“No argument. It’s just that Rosey should have been retired years ago. But her ultimate fear is being put on the shelf. And Eileen is simply too kind to insist on her retirement. On the contrary, each year that it comes up—and it does come up each and every year—Eileen goes to bat with the corporation on behalf of Rosey. And in deference to Eileen, they allow Rosamunda to stay.”
“That sounds sort of nice. Very considerate of Sister Eileen.”
“Except that Rosey is left dependent on Eileen’s continued good will. As long as Eileen is in charge, the corporation will continue to defer to her on this. But eventually, inevitably, Eileen will be forced to pull the active plug on Rosey. And that will be the end of Rosey’s professional life.
“Add to which, Rosey—although officially she is listed as the sacristan and still has access to the patients—is getting senile. And on top of all that, she’s got a bit of a drinking problem. Not much, mind you, but enough to upset the applecart.”
“A drinking problem! You’ve got to be kidding!”
“I don’t kid. Not about that kind of thing. Now, Father, you know that’s not unheard-of. Although most Catholics—and I suppose that includes priests—like to think that someone like the aged and venerable Sister Rosamunda is above every human failing, above every human condition. But that’s just not realistic. With Rosey, it began years ago when arthritis joined her long list of medical problems. There was a lot of pain and a reluctance to depend on medication. Which, with an accumulation of ills like those that hit Rosey, wouldn’t have done all that much to relieve the suffering. Like many elderly people in pain, she turned to alcohol for some relief. She’s still on it.”
“Okay, suppose she is . . . what has that got to do with anything else?”
“Only this: that while there are some people—like the two I’ve mentioned—who might deliberately plan to undermine Eileen in running this hospital, somebody like Rosey could deep-six Eileen’s operation very effectively, if unintentionally. Or, she could even be used by someone who wanted to get at Eileen.”
A small bell sounded and the “up” button lit. Up was their only option. They were in the basement. They entered the elevator, silent during the one-story ride.
The lobby was vacant, with the exception of the receptionist, who was busy at her switchboard. The two men paused again.
“Let’s sit down for a moment,” Scott said.
Since no one else was in the lobby, the two men had a wide selection. They chose a two-person couch against the wall near the elevator.
“A group of us here at St. Vincent’s happen to appreciate what Eileen is trying to do,” Scott commenced. “We try as best we can to make it work—because of the way we feel about her. You’re going to be here only a few weeks. But in that time God knows what might happen.
“I used to read your stuff in the Detroit Catholic when you were editor. You struck me as the kind of person who would understand what Eileen is trying to do—that is, if you knew about it—as well as recognize some of the roadblocks along the way. So, for the duration of your stay in Father Thompson’s absence, and on behalf of those who are backing Sister Eileen—including Father Thompson—I guess I’m asking for your support.”
“Well, you have it. Very definitely. Just one question: How long do you think you all can hold things together?”
Scott ran a hand through his beard for a few moments. “Not long enough, I fear. Like all hospitals, the bottom line on St. Vincent’s is a deficit budget. The ledger for this hospital looks like a gigantic nosebleed. But for Eileen’s sake, we want it to last as long as it possibly can.
“Eileen is dedicated to serving the poor. And, inspired by her sacrifice, we join her. So we stay here as some sort of sign to whoever wants to recognize what we’re doing.
“Almost everyone else in the health care business is in it to make a living, if not a damn good profit, while we watch the money trickle away. It would be nice if someone bailed us out. But, then, there’s almost no way anyone could do that. Our deficit is a bottomless pit. So we say, ‘what the hell,’ and dive into the folly that is Christianity.” Scott paused and looked significantly at Koesler. “With all of that, are you still with us?”
“Gladly. But you have given me lots to think about.” He smiled. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
They parted. After hanging his chaplain’s uniform in the closet of the pastoral care department, Koesler made his way to his car in the nearby parking lot. All the way back to his parish, St. Anselm’s in Dearborn Heights, he continued to ponder all that Dr. Scott had told him.
Without doubt, there was more to St. Vincent’s Hospital than met the casual eye. He would have to be alert to every nuance, especially those that affected Sister Eileen or her program.
At St. Anselm’s, he checked the desk in his office. There were only a few phone calls to be returned. He could do that in the morning.
* * *
I wonder what it will be like to kill a nun. Why should it be any different from killing anyone else? Is there some circle in hell reserved for murderers of nuns?
The whole business is ludicrous. I would laugh if I could. But I cannot. The pain—the pain in my head is killing me. It feels as if the top of my head is about to blow apart.
It is not as though death is foreign to this place. A hospital almost 150 years old! Thousands of people have died here. What is one more!
The good nun’s soul would be assumed into heaven. Why not? She probably is not aware that she is torturing me. That she is twisting a band of stress ever tighter until my head is ready to explode! The hounds of hell are screaming in my brain!
Will no one rid me of this troublesome nun? No one? No one! Then I must do it myself.
She must die. And I must do it. At the right moment. But soon—it must be soon!
* * *
The expression “As different as the night the day” could not find a truer embodiment than in a hospital. St. Vincent’s was no exception. Nor was there any doubt that schedules were established for the convenience of hospital personnel.
Day began when the day staff arrived at approximately 6:00 a.m. Day began slowly. Both staff and patients were trying to wake up. Patients’ conditions were checked. Cheery words spoken. Grunts returned. Sponge baths given. Medications administered. The action and commotion intensified as the day progressed.
Some patients did nothing; some were healing, some dying. Some were wheeled down to surgery. Some to therapy. Some to postoperative intensive care. Some returned to their rooms. Some received visitors. Some, if they could afford the rental, watched the mindless games and soaps of daytime commercial TV. Some who could not afford it watched one of the two “free” channels. One of these showed ancient slapstick movies. The other was the chapel channel, which, most of the time, showed a large, empty ornate chapel. Patients were fed three meals a day plus an evening snack, according to doctors’ orders.
A kind of climax was reached in late afternoon. After which came a gradual decrescendo.
Dinner was followed by prime-time TV and/or visitors. At 8:00 p.m., visiting hours ended and night prayers were broadcast.
Most employees had gone home, thus the hospital tempo slowed. There was a last-ditch effort to supply patient needs. After 10:00 p.m., in effect, the patients would not be needed until morning.
It was now just a few minutes after ten. All corridor overhead lights were off. Floor-level night-lights gave only scant illumination to hallways.
George Snell, a burly security guard, was on duty.