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 were 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.
He could, of course, pray over it. And he would. While he cleaned up the popcorn.
* * *
Sister Eileen Monahan sat idly at her desk. Since the attack, she’d had difficulty concentrating, particularly when alone. There was a tendency to relive in memory the panic that had overcome her when she was grabbed from behind and choked—the feeling that she was about to die.
Her struggle to remain conscious and stay alive had surprised her somehow. She had always assumed that when the time came to face death she would be able to abandon herself to the will of God and go with a sense of peace. And when she was attacked, she’d had no doubt that she was about to die. Now, as a result of that incident, she was trying to better prepare herself for death under any eventuality.
As for the hospital staff, fortunately the turmoil over the incident was quieting down. After the initial brouhaha, everyone recognized that it had been no more than a freak occurrence. The assailant had been suffering the early symptoms of withdrawal from a drug overdose. He’d had no real idea of what he was doing. He would have attacked anyone walking down that corridor at that time. That she had been the victim had been her bad luck, but no more than a coincidence. The main benefit of the episode was that security had been tightened in the detox unit.
“There’s someone to see you, Sister.”
Sister Eileen glanced up at her secretary. Then she squinted through her half-glasses at her appointment calendar. She had a meeting in half an hour. Blindly she could have bet there’d be a meeting in a short while from anytime. But there was no appointment scheduled for this time.
“She doesn’t have an appointment.” There were times when Dolly came close to reading Sister’s mind.
“Who is it, Dolly?”
“A Miss Patricia Lennon.”
Patricia Lennon. Patricia Lennon. The name rang a very definite but ill-defined bell.
“From the
“Oh.” Pause. “Give me a couple of minutes, Dolly, then show her in, will you?”
“Yes, Sister.” The door closed behind her.
Pat Lennon.
The full given name had fooled her. With Patricia Lennon she was unfamiliar. With Pat Lennon she was right at home. Sister had been reading Pat Lennon’s byline for what seemed like ages. First in the
But what was Pat Lennon doing at St. Vincent’s? From all Sister could recall, Pat was one of the city’s top reporters. What did they call them . . . investigative reporters. Yes, from all Sister had heard and read, Pat Lennon was one of the best investigative reporters around. Which brought Sister back to the beginning: Why would a top investigative reporter be calling at St. Vincent’s? To investigate? What?
That, thought Sister, is all we need. Here we are, hanging on by a thread and here comes someone to unravel that thread.
St. Vincent’s existence was so increasingly precarious that Sister Eileen had lived through its death in anticipation many times. It was anyone’s guess how much longer the institution might endure. But she had poured so much of herself into it that she had figuratively joined her life to that of the hospital. She guessed she might die a little if St. Vincent’s were to close.
She could not see the presence and interest of Pat Lennon as anything but a threat. But, like all the other threatening realities of life, this one too must be faced.
