Deathbed fk-8 Page 14

  Sister Eileen shifted papers on her desk without paying them much attention. She felt drained, not completely, but substantially. She could not afford a thorough draining. She had yet at least two more extremely taxing encounters to handle.

  The necessity of scheduling unpleasant meetings was what she most abhorred about any effective leadership role. But such meetings were inescapable. She owed it to poor old St. Vincent’s to do all she could to keep her baby alive and well. But no consideration could keep these meetings from being unpleasant.

  She opened the file folder of the next person on her schedule. She didn’t need to study this person’s background. She knew it almost completely by heart. She closed the file, folded her hands, and lowered her head in prayer. She had just begun to lose herself in meditation when the intercom brought the message that her next visitor was waiting.

  John Haroldson, chief operating officer of St. Vincent’s, entered. A broad smile broke his heavily creased face. But his eyes betrayed a worried mind.

  They exchanged hearty greetings. It was ever thus, thought Eileen. John, the hail fellow well met. But only on the surface. Underneath, there were always troubled layers in John’s life. Layers that would be revealed in good time. Inevitably.

  “Your summons surprised me, Sister. It isn’t time for our monthly meeting.”

  It made Haroldson nervous not to be in control of any situation. And since he had little inkling as to Eileen’s purpose in calling this meeting, this situation was, at least initially, not in his control.

  “It wasn’t a summons, John,” Eileen sighed. “It was an invitation.”

  “Whatever”—still the confident smile, the worried eyes—“it didn’t seem like an invitation I ought to refuse.”

  “John, John . . . can we never stop playing games?”

  A flash of anger. “I don’t play games, Sister. I know a summons when I get one.”

  “Have it your way, then.”

  Haroldson nodded curtly. The smile was gone.

  “I want to talk to you about the future, John.”

  “The future?”

  “Yes, yours and St. Vincent’s.”

  “Oh?” He was withdrawing.

  “You’re getting close to the Michigan Catholic Conference retirement age, John. It’s just four months down the line. Are you giving any thought to your retirement?”

  “Retirement? Why, no. No reason to. I’m fit. You’ve got the results of my latest physical. I’m in fine shape, even leaving my age out of it. Why should I think of retirement?”

  “Because you’re nearing the compulsory age for it, John.”

  “But . . . but you can waive that . . . as . . . my superior.” He seemed loath to acknowledge her position.

  “I can. But there’s no reason I should.”

  “My health—”

  “Exactly. Your health. It’s fine. Where did you ever get the idea one must be at death’s door in order to qualify for retirement?”

  “Sister . . .” His tone came close to pleading; only with effort did he stay in control of himself. “. . . this hospital has been part of my existence. After Elizabeth died, in time, this place has gradually replaced her in my life. I can’t leave here.”

  “John, you’re not the first person who felt there was no life after retirement. But you know as well as I that most people get over that feeling and really come to enjoy retirement. You can, too.”

  Haroldson was silent. Head lowered, he seemed to be studying his clasped hands. “You’re serious, aren’t you?” There was a touch of panic in his voice.

  “Yes. I am. But it’s not going to happen overnight, John. There are months between now and then. Months when you can continue your contributions to St. Vincent’s and, at the same time, do a little planning for retirement.”

  Silence.

  “With your background, John, there are lots of things you might do in very productive fields. With your education and experience, you could teach. You could teach part-time in the seminary, or in a business school. You could teach a medical morals course in one of our colleges. There are so many opportunities for a man with your talent.

  “Or, on the other hand . . .” She found herself reaching to fill the vacuum left by Haroldson’s lack of response. “. . . you might just want to relax for a while . . . get accustomed to being out of this routine of getting up and out every morning and spending so many demanding hours on the job. Just leaving the routine might put an entirely new perspective on your whole future.”

  There was a prolonged silence. Eileen decided she would not try to fill it. All it could have been was idle chatter.

  “You don’t like me, do you? You never did, did you?”

  Good God. The same as with Lee Kim. Neither man would stay with the subject. She was not prejudiced against Kim because of his race. And her feelings toward Haroldson had nothing to do with his retirement. If Kim and Haroldson had been women, some man undoubtedly would’ve blamed the digressions on their hormones.

  “John,” Eileen said rather firmly, “we’re talking about retirement because you are nearing the age of compulsory retirement. That makes sense to me!”

  “I knew it shortly after I came here to work. You and I never had the same vision for St. Vincent’s. And it’s gotten worse over the years. It’s not secret. Everybody in the hospital knows it.”

  “John!”

  Haroldson lowered and shook his head. He was almost talking to himself. “We climbed the ladder together here at St. Vincent’s. Except you were always a rung ahead of me. Always my ‘superior.’ Even when I became chief operating officer, you were chief executive officer. Always above me. Always over me. Always opposing me.” He looked up, directly at Eileen. “And now the coup de grace. Forcing me into retirement.”

  “John . . .” Eileen shook her head in frustration. “I’m not forcing you. You’ve reached retirement age. That can’t come as any surprise to you.”

  “The fact is, you could waive that requirement.”

  “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.

  “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 missi
on. 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?”