Deathbed fk-8 Page 7

  “Really!”

  “I think it must have something to do with that nun who runs it. We’ve done a few stories on her over the past few years. But nothing in any kind of depth. I think she may very well be the story of St. Vincent’s survival.”

  “Interesting.”

  Lennon was hoping London would soon run out of one-line comments. She had just about exhausted the small amount of research she had done on St. Vincent’s. In fact, she was already skating on factually thin ice. She could only hope, on the one hand, that the few small details she had ad-libbed would prove accurate and, on the other, that London would find her narrative convincing. The alternative would be wasting a lot of time dredging up the same old quotes from the same old sources ending in the same old story.

  “Who are you working with on this one?”

  “Bob Ankenazy.” She would have to tell Bob about that. But she needed an editor/rabbi to justify her developing this or practically any other story.

  “Sounds good. Keep me informed.” London moved on to find another reporter who would tell metro Detroit readers that the area’s youth was going to hell in a handbasket.

  Seldom had she begun a feature story on such a whim. Either St. Vincent’s and its unsinkable chief executive officer would prove an adequate subject for the in-depth style of a magazine article or Lennon had glommed on to one of her rare lemons.

  In any case, now that London had brought the matter to a head, she had only one direction in which to go. First, she would have to engage Ankenazy in her story. Without a sponsor editor, she would be up the proverbial creek. She already had the standing offer of space from the magazine editor. Then she would have to get a move on research and then, of course, write the story.

  5

  Bruce Whitaker had been nervous. He had had that feeling—all too usual for him—of being very much alone in attempting to accomplish something for which he was inadequate.

  And he was not even anywhere near carrying out the group’s goal yet. First he was supposed to find the nurse’s aide with whom he’d come in contact yesterday. Then he was to discover how much, if anything, she knew about him. It had not occurred to him that there weren’t that many nurses’ aides in this relatively small hospital. And that she very probably would be assigned to the same floor she’d been on yesterday.

  As was so often the case, his fears were out of proportion to reality. Finding her had not been nearly as difficult as he had anticipated.

  He had found her on the floor. At just about the same spot he’d first met her. She was cleaning up after dropping a breakfast tray. At least he hadn’t been the cause of this spill. While he scraped the egg and cereal off the carpet, he was able to scrutinize her ID. Her name was Ethel Laidlaw and she was, indeed, a nurse’s aide.

  He had just delivered a tray of medications to the nurses’ station. Thus he was between assignments. He volunteered to assist Ethel. Together, they managed to spill only three more breakfasts, disconnect two telephones, tip over a bedpan, and unplug a patient’s oxygen supply. They had had the presence of mind to call a nurse to reconnect the oxygen tube.

  Over a coffee break, Bruce informed Ethel, in response to her question, that he worked part-time as a janitor at the nearby Back Porch Theatre. Ethel had never known anyone in show business. She was impressed.

  Fortuitously, she had the afternoon off and there was a matinee at the theater. Bruce, being an employee, could get tickets at a moment’s notice.

  Actually, with the average size of the audience at the Back Porch, anyone could get any number of tickets to any performance. In any case, Bruce took Ethel to the 2:00 p.m. performance of The Manic Sperm, an avant-garde drama by one of Detroit’s fledgling playwrights.

  Perhaps it would have been wiser if they had not bought popcorn. But then, as janitor, he would clean it up later.

  Ethel told Bruce she’d never been to theater-in-the-round before. He confessed that neither had he. In fact, this was the first performance he’d ever attended at the Back Porch Theatre, even though he worked here.

  The Manic Sperm opened with an irregular, frenetic beat of bongos and the resonance of loud snoring from the nearly vacant back row.

  It did not take long for Bruce and Ethel to decide this play was not for them. The drama contained virtually all the usual four-letter words, repetitiously.

  The final straw fell when the female lead whipped off her blouse, revealing small, very firm breasts. This was closely followed by the male lead’s removing his trousers and slinking briskly across the stage, serpentine fashion, toward the leading lady. He resembled a . . . well . . . a manic sperm.

  The departure of Bruce and Ethel was underscored by the abrasive sound of popcorn being crunched underfoot. Several catcalls were directed at them. Some by members of the cast.

  Bruce took Ethel to one of downtown’s famous Coney Island eateries. They were seated at a table for two.

  “I’m terribly sorry about that play.” Bruce dropped his wallet to the floor.

  “That’s okay. You hadn’t seen it before. You didn’t know.” In trying to be helpful and retrieve the wallet, she hit her head on the table.

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” Bruce’s gesture to touch her hand was aborted. He was not sure how a relationship between a man and woman should begin. But his intuition told him Ethel was not the sort of girl one touched on the first date.

  “It’s okay. I only wish I had a nickel for each time I’ve bumped my head.”

  This was a no-nonsense place whose intent was to move customers in and move them out. Bruce and Ethel ordered Coney Islands and coffee.

  They shared an awkward silence until the coffee was served. Both added cream and sugar to their coffee. Both slopped some coffee on the table. The spilled coffee mingled in the middle of the table. It seemed significant. Both blushed.

  “Ethel, I’ve been meaning to ask you. I mean . . . well, this may be impolite. I’m not sure how to put this, but . . .well . . . are you married?” He stirred his coffee vigorously, spilling more of it.

  “Why no, of course not. You don’t think I’d go out with you if I was a married woman, do you? What do you take me for?”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to insult you. I shouldn’t have asked.”

  “No, no, it’s okay. We don’t know each other at all. Or we don’t know very much about each other, at least. I guess questions are okay. Else we’ll never get to know each other. How about you? You married?”

  “Me? Oh, no. No.”

  “Not never?”

  “No, oh, ha-ha, no. Never.”

  “C’mon! A good-lookin’ guy like you? I’ll bet you’ve had your share of girls. Haven’t you?”

  He knew he was blushing violently. “No, not really. Would you believe this is the first honest-to-glory date I’ve ever had.”

  “Would I believe that? I’d have a hard time, I’ll tell you that.”

  “Well, it is. Honest. How about you? I don’t want to embarrass you, but you’re pretty good-looking yourself. I’ll bet you’ve had lots of dates.”

  “Well, you’d lose. Oh, I’ve had a few. But usually only one per fellow. I’m really not all that good-looking. And besides, I tend to be a little on the . . . uh . . . clumsy side.”

  “You too! Did you notice the first time we met we ran into each other and spilled someone’s supper?”

  “Yeah, I did notice that.” She couldn’t help being self-conscious.

  Bruce felt a strong urge to be as honest as possible with this woman. “Actually, this is not exactly how I look. I don’t need these . . .” He removed his eyeglasses. “. . . and this hair is not mine.” He removed his toupee and stuffed it in his pocket. He felt naked, but relieved that at least part of the truth was known.

  She seemed surprised but not shocked. “Well, you do look different, I must say. But . . . well, I mean ... I did know that wasn’t your real hair. But I had no idea what you might look like without it. Well, you look great. I think you
look better without the hairpiece than you do with it. I really do.”

  He was extremely pleased. He hoped they’d be able to strike up a real friendship. And that never would happen if he could not be honest with her.

  “Now, there’s one question I’ve got to ask, and it’s very important.” He leaned across the small table. “You’ve got to be completely honest with me, Ethel.”

  “Yes?”

  “Now that you’ve seen me with and without a disguise, have you ever seen me before? Do you know me from anywhere?”

  She looked at him thoughtfully. “Why, no, Bruce. I never set eyes on you before. Not never!”

  “Good. Very good.”

  “But why didja ask a question like that for?”

  “No real good reason. Only that you seemed to be following me around. I mean, after we bumped into each other, then the next time I looked up—in the clinic—there you were, telling me my sleeve was in a solution.”

  She wouldn’t look at him. “Well, I kinda likedja. You didn’t yell at me when we bumped into each other. And then you stayed and helped me clean up the mess. And all the time, you seemed so apologetic. Nobody ever treated me so swell before. I guess I kinda likedja at first bump. I was so hoping and praying that you’d come look me up today. I guess this is one time when my prayers really got answered. “

  Bruce could scarcely be happier. There was only one more possible fly in his ointment; he’d better get that cleared up immediately. “Speaking of prayers getting answered . . . well, this is a delicate area, but, well, you work at a Catholic hospital, and I was wondering . . .”

  “Am I a Catholic?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “Oh, yes, I’m a Catholic. That’s for sure. How about you?”

  “Oh, yes. Yes, indeed.” Bruce realized he was still only halfway there. These days it was by no means enough merely to be Catholic. One was either a liberal or a conservative Catholic or, if one were neither but still claimed the designation, such a person hardly deserved to claim any religion. And if one were a liberal Catholic, he or she might just as well be a Protestant. That left only one acceptable category.

  Which slot was Ethel in? The answer, Bruce knew, was crucial to their continued friendship. But how to discover . . .?

  The waiter brought their Coney Islands, basically large hot dogs heaped with chili sauce. In lifting the chock-full bun from her plate, Ethel spilled some sauce into her coffee.

  “Waiter!” Bruce found himself speaking more forcefully than was his custom. “There’s been an accident. Bring this lady another cup of coffee!”

  The waiter, with a look and a gesture that said it’s easier doing it than arguing with this turkey, did as Bruce had commanded.

  Ethel was most impressed.

  “Ethel . . .”—Bruce tried very hard not to ruin his sandwich—“are you aware of what goes on in that hospital? In St. Vincent’s?”

  Ethel considered that question, evidently for the first time. “Well . . . operations, treatments, therapy, uh . . . health care—was there something else?”

  “I mean, in the clinic, for example.”

  “The clinic?”

  “Yes. Giving information, counseling, devices for the practice of artificial birth control. Like that!”

  “Oh, policy! No, I never pay any attention to policy. I got enough problems with bedpans and the food trays and keeping the patients in water. Things like that.”

  “But, now that I brought it up, Ethel, what do you think of that kind of thing?”

  “What?”

  “Artificial birth control.”

  “It’s wrong, ain’t it? Ain’t it against the Church? I mean, there was a lot of talk about it some years ago. And didn’t the Church settle it? Didn’t they say it was a sin? Seems that’s how it came out. I guess I didn’t pay much attention. I mean,” she blushed, “it didn’t have much to do with me. If you know what I mean.”

  “Sure. But that means that you accept the official teaching of the Church? The ordinary magisterium?”

  “The ordinary what?”

  “Never mind. If the Pope says it, you believe it?”

  “You’d better believe that! Good heavens, if you can’t trust the Pope, who can you trust? I mean!”

  “You don’t know how happy that makes me!”

  “Really! I wouldn’t have guessed.”

  Bruce was elated. In his excitement, he fumbled his Coney Island. He saved the sandwich, but his napkin fluttered off the table. Ethel dove to save it before it hit the floor. In doing so, she again banged her head against the table. She sat up a bit dazed. She rubbed her forehead. They both laughed.

  Bruce was more and more convinced he had found a kindred klutz. Talk about relationships formed in heaven!

  Contentedly, they finished their Coney Islands and coffee. The check the waiter had left was saturated with coffee and stained with chili sauce. Nevertheless, Bruce was able to make out the total. He left payment plus a small tip.

  As the couple left, the owner breathed a silent prayer that they would forget his location and never return.

  Ethel lived in a downtown apartment complex owned and operated by the League of Catholic Women. Bruce accompanied her home. As no male visitors were allowed beyond the lobby, they parted with a hearty handshake just inside the front door.

  Ethel went immediately to her efficiency apartment. It was still early. She turned on the television. It was either game shows, soap operas, or an old movie. Ethel did not watch much daytime television. When she did, it was usually the soaps. Most of them featured a healthy measure of romance, even if it did tend to be a bit heavyhanded.

  While the old black-and-white set was warming up, Ethel decided to shower.

  Naked, she stood before the full-length mirror. She had only a few minutes before the shower steam would fog it.

  Ethel tended to be ruthlessly objective, which could be—and frequently was—discouraging. Face: very plain. Her dishwater blonde hair was adequate, though it tended to be a bit stringy. Her eyebrows matched the coloration of her hair. Thus, they were almost invisible, adding little character to her nondescript oval face.

  As for the rest of her, what could she say? It was a thirty-seven-year-old body that had never been pampered. The skin was no longer tight. Things were starting to sag. On the plus side, her frame contained not too many extra pounds. So she still possessed curves. But, standing there unclothed, she did not remind herself of a Hollywood starlet or even a go-go dancer. If anything came to mind, it was those pictures of women—naked and shamed—marched off to an open grave by a bunch of Nazi animals.

  Steam obscured the mirror. End of speculation.

  Hot showers felt particularly welcome on cold winter days. God, she hoped she would see Bruce again. It was the truth. She had never had a second date with a boy, or with a man for that matter. Once they discovered her essential clumsiness—the discovery never took long—they could not end the relationship quickly enough.

  Maybe Bruce was different. He certainly was not Mr. Suave. But, more important, he was patient and understanding. She hoped against hope that she was not mistaken. That something could be developing between them.

  But then what would come of it? There was a moment of panic. She had never been . . . intimate with a man. How would that work?

  She decided to hurry her shower and get down to those soaps with a more active interest. Maybe she could learn something from them. Maybe she could get a book or two from the library that might prove helpful.

  Of one thing she was certain: If the opportunity for romance and love presented itself, she would not muff it. She might fumble everything else in life. But by God, she was not going to fumble this.

  * * *

  On the way to the garret he called home, Bruce was stopped by the general manager/owner/producer/director/male lead of the Back Porch Theatre. The man did not allude to Bruce’s job as janitor, mostly because he knew they could not get a dog to clean up for what they wer
e paying Bruce. However, Bruce was advised that he would never again be welcome in the audience; the Back Porch’s presentations were intended for mature adults, not for easily shocked children, and Bruce had better not forget it!

  Bruce absorbed the abuse as he always did—in silence. He was convinced that if things did not always go as they should in this life, there would be another life wherein wrongs would be corrected and justice done. Slime who would stage an immoral drama and then excoriate someone who walked out on it, well, according to Brace’s theodicy, they would be dealt with by a harsh and avenging God.

  Until then, as his leader had pointed out, the lot of the just was martyrdom, in one form or another.

  He made his way to the partially furnished attic that was home. While changing into his denim shirt and overalls, he studied himself briefly in the mirror.

  It didn’t really matter whether he was wearing his glasses and toupee; he was a cipher. Sort of round. A round head and a round body. An awkward gait. He wondered why he bothered with a disguise. From long experience he knew that no one ever noticed him.

  One exception to this rule of oblivion was Ethel. Or was she too good to be true? Only time would tell. But he felt good around her. More surprising than that, he felt comfortable with her. She was the first female he’d ever met who did not make fun of his clumsiness.

  But what if it did work? What if they . . . fell in love? His concern became apprehension. He’d never loved a woman. Not romantically. Here he was, thirty-two years old, and he’d never even had a conscious orgasm. Oh, sure, there’d been nocturnal pollutions. But nothing awake. He subscribed to that theological persuasion that held, for all practical purposes, that sex was dirty and so one should save it for a loved one.

  In any case, Brace could not afford the luxury of daydreaming about romance. He had a task to perform. He had a mission. It was God’s work against an evil empire of sin. That came first. It had to. After that—and only after that—could he see if something might develop between him and Ethel.