been the case with Joan Fremont.”
“I really can’t discuss it,” Heather asserted, the dimples now invisible and the brown eyes on the silent TV
set. “Would you like to watch the news? There’s a button on each of your beds.”
“No,” Renie said.
“Yes,” Judith replied. “I never get to see the early
news at home. I’m always working.”
“I almost never watch the news,” Renie said crossly,
“unless it’s sports.” She pulled herself up in the bed
and addressed Heather Chinn. “Are you saying Somosa did drugs? I don’t believe it. For one thing, the
Seafarers have a tough stand on drugs. So does major
league baseball in general. Not only that, but until he
blew out his elbow, Somosa had a 2.4 ERA and averaged ten strikeouts a game. How do you explain that?”
“I can’t,” Heather replied with the ghost of a smile.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. I don’t follow sports. I only know about Mr. Randall—Mr.
Bob—because somebody said he’d played professional football.”
“Hunh,” snorted Renie, and fell back against the pillows.
Heather had refilled the cousins’ water carafes, re-36
Mary Daheim
placing them on the old wooden bedside stands that
matched the room’s much-varnished door and window
frames. “Remember to keep drinking fluids. Dinner
will be along shortly,” she added as she exited the
room.
“It better be,” Renie muttered after taking a big sip
of fresh water. “Really, coz, I doubt that Somosa did
drugs. Or Joan Fremont, either. They didn’t call her the
First Lady of the local theater for nothing. She was a
lady, in every way.”
“Good Cheer is undoubtedly dodging a couple of
huge malpractice suits,” Judith said, clicking on the
TV. “Can you imagine? Not only the survivors, but
maybe Le Repertoire Theatre and the Seafarers’ ownership.”
Renie was silent for a moment as KINE-TV’s anchorpersons radiated their own type of good cheer by
rehashing humankind’s latest tragedies. “At least turn
down the sound,” she said crossly. “It’s Mavis LeanBrodie doing the news and she’s never liked me.”
Years ago, Mavis had been involved in a homicide
that had occurred in Judith’s dining room. Since then,
Judith had encountered her a few times, including a recent run-in during a murder investigation at an apartment house on Heraldsgate Hill. Mavis had featured
Judith in a well-intentioned TV interview that had
come off as awkward and inaccurate. Still, Judith held
no grudge.
“Mavis is okay,” Judith allowed, hitting the mute
button as the screen switched to a close-up of the governor in front of the state capitol. “She’s just aggressive. It comes with the job description.”
Dinner was brought in by a solemn young orderly.
Wordlessly, he set up Judith’s tray first. There were
SUTURE SELF
37
two covered dishes, a plastic container, a plastic cup,
packets of salt and pepper, silverware, and a napkin. A
whole-wheat roll wrapped in plastic rested on a plate
with a butter pat.
The orderly moved to Renie’s bed. “What the hell is
this crap?” she yelled, removing the metal cover from
the larger of the two dishes. “It looks like cat spit!”
The orderly, who sported a mustache, a shaved head,
and a gold stud in one ear, didn’t respond. Without
speaking, he left the room.
“I think,” Judith said warily, “it’s mutton.”
Renie’s brown eyes widened in horror. “No Grover
since our grandfather has ever eaten mutton, and he
only did it because he was English. I think I’m going
to be sick.”
“It’s not very good,” Judith allowed. “In fact, it’s
tasteless. I tried salting the gravy, but that doesn’t help
much. There’s a green salad, though.” She searched
around on the tray. “It’s under the other covered dish,
but I don’t see any dressing.”
“Rice,” Renie said, holding her head. “How can you
ruin rice? And why is it sort of beige?”
“Brown rice?” Judith suggested, taking a bite. “No,
maybe not.”
“This isn’t even wholesome,” Renie complained.
“Mutton is fatty. I’m going to call Bill.”
“What for?” Judith asked. “He’s not with the Department of Health.”
“No, but he can swing by Art Huey’s and pick us up
some Chinese. What do you want?”
Judith’s attention, however, had been caught by the
TV screen. Sister Jacqueline was in living color,
speaking in front of Good Cheer Hospital. Judith
turned the sound back on.
38
Mary Daheim
“. . . to clear our reputation,” Sister Jacqueline was
saying. “The general public doesn’t realize that every
time a person goes into surgery under a general anesthetic, they risk death. It’s simply a fact, which is why
hospitals require signed waivers before any procedure.
Sometimes, of course, there are extenuating circumstances.”
Mavis’s male coanchor reappeared, looking solemn.
“Statistically, the number of otherwise healthy patients
who die within a week of a surgical procedure is very
small. Good Cheer Hospital’s most recent deaths have
been local celebrities, thus bringing the long-time institution under scrutiny. It should also be pointed out
that Good Cheer is the only local hospital where orthopedic surgeries are performed. As chief of surgery
Dr. Peter Garnett said earlier, the statistics are bound
to be skewed when each hospital has its own specialties.”
The camera angle expanded to include Mavis.
“Thanks, Paul,” she said with a grim smile. “I guess
I’ll think twice before I get those bone spurs removed.”
Paul dutifully chuckled. Mavis announced they were
cutting to a commercial break.
“Face-lift,” Renie said. “She’s had two already.
Pretty soon her ears are going to be sticking out from
the top of her head.”
“The hospital had to expect some bad publicity,” Judith remarked, ignoring Renie’s comment and muting
the TV again. “I’m surprised there hasn’t been more
about it in the newspapers.”
“So am I,” Renie said, dumping her entire tray in
the wastebasket beside her bed. “I wonder if the
Times has muzzled Addison Kirby. You know, Joan
Fremont’s husband who covers city hall.”
SUTURE SELF
39
“You think so?” Judith remarked, then realized that
Renie had hung up the phone without speaking to Bill.
“Hey, what about your Chinese order?”
Renie let out an exasperated little sigh. “The anesthesia must have affected my brain. I’m told it can, especially your memory. I forgot that Bill never answers
the phone, especially around the dinner hour. Why
don’t you call Joe?”
Judith hesitated. Joe had plenty of responsibilities
on his shoulders now that Judith was completely incapacitated. “I kind of hate to. We don’t live as close to
Art Huey’s as you and Bill do.”
“Okay.” Renie picked up the phone again. “Art Huey’s
Restaurant,” she said. “Yes, you can dial it for me.”
“You’re going to have them deliver our dinner?” Judith asked, taken aback. “Is that allowed?”
“Who knows? Who cares? I’m paying for it. Yes,
this is Mrs. Jones, and I’d like to order the prawn chow