William Kienzle - Deathbed

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?”

7

This was one of those days. One of those days you’d rather throw away. But, on the other hand, Sister Eileen did not favor wishing away any of her remaining days. There simply were a number of unpleasant things that needed doing. And she was the only one who could do them.

Already she had had to address a meeting of the nurses and nurses’ aides relating to some of the slipshod work going on in the hospital. Special mention had to be made regarding breakage. A great deal of that had been going on. The report given Sister Eileen identified the specific aide responsible for most of that, one Ethel Laidlaw. A notation had been added that aide Laidlaw apparently was not willfully careless or guilty of malicious destruction. It seemed to be a case of congenital clumsiness. Nonetheless, the damage was considerable.

In her lecture, Eileen went out of her way to, on the one hand, inform all present that the identity of the principal offender was known, and, on the other, not to mention her by name. Everyone there, including Ethel, knew exactly who Sister Eileen was talking about.

To cap the climax, during the session, Ethel managed to tip over the coffee urn. There was an unscheduled fifteen-minute break while the mess was cleaned up.

Sister Eileen was seated at the desk in her office sorting the mail, separating those matters that demanded immediate attention from those that allowed some procrastination. She also was awaiting the next bit of unpleasantness on today’s agenda.

Her secretary spoke through the intercom: “Sister, Dr. Kim is here to see you.”

That was it.

“Send him in, Dolly.”

Kim entered and went immediately to the chair at the visitor’s side of Eileen’s desk.

Trim and tall, Kim was cursed—as far as Sister Eileen was concerned—with more than the average Oriental inscrutability. He had come to Detroit and St. Vincent’s from Chicago, where he had interned at an even poorer hospital than St. Vincent’s. Chicago had been his first step after leaving his native South Korea.

Chicago had recommended him as having impeccable credentials and as specializing in general surgery. At St. Vincent’s he was expected to soft-pedal his specialty in favor of doing a bit of everything. Interns and residents all were expected to do a bit of everything.

There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that Dr. Lee Kim had definite plans and a timetable in which to accomplish his objectives.

One of those objectives most definitely was to not linger overly long at St. Vincent’s. Kim planned to move up and out of Detroit. In which direction, initially, was not of prime importance.

Kim crossed his legs. He exuded confidence. His performance deserved an award; in reality, he was not all that confident. Inside, he was a nervous wreck. He was well aware of his problem. His enemy was time. He had too little of it.

By his timetable, he should have been long gone from St. Vincent’s. Every time he walked its ancient halls, he was reminded that this institution had gobbled up any number of doctors in its time. It could too easily happen to him.

Look what had happened to Fred Scott, Kim’s superior in Emergency. Kim both admired and despised Scott. Scott was the most amazing technician Kim had ever experienced in emergency situations. At the same time, Scott had let his remarkable skills take root at St. Vincent’s. Kim’s greatest fear was that the same thing would happen to him. That years from now, he would be mired in Detroit’s core city in a health-care facility that should have closed its doors decades ago. He would still be patching stab wounds and removing slugs from people who’d been fighting over the final swallow of cheap wine. Still be exposed to their vomit and feces.

So, he tended to hurry things along. He really couldn’t help himself. It was late. Late in his ball game.

He hurried things along. Sure he didn’t spend a lot of time with the immediate families of terminal patients. It was, after all, up to them to inform themselves of their options. Surely they’d seen enough movies and television to know what life-support systems were all about. If they wanted their kin to be maintained in a vegetative state, what concern was it of his?