by Mary Daheim
The camera angle expanded to include Mavis.
“Thanks, Paul,” she said with a grim smile. “I guess
I’ll think twice before I get those bone spurs removed.”
Paul dutifully chuckled. Mavis announced they were
cutting to a commercial break.
“Face-lift,” Renie said. “She’s had two already.
Pretty soon her ears are going to be sticking out from
the top of her head.”
“The hospital had to expect some bad publicity,” Judith remarked, ignoring Renie’s comment and muting
the TV again. “I’m surprised there hasn’t been more
about it in the newspapers.”
“So am I,” Renie said, dumping her entire tray in
the wastebasket beside her bed. “I wonder if the
Times has muzzled Addison Kirby. You know, Joan
Fremont’s husband who covers city hall.”
SUTURE SELF
39
“You think so?” Judith remarked, then realized that
Renie had hung up the phone without speaking to Bill.
“Hey, what about your Chinese order?”
Renie let out an exasperated little sigh. “The anesthesia must have affected my brain. I’m told it can, especially your memory. I forgot that Bill never answers
the phone, especially around the dinner hour. Why
don’t you call Joe?”
Judith hesitated. Joe had plenty of responsibilities
on his shoulders now that Judith was completely incapacitated. “I kind of hate to. We don’t live as close to
Art Huey’s as you and Bill do.”
“Okay.” Renie picked up the phone again. “Art Huey’s
Restaurant,” she said. “Yes, you can dial it for me.”
“You’re going to have them deliver our dinner?” Judith asked, taken aback. “Is that allowed?”
“Who knows? Who cares? I’m paying for it. Yes,
this is Mrs. Jones, and I’d like to order the prawn chow
yuk, the wonton soup, the . . .” Renie listed another
half-dozen items, then gave some special instructions:
“Tell the people at the front desk you’re visiting Mrs.
Jones. Put the stuff in a plain cardboard box and throw
one of those plastic geraniums on top. There’s a big tip
in it for you if the food arrives hot.”
“If the food arrives at all,” Judith remarked as Renie
hung up. “Do you think whoever brings it can get past
the desk?”
“Yes,” Renie declared, clicking on the old-fashioned
gooseneck lamp next to the bed. “Now dump that crap
off your tray and settle back. I should have ordered a
couple of drinks while I was at it.”
“We can’t drink,” Judith said, taking yet another sip
from her plastic water glass, “except for stuff like this.
We’re on pain medication.”
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Mary Daheim
“We are?” Renie harrumphed. “You couldn’t prove
it by me.”
The food did indeed arrive, along with Joe, Bill, and
the delivery boy. Renie had already managed to get out
her checkbook, though it was a struggle to write with
her left hand.
“Let me,” Bill sighed, tearing up the check. “This
looks as if you’d written it with your lips.”
“I should try that,” Renie murmured, struggling to
open the cartons. “Here, pass some of this to my roommate.”
Joe and Bill had come to the hospital together. The
guests were settled in, Carl and Arlene had things well
in hand, and Gertrude was spending the evening inside
Hillside Manor playing three-handed pinochle with Judith’s stand-ins.
“They’re so good to her,” Judith said, referring to the
Rankerses. “I try to ignore Arlene’s threats to move. I
couldn’t bear it if they weren’t next door.”
Taking a bite of Judith’s marinated steak, Joe
agreed. “By the way, I’ve accepted a new case.”
“You have?” Judith was surprised. “But you’re already overloaded.”
“I’m okay, I got most of the loose ends tied up before your surgery,” Joe said, sampling a sweet-andsour prawn. “But this is one I don’t feel I can refuse.
There was a call from FOPP waiting for me when I got
home from the hospital this afternoon.”
Judith’s forehead wrinkled. “FOPP? What’s that?”
“Friends of Powerless People, advocates for the
homeless,” Joe replied, eyeing another of Judith’s
prawns. “It seems that a couple of street residents have
been killed in the last month. Not that it’s unusual in itself, but these weren’t the typical murders. You know,
SUTURE SELF
41
a couple of the poor devils get into it, one brains the
other with an empty bottle of Old Horsecollar. Or
smart-ass kids hassle the homeless until it gets out of
hand. According to Steve Moeller at FOPP, the two
most recent killings appeared to be deliberate and were
committed out of sight. Both stabbings, maybe by the
same knife. I’ll get more details tomorrow.”
“What about the police?” Judith inquired. “Aren’t
they trying to find the killers?”
Joe gave a slight shrug. “Sure, but you know how it
is. Even when I was still on the job, if Woody and I got
a case that was more high-profile, then our homeless
homicide got put at the bottom of the pile. That’s why
FOPP has decided to hire a private investigator.”
Judith frowned. She’d always had a sense of security
during the years that Woodrow Wilson Price had been
Joe’s partner. A solid man of African-American descent with a walrus mustache and deceptively soulful
eyes that could wring a confession out of the most
hardened criminals, Woody had never let Joe down.
And vice versa. But that was then and this was now. “It
sounds dangerous. Furthermore, you don’t have
Woody for a partner anymore.”
Joe shook his head and grinned. “I’ll manage. The
worst of it is trying to make sense of what the witnesses will say. If I can find any witnesses.”
“Take someone with you,” Judith urged. “Bill, for
instance. He can tell who’s crazy and who isn’t.”
Joe made a face at Judith. “Bill has plenty to do, too.
He still sees some of his private patients and consults
at the university. Besides, on these investigations, I like
to work solo.”
Judith started to argue, but she was too worn out and
knew she’d lose. At the other bedside, the Joneses were
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Mary Daheim
arguing, something about the assignments of their
three children while Renie was in the hospital.
“Why,” Renie was demanding, “should Tom wash
the windows in January? He needs time to work on his
Ph.D. thesis.”
“That doesn’t mean the windows aren’t dirty,” Bill
pointed out. “Besides, he’s been in graduate school for
eight years. I don’t see that he’s in any rush.”
“He has deadlines,” Renie countered. “You know
that, you’ve been through it.”
“Not in Babylonian history,” Bill pointed out, his
voice growing more heated. “What’s he going to do
with that degree when
he gets it? How many recruiters
are out there looking for an expert on the Mushkenu
social class?”
“He can teach,” Renie retorted.
“He doesn’t want to teach,” Bill asserted. “He wants
to stay in graduate school, live in our house, eat our
food, and wait until we’re carried out feetfirst, just like
his brother and his sister are doing.”
Joe, who had been fidgeting, stood up. “Hey, Bill,
maybe we should head on out. It may snow tonight.”
Bill all but flew out of his visitor’s chair. “Good
idea. Heraldsgate Hill has some pretty mean streets in
bad weather.”
Joe and Bill kissed their wives and fled.
“Do you really think they have girls lined up?” Judith asked.
“No,” Renie answered. “They have basketball
games, though. Pro and college. Besides, we’re boring.”
“Joe ate half my dinner,” Judith said in dismay.
“Bill didn’t try to touch any of mine,” Renie said. “He
knows better.”
SUTURE SELF
43
Judith checked her watch, which was lying on the
bedside stand. “It’s almost eight. I could use some
more painkillers.”
“Me, too,” said Renie. “You buzz. They hate me.”
Judith pushed the button. “I have to admit, they
aren’t exactly killing us with kindness. Excuse the
phrase.”
But Heather Chinn appeared almost immediately.
“Sorry,” she apologized. “It’s been so busy on this
floor tonight. I’m behind in taking vitals.”
“How about victuals?” Renie said, indicating the
empty white boxes on her tray. “Could you get rid of
these for us?”
Heather hadn’t noticed the small cartons. “Oh, dear!
Did you two . . . ? Really, that’s not allowed. Lately,
our patients seem to think they can consume just about
anything they like. That’s not so. You have to keep to a
hospital diet while you’re with us. If we hadn’t been so
caught up with other patients, we’d never have permitted this.”
“Those aren’t ours,” Renie said, feigning shock.
“Our husbands brought their own dinner. We’ll both
speak severely to them about doing it again.”
Frowning, Heather removed the boxes, then began
taking Judith’s pulse and temperature. “What happened with Jim Randall?” Judith inquired after the
paper thermometer had been removed.
“Oh,” Heather said, wrapping the blood pressure
cuff around Judith’s arm, “he went home. I guess he
was upset about his brother.”
“Mr. Bob’s recovering nicely?” Judith asked.
Heather didn’t answer right away. She was listening
to the stethoscope and looking at the gauge attached to
the cuff. “Yes,” she finally said as she made entries on
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Mary Daheim
Judith’s chart, “he’s doing fine, though I don’t think
he’ll like being on a walker and then a cane for some
time. He strikes me as a very active person.” Heather
moved to Renie’s bed. “Here, Mrs. Jones, let’s see how
you’re getting along.”
“I could have eaten more fried wontons,” Renie said.
“I think they shorted us on the sweet-and-sour
prawns.”
Heather shook her head in a disapproving manner,
then became involved in taking Renie’s vital signs. Judith watched until a wispy figure appeared in the doorway. It was Mrs. Randall, looking morose.
“Nurse Chinn?” she called in a soft, tentative voice.
“I’m leaving now, but I’ll be on duty at nine tomorrow.”
Heather Chinn finished taking Renie’s pulse, then
turned to the newcomer. “That’s fine, Mrs. Randall.
You must be very pleased with your husband’s successful surgery.”
Margie Randall hung her head. “Dr. Van Boeck says
I should be, but you never know. All sorts of things can
happen—pneumonia, a blood clot, an aneurysm. I’ve
seen it before, here in this very hospital, and recently,
too. I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep tonight.”
“You need your rest,” Heather said, now working
with the blood pressure cuff on Renie. “You put in
such long days volunteering for us.”
“It’s such a source of comfort for me,” Margie
sighed, though she looked quite desolate. “It’s such a
blessing to be able to offer consolation to patients and
their families. Why, this very morning, while Bob was
in surgery, I counseled a family who had just lost an
elderly father. They’d been practically immobilized
with grief until I began telling them how soon any one
of them could be called to join him. A brief, deadly ill-SUTURE SELF
45
ness. An auto accident. Getting caught in the gunfire of
a drive-by shooting. They suddenly became energized
and all but ran out of the hospital.”
“Lovely,” Heather said absently. “Good night, Mrs.
Randall.”
Margie Randall drifted away. Judith leaned slightly
toward the nurse. “I was wondering, who operated on
Joaquin Somosa and Joan Fremont? Do you recall?”
Heather removed the blood pressure cuff from
Renie’s arm and looked at Judith. “It was Dr. Garnett,
the same surgeon who performed Mr. Randall’s surgery. I remember, because it’s sort of unusual. Surgeons specialize, like Dr. Alfonso for hips and Dr.
Ming for shoulders. But Dr. Garnett is the second in
command at Good Cheer, under Dr. Van Boeck, and he
likes to stay diversified.”
“I see,” said Judith, who wasn’t exactly sure what
Heather meant in terms of medical skill, hospital privilege, or professional hierarchy.
“The good stuff,” Renie put in, using her left elbow
to point to the IV. “Make me feel good. Or at least tolerable.”
Heather finished dispensing medication, a short,
stout woman with a blonde Dutch-boy bob drew their
blood, and, finally, the priest Judith had seen that
morning came by to visit.
“I’m Father McConnaught,” he said in a voice that indicated he wasn’t quite sure. “God bless you, Mrs. Flynn.
An Irish lass, perhaps?”
“No, actually I’m—”
He nodded at Renie. “And Mrs. Jones. Welsh, you’d
be, eh?”
“No, I’m pretty much the same as my—”
“Well, now.” Father McConnaught’s faded blue eyes
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Mary Daheim
crinkled at the corners. He was almost bald, except for
a few strands of white hair that stood up on his head
like little wisps of smoke. “Let’s say a prayer of
thanksgiving that you both came through, eh?”
Judith and Renie dutifully said the Our Father and
the Hail Mary along with the priest, which was a good
thing because he seemed to forget some of the words
along the way.
“Now,” the priest said, smiling even wider, “how
many will this be, Mrs. Flynn?”
“How many what?” Judith asked, puzzled.
“And you, Mrs. Jones?” he inquired of Renie.
Father McConnaught put up an arthritic hand.
“Never mind now, the Good Lord always provides
extra hands. Will we be seeing you both again next
year with another wee one?”
“I doubt it,” Judith said, finally enlightened and
smiling gently. “Ten’s quite a few, Father.”
The priest looked skeptical. “Twelve, and the archbishop himself will baptize the babe.”
“Will he raise the kid, too?” Renie asked.
Father McConnaught put his hand behind his ear.
“Eh?”
“Never mind,” Judith said kindly. “Thank you for
coming, Father. We’ll keep you in our prayers.”
“And so shall I with you and all the wee ones.” He
made a small, painful bow and departed.
“Deaf and blind,” Renie remarked after Father McConnaught had gone. “When are we going to get some
younger priests around here?”
“We should pray more for vocations,” Judith said.
“Nuns as well as priests. I’ll bet very few members of
the nursing staff are from the Sisters of Good Cheer.”
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47
“It’s like the teaching orders,” Renie said, then
stared at Judith. “Say—when you were talking to
Nurse Heather about who operated on Joan Fremont
and Joaquin Somosa, were you sleuthing?”
“What?” Judith feigned disbelief.
“You heard me,” Renie said. “Are you suspicious
about the cause of their deaths?”
“Well . . . you have to wonder.”
“You do,” Renie retorted, turning off the light by her
bed. “I don’t. In fact, I’m going to try to get some
sleep.”
“That’s a good idea,” Judith agreed. “Frankly, I’m
exhausted.” She, too, clicked off her light. “I guess I
was just curious.”
“Oh.”
“I mean, it’s got to be a coincidence, right?”
“Right.”
“If they hadn’t been well known, we’d probably
never have heard about their deaths.”
“Shut up.”
Judith obeyed, but couldn’t get comfortable. “I still
hurt like hell. This bed’s too narrow. I’ll never be able
to sleep.”
“Count sheep. Count Chinese food cartons. Count
all those imaginary kids you told Father McConnaught
you had.”
“I’ll try.”
Judith slept, but her dreams were disquieting in the
extreme. Joaquin Somosa appeared on the pitcher’s