the way into the city to recuperate. It seems downright
fishy.”
After offering the leftovers to Judith, who insisted
she was still full, Renie was gnawing on a chicken
wing when the workman returned.
“So Clarabelle’s acting up tonight, is she?” The
workman chuckled. “Temperamental, that’s our Clarabelle. But then so’s Jo-Jo and Winnie and Dino.”
“Those would be radiators?” Renie asked. “You
name them?”
“Yep.” The workman, who Judith had noticed bore
the name of Curly embroidered on his overalls, chuckled some more. “After almost twenty years, you get to
know these things pretty well. Every radiator has its
own personality. Come on, Clarabelle, settle down.”
Curly whacked the radiator with a wrench. “Take RinTin-Tin next door. Last night, Rinty acted up something terrible. That football player, Bob Randall,
thought it was funny. He said it sounded like his old
Sea Auks coach on a bad Sunday. Too bad he passed
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on this morning.” Using the wrench, Curly turned
something on Clarabelle that let out a big stream of
vapor.
“Mr. Randall seemed all right last night, I take it,”
Judith said.
“What? Oh—yep, he seemed real chipper.” Curly
gave the radiator another whack. “That oughtta do it.”
He grinned at the cousins. “ ’Course, I’d be chipper,
too, if I had a pint of Wild Turkey under the covers.”
“He had booze stashed away?” Renie said in mild
surprise.
“Sure,” Curly replied, adjusting the radiator one last
time. “You’d be surprised what people smuggle in
here.” Renie’s overflowing wastebasket with its telltale
Bubba’s chicken boxes caught his eye. “Then again,
maybe you wouldn’t.”
“Do the patients bring these illicit items in,” Judith
inquired, “or do other people sneak them past the front
door?”
“Both,” Curly answered, moving toward the door.
“A couple of months ago, one guy brought in his barbecue grill. Damned near set the place on fire. Smoke
everywhere, all the alarms went off, everybody in a
panic. A shame, really, he burned up some mighty finelooking T-bones.”
“Terrible,” Judith remarked. “I don’t suppose Mr.
Randall mentioned who brought him the liquor.”
“That was the funny part,” Curly said, swinging his
wrench like a baton. “He swore he didn’t know where it
came from. A Good Samaritan, he insisted. I should
know such good guys. Wild Turkey’s the best. I feel real
bad about him dying. He was a swell guy, and not just
as a ballplayer. He even offered me a swig out of his
bottle.”
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Mary Daheim
Judith’s eyes narrowed. “Did you accept?”
Curly shook his head, which, in fact, was adorned
with a crown of gray curls. “Nope. I was on duty. The
good sisters here, they got rules.”
“I can see why you want to abide by them,” Judith
said with a smile. “Your job must be a challenge.
Everything in this hospital is so old, and I understand
that they’d rather fix it than replace it. Besides, you get
to meet some fascinating patients. Did you happen to
get acquainted with Joan Fremont or Joaquin Somosa
before they . . . ah . . . departed?”
Curly scratched his neck. “That actress? No, can’t say
that I did. No problems with her room. But Somosa’s TV
got unplugged somehow, so I went in there to get it going
for him. Nice guy, great arm. But his English wasn’t all
that hot. He seemed kind of agitated and kept saying
something about a bear. I guess he’d seen it on TV before
the set got unplugged. Anyway, I tried the nature channels, but no bears. Poor fella—I heard he died not more
than twenty minutes after I fixed the set and left.”
“Goodness,” Judith murmured. “That’s terrible.”
Curly shrugged. “It happens in hospitals. You get
kinda used to it. But it’s a damned—excuse my language—shame when people go before their time. The
Seafarers will miss him in the rotation this season.”
said. “Not that I have much faith in Tubby Turnbull.
He’ll end up giving two hot minor league prospects
away for a first aid kit and a case of wienies.”
“Har, har,” laughed Curly. “Ain’t that the truth? You
gotta wonder why the Seafarers don’t fire his ass—excuse my language. But maybe he’s got pictures. If you
know what I mean.” Curly winked, waved the wrench,
and left the room.
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“A bear?” said Judith.
“The drugs,” Renie responded. “They were probably taking effect. Poor Joaquin must have been hallucinating.”
“It’s really awful,” Judith said, taking another sip of
water. “Here these three people were, helpless and
trusting.”
“Like us,” Renie noted. “Helpless, anyway,” she
amended.
Judith looked askance. “Yes. It’s something to ponder.”
“Let’s not,” Renie said. “Let’s go to sleep.”
Judith agreed that that was a good idea.
But she fretted for some time, wondering if, in fact,
they hadn’t put themselves in danger by asking too
many questions. The killer was faceless, unidentifiable. Anyone they talked to—Curly, Heather, Torchy,
the doctors, the rest of the nurses, even the orderlies—
could be hiding behind a deadly mask.
Judith slept, but not deeply or securely. Indeed, she
had never felt quite so helpless. Her dreams were not
filled with homicidal maniacs, however, but with family. Dan. Mike. Joe. Gertrude. Effie. Kristin. Little
Mac. The faces floated through her unconscious, but
only one spoke: It was Mike, and he kept saying, “Who
am I?”
Judith tried to answer, but the words wouldn’t come
out. She felt as if she had no breath, and awoke to find
that she’d been crying.
TEN
ON WEDNESDAY MORNING, breakfast was again
palatable. Dr. Ming and Dr. Alfonso made early
rounds, assuring both patients that they were making progress. Judith would take a few steps later in
the day, said Dr. Alfonso. Renie could try flexing
her right wrist a few times, according to Dr. Ming.
“You need to keep from getting too weak,” Dr. Alfonso said to Judith.
“You don’t want to tighten up,” Dr. Ming said to
Renie.
After their surgeons had left and Corinne Appleby had taken their vitals and added more pain
medication to the IVs, the cousins looked at each
other.
“Are we atrophying?” Renie asked.
“Probably,” Judith responded, glancing at the
morning paper, which had been delivered along
with breakfast. “Guess what, we didn’t stay up late
enough last night to see the news.”
“You’re right,” Renie said, making an attempt to
brush her short chestnut hair,
which went off in several uncharted directions. “Do you see anything in
the paper about Addison’s accident or Blanche’s impromptu press conference?”
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151
Judith studied the front page, which was full of national and international news, all of it bad. “No, I don’t
even see a story about Bob Randall’s death. I’ll check
the local news.”
“Toss me the sports and the business sections,”
Renie requested, reaching out with her good arm.
Judith complied. “Here,” she said, “on page one of
the second section—‘Former Star Quarterback Dies
Following Knee Surgery.’ There’s not more than two
inches of copy, along with a small picture of Bob that
was taken in his playing days.”
“What?” Renie gaped at Judith. “That’s it?”
“The article only says that the surgery was pronounced successful, his death was unexpected, and he
had been in good health otherwise. There’s a brief
recap of his career, lifetime stats, and how he once
saved two children from a house fire and received an
official commendation from the governor.”
“What about Blanche?” Renie asked.
“I’m looking. I . . .” Judith’s head swiveled away
from the paper as Margie Randall, wearing her blue
volunteer’s jacket, tapped tentatively on the door
frame.
“Hello. May I come in?” Margie inquired in an uncertain voice. Her pale blonde pageboy was limp, and
her delicate features seemed to have sharpened with
grief.
“Of course,” Judith responded. “Mrs. Randall?
We’re very sorry for your loss.”
Margie slid her hands up her sleeves and hugged
herself. “Oh, so am I! How will I manage without darling Bob?”
“I was widowed when I was about your age,” Judith
said kindly. My grief was only for the waste that had
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been Dan’s life, not for me. “Somehow I managed.”
Much better, after he was gone. “I had to learn to stand
on my own two feet.” Instead of letting Dan’s four
hundred plus pounds lean on me until I was about to
collapse from worry and exhaustion.
“Easy to say.” Margie sighed, taking small, unsteady
steps into the room. “I feel as if my whole world has
fallen apart.”
“You’re working today?” Renie asked, her tone
slightly incredulous.
Slowly, Margie turned to look at Renie, who hadn’t
quite managed to tame her wayward hair. Several
strands were standing up, out, and every which way.
She looked like a doll that had been in a cedar chest too
long.
“Yes,” Margie replied softly. “We couldn’t make the
funeral arrangements until this afternoon because of
the autopsy, so I felt obligated to come in today. I can’t
let my patients and their families down. So many need
cheering. How are you feeling? I wasn’t able to visit
with you yesterday because of . . .” She burst into tears
and struggled to find a Kleenex in her jacket pockets.
“We’re okay,” Renie said in a chipper voice.
“Is there anything we can do for you?” Judith inquired with concern.
Margie shook her head. “N-n-no. I’ll be fine.” She
dabbed at her eyes and blew her nose. “Please tell me
if you’re comfortable, if there’s anything you need.”
She gazed at Judith with red-rimmed eyes. “Hip replacement surgery, I believe? Oh, dear, that can be so
dangerous! I can’t tell you how many patients dislocate
within a short time of being sent home. It’s terribly
painful, worse than childbirth.”
“Really?” Judith’s dark eyes were wide.
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Margie turned back to Renie. “Shoulder?” She nodded several times. “You never really recover from rotator cuff surgery. Oh, they tell you, ninety, even
ninety-five percent, but it’s nowhere near that high, especially if you’re past a Certain Age. You’ll be fortunate if you can ever raise your arm past your waist.”
“Gee, thanks,” said Renie in a bleak voice. “I feel so
much better since you came to see us.”
“Good,” Margie said, dabbing again at her eyes.
“Anything I can do to cheer you, just let me—” She
stopped and turned as two young people stood at the
door. “Oh! My children! How sad!”
Mother, daughter, and son embraced in a three-way
wallowing of hugs. Margie’s tears ran afresh. “Let me
introduce you,” she blubbered to the cousins. “This is
Nancy, and this is Bob Jr., my poor semiorphans!”
Nancy Randall was a pale, gaunt younger version of
her mother except that her hair hung below her shoulders. Bob Jr. was thin, with rimless glasses, scanty
blond hair, and sunken cheeks. They both waved listlessly at Judith and Renie, who waved back. Neither of
the Randall offspring spoke.
“They’re numb with grief,” Margie lamented, a hand
on each of her children’s arms. “Come, darlings, let me
get you some nice Moonbeam’s coffee from the staff
room. Then we can talk about the funeral. We’ll make
some wonderful plans.” With a surprisingly energetic
wave, Margie Randall left the cousins in peace.
“Jeez,” Renie shuddered, “she’s a real crepe pants,
as my mother would say.”
“Those poor kids,” Judith said. “They look awful. It
can’t be just grief—they look like they’ve been drawn
through a knothole—as my mother would say.”
Renie nodded. “Bill was right. Something’s wrong
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Mary Daheim
with them. I mean, really wrong.” She got out of bed
and gazed through the window. “It’s stopped snowing. I’ll bet we got at least a foot. It’s beautiful out
there.”
“Maybe I can walk far enough to look outside later
today,” Judith said, digging into her purse. “Maybe I
won’t pass out if I try.”
“What’re you doing?” Renie asked as Judith began
dumping items onto the bed.
“I’m looking for something bigger than my little
notebook to start putting together the family tree. I
don’t suppose—you being an artist and all—you’d
have any drawing paper with you?”
“I do, actually,” Renie replied, going to the coat
closet. “I’ve got a pad tucked away in the side of my
suitcase. Hang on.”
A moment later, Renie produced the drawing pad,
but wore a puzzled expression. “That’s odd. I could
have sworn I closed this suitcase. I mean, I know I did,
or the lid would have opened and everything would’ve
fallen out.”
“Has somebody been snooping?” Judith asked in apprehension.
Renie was going through the small suitcase. “I guess
so. My makeup bag’s unzipped. I always close it when
I’m finished.” She turned around to stare at Judith.
“Who? When? Why?”
Judith gave a faint shake of her head. “While we
were asleep, I suppose. That’s when. But who and why
&nbs
p; are blanks I can’t fill in.”
“Nothing’s been taken,” Renie said, going through
the few belongings she’d brought along. “Of course
there’s always the problem of thievery in a hospital.
None of them are sacred.”
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155
Judith agreed. “Some people, especially borderline
poverty types, can’t resist temptation.”
“How about just plain crooks?” Renie said, now
angry. She slammed the lid shut and closed the clasps
with a sharp snap. “I suppose that’s who it was. It’s a
damned good thing I didn’t have anything valuable in
there except for a twenty-five-dollar lipstick that the
would-be thief probably figured was from Woolworth’s. Let me check your train case.”
“I locked it,” Judith said. “It’s just a habit. I used to
hide any extra money I earned from tips at the Meat &
Mingle in there. If I hadn’t, Dan would have spent it on
Twinkies and booze.”
Renie checked the train case to make sure. “It looks
okay.” She stood up and handed over the drawing pad.
Judith offered her cousin a grateful smile and then
sighed. “I feel as if I’m about to sign my life away.”
“Put it down on paper and see how it looks,” Renie
suggested, glancing up from the newspaper. “That’s
what I do with my work. If it seems okay, then it’s
right, then it’s Truth.”
“Uh-huh,” Judith responded without enthusiasm.
She started with Mac and a question mark for the baby
to come, then put in Mike and Kristin. Next, she wrote
in her own name, Judith Anne Grover McMonigle
Flynn. Then she stopped. “Here I go,” she said, and incisively lettered in Joseph Patrick Flynn above Mike’s
name. “It’s official. Joe is down here in black and
white as Mike’s real father.”
“I’ll be damned,” Renie said in amazement.
“Did you think I was a complete coward?” Judith retorted with a faintly hostile glance.
“What?” Renie turned away from the newspaper.
“I’m not talking about you. I’m referring to this brief
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and almost-buried article in the business section. Listen: ‘Restoration Heartware of North America yesterday reiterated its intention to expand its medical
facilities beyond cardiac care. The Cleveland-based
firm has shown interest in a half-dozen orthopedic facilities in the United States, including Good Cheer
Hospital, which is currently owned and operated by the