William Kienzle - Deathbed

“What makes you think I was here last night?” Bruce Whitaker moved his glass about, making thin white circles on the table. He’d had a spill.

“’Cause I seen you. “

“You did?” Pause. “Are you sure?”

“Certainly! I know who you are. I seen you on the main floor after visiting hours.”

Trepidation welled up in Whitaker. She had seen him. Of that there was little doubt. But where had he been when she saw him? How much had she seen? How much did she know? Could she, as his colleagues had warned, prove to be a serious barrier to his goal? And what would he do—what could he do—if she became an obstacle in his path?

“So . . .”A little more milk slopped over and he began making new thin white circles on the table. “. . . you think you saw me, eh? Well, then, smartie, where was I when you saw me?”

“Down around pastoral care. What’s such a big deal anyway? So you were here after hours. So what? What I couldn’t figure out was why you were slinking around. Why was that?”

“What?” He was stalling, shamelessly stalling, to figure a clever way out of this without having to do something drastic.

“Sneaking around! Why were you sneaking around?”

“I . . . I was on a special mission, Ethel. I can’t go into it in any kind of detail. But I was on a special mission. A secret mission.”

“Okay.”

She bought it! He couldn’t believe it. Maybe he had missed his calling. Perhaps he should have been a spy. Or maybe ambassador to the U.N. He had never before tried his hand at subtle equivocation. It wasn’t so difficult.

“So, Ethel . . .”He ceased creating circles; he had used up all the excess milk on his glass. “. . . what were you doing on the main floor at that hour, if I might turn the tables?”

“Saving you.”

“What?”

“From the guard.”

“What guard?”

“The one who was about to find you when you were hiding against the wall.”

“Uh . . .”

“You remember: You were going along the wall, keeping in the shadows, on your secret mission. And that guard challenged you. He was about to shine his light on you.”

“Uh . . .then what happened?”

“I coughed. Didn’t you hear me?”

“No.”

“Well, the guard did. Then he found me instead of you.”

“No kidding? No kidding! Then what happened?”

“Then I . . . uh . . . distracted him.”

“Why’d you do that?”

“To help you, Bruce. You looked like you needed help. I mean, I didn’t know you were on a secret mission. But it did look like you didn’t want that guard to find you. So I made sure he didn’t.”

“And you don’t know where I went after that?”

“No, silly! I was distracting the guard. So your great big special mission is still a secret.”

“Gee, Ethel, that was really great of you! That was a big help. And I didn’t even know. Gosh, I wish there was something I could do for you. I mean, in return for what you did for me.”

Ethel sighed elaborately. “Maybe there is.” She bit into her sandwich and realized that she should not have ordered egg salad. She had been trying, not altogether successfully, to convince Bruce that she was not a congenital klutz. Now here she was with egg salad squeezed out the other side of her sandwich, dripping from her fingers to the plate. It was not a good show.

“You mean there’s some way I can help you?” Bruce seemed not to notice Ethel’s eggy predicament. He might have been preoccupied with renewing the white circles. He had had another spill.

“I need to get that nun out of my hair. But for the life of me, I can’t think how to do it.” She licked her fingers, but to little avail. The egg salad was now dripping from the other side of the sandwich.

“What nun?”

“Sister Eileen.”

“You mean the head of this hospital?”

“Uh-huh.”

His heart soared. Could they be in on the same mission? “But why?”

“Because if I don’t get rid of her, she’s going to get rid of me. “

“But why?”

“There have been reports, entirely unproven, that I am . . . uh . . . clumsy. And that I’ve caused some damage.”

“Ethel!”

“Yes. And at a meeting just this morning, she threatened to fire me if she heard any more of those unfounded rumors. And . . . and . . . Bruce, Bruce, what am I going to do if she fires me? I’ll never be able to get another job. There just aren’t that many jobs around now. And getting fired . . . and not having a recommendation . . . oh, Bruce, I don’t know what to do!”

She was on the verge of tears. As she reached for her cup, a gob of egg salad dropped into the coffee, splashing some into the saucer. When she lifted the cup, there’d be another slop-over.

Bruce was confused. Which was bad news for the integrity of the food in front of him. He did not know how to handle a woman under the best of circumstances, let alone one on the verge of tears.

“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?”