Deathbed

so.

That tendency to report is simply more finely tuned in the case of a staff writer of the caliber of a Pat Lennon.

At this moment, she was trying to reach a less drastic, but possibly contributory, decision: whether to let Joe Cox in on her problem.

Lennon and Cox were an interesting study. Few would argue that the two were among the best, if not actually the best, investigative reporters in the city. At one time both had worked out of the Detroit Free Press. Lennon had moved to the News several years ago. So now, while they competed for stories, they also worked for genuinely competitive publications.

In this, Detroit was among the dwindling number of fortunate major cities whose metropolitan newspapers were in sharp contrast with one another in almost every conceivable facet.

During the time both had been at the Free Press, Lennon and Cox had begun living together without benefit of clergy. Each had a previous marriage; neither had children. Both felt they had chanced upon something rare and fine: a relationship that found them loving each other and growing in that love. It was the epitome of what one might hope to find in an exemplary marriage. Neither wished to chance mucking up what they had by getting the certificate that society expected them to acquire stating they were married.

In addition, their sex was great.

The obvious pitfall, of course, was that their jobs frequently placed them in direct competition. By now, they had worked out some ground rules. Each recognized that if their self-made rules were not scrupulously observed, it could easily mean the end of their personal relationship. So the rules were scrupulously kept.

One of these rules would have to be invoked should Lennon choose to solicit Cox’s help in making her decision on how to treat what she’d uncovered at St. Vincent’s.

The rule was Confidentiality. And it was tricky.

Getting to know each other as well as they had, it was next to impossible to keep secrets. It was only natural that Lennon had mentioned to him that she was taking on St. Vincent’s as a feature piece for Michigan Magazine. And she had. So Cox knew what she was currently working on.

Then, being as upset over this decision on how to handle the story as she was, and having grown as familiar with him as she had, it was impossible to hide her distress from him.

For Cox, it would be simple to add this up and conclude that there was something bigger than met the expectation about this hospital story. At which point he might wander over to the hospital. It would take him no longer than it had her to find the piece that didn’t fit in the puzzle.

That must not happen. If it did, it would mean that one of them, by virtue of their personal relationship, had taken professional advantage of the other. And if that happened even once, it would spell the end for them.

So, in this supremely delicate matter of confidentiality, their attitude had to be comparable to the priest’s with regard to the seal of confession. There could be no exceptions. Each absolutely had to respect the other’s confidences.

Of course, again analogous to the priest’s treatment of the confessional, if either Lennon or Cox were to come into knowledge of something like this from another source, such as a snitch, or while on an unrelated editorial assignment, there would be no violation of the other’s confidence.

Reflecting on all this, Lennon determined she had little alternative but to include Cox in her decision-making process.

So she told him what she had discovered in the hospital’s clinic.

Cox whistled low and sincerely. “Wow! That’s a multi-installment story that could hover around page one for a long time.”

“I know.”

“And it’s been awhile since we’ve had the local Catholic Church embroiled in a hot little controversy.”

“And that makes it all the more sensational.”

“The only problem I find is that I don’t see your problem. Go with it! Right?”

“That’s the problem: I’m not sure.”

“What! It’s a legitimate news story, isn’t it?”

“Oh, sure.”

“You came upon it honestly. I mean, you didn’t even use any deception in uncovering it.”

“As a matter of fact, they just showed it to me. It was part of the tour.”

“Their tough luck, then.”

“I still don’t know.”

Cox moved to the couch and sat at her feet. “Look, I’d like to be able to play devil’s advocate. But I’d find that kind of hard. It’s a good story, a legitimate story. The kind of story you’re in this business for. Is it because the hospital’s Catholic, and your background—”

“No. Well, maybe yes. No, not because it’s Catholic. Maybe because it’s Christian.”

“Huh?”

“Broader than Catholic. The little place is there trying to do what Christ would do if he were here. To do that, according to their lights, they have to go against some of the official teachings of the Catholic Church. It’s . . . it’s more Christ-like.”

“The more you explain, the less I understand.”

“It would be almost like crucifying Christ again.” She was talking more to herself than to him. “No, I won’t do it. There are some things I cannot compromise, even for a good story.”

“You’re not going to use it?”

“And neither are you!” She looked him squarely in the eye.

“I know our agreement. No, I won’t use it. But, by God, I’m glad I’m not Catholic.”

“You don’t understand, Joe. It’s got almost nothing to do with being Catholic.”

“It’s certainly got nothing to do with being a journalist.”

“It’s what I’ve got to do.”

Cox shrugged. “That’s what you’ve got to do. There are things we just have to do. And times we have to do them.” Slowly he peeled off one of her stockings. Then the other.

She smiled. “It’s bedtime, isn’t it?”

7

This was one of those days. One of those days you’d rather throw away. But, on the other hand, Sister Eileen did not favor wishing away any of her remaining days. There simply were a number of unpleasant things that needed doing. And she was the only one who could do them.

Already she had had to address a meeting of the nurses and nurses’ aides relating to some of the slipshod work going on in the hospital. Special mention had to be made regarding breakage. A great deal of that had been going on. The report given Sister Eileen identified the specific aide responsible for most of that, one Ethel Laidlaw. A notation had been added that aide Laidlaw apparently was not willfully careless or guilty of malicious destruction. It seemed to be a case of congenital clumsiness. Nonetheless, the damage was considerable.

In her lecture, Eileen went out of her way to, on the one hand, inform all present that the identity of the principal offender was known, and, on the other, not to mention her by name. Everyone there, including Ethel, knew exactly who Sister Eileen was talking about.

To cap the climax, during the session, Ethel managed to tip over the coffee urn. There was an unscheduled fifteen-minute break while the mess was cleaned up.

Sister Eileen was seated at the desk in her office sorting the mail, separating those matters that demanded immediate attention from those that allowed some procrastination. She also was awaiting the next bit of unpleasantness on today’s agenda.

Her secretary spoke through the intercom: “Sister, Dr. Kim is here to see you.”

That was it.

“Send him in, Dolly.”

Kim entered and went immediately to the chair at the visitor’s side of Eileen’s desk.