William Kienzle - Deathbed

“The fact is, I happen to believe that, under ordinary circumstances, retirement is a good idea.”

“Oh, do you? Then what about your retirement, dear Sister? Are you going to follow me on this lovely path you’ve outlined for me? Will you retire?”

Eileen felt herself reddening. “That’s a different matter, John. And you know it.”

“Because you’re a dedicated religious and I am a mere layman?”

“Of course not, John. You know as well as I that the powers that be are eager to close down St. Vincent’s for good and all. If I were to retire, that would be their green light. I’d like to leave the hospital in viable enough shape so that it could continue under its own steam. And that may be possible one day if my plans work out. But it certainly is not the case now. If I were to leave here now or in the foreseeable future, it would be the end.”

“Not necessarily.”

“What? What can you mean, John?”

“I could keep it open. I’ve been here nearly as long as you. I know this place as well as you. Maybe better. My policies would be as good as, or better, than yours. I could win over more of the board members.” The tone of flustered panic was evident. “You wouldn’t even have to retire. We could work together. We complement each other. If we were to work together, we could unite the board. We could make the hospital what it once was!”

“John, John,” she said softly, “don’t. Don’t do this to yourself. Although you’re making this resemble death, it’s not. And you’re not dying. Think about it. You’re a spiritual man; pray over it. Give yourself some time to consider it seriously. You’ll come to terms with the notion of retirement. You’ll have to,” she concluded firmly, “because, in the final analysis, you are going to retire. Do it well. You can, you know.”

He seemed drained. But in a few moments of quiet, he appeared to have regained control of himself. “Yes, yes, of course. There is no alternative. I just need a little time.”

There was another pause. Eileen had no inclination to hurry him. Better that he take a few moments to compose himself.

“Sorry about my behavior back there,” he said. “It shouldn’t have taken me by surprise. Just as you said. I know what the retirement age is. And I certainly know how old I am.” He smiled, but it was forced. “If there’s nothing else. . .”

“No, John, that’s all.”

He rose to leave, but almost stumbled. Eileen half stood to go to his aid, but he waved her back.

“Just a bit disoriented, I guess. I’ll be okay.” He departed.

Haroldson had planned to go over some of the accounts payable this morning. To him fell the regular burden of deciding which bills must be paid and which could be delayed. Cash flow was a near-mortal problem at St. Vincent’s.

But now he was too shaken to be able to concentrate on business. He went directly to the chapel, knelt in the back pew, and buried his face in his hands. In no time he was lost in reflection.

Leave St. Vincent’s. Leave St. Vincent’s under his own power. He smiled. He rarely thought of leaving his hospital. But when he did, he always pictured himself being carried out, probably dead.

The anger rose again. He tried to hold it in check. Anger was a sin. And sin was a failure Haroldson steadfastly tried to avoid.

But, wait a minute . . . anger wasn’t always a sin. It couldn’t be. Jesus had been angry at the moneychangers in the temple. Moses had been so angry with the chosen people and their golden idol that he smashed the Commandment tablets.

These thoughts he’d been having lately, these emotions he’d been experiencing, perhaps they were not as sinful as he had feared. What was it Eileen had just said . . . with his background . . . with his background he might be able to work it all out. All it required was some thought, some definitive plan. And then, put it all into action. Certainly. He could expect to be able to do that.

* * *

Eileen had barely had time to compose herself after meeting with Haroldson when her secretary entered Sister’s office.

“I don’t know what to do with this one, Sister.”

“What is it, Dolly?”

“Sister Rose is here for her appointment. But Pat Lennon, that newspaper lady, is here too. And she hasn’t got an appointment. And you know how Rosie gets when her schedule is upset.”

Despite the way she felt, Eileen smiled. “Rosamunda will keep. She has all these years. Ask her to come by right after lunch. And show Ms. Lennon in.”

Dolly winced. It was she who would receive the brunt of Rosamunda’s cantankerous disapproval of a fractured appointment. But she would, of course, carry out her assignment.

Lennon entered and was seated.

The nun was impressed. Lennon was wearing an entirely different ensemble from yesterday’s. But like yesterday’s, today’s outfit was functional, while at the same time extremely attractive. And expensive. Pat Lennon must buy her clothing at one or another of the super-swank suburban boutiques. Heretofore, the nun had given little thought to the wages of journalism. Now that the consideration occurred naturally, Eileen supposed a reporter’s salary must be handsome. She also supposed that Pat’s fine wardrobe was extensive. This supposition was valid.

At their previous meeting, Pat had explained why she felt it her duty to do what would amount to an exposé on the family-planning service offered at St. Vincent’s. Eileen had not expected to see the reporter again. She had assumed Pat would go about completing her research and, one day soon, Detroiters would be reading all about it. So she was unprepared for Lennon’s present unscheduled appearance.

“Yesterday,” Lennon began, “I dropped one shoe, as it were. And it’s just not fair not to let you know that I’m going to hold on to the other shoe . . . at least for the time being.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Yesterday, I told you all the reasons why I couldn’t overlook this story on contraception in a Catholic hospital. But last night, I got to thinking it over and, well, to cut it short, I decided I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t chance derailing the service this hospital is trying to provide. It gets complicated . . . but there are just some things I’m not prepared to compromise for the sake of this job.”

“Well, I must say that is easily the best news I’ve had today.”

“At the same time,” Lennon continued, “I don’t want to create any false impression. I’m not . . . I can’t make any promises down the line. I can’t foresee what may happen. There may be complications later; circumstances could change. I can’t even be specific. Something could happen. Another reporter, say, could stumble onto the story. I couldn’t allow him or her to beat me. You see?

“But, for now,” Pat took out her note pad, “let’s forget your family planning policies and get back to the original thrust of this story—the hospital, its past, its present, its future, and you.”

Eileen sighed in relief. “Fair enough. I must admit that the possibility of your doing that story has been like a cloud hovering over me ever since we talked about it. This is welcome news!”

“But . . .”

“Yes, I understand your reservation. And if another reporter were going to develop the story, I would make certain you got every bit of cooperation we could provide. It would be the least we could do in return for the favor you’re doing us. Now,” Eileen checked her watch, “how about joining me for a little lunch?”

“Could we talk during lunch?”

“Better. You can meet more of the staff.”

“It’s a deal.”

* * *

“What were you doing here last night?”

“Huh?”

“I mean, it was the evening shift. And you never volunteer for that. We don’t even have volunteers for that shift.” Ethel Laidlaw lifted her cup and allowed the excess coffee to drip back into the saucer. There had been a spill.