“A premonition! Really, Walt!”
“You do not know him as I do, Ned. Father is not one to cry wolf. And when it comes to an intuitive sense, he has been right more often than anyone else I know. So if he has a premonition of evil, I tend to pay attention.”
“But, Walt, that’s something like saying that things come to a conclusion at a mortuary. Things like that happen in a hospital. People are sick. People die. It happens whether Father Koesler is there or not.”
“He is not concerned with the ordinary, expected occurrences of hospital routine. He is worried that something extraordinary might happen at St. Vincent’s.”
“‘Something extraordinary,’ Walt? You’re talking about murder, aren’t you?”
“That was the ultimate concern.”
“Even then—even if he’s right—there’s nothing we can do about it. We’re not in the business of preventing homicide; we just investigate it.”
“I am well aware of that. I am concerned mainly because if he is proven correct, he is there in the midst of it. He could be drawn into it innocently.”
“There is always another possibility, Walt.”
“What?”
“That he’s wrong.”
“I hope you are right.”
“I have a premonition. It’s that Father Koesler is wrong. And I’ll match my premonition against his any day. Make you feel any better?”
Koznicki sighed deeply. He wanted to argue the point no more. “You win, Ned. All is well.”
* * *
Sister Rosamunda was making her rounds. She was trying not to be bitter. It was not easy. Her bones seemed to ache clear through to the marrow. She was feeling her years and trying not to show it.
Put her on the shelf, would they? Well! We’ll see about that!
She had checked the Crawford woman and her neighbor, Millie Power. All appeared normal there. Power’s pneumonia seemed stabilized and Crawford was just scared, as well she might be, being operated on tomorrow. Rosamunda promised herself and Crawford a visit tonight to try to quiet and reassure the patient into a decent night’s sleep.
The next patient on her list was an Alice Walker in 2218-A, who had been admitted earlier this day.
Rosamunda entered the room, her practiced eye catching all the essentials at a glance. The bed nearest the door was vacant. Too much of that going on at St. Vincent’s. A hospital’s financial situation is not helped by empty beds.
Obviously, Alice Walker was very elderly and very ill. She seemed to be sleeping, but you could never tell just by looking. Her wispy white hair was matted from perspiration. Her cheeks and eyes were sunken. She lay perfectly still. Only the merest periodic rise and fall of her chest indicated she was breathing.
There was nothing on her bedstand next to the window but a bare tray on which was a water pitcher and an empty glass. No card, no flower, no personal effect. Likely, Alice Walker’s friends and relations were gone before her or were unable to visit her. Rosamunda had seen it hundreds of times. An old person, usually a woman, who had outlived her contemporaries. There is no one as alone as one who reaches the end of life without anyone left who cares. Well, Rosamunda would be the one who cared.
The nun made a conscious effort to see not a barely animated relic, but a total woman. She had been a child, a young woman, a mother, a grandmother. Once she had given life to others, cared for them. Now she was in desperate need of care for herself. Everyone she might have depended on was gone. If help came now, and that was not likely, it would have to come from some stranger.
Rosamunda stood at the bedside. She could tell the patient was resting and not in deep sleep.
“How do you feel, dear?” Rosamunda touched the woman’s shoulder.
Alice Walker opened her eyes and seemed startled to see someone in a traditional religious habit. “All right, I guess. Tired. Sister . . .”
“Rosamunda. We’re about the same age; why don’t you call me Rosey. Other people do, but mostly behind my back. “
Alice Walker smiled weakly.
“What’s ailing you, Alice?”
“Oh, gall bladder. Been acting up. I guess they’re going to take it out. Another part of me in the grave ahead of time.”
It was Rosamunda’s turn to smile. “Cheer up, Sweetie, gall bladder’s the in operation these days. All the swells have it. You’re just being fashionable. Says here on the chart that you’re a Catholic. Would you like Communion tomorrow morning?”
“That would be nice. Can I go to confession first?”
“Uh-huh. We’ve got a priest for that. I’ll ask him to see you before Communion. I can bring you Communion but we’ve got to hunt up a priest to absolve you. Just as well! Give them something to do.” It was said only partially in jest. She still smarted from what she considered Koesler’s meddling. “In the meantime, let me leave this little brochure with you. Explains the pastoral care department. Got some handy prayers, too. Read it once if you get a chance. Then I’ll be back later on and we’ll have a nice chat.”
“That would be good.” Alice, sensing she had found a friend, was grateful.
Rosamunda was about to leave but hesitated. There was something . . . something unspoken, but something wrong. Her extensive experience suggested there was something more that needed attention. She returned to the bedside.
“Alice, something else is wrong, isn’t it? Something besides your gall bladder.”
“I’m an old lady. There’s lots wrong with me.”
“No, there’s something you want to tell me about. What is it? Are you ashamed or embarrassed? Don’t be. By now, you and I have heard everything.”
“Well . . . there’s my feet.”
“Let’s see.” Rosamunda pulled the sheet and light blanket away from Alice Walker’s feet. They appeared to be in a terminal state of trench foot. Rosamunda was startled, mostly that she had not detected the odor.
“It’s hard to keep them warm in the wintertime,” Alice Walker said apologetically.
“I know you’re here for your gall bladder . . . but hasn’t anyone done anything about your feet?”
“No, I guess not.”
This was by no means a unique case. Not long before, Rosamunda had encountered a patient with horribly ulcerated legs, who was about to be discharged after a successful colon resection. It was one of the nastier byproducts of the DRG—Diagnostic Related Group—approach to health care. The patient’s care was limited in time and cost to that allotted by the government to colon resections. His time and money was used up. Any additional cost would have to be borne by the hospital. And that would not do.
Rosamunda had been unable to aid that patient; his discharge had been too imminent. So he had been forced to depart from the hospital with a repaired colon and bad legs. The same would not happen to this patient!
“The priest will be in to hear your confession, darling, and I will bring you Communion. And there will be a podiatrist in to see you and take care of those feet. You can depend on that!”
Alice Walker knew she could depend on it.
Try to put her on the shelf, would they! Well, thought Rosamunda, we’ll just see about that!
* * *
It hadn’t been that long since George Snell had been forced to promise a reformation. The three pledges he had made to his superior burned in his memory. But so far—to his amazement—he had kept them. He had arrived for patrol on time and had not left early. He had faithfully kept up the log of his tour of duty. And—by far the most difficult—he had kept moving when on patrol. He had not succumbed to any of the upholstered chairs or couches in any of the visiting parlors. He had not sacked out in any empty one-bed patient rooms. And, most sadly, he had not philandered with any of the many nubile nurses or aides.