William Kienzle - Deathbed

“I never thought about it much until now. But, uh-huh.”

“I think that’s what happened to us, Bruce. You going to the seminary, me to the convent. Both of us being clumsy as a pair of oxes. Meeting each other here in the hospital. Joining together in more things than even you know about. Bruce, we were meant for each other . . . what do you think?”

“I think you’re right, Ethel.”

“But with our luck, it will be years before we can get together. One or another or both of us might go to jail and God knows when we’d get out, if ever.”

“You, Ethel! What—?”

“Never mind, Bruce. We got to get together—now. It’s God’s will.”

“God’s will?”

“God’s will! But . . . where?” Ethel thought about that. “I think I know. Come on.”

Ethel led Bruce through the corridors in a much more decisive manner than before when they were wending their way around with no more purpose than to pass time.

They encountered no one. But, unknown to them, George Snell again noticed them on one of the monitors. He was slightly surprised to see what appeared to be a doctor and a nurse hurrying so rapidly, so early in the morning. But that was the way with hospitals. Emergencies could not be scheduled to happen only during business hours. By definition, emergencies could occur at any time. So, he turned from the monitor to the commercial TV set.

Only one channel was telecasting. And Snell wasn’t very interested in the offering. After all, how many times could one be expected to watch Laurence Olivier in Wuthering Heights ? Shakespeare was all well and good, thought Snell, but not this early in the morning.

However, given the choice between grainy monitors showing mostly empty corridors, and something—anything—commercial, Snell knew what his selection would be. But, just for luck, periodically he would run the selector switch through the gamut of stations, just in case there might be something, anything, else besides Shakespeare. One never could tell.

“Where are we going?” Bruce Whitaker was nearing hyperventilation.

“To the chapel,” Ethel said over her shoulder without slowing a step.

“The chapel! The chapel’s not on the basement floor.”

“Not the main chapel; the studio chapel that the chaplain uses to send services and Sunday Mass through the hospital.”

Bruce tried to concentrate on slowing his heartbeat. “Why should we go there?”

“Because it’s the emptiest place in the whole hospital.”

“Oh.” It seemed to be working. His heartbeat seemed to stabilize, but certainly not at a normal rate.

There was an empty gurney in the hallway. Ethel pushed it into a room in which there was no light whatsoever. Bruce followed her, but stopped just inside the door. He could see nothing in the room. The only illumination was the dim light coming through the door which had been left ajar. Then the door closed. Ethel had closed it. All was black. This was not helping his heartbeat.

“Come here, Bruce.”

“Where?”

“Home in on my voice. Come here. That’s better. Now, kiss me . . . longer . . . like you meant it . . . that’s better.”

“Wait a minute.”

“What’s the matter?”

“You’re unbuttoning my shirt.”

“I sort of hoped you’d do the same for me.”

“Do you think that is all right?”

“It’s God’s will.”

“Never in my life did I want to do God’s will more. But do we have to do it in the dark?”

“Oh, you want light.” Given Ethel’s self-image, she would have preferred the darkness. “Wait a minute. I think there’s a light switch over here near the door . . . there!”

“Wow!” Bruce shielded his eyes. “That’s bright! Does it have to be that bright?”

“That’s the only light there is in this room. This is where they broadcast the services and Mass on closed-circuit television. I guess the light has to be bright.”

There was no reason that Ethel should have known that she had turned on not only the klieg lights, but also the TV camera. What was transpiring in the studio chapel was being carried, closed-circuit, throughout the hospital on Channel 13.

As fate would have it, only one person in the hospital was watching television at that early morning hour.

Out of sheer boredom with Wuthering Heights and on the off chance that something, anything, had begun on another channel, George Snell turned the selector switch once again. Realistically expecting nothing, he flipped past Channel 13; paused, then returned to it. He was unacquainted with that channel since he religiously never watched the Mass or services. But, with relief, he noted there was, indeed, something going on over Channel 13. As far as he was concerned, whatever it was would probably beat out Wuthering Heights.

“Well, now, what could this be?” Particularly when alone, Snell was known to talk to himself. “This don’t look like one of them big-screen movies. Only two people. And no set to speak of. Just bare walls, far as I can see. A table of some sort off in the background. Some sort of small cart. That’s it? That ain’t much.

“Hey, wait a minute! What’re they doin’? They’re takin’ off each other’s clothes! This must be one of them cable channels. You’d never get this sorta thing on a network station. Well, well, well, this is gonna beat hell out of that Wuthering Heights. To hell with Shakespeare!”

He settled back in his chair, keeping his eyes on the screen. Shortly, he edged forward slightly.

“I don’t know whether they’re actin’ this way on purpose, but those two ain’t very good at this. Hell, he can’t even get her clothes off.” He reflected. “I don’t know; maybe it’s better this way. Most skinflicks, people are dressed one minute and naked the next. But, glory, glory, they sure are makin’ a production out of gettin’ undressed.”

Although Snell had seen his share of pornographic films, he always found them stimulating. To him, sex was a sport for all seasons, for spectators and participants alike. There were those who acknowledged him, and rightly so, to be an expert. Thus, when he viewed a skinflick, it was as an epicurean critic.

“They sure as hell need somethin’ bigger than that little cot. Only experts could function on somethin’ that small,” Snell commented. “Amateurs! You’d think at least they could get pros. How did those two rubes ever get cast for a flick like this? It’s come to a sorry state. That’s all I can say. A sorry state!”

“Is it over? Did we do it?” Bruce Whitaker was perspiring mightily. He wasn’t sure what had happened, but he felt rather indescribably good about it.

“I think so,” Ethel said. “At least from what I’ve read about it, I think we did it. Did it feel good to you?”

“I think so. It all happened so fast. I don’t think I was thinking about anything at all. How about you?”

“I guess I didn’t feel anything. Maybe I’m not supposed to. I’ve heard women say they got nothing out of it. Maybe this is what they mean.”

“Oh, it couldn’t be that way. God would not be so unfair. If a man is supposed to get something out of it, certainly a woman should too. But what?”

Ethel pondered that for awhile. “I’ve been thinking,” she announced. “I mean, some of the things I’ve read said that something like this could happen.”

“Something like this?”

“Yes. The first time. The books warn that the first time can be disastrous.”

“Disastrous!” As time passed, Bruce was feeling better and better. “I would hardly say it was a disaster!”

“That’s right, don’t you see? So, if the books are right, it should get better the second time.”