Lennon had the vague impression that she had seen the man before. Something about him reminded her of some story she had covered. Other things about him argued against any previous meeting with or knowledge of him. Odd.
“So, how’s it goin’, uh . . . Bruce?” Arnold got close enough to read Whitaker’s ID.
“Oh!” Whitaker was startled. He was sure he hadn’t been noticed. The recent catastrophes that had been visited upon him were, in his frame of reference, quite ordinary occurrences. But, having been addressed, Whitaker squinted to make out the other’s ID. “Things are okay, I guess . . . uh . . . Bill.”
“William.”
“Oh, excuse me . . . I thought . . .”
“William.”
“Yes, of course. Whatever. William.”
“You work here, Bruce?”
“Well, sort of. Not work, really. Well, not employment. Actually, I’m employed at the Back Porch Theatre.”
“No shit! Whaddya do there, Bruce, Baby?”
“Well, it’s part-time work, really. I’m the janitor.”
“Ha! The kind of crazy stuff they do there, they’ll probably write a whole goddam play around your broom. But whaddya do here, Bruce?”
“I’m a volunteer. But I’m sort of between duties right now. And I was kind of interested in you and the lady. Did I hear her say she’s with the DetroitNews?”
“Oh, yeah. That’s Pat Lennon. A really neat lady.”
“And you, Bill-er, William?”
“Staffer with the News.”
“Staffer?”
“Staff photographer. I drew this assignment to go with Pat. My lucky day. She’s a real pro. Fun to do a job with.”
“So. What is she doing here? What are both of you doing here?”
“She’s doing a feature on the place for Michigan Magazine. An’ I’m taking a zillion shots so some editor can pick out the ones he wants to use with the article.”
“You’re going to do a feature article for the News’ Sunday magazine on this hospital? On St. Vincent’s?”
“That’s about the size of it.”
It was a miracle. The answer to prayer. Their entire plan had been to somehow get the news media interested in this hospital so that the authorities would be forced to confront the violations of Church law that were going on here.
Now here were a reporter and a photographer from one of Detroit’s major newspapers. It was an answer to prayer. God was good.
But so far, nobody had shown these News people anything. Just routine stuff . . . treatment centers, machines, busy staff people, and sick patients. None of the evil stuff.
It figured. The nurse’s aide had probably been warned not to show them any violation of Church law.
Now that he thought of it, Whitaker wondered if this reporter would recognize a sin if she saw it. He had no idea whether she was Catholic. Oh, God, this golden opportunity mustn’t slip through his fingers.
Wait! The clinic! It was his best shot.
“How about the clinic?” Whitaker asked Arnold.
“I give up. How about it?”
“Don’t you want to see it?”
“Not particularly.” Arnold was growing bored.
“I think you should see it.”
“Oh? Why?”
A good question. Not because they were advocating contraception. Although that was, indeed, the underlying reason Whitaker sought to interest them in the clinic.
“Because it’s an integral part of the hospital . . . and you’ve seen just about everything else.” It was the logical reason. Whitaker was grateful to the Holy Ghost for that inspiration.
“Makes sense. Hey, Pat, this guy says we should see the clinic.”
“That’s where we’re going now”—Lennon looked at the aide-guide for confirmation—“isn’t it?” The aide nodded.
That’s odd, thought Whitaker. The aide had apparently planned to take them to that cesspool regardless.
As they made their way to the clinic, the aide continued her explanation of those sections of the hospital through which they were passing. Lennon took notes and occasionally asked questions. For the most part, Arnold let his cameras dangle. Tagging along behind the threesome was Whitaker.
Evidently, Arnold found the clinic interesting. He took light readings and began snapping pictures. The aide flagged a nurse, made introductions and stepped back to allow the nurse to take over explanations.
The nurse guided Lennon and Arnold through the clinic. Fortunately, it held few patients at the moment.
There had been no ostensible purpose for Whitaker to accompany them through the clinic. His presence was in no way called for. Nor could he think of any pretext to stay. So, reluctantly, he left the group and went to volunteer his services elsewhere.
Later, he overheard the clinic nurse tell someone that Lennon had taken particular notice of the family planning services. All was well as far as Bruce Whitaker was concerned.
Meanwhile Arnold had gone through almost two rolls of film and had decided that was about all he’d need. He started to pack his gear.
Lennon, too, felt she had heard enough and closed her notepad. She noticed several pamphlets displayed on a counter. She picked one up and paged through it. Clearly, she found it interesting. She began reading in earnest.
“Excuse me,” she addressed the nurse, “but these pamphlets—are they available to the patients? The clients who come to the clinic?”
The nurse scanned the pamphlets. “Why, yes, of course. Is there something wrong?”
“They’ve got family planning information.”
“We get quite a few pregnancies in here. Not as many as some hospitals. But that’s because we’re in the core city. Lots of older people. Still, we do get our share of preggies.”
“Do all pregnant women get this material?”
“Routinely, yes. You’d be surprised at how little some of these women know about getting pregnant. Even some who are already mothers. Oh, they know enough about coitus. But when it comes to sperm and ova and menstruation, more often than not you can forget it.”
“But these pamphlets have information on . . . uh . . . ‘artificial’ contraception.”
“Yes?” The nurse was surprised that a contemporary woman—let alone an urbane reporter—would take issue with contraception. Of course, the lady was from the News, which was a rather conservative paper. But, really!
“Well, unless I am seriously mistaken,” Lennon said, “the Catholic Church still condemns contraception.” Pause. “And this is a Catholic hospital!”
“Lady, I don’t make policy here; I just follow it. But I can tell you one thing: It’s like shoveling sand against the tide.”
“Oh?”
“Well, like I said before, most of the girls who come in here pregnant don’t know how they got that way. They just know they’re pregnant. And even after counseling and literature like this, or even after giving them anything from the Pill to an IUD, they still come back pregnant again. About the only time it ends is when they get a tubal ligation.”
“You do that here?”
“Uh-huh. Actually it’s simple out-patient surgery now. Usually there aren’t any complications.”
“But that’s sterilization.”
“Well, it’s not as if we did it as a regular practice. Only in some extreme cases.”
“Such as?”
“There was a typical one the other day. A lady who’d been here before. Thought she was pregnant again. Turned out to be a false alarm. But she’s a diabetic. And that condition seriously complicates pregnancy. So the doctor did a tubal. Really, it was the only humane thing to do.”