William Kienzle - Deathbed

“That we were going to have to make some kind of public response. All I could tell him was that I was, in conscience, unable to change the philosophy and interpretation of theology under which we operate. He said he’d take my answer under advisement. And that culminated with my meeting today with Auxiliary Bishop Ratigan. I met with him and our Mother General, Sister Qaire Cécile.”

“And?”

“Bishop Ratigan was nice enough. But he had a job to do. He explained that if this had happened a few years ago, Cardinal Boyle would have resorted to his former custom of appointing a ‘blue-ribbon committee’ to study the matter. And they would have studied it until hell froze over or until the media forgot about it. Whichever happened first.

“But now . . . with the climate in Rome . . . well, there was no getting around it. We had to face up to conforming to the Church’s magisterium. I was to enforce the letter of the law or I had to step down. I told him that left me no alternative.”

“Sister?”

“The next part has got to be just between you and me, even though this is a ‘small hospital.’” She forced a smile. “St. Vincent’s is going to close.”

“No!”

“I’m afraid so. Sister Qaire Cécile said the Board had anticipated this sort of dilemma and had voted that, with my departure, St. Vincent’s would be closed. The only reason they’ve been sustaining it, in the face of serious financial loss, was because I insisted I could make it work.

“But even to keep the poor old place alive, I can’t compromise my principles. St. Vincent’s conforming to the letter of Church teaching would have no meaning here in any case. So John Haroldson got at least part of what he wanted. I will be gone. But so will St. Vincent’s . . . and at what cost!”

There followed several moments of silence. Scott reflected that the closing, as shocking as it was, also solved Dr. Lee Kim’s problem. Under the circumstances, Kim would have no problem transferring to another hospital. And wherever he went, it would be a step or more upward.

“And how about you, Sister? What will you do?”

“Oh, Sisters don’t join the unemployment line. Not even old ladies like me. I talked to Sister Qaire Cécile about it. Well, we’ve talked before about what might come after St. Vincent’s—if that ever happened.

“I’m going to be in charge of a new health-care program for our senior Sisters. Right now, there’s little rhyme or reason to the various scattered houses that care for our elderly and ill. The program needs to be pulled together and coordinated. Without lots of young Sisters out in the field to bring in money, we’re financially pinched as never before. It’s a good program and I’m eager to get into it. It’s . . . it’s the program Sister Rosamunda would have been a part of. But . . .

“Poor Sister Rosamunda.” Eileen shook her head sadly. “A classic case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. She went to the pharmacy to get a supply of Terpin Hydrate . . . the poor dear probably couldn’t sleep a wink . . . all that pressure. She didn’t know I had ordered all the locks changed just so she wouldn’t be able to lean on that crutch anymore.

“And when she couldn’t get the pharmacist to give her the new key—again at my order—she knew where she could find a bottle. Everyone who knew me well was aware that I needed it for this postnasal-drip problem. If she hadn’t taken the poisoned bottle, I might have. Or John might have retrieved it. Poor Sister: in the wrong place at the wrong time.

“Well, God writes straight with crooked lines. I guess it was time for me to move on.”

“And St. Vincent’s?”

“Yes, I suppose. Even time for St. Vincent’s to . . .” There was a catch in Eileen’s voice. “. . . to close its doors for good.”

“One thing, Sister.”

“What’s that?”

“Don’t ever play poker.”

* * *

“I can’t say this hasn’t been fun, big fella. But don’t you think we ought to get outta bed?”

“Why?” George Snell was deeply depressed.

“Why?” Helen Brown echoed. “Because call lights will be going on and the nurse is gonna wonder why she’s runnin’ her ass off when there’s an aide someplace on the floor.”

“That’s just it,” Snell observed, “you ain’t exactly been ‘on the floor’ for quite a spell now. You been off the floor, as it were.”

“I know, big fella, and that’s why I gotta get back on duty. All somebody’s gotta do is look in this room and our collective ass’ll be in a sling.”

“What difference does it make?”

“What difference! The difference between gettin’ a paycheck and standin’ in line waitin’ for charity. If it trickles down this far.”

“It don’t make much difference. This place is gonna close down anyhow.”

“This hospital?”

“What else?”

“How do you know that?”

“Small place. Rumors travel fast.”

“Rumor! That’s all it is.”

“No. It’s gonna close.”

“Is that what’s gettin’ you down? Just ’cause this place closes don’t mean there won’t be any more jobs anywhere.”

“Yeah? Like where?”

“Like lots of places. You keep forgettin’: You’re a hero!”

“That’s right, ain’t it?”

Happily for George Snell, he had not been compelled to testify in the case of Bruce Whitaker. So the knowledge that his “heroics” were no more than a series of accidents did not go beyond the police and Father Koesler.

“But wait a minute!” Snell sat upright. “You know I ain’t no hero. You were with me both times I was suppose to’ve saved somebody. You know! ”

“Yeah, I know, big fella. But I ain’t likely to tell. Far as I can see, if this place closes, we’ll just move along. They always need aides—that’s me. And they always need heroes—that’s you. By and large, we oughta be able to spend a good part of our lives in the sack.”

“Worse luck for you.” Snell lay back in the narrow bed. Instinctively, he wrapped one long arm around Helen Brown, absently caressing her bottom.

“What do you mean, worse luck for me? You’re a lot of fun, big fella. Oh, yes, a lot of fun. You have given me some of the very best lays I have ever had in my whole life. And that includes tonight. And this is an unsolicited testimonial.”

“Yeah.” Snell grinned, then quickly grew serious. “But there’s more. At least there should be.”

“More! You’re kidd—oh, yeah, that’s right. Both times you became a ‘hero’ you were about to do something ‘more.’ But you never got around to it. Now what in hell you could do more beats me.”

“Well, it looks like you’re gonna have to take it on faith. But there was somethin’ more. It was one of a kind. And now,” he choked back what sounded like a sob, “it’s gone. Gone. Gone.”

“When did it leave? Oh, what the hell we talkin’ about, anyway?”

“It left after I saw somethin’ on TV I’ll never forget the rest of my life. And we’re talkin’ about a . . . oh . . . somethin’ like a maneuver.”

“That maneuver again! Look, man, I still don’t know exactly what you’re talkin’ about. But I know you certainly know how to satisfy a person. I truly don’t think I could stand any more from you than what you already done. Besides, big fella, two can play at that.” Helen Brown shifted so that she was roughly one-quarter of the way on top of Snell.

“What? What you gettin’at?”

“Just this, big fella, You’re not the only one who’s got some fancy maneuvers.”

“Wait a minute!” Helen Brown was doing things that made George Snell grin broadly. “Wait a minute! I’m kind of tired.”

“That’s okay, big fella. You know what the helpful cow said to the tired farmer.”