Pat Lennon entered Sister’s office, smiled and, hand outstretched, approached the desk. Sister Eileen stood and they shook hands. Briefly but thoroughly the two appraised each other.
Lennon was surprised. Newspaper photos did not do Sister Eileen justice. She seemed a warmly attractive woman. Lennon had been through parochial school, even a Catholic college. She was used to nuns in traditional habits. She reflected on what a waste it would be to wrap this woman in yards and yards of wool. Any woman who could keep her figure into late middle age deserved to let others know.
Sister Eileen was surprised. While she had seen Pat’s byline many times, as was so often the case with reporters there was never an accompanying photo. Columnists were well recognized, because their photos usually ran with their columns. But reporters, who were easily of equal or greater importance, lived lives of personal anonymity. Over the years, Sister had seen her share of reporters, but this one was different. Why, she could easily have been a motion picture or stage star.
Beyond appearance, each woman realized and acknowledged that the other was both expert and extremely competent in her field. They respected each other.
Sister gestured to Lennon to be seated. “So, what brings you to St. Vincent’s, Miss Lennon?”
“Pat.” Lennon invited the use of her first name.
Sister Eileen nodded. However, as was the case with Father Koesler, she herself would be more at home with her title.
“For the longest time, I’ve sort of had St. Vincent’s in the back of my mind,” Lennon opened. “I mean, here it sits in the middle of downtown Detroit. And yet, in a way, it isn’t here. With no disrespect, Sister, St. Vincent’s is one of the last refuges anybody thinks about. There are so many big hospitals, like Receiving or Harper or Grace— and some, like Children’s, that specialize—that not too many people think very often of St. Vincent’s.”
“So, you’ve come here just to think about St. Vincent’s?” It was more a voicing of incredulity than a question.
“I want to do a feature on St. Vincent’s for our Sunday magazine.”
“Oh.”
“Is there a problem?”
“I hope not. What do you intend to do?”
“Start by interviewing you. Then, tour the hospital. Sort of get the feel of it. Talk to some of the staff. If it’s okay, spend some time in various departments like the emergency room, the X-ray lab; maybe talk to some patients. I’m not sure where this will lead. But it’s supposed to be a feature article, so it should be fairly comprehensive. It can’t do St. Vincent’s any harm. Most hospitals have gotten into advertising. An article in the
She doesn’t know where this will lead, but it can’t hurt, thought Sister. We’ll just have to see about that. “We’ll do our best to cooperate,” she said. Realistically, there wasn’t any alternative.
“Can we start with your interview?”
Eileen checked her watch. “I’m afraid I haven’t much time. I’ve got to attend a meeting in about fifteen minutes.”
“Let’s see how far we can get.” Without being able to structure her story before all the interviews were completed, Lennon thought of making Sister Eileen the article’s centerpiece. Only time would tell. “Would you mind if my photographer joins us?”
“Photographer?” Eileen had not counted on pictures. This thing was escalating. “Oh, you must have some photos of me in your files at the paper.”
“Nothing up-to-date. We’ll want fresh shots of you and the hospital. We can contrast the way the building looks now with some of those ancient stills we’ve got in our library.”
Sister chuckled. “You’re not going to contrast my present appearance with some of those ancient stills of me that you’ve got in your morgue, are you?”
“Not likely. You probably don’t look a lot different.”
“That was a long time ago.” Just the suggestion of days gone by brought a flood of memories. She forced herself back to the present. “Very well. What’s your photographer’s name?”
“William Arnold. He prefers William, not Bill.”
She spoke into the intercom. “Dolly, there should be a photographer named William Arnold out there. Would you send him in, please.”
A moment later, a young black man entered. Eileen did not count the cameras suspended from his neck and shoulders, but there seemed to be many.
Introductions were exchanged. Then, “Don’t pay any attention to William, Sister. Just talk to me naturally. William will get some candid shots of you.”
Eileen was not happy with this arrangement. She did not photograph well under the best of circumstances. And with a candid shot, the likelihood was great that her mouth or eyes might be opened too wide, or she might be grimacing. But, as with the interview, there was nothing much to do but cooperate. A lack of collaboration would only antagonize. And in a feature article, St. Vincent’s needed all the help it could get.
Lennon opened her notepad as William began checking the lighting and moving things around. He was distracting; no two ways about that.
“So, Sister, when did you come to St. Vincent’s?”
She needed only a moment to recall the date. “In 1936, I was just out of the convent with temporary vows.”
Lennon’s pen stopped, poised over the pad. She was figuring.
Eileen laughed. “I was eighteen at the time.” Pause. “Which means I’m now sixty-eight.”
Lennon looked at her. Incredible. For Pat, in her early thirties, the late sixties spelled “old.” She would never have imagined anyone would look so good at sixty-eight. “Then you have been here . . . fifty years!”
Eileen smiled. She knew what Lennon was thinking. That she had been at St. Vincent’s longer than Pat had been alive. “Well, off and on. There was some time taken out for further training, some degrees. But, it’s true, St. Vincent’s has been my one mission.”
William was moving around behind and on either side of Lennon, snapping pictures madly. Sister Eileen found this quite disconcerting. But . . . there was no help for it.
“Isn’t that a bit unusual, Sister? I mean, don’t nuns and priests—especially nuns, get moved around a lot?” Lennon was remembering the nuns who had been her teachers. One of the most difficult challenges in tracking down one’s former religious teachers was locating their present assignment.
“I guess that’s true of most Sisters. It’s hard to say how it happened that I’ve been here all these years. Timing has a lot to do with it. Some might say it was providence. I just happened to be here and ready to assume it each time a new position opened up. Now,” Eileen shook her head, “I don’t know that anyone wants the job.”
“That brings us down to the bottom line, Sister. Something I want to explore in some depth. I know it will be the question uppermost in my readers’ minds: Why? There doesn’t seem to be any earthly reason why St. Vincent’s should still be here. Why?”
“That is, indeed, a very big question, Pat.” Eileen glanced at her watch. “Far too big for us to get into just now, since I’ve got a meeting to attend. Maybe we can pick it up later.” She stood, as did Lennon. William mercifully stopped shooting.
“You did say you wanted to tour the hospital, didn’t you, Pat?”
“Very much so.”
“It will be a bit delicate. You’ll have to be most careful when it comes to our patients. They are likely to be frightened of you. And we can’t have anyone disturbing the routine.”
“Trust us, Sister. We won’t take anyone’s picture without his or her permission. We’ll be very circumspect. Maybe it’ll be possible for us to talk again after we’ve been around the hospital and you’ve finished with your meeting.”
“That will be quite late in the day. But, we’ll see.”
Eileen arranged with Dolly to have credentials made up for Lennon and Arnold. An aide was summoned to escort the two newspeople to the various nurses’ stations and the various hospital departments.
As she left them, Eileen breathed a prayer that all would go well. For things to go well, particularly if they visited the clinic, would require a miracle. But then, Sister Eileen believed in miracles.
Because she knew how to cut through red tape, and because she was secretary to the CEO, Dolly was able
