Bruce absorbed the abuse as he always did—in silence. He was convinced that if things did not always go as they should in this life, there would be another life wherein wrongs would be corrected and justice done. Slime who would stage an immoral drama and then excoriate someone who walked out on it, well, according to Brace’s theodicy, they would be dealt with by a harsh and avenging God.
Until then, as his leader had pointed out, the lot of the just was martyrdom, in one form or another.
He made his way to the partially furnished attic that was home. While changing into his denim shirt and overalls, he studied himself briefly in the mirror.
It didn’t really matter whether he was wearing his glasses and toupee; he was a cipher. Sort of round. A round head and a round body. An awkward gait. He wondered why he bothered with a disguise. From long experience he knew that no one ever noticed him.
One exception to this rule of oblivion was Ethel. Or was she too good to be true? Only time would tell. But he felt good around her. More surprising than that, he felt comfortable with her. She was the first female he’d ever met who did not make fun of his clumsiness.
But what if it did work? What if they . . . fell in love? His concern became apprehension. He’d never loved a woman. Not romantically. Here he was, thirty-two years old, and he’d never even had a conscious orgasm. Oh, sure, there’d been nocturnal pollutions. But nothing awake. He subscribed to that theological persuasion that held, for all practical purposes, that sex was dirty and so one should save it for a loved one.
In any case, Brace could not afford the luxury of daydreaming about romance. He had a task to perform. He had a mission. It was God’s work against an evil empire of sin. That came first. It had to. After that—and only after that—could he see if something might develop between him and Ethel.
He could, of course, pray over it. And he would. While he cleaned up the popcorn.
* * *
Sister Eileen Monahan sat idly at her desk. Since the attack, she’d had difficulty concentrating, particularly when alone. There was a tendency to relive in memory the panic that had overcome her when she was grabbed from behind and choked—the feeling that she was about to die.
Her struggle to remain conscious and stay alive had surprised her somehow. She had always assumed that when the time came to face death she would be able to abandon herself to the will of God and go with a sense of peace. And when she was attacked, she’d had no doubt that she was about to die. Now, as a result of that incident, she was trying to better prepare herself for death under any eventuality.
As for the hospital staff, fortunately the turmoil over the incident was quieting down. After the initial brouhaha, everyone recognized that it had been no more than a freak occurrence. The assailant had been suffering the early symptoms of withdrawal from a drug overdose. He’d had no real idea of what he was doing. He would have attacked anyone walking down that corridor at that time. That she had been the victim had been her bad luck, but no more than a coincidence. The main benefit of the episode was that security had been tightened in the detox unit.
“There’s someone to see you, Sister.”
Sister Eileen glanced up at her secretary. Then she squinted through her half-glasses at her appointment calendar. She had a meeting in half an hour. Blindly she could have bet there’d be a meeting in a short while from anytime. But there was no appointment scheduled for this time.
“She doesn’t have an appointment.” There were times when Dolly came close to reading Sister’s mind.
“Who is it, Dolly?”
“A Miss Patricia Lennon.”
Patricia Lennon. Patricia Lennon. The name rang a very definite but ill-defined bell.
“From the Detroit News.”
“Oh.” Pause. “Give me a couple of minutes, Dolly, then show her in, will you?”
“Yes, Sister.” The door closed behind her.
Pat Lennon.
The full given name had fooled her. With Patricia Lennon she was unfamiliar. With Pat Lennon she was right at home. Sister had been reading Pat Lennon’s byline for what seemed like ages. First in the Detroit Free Press, where she’d been a reporter for several years before moving down West Lafayette to the “Old Gray Lady,” as the News was known.
But what was Pat Lennon doing at St. Vincent’s? From all Sister could recall, Pat was one of the city’s top reporters. What did they call them . . . investigative reporters. Yes, from all Sister had heard and read, Pat Lennon was one of the best investigative reporters around. Which brought Sister back to the beginning: Why would a top investigative reporter be calling at St. Vincent’s? To investigate? What?
That, thought Sister, is all we need. Here we are, hanging on by a thread and here comes someone to unravel that thread.
St. Vincent’s existence was so increasingly precarious that Sister Eileen had lived through its death in anticipation many times. It was anyone’s guess how much longer the institution might endure. But she had poured so much of herself into it that she had figuratively joined her life to that of the hospital. She guessed she might die a little if St. Vincent’s were to close.
She could not see the presence and interest of Pat Lennon as anything but a threat. But, like all the other threatening realities of life, this one too must be faced.
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.