William Kienzle - Deathbed

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 what the Church—what our order—has directed. This is the first favor I’ve ever asked of a superior.” Pause. “Please.”