He was extremely pleased. He hoped they’d be able to strike up a real friendship. And that never would happen if he could not be honest with her.
“Now, there’s one question I’ve got to ask, and it’s very important.” He leaned across the small table. “You’ve got to be completely honest with me, Ethel.”
“Yes?”
“Now that you’ve seen me with and without a disguise, have you ever seen me before? Do you know me from anywhere?”
She looked at him thoughtfully. “Why, no, Bruce. I never set eyes on you before. Not never!”
“Good. Very good.”
“But why didja ask a question like that for?”
“No real good reason. Only that you seemed to be following me around. I mean, after we bumped into each other, then the next time I looked up—in the clinic—there you were, telling me my sleeve was in a solution.”
She wouldn’t look at him. “Well, I kinda likedja. You didn’t yell at me when we bumped into each other. And then you stayed and helped me clean up the mess. And all the time, you seemed so apologetic. Nobody ever treated me so swell before. I guess I kinda likedja at first bump. I was so hoping and praying that you’d come look me up today. I guess this is one time when my prayers really got answered. “
Bruce could scarcely be happier. There was only one more possible fly in his ointment; he’d better get that cleared up immediately. “Speaking of prayers getting answered . . . well, this is a delicate area, but, well, you work at a Catholic hospital, and I was wondering . . .”
“Am I a Catholic?”
“Well, yes.”
“Oh, yes, I’m a Catholic. That’s for sure. How about you?”
“Oh, yes. Yes, indeed.” Bruce realized he was still only halfway there. These days it was by no means enough merely to be Catholic. One was either a liberal or a conservative Catholic or, if one were neither but still claimed the designation, such a person hardly deserved to claim any religion. And if one were a liberal Catholic, he or she might just as well be a Protestant. That left only one acceptable category.
Which slot was Ethel in? The answer, Bruce knew, was crucial to their continued friendship. But how to discover . . .?
The waiter brought their Coney Islands, basically large hot dogs heaped with chili sauce. In lifting the chock-full bun from her plate, Ethel spilled some sauce into her coffee.
“Waiter!” Bruce found himself speaking more forcefully than was his custom. “There’s been an accident. Bring this lady another cup of coffee!”
The waiter, with a look and a gesture that said it’s easier doing it than arguing with this turkey, did as Bruce had commanded.
Ethel was most impressed.
“Ethel . . .”—Bruce tried very hard not to ruin his sandwich—“are you aware of what goes on in that hospital? In St. Vincent’s?”
Ethel considered that question, evidently for the first time. “Well . . . operations, treatments, therapy, uh . . . health care—was there something else?”
“I mean, in the clinic, for example.”
“The clinic?”
“Yes. Giving information, counseling, devices for the practice of artificial birth control. Like that!”
“Oh, policy! No, I never pay any attention to policy. I got enough problems with bedpans and the food trays and keeping the patients in water. Things like that.”
“But, now that I brought it up, Ethel, what do you think of that kind of thing?”
“What?”
“Artificial birth control.”
“It’s wrong, ain’t it? Ain’t it against the Church? I mean, there was a lot of talk about it some years ago. And didn’t the Church settle it? Didn’t they say it was a sin? Seems that’s how it came out. I guess I didn’t pay much attention. I mean,” she blushed, “it didn’t have much to do with me. If you know what I mean.”
“Sure. But that means that you accept the official teaching of the Church? The ordinary magisterium?”
“The ordinary what?”
“Never mind. If the Pope says it, you believe it?”
“You’d better believe that! Good heavens, if you can’t trust the Pope, who can you trust? I mean!”
“You don’t know how happy that makes me!”
“Really! I wouldn’t have guessed.”
Bruce was elated. In his excitement, he fumbled his Coney Island. He saved the sandwich, but his napkin fluttered off the table. Ethel dove to save it before it hit the floor. In doing so, she again banged her head against the table. She sat up a bit dazed. She rubbed her forehead. They both laughed.
Bruce was more and more convinced he had found a kindred klutz. Talk about relationships formed in heaven!
Contentedly, they finished their Coney Islands and coffee. The check the waiter had left was saturated with coffee and stained with chili sauce. Nevertheless, Bruce was able to make out the total. He left payment plus a small tip.
As the couple left, the owner breathed a silent prayer that they would forget his location and never return.
Ethel lived in a downtown apartment complex owned and operated by the League of Catholic Women. Bruce 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!