“Heimlich,” Helen whispered.
“Heimlich!” Snell corrected himself. “And then this lady”—he gestured toward Helen Brown—“came in and . . .”
“I see,” Chief Martin said. “How did you happen to know about the Heimlich Maneuver?”
“Uh . . . I read about it, I guess. Shoot, everybody knows that. It’s all over the place. Information on how to do it.”
“Then how is it that Mrs. Walker has bruises all over her side?” Chief Martin pressed.
“I guess she must have hit her side on the guardrail when I picked her up out of bed. I didn’t have time to be very delicate, you know.”
“What is this, Chief, the Inquisition?” one of the nurses challenged. “After all, Officer Snell just saved a woman’s life. This is a time of celebration, not incrimination.”
“All right! All right!” Chief Martin knew when he was creating a needlessly hostile crowd. And he knew when to retreat. “I just have to get the facts for my report. But you’re right. Congratulations, Snell! Drop into my office before you leave in the morning and we can finish this report.”
Snell might just as well have been revealed to be Superman in disguise. Patients and staff pushed forward to congratulate him. It was clear that everyone felt safer physically, emotionally, medically, and spiritually for having this shining knight on duty to protect them. If an election had been held at that moment, Snell would have been a shoo-in chief executive officer against whoever else might be running.
Only one person other than Snell knew the truth. But Helen Brown was not talking. If she had . . .
Helen Brown could not recall the exact moment when she became aware that something was wrong. It had to have been sometime between their initial torrid coupling and George’s yet-to-be-demonstrated bravura performance. It must have been a reflex of her health-care training. There was a moment when that hypnotic chewing sound was supplanted by a small inoffensive strangling noise, followed by an ominous silence.
It was at that moment, as George was about to strike, when Helen realized that they had only a few seconds to act or a fatal calamity would occur in the neighboring bed.
She had been unable to convince George that this was an inopportune moment for his beau geste. So she had shoved him—hard. Taking into account their comparative size, a shove, no matter how vigorous, would have been 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 co
ming?”
“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—”
“What? Attacked! You didn’t tell me—”
“I didn’t learn about it until there wasn’t much news value in it any more. It was all internal, an accident of sorts. A mental patient got loose from the psycho ward. He grabbed her in a hallway but some guard broke it up before any major damage was done. By the time I got the story, it was all over. The patient was back in his ward under restraints and Sister Eileen was back at work. You know what they say: Nothing is as dull as yesterday’s news. Don’t worry, Joe; I’m not trying to hide a legitimate story from you.”
She knew him. That was precisely what he feared.
“Anyway,” she continued, “when I heard about the attack, it sort of intensified the vibes I’d been getting all along. Like maybe Sister actually is in some sort of danger.”
“I don’t know, Pat. That’s a big leap. People are retired and fired every day. I don’t suppose many of them, even the retirees, feel good about it. But that’s no reason to jump all over the boss. They may have a few harsh words. But in the end, they usually just fade away.”
Their dinner was served.
“I suppose you’re right.” Pat finished her sherry. “In fact, just articulating the possibility makes me feel a lot better about it. The talking cure.”
Cox squeezed lemon over his fish. “Have you noticed how warm it is in here? Maybe we can stay here all night. I’m not too eager to go back out in that blizzard. I never should have let you talk me into walking here.”
“The walk’ll do you good, lover. Besides, when we get home, I have a few ideas that may help us feel warm all over.”
From that point, Cox did not exactly wolf down his dinner. But then neither did he dawdle.
9
Most days, Father Koesler did not eat a large lunch. As a rule, he had cold cereal for breakfast, an extremely light midday meal, and a substantial dinner. He had read that this was not the healthiest of regimens. In fact, it was reportedly the reverse of the best. But he didn’t care. All his life he had enjoyed anticipating good things. Indeed, it was part of his creed that anticipation, particularly since it lasted longer, was better than the attainment of whatever was coming.
He also believed there were exceptions to rules.
So this day he juggled a tray holding a cheeseburger, fries, vegetables, salad, milk, coffee, and a sliver of carrot cake. While trying to spill nothing, he searched for a place to sit in the now crowded cafeteria.
“Why don’t you join us, Father? John Haroldson indicated an empty chair at the table where he was sitting with a young doctor.
Haroldson smiled broadly, emphasizing the creases and wrinkles of his lived-in face. Koesler, from experience, did not wholeheartedly trust hail fellows well met. But it would have been awkward to spurn the offer. Besides, there didn’t appear to be any other open space at this moment. So he carefully set down his tray and joined them.
“Actually, you couldn’t have timed this better, Father. Dr. Anderson here was telling me about a medical-moral decision he has to make. Why don’t you ask the good Father, Larry?”
“First, I guess we’d better meet.” Koesler introduced himself to the young doctor, who appeared none too eager to present his problem to the priest. Koesler wondered fleetingly why a doctor would bring a moral dilemma to the chief operating officer. An analogous mystery was why the doctor would hesitate in presenting the puzzle to a priest. But for the moment, Koesler decided to put these brainteasers on the back burner. He tried to look interested while holding together a cheeseburger that wanted to slide apart.
“Well, you see, Father,” Anderson began, “the problem involves a woman who’s had five C-section deliveries. Uh . . . that is, she’s had five previous births by Caesarean section,” he explained needlessly. “I delivered her latest child last year and advised her against getting pregnant again. You see, Father, her uterus is . . . uh . . . all worn out. It’s been traumatized from all those sections. But she checked in yesterday, pregnant. She’s got to have another section and it’s going to be touch-and-go. So I was asking Mr. Haroldson whether it would be morally acceptable to do a hysterectomy on her, after the section.”
Once again, Koesler wondered why the doctor had directed his indecision to the COO for resolution. Also, he had a strong suspicion that such a question would be posed only in a Catholic hospital. Not that other sectarian or public hospital personnel were unconcerned with medical ethics, but Koesler supposed that in most other hospitals this would be a rather easily resolved consideration.
That there was a measure of difficulty here was directly attributable to the Catholic Church’s traditional, as well as officially current, teaching on family planning. In Western civilization, the Catholic Church stood virtually alone in its total condemnation of almost all methods of contraception. The Church’s ordinary magisterium held that there were but two methods of family planning: abstinence from intercourse, or the rhythm method. And to licitly practice rhythm, a couple must willingly consent to limit intercourse to a monthly infertile period; they must be able to do this without the danger of committing some related sins such as adultery or some form of “artificial” birth control; and they must have a positive—not selfish—reason to limit their family.
Koesler knew all this. And he was aware that he was, at best, rusty in this field. But he could see no booby traps in the conversation. So it was full speed ahead.
“As I recall, “ Koesler began, “this is one of those times when the moralist must depend on the medical expert. I mean, if a hysterectomy were performed on a woman with a perfectly healthy uterus, the purpose would seem to be clearly contraceptive. So Catholic theology would oppose that. In this case, I jus
t don’t know how ‘abnormal’ or unwell this particular womb may be. That would be up to the doctor, it would seem.”
“That’s the problem, as I see it, Father,” Dr. Anderson said. “This is not a case of a diseased organ. There’s no CA or anything like that. But this uterus has been so traumatized by past Caesareans that it is unreal to expect this organ to carry another pregnancy even to the point of viability. Another pregnancy can only lead to the death of the fetus and a serious threat to the mother’s life. The womb will rupture. It’s as simple as that.”
Koesler meditatively chewed a morsel of cheeseburger. He was losing his zest for theological inquiry. He had overlooked how frequently moral questions lacked a black-and-white certainty. Most ethical matters, such as the present uterus that was about to give up the ghost, came in tones of gray uncertainty.
“Seems to me,” Koesler swallowed most of the mouthful of cheeseburger, “it seems to me that we’re dealing with, if not a diseased organ, at least one whose usefulness is gone. I mean, from what you say, Doctor, this woman’s uterus can’t sustain another fetal life. From all the cutting that’s had to be done, it’s worn out. So I think we could conclude that the organ has been rendered useless. And that, I would guess, might put it in the same category as an appendix. Whatever our appendix once did, it does no more—it’s a useless organ that no longer serves any positive purpose. Except that it can become infected and be a threat to life. And I think the rule of thumb for surgeons is that should they encounter the appendix during any sort of surgery, they routinely remove it . . . don’t they?”
Dr. Anderson nodded.
“Then I suppose the same can be said for this worn-out uterus. It can no longer serve any positive purpose. It’s just a trauma waiting to happen. So I’d say that it would be morally acceptable the next time you see that womb to remove it.” Koesler fingered some fries. He felt somewhat self-satisfied.
“That’s pretty much the way I figured it, Father,” Anderson said.
Koesler lost some of his smugness. “If that’s the way you had it figured, what in the world was the purpose of asking my opinion?”
Deathbed Page 22
