An Unholy Mission (9 page)

As she passed in front of him, Olympia, the perennial saver of wounded puppies, whispered, “Come on, my friend, let me buy you a coffee this time. You’ve had a rough day.”

Nine

While the six chaplains struggled with their verbatims and hospital protocol, back in Brookfield, Frederick Watkins was not having a good day. He didn’t work at the bookstore on Mondays and planned to surprise Olympia by painting their bedroom while she was off at the hospital.

The idea blossomed in his head over the weekend when Olympia commented that the flat white plaster walls in the bedroom were uninspiring. She said that while they were clean, they lacked warmth or character, and wouldn’t a dark colonial cranberry red be a lovely color? So full of good will and determination, he hopped into his canary yellow pickup and chugged down to the paint and wallpaper store.

Now, halfway up the step ladder with a loaded paint brush in hand, he couldn’t believe what was happening. The paint he had just purchased was flying through the air on its way from the top of the ladder, where he’d knocked it with his elbow, to the floor below. He stood, dumbstruck and horrified, as the paint pooled out around the base of the ladder and dripped down the wainscoting where it had splashed when the can hit the floor. Action-reaction, he would say later, but at that moment his sense of humor dissolved into white-faced panic.

Moments earlier, he’d lunged for a cat that looked like it might start up the ladder to join him, and in so doing, hit the can. Helpless now in the face of the force of gravity, not to mention the gravity of the situation, Frederick had seconds to consider his diminishing options. Seeing none and sworn agnostic that he was, he took a chance and prayed for a miracle. Then he proceeded to plan B.

Paramount was getting to the floor before the paint connected with the Oriental rug Olympia had placed beside the bed. On the way down the ladder, he dropped the brush, further splattering the walls, but once off the ladder, he managed to yank the rug to safety.  However, in the process of saving the carpet, he knocked over a lamp and Olympia’s bedside table.  The noise and the smell terrified the cats, and they reacted in much the same way they treated a visit from the dreaded vacuum cleaner. They would be gone for hours.

The first thing Frederick could think of was to scoop up the paint with was a dust pan and brush. It might not have been the most efficient approach to the task, but it did the job. So, when Olympia came through the door that evening, he was still at it, implements in hand and a woeful expression on his face. There was dripped and splashed paint everywhere, and in the middle of it all was Frederick, scrubbing and scraping, scooping and dumping and running back for more as the now dried red river marked the disaster.

“Jesus, Frederick, what happened to the other guy?”was all she could say before she began laughing so hard she lost her breath and had to lean against the wall for support.

When air and speech returned, she leaned over and kissed him. “Cheer up, sweetheart. It’s a perfect color, and I know you meant well. Let me get changed, and I’ll give you a hand with the rest of it. After that, I want you to throw out your shoes and have a shower, and then we’re going out for dinner.”

When they were seated at a table for two in a local restaurant, Olympia knew this was a delicate situation. To be on the safe side, she put on her chaplain hat even before asking the waiter for a full carafe of the house wine. Frederick was obviously feeling awful about the mess and, as she eventually found out, even worse about the aborted surprise. He had so wanted to do something very special for her. But by the time they finished their salads and were well into their wine, the utter absurdity of it, not to mention the visual impact, had them both in hiccups and giggles.

Later, over coffee and two sinfully chocolate-with-double-whipped-cream desserts, Olympia described her own day, the verbatims and finally the coffee visit with Luther.

“From what you say, Sister Patrick really took the man to the cleaners. How was he after that?”

“It’s hard to describe, Frederick, but it was definitely disturbing. Luther was upset that she came down on him so hard, but it’s clear he still believes he has every right to touch a patient if he does it in his role as a chaplain. Worse, he has no intention of stopping. He just said he wouldn’t put it into any more verbatims.”

“I don’t like the sound of that. Sounds like he thinks he knows more than the supervisor. Maybe he’s taking his calling a little too seriously and thinks that because he’s going to be a minister, he’s somehow above reproach.”

“Funny you should say that, Frederick. On day one Sister Patrick warned us never to play God. Luther’s a strange one, all right. And another thing …”

“What’s that?”

“One minute I think he might be coming on to me, you know, sitting a little too close, touching my arm. Then the next minute he’s acting all distant and pious. Wait a minute, there’s something else. I guess that’s three, isn’t it? He told me in confidence that he’s been called in for a biopsy. Seems like he went in for some tests right before we started at the hospital, and they found something … and he’s been losing weight.”

“That’s enough to unseat anyone,” said Frederick. “Did he say where it was?”

“Pancreas.”

“Bad.”

‘He swore me to secrecy,” said Olympia, “but that’s not what really bothered me.”

“You mean there’s more?”

“After he told me about the biopsy, Luther looked me straight in the eye and said he wasn’t worried, that as long as God saw fit to call him to ministry, God would never let him die until his work here on earth was done.”

By his frown and pursed lips, it was obvious that Frederick didn’t like what he heard. “I know you didn’t ask my advice, Olympia, but you did tell me what happened. I think you should go straight to your supervisor.”

“Let me sleep on it, my love. I know you’re probably right, but part of me wants to give the poor guy the benefit of the doubt.”

“What does the other part of you want?”

“To be a good colleague and a good chaplain.”

“I don’t see the two as being separate.”

After a fitful night Olympia decided to begin her day in the hospital chapel. She was early for a second day in succession, and rather than risk bumping into Luther in the cafeteria, she decided that a few minutes of quiet meditation would benefit her far more than a cup of coffee. Coming into this place of peace and seeing its stained glass windows with images from differing faith traditions, the wooden pews, the smell of beeswax and old hymn books never failed to soothe and center her. She took a seat in the back and began to thumb through an old
Cokesbury Hymnal
she found in the pew rack in front of her. She loved the old Methodist hymns with their passionate words and easy tunes and was silently singing one to herself when she felt a hand on her shoulder. She froze.

“May I join you, Sister?”

It was Timothea.

She exhaled.

For a while the two women sat in silence. Olympia could see Timothea’s lips moving, but she made no sound. Olympia bowed her head and continued with her internal hymn sing, curious as to what, if anything, Timothea might want of her.

After a few minutes Timothea looked down at her watch, then leaned over to Olympia and whispered an invitation to join her for lunch before the afternoon session. Olympia smiled and nodded her acceptance and held up ten fingers and then two fingers: twelve o’clock.

Timothea smiled and nodded back, then slowly pulled herself to her feet and walked out into the hallway. Olympia stayed behind for a few more minutes, taking in deep breaths of the dusky calm of the place and letting it help to order her thoughts before she began her own day. She still hadn’t come to a decision about having a talk with Sister Patrick.

Upstairs in the transitional unit, father Jim Sawicki was leaning on the desk, talking with charge nurse. He had been there many times before, and the two spent a few minutes catching up before he got around to the reason for this particular visit.

“I think one of my parishioners might be here. I suppose I should have checked at the desk when I came in, but I wanted to drop by and say hello first. Do you know if the chaplain is in this morning? I know there’s a new crop of them around this time, and I thought I might have a word about my friend.”

“We have two chaplains. One is actually assigned to this unit. That would be Olympia Brown. She seems very nice, and it’s clear the patients like her. The other one comes in from time to time to visit the hospice patients when we have them. I don’t know him as well. His name is Luther Stuart. He’s a little more reserved. Maybe it’s because he’s new. Do you want me to check the schedule?”

Jim looked at his watch. “Now that I think of it, I’m not sure my friend is even on this floor. The family was upset when they called. They did say they were considering hospice care.”

“She might be here; we reserve a couple of beds on this floor for hospice, but we have a dedicated unit, as well. What’s the person’s name? Unless you ask by name, I can’t tell you if she’s here.”  The nurse threw up her hands in frustration. “New patient confidentiality regulations—I can’t even tell a priest, can you imagine that?”

Then she lowered her voice. “Check in 311, there’s a hospice patient in there.”

Jim looked at his watch. “Thanks, but you know what? I’m running late. I’ll just grab a cup of coffee and come back later.”

But instead of leaving the floor, Jim walked past the elevators and around the corner toward room 311.

Outside in the hallway, Luther Stuart watched as Elinore Banks made her way down the hallway with the physical therapist before slipping into the room. He wrinkled his nose at the pervasive morning smell of recently used bedpans and commodes. However distasteful the process and the smell, regular elimination of bodily waste was important. Even daily bowel movements were a blessing from God.

Nancy looked up through her monitor wires and IV tubes and smiled when she saw Luther walking toward her bed. She was wearing a pink nightgown and looked like she’d managed to put on a little make up, but the color tingeing her cheeks was not rouge. It was the tell-tale symptom of the persistent, low-grade fever which accompanied her declining health.

“See, I promised I’d come in early,” said Luther, holding out a little bunch of flowers he’d picked up at a local supermarket on his way to the hospital. “They’ll cheer you up when you’re alone. I’ll put them in some water before I leave.”

Without waiting to be asked, Luther pulled up the visitor chair and leaned close to the woman. He wrinkled his nose. Her breath was sour.

“How are you feeling this morning, Nancy? Is there anything I can get you? Luther reached inside his jacket for his pocket Bible, but before he began reading, he stroked Nancy’s flushed cheek with the tips of his fingers.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said a male voice coming from the other side of the room. “I didn’t mean to interrupt a private visit.”

Luther snatched back his outstretched hand and turned to find a priest standing in the doorway. “I’m the chaplain, Father. My name’s Luther Stuart. Are you her priest?”

Without missing a beat Jim walked across the room and extended his hand. “No, actually, I was looking for the chaplain. I guess I found you. I’m Father Jim Sawicki. I teach at Allston College, and I’m part-time at St. Bartholomew’s in Dorchester. I don’t think I’ve met you here before. You must be one of the new CPE cohort group.”

“My Name is Luther Stuart, and, uh, I’m busy with a patient just now. Is there something I can help you with? I’ll be free in a few more minutes.”

“Actually, there is, but it can wait until you’re through with your visit. I’m thinking about developing a course in non-parish religious vocations. I thought I’d ask some of the chaplains here about being part of a panel discussion on the scope and nature of the work itself. I don’t want to bother you now, though. Do you think we could have a cup of coffee later this morning?”

Luther stood and looked past Jim toward the hallway, his fingers touching his silver cross. “Well, I do have some experience.”

Jim smiled. “Of course, I didn’t mean right now. Do you get a break or something? I’ve got some people to see myself.”

“I’ve got a full morning, but maybe we could meet for lunch? There’s a pretty good cafeteria right here in the hospital. It’s just downstairs from the main entrance. I’m free from twelve to one.”

“That’s terrific. You’re sure it’s not going to be any trouble?”

“Not at all, Father,” said Luther, extending his hand a second time. In fact, I’m honored.”

Timothea was already seated, and by the look of it, well into her lunch when Olympia set down her own tray. For a while the two made small talk about the food, the weather, the curious demands and rewards of ministry, and more specifically, hospital chaplaincy.

When Timothea returned with a double helping of dessert, the two tacitly dropped a few barriers and settled into more casual girl talk and the business of getting to know one another on a more personal level. Timothea’s voice was mesmerizing, and despite its deep, resonant power, she spoke in such a way that only Olympia could hear her words.

“I’ll tell you one thing, girl, that Sister Patrick is one tough lady. I’m gonna keep my head low, do my work and hope she don’ land on me.” Timothea nodded as she spoke, letting the soft remnants of a regional accent smooth and color the cadence of her words.

“I hear you. I’m trying to stay well under her radar myself. She really ripped into Luther yesterday. I felt bad for him.”

“She hit him pretty hard. That’s why I spoke up, but I’ll tell you right out, Olympia, I don’ like that man. He makes me feel all squirmy.”

Rather than tip her own hand, Olympia only said, “Really, how so?”

“Well, first of all, that big cross he wears. He’s always touching it, making sure we notice it. She hesitated. “And I think he’s making eyes at me, if you know what I mean.”

Olympia nodded. She knew exactly what Timothea meant.