None of them are sacred.”
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Judith agreed. “Some people, especially borderline
poverty types, can’t resist temptation.”
“How about just plain crooks?” Renie said, now
angry. She slammed the lid shut and closed the clasps
with a sharp snap. “I suppose that’s who it was. It’s a
damned good thing I didn’t have anything valuable in
there except for a twenty-five-dollar lipstick that the
would-be thief probably figured was from Woolworth’s. Let me check your train case.”
“I locked it,” Judith said. “It’s just a habit. I used to
hide any extra money I earned from tips at the Meat &
Mingle in there. If I hadn’t, Dan would have spent it on
Twinkies and booze.”
Renie checked the train case to make sure. “It looks
okay.” She stood up and handed over the drawing pad.
Judith offered her cousin a grateful smile and then
sighed. “I feel as if I’m about to sign my life away.”
“Put it down on paper and see how it looks,” Renie
suggested, glancing up from the newspaper. “That’s
what I do with my work. If it seems okay, then it’s
right, then it’s Truth.”
“Uh-huh,” Judith responded without enthusiasm.
She started with Mac and a question mark for the baby
to come, then put in Mike and Kristin. Next, she wrote
in her own name, Judith Anne Grover McMonigle
Flynn. Then she stopped. “Here I go,” she said, and incisively lettered in Joseph Patrick Flynn above Mike’s
name. “It’s official. Joe is down here in black and
white as Mike’s real father.”
“I’ll be damned,” Renie said in amazement.
“Did you think I was a complete coward?” Judith retorted with a faintly hostile glance.
“What?” Renie turned away from the newspaper.
“I’m not talking about you. I’m referring to this brief
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and almost-buried article in the business section. Listen: ‘Restoration Heartware of North America yesterday reiterated its intention to expand its medical
facilities beyond cardiac care. The Cleveland-based
firm has shown interest in a half-dozen orthopedic facilities in the United States, including Good Cheer
Hospital, which is currently owned and operated by the
Sisters of Good Cheer. A spokesperson for Good
Cheer stated that the religious order is not interested in
any kind of merger or buyout at this time.’ Is that
spokesperson Blanche Van Boeck?”
Intrigued, Judith leaned on one elbow to face her
cousin. “Who’s asking the question?”
“Me,” Renie replied. “The article doesn’t identify
the spokesperson. Maybe that’s because Blanche
isn’t official. Why didn’t Dr. Van Boeck or Sister
Jacqueline meet with the press? How come Blanche
barged in instead? The morning paper must have gotten this from the TV news story, since KLIP seemed
to be the only one asking questions out here in the
hall yesterday.”
Judith was also puzzled. “You know a lot more
about the business world than I do, coz. What do you
make of all this?”
With her disheveled hair standing on end, the big
bandage on her shoulder, the blue sling on her arm, and
the baggy hospital gown sagging around her figure,
Renie’s boardroom face looked more like it belonged
in the bathroom. Still, she approached the question
with her customary professionalism.
“There’s a conspiracy of silence about Good Cheer,”
she said. “It’s not necessarily malevolent or mysterious. Any institution or business enterprise deplores
speculative publicity and rumors. If a company is ripe
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for a takeover or a merger, they feel vulnerable, like a
wounded animal. It’s a sign of weakness, particularly
when stockholders are involved. The top brass go to
ground to wait for the worst to blow over.”
“Are you saying,” Judith inquired, “that Good Cheer
is in financial trouble?”
“Many hospitals are in financial trouble,” Renie answered. “In the past few years, I’ve done brochures and
letterheads and other design projects for at least three
hospitals, including our own HMO. All of them were
very bottom-line conscious, and all of them expressed
serious concerns about keeping afloat.”
Judith nodded. “I understand that modern medicine
is a mess, but it seems impossible in a country as rich
and supposedly smart as the United States that we
could have gotten into such a fix. No wonder Mother
keeps ranting about how Harry Truman tried to get universal medical coverage legislation through Congress
over fifty years ago, and how if he couldn’t do it, nobody could. And nobody has.”
“Very sad, very shortsighted,” Renie agreed. “But in
the case of Good Cheer, I get the impression that
they’re simply trying to survive. Certainly the nuns
would hate to give up the hospital. There may be a
shortage of vocations, but certainly nursing—and administrative skills—are worthwhile in a religious community. Not to mention that they’re drawing cards for
women who are contemplating a vocation. If the Sisters of Good Cheer don’t have a hospital to run and patients to care for, what will they do? Medicine is their
tradition of service.”
“It’s sad,” Judith sighed. “If it’s true.” She gazed up
at the statue of Mary with the infant Jesus. The plaster
was a bit cracked and the paint a trifle chipped, but the
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Virgin’s expression was easy to read: She looked worried, and Judith couldn’t blame her.
“It’s the whole bigger-is-better mentality,” Renie
said in disgust. “By the time our kids are our age,
about four people will own everything in the world.
It’ll be stifling, stupid, and I’ll be damned glad to be either dead or gaga.”
“Don’t say that, coz,” Judith said in mild reproach.
“And don’t get off on a tangent. You still haven’t explained why you think there’s a cover-up.”
“Do I need to?” Renie snapped. “There are tons of
reasons for a cover-up. Good Cheer may be losing
money hand over fist. They’re certainly losing patients
in a most terrible way. The hospital and the religious
order have their reputations on the line. So do individuals, like Dr. Van Boeck, Dr. Garnett, Sister Jacqueline. With Blanche in their corner—or at least in the
hospital’s corner—there’s enough clout to muzzle the
media. Except, of course, for a rogue reporter like Addison Kirby, who’s not only something of a star in his
own right, but who has a personal stake in all this because of what happened to his wife.”
Judith paused as the mop brigade arrived. Two
middle-aged women, one Pakistani and the other
Southeast Asian, silently and efficiently began cleaning Judith’s half of the room. When they reached the
other side where Renie had trashed her sector, they
looked at each other in dismay. In her native tongue,
the Pakistani rattled off a string of what, in any language, sounded like complaints. The Southeast Asian
looked mystified, but responded with her own invective, jabbing a finger at Renie and scowling.
“Hey, what did I do? I’m crippled,” Renie said,
holding up her good hand. “I can’t help myself.”
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Both women directed their unintelligible, if vitriolic,