is impertinence. You have no right to speak to me this way.”
“I don’t want to speak to you this way. You are giving me no alternative. Last night you took two more bottles of Elixir Terpin Hydrate from the pharmacy.”
“I did what?”
“The pharmacist has been keeping track of them over the past few weeks. Recently, he became aware of a gradual loss of Elixirs. So he started keeping special track. They’ve been disappearing by twos and threes. And the other day, the pharmacist happened to see you take a couple. Did you become intoxicated and cut up the curtain hooks? Can you even remember what you did last night?”
“This is humiliating.”
“I know it is. I wanted to avoid this.”
“I only take a little. It helps me get to sleep.”
“Sister, you’re an alcoholic. You need help. You can get it at the Center, in retirement.”
“An alcoholic! That’s insulting! I just need a little help getting to sleep.”
“No, you need ‘help’ all day long. That’s why we changed the combination on the sacristy safe. We knew you were using the Mass wine all day long. It’s very possible the Elixir is the reason you can’t get up in time for morning prayers.”
“How can you say such a thing? Why you’ve got a bottle of Terpin Hydrate right there on your shelf. What makes you so different from anyone else?”
“Sister, Terpin Hydrate is a medication. It is one thing to use it as medicine and quite another to become intoxicated by it.”
Rosamunda seemed close to tears. Yet she continued to suppress any emotional demonstration. Eileen wished to God the old nun would—could—just once dissolve and be human.
“You’ve disgraced me, you know.” Rosamunda barely whispered it.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. But it doesn’t have to be. What has been said here today, as far as I’m concerned, remains here. No one else need ever know. For my part, it simply had to be said. Sister, you are not only in need of retirement, but also in need of help with your . . . dependency. It has to be. It has to be . . . .”
Rosamunda appeared to have gotten a grip on herself. “How long do I have?” she murmured.
“I thought the end of this month.” Eileen tried to sound positive and encouraging. “February is a good time to get out of the city, anyway. You’ll be going to the Center at the very best time of the year. Nothing will be happening here except the snow will continue to fall and the ruts will get deeper. At the Center, you’ll be able to renew acquaintances with so many of your friends. They have common prayer, you know. You’ll be able to recite the Holy Office in common. And the Rosary. You’re going to like it. I know.”
Eileen sensed that Rosamunda had tuned out and that these words were lost and wasted. She dismissed the older nun. As she did so, Eileen offered a brief silent prayer that Rosamunda would be able to reconcile herself to what had to be.
Eileen could not bring herself to say it, but the matter was no longer in her power in any case. For once, she had been overruled by the Provincial Council, which, after a long and sometimes almost acrimonious exchange, had ordered Rosamunda’s retirement. And the Council did not even know about her chemical dependency. That would be a problem routinely dealt with once retirement had begun.
Eileen did not want Rosamunda to enter retirement bitter at her religious order to which she had devoted so many years. Bitterness directed at the order was likely to be renewed daily. Resentment directed at Eileen could be forgotten once Rosamunda had left the hospital scene. It would be better this way for all concerned.
It was, of course, depressing that Rosamunda would depart feeling animosity toward her. But, all things considered, it seemed the better course.
Rosamunda went directly to her room. She knelt at the prie-dieu before the small statue of Mary, the mother of God. But she wasn’t thinking of statues or saints or God. She could think of nothing save the extinction of her final hope. She felt desolate. Beyond even the power of prayer.
And yet, it was not that she hadn’t seen it coming. Eileen’s attitude had changed markedly over the past several months. Rosamunda had known something was up. In fact, had known exactly what was up. She simply had not let herself admit it.
Now there was no hope. Her greatest fear would be realized. She would be put out to pasture with all those other nuns who were now of no value to anyone.
This is how one—at least one of her vintage—came to perceive oneself in religious life: One was of value in direct proportion to one’s usefulness to the community. In the old days, no one had retired merely because of old age. Sickness, some sort of debilitating illness, was the only reason one was put on the shelf.
This was how she had been trained. This had been her attitude throughout her religious life. She was of value as long as she was of use.
Now she would be of no use and of no value.
She had fought it with every strength of her being. But to no avail. She was doomed to retirement in less than a month.
There was no avoiding it now. Not as long as Eileen was there.
The thought had crossed her mind before. Usually accompanied by a splitting headache and to be prayed away. But it was true: The force that was sending her into hated retirement was no more nor less than Sister Eileen.
What would happen if—but no, that was unthinkable!
Or was it?
* * *
“It was kind of you to meet me, Inspector.”
“Not at all, Father. We cannot have you working in downtown Detroit without our getting together occasionally.”
Inspector Walter Koznicki headed the homicide division of the Detroit Police Department. Years ago, coincidence had brought Father Koesler and Inspector Koznicki together. As the police unraveled a series of killings that had become known in the media as “The Rosary Murders,” Koesler had been helpful in the crime’s solution. Since then, coincidence again had drawn the priest into the investigation of other murders with some regularity. And over these years, Koznicki and Koesler had become fast friends.
At Koesler’s invitation, they had met and were dining in St. Vincent’s cafeteria.
“Sorry about the ambience,” Koesler said. “Not even any wine.”
“Father, we cannot continue eating at the London Chop House every evening. “ A private joke; neither of them could afford to eat at that restaurant, among Detroit’s most expensive. “This is good for the pocketbook if not the digestion.”
Briefly, as they picked at their salads, Ķoesler explained his substitute status at the hos
pital.
As they conversed, they became the center of attention. This was entirely due to Koznicki’s presence. Not that he was a celebrity; he shunned publicity. It was his size. He was a larger person in actuality as well as in bearing, creating the impression of being larger than life.
“So, Father, you are learning something new after all these years in the priesthood?”
“Well, yes. In a way. Ministering to the ill on a day-to-day basis is a lot different from visiting with them only occasionally as one does in a parish. Some of the clichés have to fall by the wayside when the person you’re visiting is no better today than he was yesterday—maybe worse. It’s different, it’s rewarding . . . but it has also been draining. I don’t know how people are able to do this as a career. But my hat’s off to them.”
“This is indeed a most important apostolate—to the sick.”
“That’s right. You don’t see very many ill people, do you, Inspector? They’re usually dead.”
Koznicki smiled. “A bit of an oversimplification, Father. But, yes, most of my ‘clients’ are either dead or they are suspects. On the other hand, not all of your clients recover. Death plays a significant part in your work here too.”
“You may not know the half of it, Inspector. Here, nobody dies alone.”
“How is that?”
“If a chaplain is not with the patient when he or she dies, the chaplain will be along in a minute to try to comfort the survivors.”
“I was not aware of that. At each death a chaplain is required?”
“Yes. It reminds me of what in effect is a second-class monsignor. It’s been so long since we had a new monsignor named in the Archdiocese of Detroit that I’m not sure what the protocol is now. But there used to be two ranks. One had the title for life and was called a Right Reverend Monsignor. The other was a Very Reverend Monsignor and remained a monsignor only as long as the contemporary Pope lived. When the Pope died, the Very Reverend Monsignor ceased being a prelate. They used to call them shirttail monsignors. I was never clear whether the sobriquet came from the type of their ecclesiastical garb or because they were, in effect, hanging on to the Pope’s shirttail.
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