Deathbed

fruitless had George not been in a state of precarious balance.

Balance upset, George had tumbled out of bed and hit the floor rolling. He struck Alice Walker’s bed with considerable force. Enough force to, in effect, knock the bed right out from under Alice. The bed eventually hit the nearby wall. Alice, proving again that what goes up must come down, landed atop George—which was fortunate for Alice since George broke her fall. As it was, she collected a few bruises from the impact. If George had not been beneath her, the fall easily could have been fatal.

The masticated crackers that had matted and lodged in her throat became dislodged in the fall and she began breathing again.

But Helen had no way of knowing whether any serious damage had been done by the crackers or the fall. So she signaled code blue. By the time the resuscitation team reached Room 2218, Helen and George were fully, if untidily, clothed and Helen had somewhat breathlessly instructed George on the basics of the Heimlich Maneuver to which he would attribute Alice Walker’s resuscitation.

Helen was able to run through her original and fictitious scenario with George while the code team checked Alice Walker and found that all was well, with the minor exception of the bruises.

By the time Chief Martin and the crowd had gathered, George had pretty well learned his lines and was letter-perfect—with the one flaw of not being able to remember the name Heimlich. But, as with most things in life, one need not be able to spell it if one can do it.

Beyond sotto-voce correcting George when it came to specifying the method used to revive Alice Walker, Helen had little to contribute. Thus, she had time to reflect on the incongruity that while she and George were bandying about the Heimlich Maneuver, she had yet to experience the storied Snell Maneuver.

She wondered if she ever would.

*       *       *

One pair of eyes had followed Bruce Whitaker throughout this evening with keen interest.

God knows what is going on down the hall. But as long as everyone is occupied with that, I have a chance to see what he was up to.

Now, which chart was he working on? Ah, here it is. He didn’t bother to push it back in place tightly. God, I can barely see, the pain in my head is so intense. Nothing to take for it either. Wait, give yourself a little time. There, it seems to be easing up a bit.

All right. He removed at least one sticker; that is obvious. He seems to have added one. But for what purpose? Let me think. He seems to be putting her on a program. But why? No, she can’t be on the program! Not as long as . . . Ah, I see what he had in mind. Hmmpf; all he had to do was remove one more sticker . . . how could anyone be so stupid!

But the final question: What does he hope to accomplish by this? If this were to go through the way he has set it up—if he had done it correctly . . . why . . . yes—this would be a blunder so egregious that the hospital would have no way of covering it up. This would indeed make the news media.

First the attempted mutilation of IUDs. Now this. He does not seem capable of carrying it off. Yet, all unknowing, he seems to be trying to do just what I would wish. But he needs some help. Oh, yes, he certainly needs help. And I can give it. I will just take this other sticker off the chart.

Now, Bruce Whitaker, your plot will work. It may prove a costly price to pay, but we will be rid of that troublesome nun before she gets rid of me.

I have no idea why you are doing this, Bruce Whitaker, but you are playing right into my hands. And with you as my emissary, I now hold all the cards.

At long last, farewell, Sister Eileen!

*       *       *

Pat Lennon lifted her glass of sherry in salute.

“Congratulations, Joe. You broke it.”

Joe Cox inclined his head ever so slightly in acknowledgment. Then he frowned. “But, when you think of it, what a waste! All that destruction and all those injuries because somebody was peddling substandard joints.”

Having accepted her toast and waited for her to take a sip of sherry, Cox tasted his Gibson. The smile returned. No water in the world, he thought, was as clear and inviting as vodka or gin.

They were dining at Joe Muer’s, an extremely popular seafood restaurant within strolling distance of their Lafayette Towers apartment. The walk had been complicated this evening due to near-blizzard conditions. But they made the trek anyway.

They were celebrating Cox’s reporting of the recent riot at Cobo Arena following a rock concert there. By now, of course, the rest of the media— the News, television, and radio—had the story. But Cox had gotten it first and had as yet exclusive access to the same essential source as the police had. The Free Press had copyrighted Cox’s account. Thus the rest of the media were forced to play catch-up to the Free Press.

As Lennon popped open her napkin and spread it on her lap, the fragrance of her perfume wafted in Cox’s direction. His smile widened. This was so much better than going out for drinks with the guys. No—Cox amended that—this was better than anything he had had in his entire life.

“What’s next, Joe?”

“I don’t know. Sort of between stories. But I’d better come up with one pretty damn quick or Nelson Kane is gonna nail me with one of those what-are-kids-doing-with-guns-in-school assignments.”

“Oh, yes. Where the parents jump all over the school, while their kids bring the guns in from home.”

“Exactly.”

“That, by the way, is how I got on this hospital story.”

“How?”

“Made it up so I wouldn’t have to cover the Cobo Hall fracas.”

Cox thought that over as he sipped his Gibson. “So,” Cox said, “how’s the hospital piece coming?”

“So-so. I’m not too enthused about it.”

“Oh?”

“I can’t quite put my finger on it. It’s not working out the way I planned. It was going to be a puff piece that highlighted this unsinkable nun. It’s still going in that direction. But I get the feeling that the story wants to take off on its own in another direction.”

“The contraceptive angle?” Cox caught the waiter’s eye and ordered another Gibson. Lennon passed.

“I’m not sure. But that has something to do with it. Right there—when I found out all that one Catholic hospital was doing what the Catholic Church forbids—the story wanted to go in that direction. But when I decided I wasn’t going to subvert all the good that the hospital was trying to do just for a story . . . well, at that moment I started steering the piece in a direction it didn’t want to go.”

“I know the feeling. I’ve done it.”

“But it’s still going on. As I stick to my original theme, it seems as if I’m forcing the story in a direction it doesn’t want to take.”

“How so?”

“Well, for instance, I’ve been interviewing staff personnel for possible side-bars. And instead of getting corroborating material I’m collecting bad vibes. Nothing explicit, mind you, but bad vibes anyway.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know if it’s unequivocal enough to put into words. Vibes aren’t admissible in court, you know; they’re just an impression. Now, as far as I can figure it, this Sister Eileen is the next best thing to Mother Teresa. But I don’t get that impression from all the people I’ve interviewed. Some, yes. Some, no. Why? I just don’t exactly know how to react to it.”

“You mean if she were a Mother Teresa, everybody’d love her?”

“Something like that. But there are at least three or four people at the hospital who definitely don’t love her. Again, I can’t get anything explicit from them. A couple are faced with compulsory retirement. A couple are on the verge of getting fired.”

“Hey, that’s the sort of thing that just doesn’t endear employers to employees.”

“Yeah, I know. But with these people there seems to be a feeling of personal bitterness. Like it’s her fault they’re old or not doing their jobs right. And then when she was attacked the other night—”