Sisters of Good Cheer. A spokesperson for Good
Cheer stated that the religious order is not interested in
any kind of merger or buyout at this time.’ Is that
spokesperson Blanche Van Boeck?”
Intrigued, Judith leaned on one elbow to face her
cousin. “Who’s asking the question?”
“Me,” Renie replied. “The article doesn’t identify
the spokesperson. Maybe that’s because Blanche
isn’t official. Why didn’t Dr. Van Boeck or Sister
Jacqueline meet with the press? How come Blanche
barged in instead? The morning paper must have gotten this from the TV news story, since KLIP seemed
to be the only one asking questions out here in the
hall yesterday.”
Judith was also puzzled. “You know a lot more
about the business world than I do, coz. What do you
make of all this?”
With her disheveled hair standing on end, the big
bandage on her shoulder, the blue sling on her arm, and
the baggy hospital gown sagging around her figure,
Renie’s boardroom face looked more like it belonged
in the bathroom. Still, she approached the question
with her customary professionalism.
“There’s a conspiracy of silence about Good Cheer,”
she said. “It’s not necessarily malevolent or mysterious. Any institution or business enterprise deplores
speculative publicity and rumors. If a company is ripe
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for a takeover or a merger, they feel vulnerable, like a
wounded animal. It’s a sign of weakness, particularly
when stockholders are involved. The top brass go to
ground to wait for the worst to blow over.”
“Are you saying,” Judith inquired, “that Good Cheer
is in financial trouble?”
“Many hospitals are in financial trouble,” Renie answered. “In the past few years, I’ve done brochures and
letterheads and other design projects for at least three
hospitals, including our own HMO. All of them were
very bottom-line conscious, and all of them expressed
serious concerns about keeping afloat.”
Judith nodded. “I understand that modern medicine
is a mess, but it seems impossible in a country as rich
and supposedly smart as the United States that we
could have gotten into such a fix. No wonder Mother
keeps ranting about how Harry Truman tried to get universal medical coverage legislation through Congress
over fifty years ago, and how if he couldn’t do it, nobody could. And nobody has.”
“Very sad, very shortsighted,” Renie agreed. “But in
the case of Good Cheer, I get the impression that
they’re simply trying to survive. Certainly the nuns
would hate to give up the hospital. There may be a
shortage of vocations, but certainly nursing—and administrative skills—are worthwhile in a religious community. Not to mention that they’re drawing cards for
women who are contemplating a vocation. If the Sisters of Good Cheer don’t have a hospital to run and patients to care for, what will they do? Medicine is their
tradition of service.”
“It’s sad,” Judith sighed. “If it’s true.” She gazed up
at the statue of Mary with the infant Jesus. The plaster
was a bit cracked and the paint a trifle chipped, but the
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Mary Daheim
Virgin’s expression was easy to read: She looked worried, and Judith couldn’t blame her.
“It’s the whole bigger-is-better mentality,” Renie
said in disgust. “By the time our kids are our age,
about four people will own everything in the world.
It’ll be stifling, stupid, and I’ll be damned glad to be either dead or gaga.”
“Don’t say that, coz,” Judith said in mild reproach.
“And don’t get off on a tangent. You still haven’t explained why you think there’s a cover-up.”
“Do I need to?” Renie snapped. “There are tons of
reasons for a cover-up. Good Cheer may be losing
money hand over fist. They’re certainly losing patients
in a most terrible way. The hospital and the religious
order have their reputations on the line. So do individuals, like Dr. Van Boeck, Dr. Garnett, Sister Jacqueline. With Blanche in their corner—or at least in the
hospital’s corner—there’s enough clout to muzzle the
media. Except, of course, for a rogue reporter like Addison Kirby, who’s not only something of a star in his
own right, but who has a personal stake in all this because of what happened to his wife.”
Judith paused as the mop brigade arrived. Two
middle-aged women, one Pakistani and the other
Southeast Asian, silently and efficiently began cleaning Judith’s half of the room. When they reached the
looked at each other in dismay. In her native tongue,
the Pakistani rattled off a string of what, in any language, sounded like complaints. The Southeast Asian
looked mystified, but responded with her own invective, jabbing a finger at Renie and scowling.
“Hey, what did I do? I’m crippled,” Renie said,
holding up her good hand. “I can’t help myself.”
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Both women directed their unintelligible, if vitriolic,
comments to Renie. The Pakistani shook her finger;
the Southeast Asian stamped her foot. Renie looked
dazed.
“Hey, girlfriends,” she finally said, raising her voice
to be heard, “knock it off. You’re giving me a relapse.”
The women didn’t stop. In fact, the Southeast Asian
pointed to the wastebasket and glared at Renie in a warning manner. The Pakistani waved her arms at all the clutter on the nightstand, narrowing her eyes at Archie the
doll, who grinned back in his eternally cheerful manner.
“Touch Archie and prepare to be the next patient in
the OR with a broken arm,” Renie warned.
The cleaning women looked at Renie, again at
Archie, and then at each other. They shook their heads.
Then they shook their fingers at Renie.
“That’s it,” Renie said. “I’m dead.” She closed her
eyes and disappeared under the covers.
The cleaning women simply stared at the mound in
the bed and shook their heads. Then they resumed their
work and began chattering to each other, though it was
clear to Judith that neither of them understood what the
other was saying. A few minutes later, they left, and
Renie came up for air.
“Finally,” she gasped. “I feel like I’ve been smothered.”
“You can’t really blame the cleaning women,” Judith chided. “You do make a terrible mess.”
“Nonsense,” Renie scoffed, tearing open a pack of
gum and tossing the wrapper on the floor. “You know
I’m a decent housekeeper.”
“In your own house,” Judith noted, then gave her
cousin a coy smile. “I wonder if Addison Kirby would
like a visitor this morning.”
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Mary Daheim
“Meaning me,” Renie grumbled. “I’ll be glad when
I can dump you in a wheelchair and send you off on
your own.”
“So will I,” Judith retorted. “Do you think I like
&
nbsp; lying around like a bump on a log?”
Renie was getting out of bed. “I’m going to go wash
my hair and take a shower,” she said, unhooking the IV
bag and carrying it in her good hand. “I’ll visit Mr.
Kirby on the way back when I’m clean and beautiful.”
After watching her cousin traipse off to the shower
area, Judith returned to the family tree with an air of
resignation. Joe’s mother was already dead by the time
Judith had met the family. His father, known as Jack,
but named John, had been a bombastic man with a barrel chest and a booming voice. He drank too much, he
worked only when he felt like it, and after his wife
died, he’d let their four sons fend for themselves. That
all of them had achieved a certain measure of success
in life was due, Judith felt, to their own ambition and
determination, along with a debt they felt they owed
their mother, who had put up with a great deal before
dying of cancer two days before her fortieth birthday.
Mary Margaret Flynn had been a redhead, like Joe.
Like Effie McMonigle, too. Judith considered Effie. If
she found out that Dan wasn’t Mike’s father, that she
wasn’t his grandmother or Little Mac’s greatgrandmother—the pen dropped from Judith’s hand. It
was too cruel. Effie was a selfish woman, but not without reason. Her husband, Dan’s father, had left her for
another woman. She had become bitter and very protective of herself and her only child. Judith had always
felt sorry for her mother-in-law. Maybe Effie would
never find out the truth. Judith looked up at the statue
of the Madonna and child again, and said a little prayer
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for her mother-in-law. Then she looked at the statue of
the Sacred Heart and said a prayer for herself. Having
created a monstrous deception, there seemed to be no
way out of it without the risk of hurting someone. Judith wished she weren’t such a convincing liar.
A pale blonde head edged around the doorway.
“Ma’am?” said a pitiful voice.
Judith turned away from the statues. “Yes?” she responded, then saw Nancy Randall hesitate before moving into the room.
“Excuse me,” Nancy said. “Did my mother leave her
worry beads in here?”
“Her worry beads?” Judith responded, then added
without thinking: “Does she really need them?”
“I beg your pardon?” Nancy’s china blue eyes were
wide. “Yes, they’re a great comfort to her. She used to
say the rosary, but she got too depressed when she recited the five Sorrowful Mysteries.”
“She should have concentrated on the Joyous and
Glorious Mysteries,” Judith said before guilt tripped
up her tongue. “I’m sorry, that was flippant. Do come
in and look around. If your mother dropped her beads,
I didn’t see them. But lying here in bed, I’m at a disadvantage.”
“Yes,” Nancy said slowly, bending down to search
the floor. “I don’t see them, either. Mother is at a disadvantage, too. She can’t plan my father’s funeral
without those worry beads.”
“Surely you and your brother can help her,” Judith
said in a kindly voice. “What about your uncle Jim? Is
he here, too?”
“Not today,” Nancy replied, kneeling by Renie’s
bed. “He’s very upset. And he’s not well, either.”
“What’s wrong?” Judith inquired.
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Mary Daheim
Nancy, looking frustrated, stood up. “They aren’t
sure. He’s had all sorts of tests. A CAT scan, an MRI,
ultrasounds. Uncle Jim has never been in good health.
He’s just the opposite of my father. They were mirror
twins, you see.”
“Yes,” Judith said. “Your uncle mentioned that. I’d
never heard of it before.”
“It’s fairly unusual,” Nancy said, her eyes drifting
around the room. “Bobby—my brother—and I are
twins, too, but not identical.”
“Yes,” Judith replied, “I can see that.”
“Thank you,” Nancy said, and wandered out of the
room.
“Vague,” Judith thought, “very vague.”
She returned to the family tree, reluctantly omitting
Effie McMonigle. The phone rang as she was trying to
remember Kristin’s mother’s first name.
“Jude-girl,” said Joe, sounding chipper. “We found
Ernest.”
“Ernest?” Judith frowned into the receiver. “Oh! The
snake. Good. Dare I ask where he was?”
“Well . . . Ha-ha!” Joe’s laugh was unnatural. “How
about around your mother’s neck?”
“That’s not funny, Joe,” Judith said in a warning
voice. “Where was this horrible boa constrictor who
should never have been permitted inside the B&B in
the first place?”
Joe’s tone grew serious, if not remorseful. “He was
in the garbage can under the kitchen sink.”
“Oh, dear. Who found him?”
“Arlene,” Joe replied. “This morning, while she was
making French toast for the guests.”
“What . . . did . . . Arlene . . . do?” Judith asked with
trepidation.
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“She grabbed the snake and turned the clothes basket upside down on him,” Joe explained. “Then she
went back to fixing French toast.”
Judith had a feeling that the story wasn’t over.
“What about Ernest’s owners, the Pettigrews?”
“Well . . . They were worried, of course.” Joe
paused. “But they were waiting for breakfast and I
guess Arlene sort of forgot to tell them about Ernest.
Phyliss Rackley showed up about then, and the first
thing she did was—Hold it.” Joe went away from the
phone, and Judith heard voices in the background. She
could barely make out her husband’s words but she
caught fragments that sounded like “. . . can’t make
it . . . let the medics walk . . . only five blocks . . .
chains? Oh, good.”
“Joe?” Judith called into the phone. “Joe!”
“What?”
“What’s going on, Joe?” Judith demanded. “Did
something happen to Phyliss? I can’t afford to lose my
cleaning woman when I’m laid up like this.”
“Well . . . It seems that Phyliss grabbed the laundry
basket to take upstairs so she could strip the beds, and
as you might imagine, the snake got loose, and—” Joe
stopped speaking as Judith heard the cleaning woman
shriek in the background:
“Lucifer! Satan! Beelzebub! He’s on the loose,
tempting sinners! Look out, Lord, he may be coming
after me! Keep him away, Lord! I don’t want to wear
scanty underwear and dance to suggestive music!”
“You hear that?” Joe asked. “Phyliss passed out cold
when she saw the snake, but she’s come to now.”
“Oh, good grief!” Judith cried, raking her fingers
over her scalp. “Is she okay?”
“Not exactly,” Joe replied calmly as voices contin-164
Mary Daheim
ued to sound in the back
ground. “She came to, but she
swears she’s having a heart attack. Arlene says it’s just
gas, but you know Phyliss, she’s kind of a hypochondriac.”
Phyliss Rackley was indeed a hypochondriac as well
as a religious zealot. But she was also a terrific cleaning woman. Judith hung her head. “What’s happening
now? Did you say ‘medics’?”
“Yes, yes, I did,” Joe replied, still keeping his voice
calm. “Phyliss insisted we call an ambulance. But the
medics were having trouble getting up the hill with all
this snow. Even with chains, they had trouble, but they
think they can make it if they give it another try.”
“Where is Phyliss?” Judith asked, aware that a
global-sized headache was setting in.
“On the sofa in the living room,” Joe said. “Really,
she seems okay. I wish Arlene wasn’t trying to get her
to take all that Gas-X, though. That can produce some
pretty revolting results with somebody like Phyliss.”
“What about the damned snake?”
“The snake?” Joe hesitated. “A good question. I’m
not sure.”
“Joe . . .”
“I’ll check. Right away. Hey, I really called to see
how you were feeling this morning.”
“How do you think I feel?” Judith retorted. “I feel
absolutely awful. I’m hanging up now so you can
straighten out this horrible mess. I’m not even going to
ask how the rest of the guests are managing. Goodbye.” Judith slammed down the phone with a big bang.
Bob Randall Jr. stood in the doorway. “Excuse me,”
he said in a diffident voice, “have you seen my sister,
Nancy?”
“Yes,” Judith said in a testy voice. “She was here
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and then she left. She couldn’t find your mother’s
worry beads.”
“Oh.” Bob Jr. looked forlorn. “Darn.”
Judith regretted her sharp tone. It wasn’t Bob Jr.’s
fault that she was in a bad mood. “I imagine Nancy
went off to search wherever else your mother had been
after she’d called on us.”
But Bob Jr. shook his head. “Mom wasn’t anywhere
else after we met her in this room. We went straight
down to the staff lounge.”
“What about before your mother came in here?” Judith asked, making an effort to be helpful.
Bob Jr. had moved closer to the bed, and appeared
as if he’d like to sit down. “Do you mind?” he asked,
pointing to the chair and panting a bit.