Bishop as Pawn (27 page)

The offer was not one of unalloyed generosity. Koesler had proven himself a useful resource person. He very well might serve as such again. Kleimer would like to have this priest in reserve for future use.

Koesler, for his part, would respond only to an offer he could not resist. Which, in Kleimer’s case, would be a summons to confer sacraments
in extremis.
And, since Kleimer was not Catholic, Koesler was not likely to take Kleimer up on his invitation.

But the priest did not wish to needlessly offend the attorney. “Thank you very much for your invitation. I’ve kind of fallen behind in my parish duties the last day or so.” That much was true. “How about I take a rain check?”

“You got it, Father. Any time.”

This day was beginning to redeem itself. Kleimer was retrieving his self-satisfaction with interest.

And there was still the national media to come.

CHAPTER

EIGHTEEN

Free at last.

Thanks to the good offices of Father Dave McCauley of Ste. Anne’s parish, Father Don Carleson had escaped the mob of newspeople who had pinned him down after his release on bail.

They had their job to do. Carleson was able to admit that. He understood it. But he didn’t have to like it.

It was nightmarish. First, there was the swarm of reporters who pressed in around him, firing questions; the print people scribbling notes that later they would organize into a story with, they hoped, a snappy lead; the radio news hounds thrusting microphones like voodoo rattles at his jaw.

The ones he minded most were the photographers and camera people. He found it most difficult to give any thought at all to what he was saying, as he tried to answer the questions shot at him from every side, while cameras clicked relentlessly in his face and the shoulder-balanced TV equipment loomed like hungry vultures, zoom lenses lunging in at him.

Fortunately, after some fifteen minutes of that steady, persistent interrogation, Carleson noticed McCauley in his car with the passenger door ajar. He calculated his angle of escape and bolted, pursued by the cameras and the yawp of shouted questions.

Fortunately, too, McCauley placed himself at Carleson’s disposal. Nothing was prescribed. Whatever Carleson wanted to do was fine with McCauley.

After a moment’s thought, Carleson opted for the freedom of movement his own car would afford. He had no clear idea of what he would do now. But his own car, with no passenger, would provide unencumbered mobility and opportunity for thought.

They drove to Ste. Anne’s, where Carleson showered and changed last night’s slept-in clothes. Then, before the media could catch up—for they, too, had decided to try Ste. Anne’s—he drove off. Aimlessly at first, he kept the car in motion, trying to decide what he might do to forget himself and his troubles.

He recalled a saying of his mother’s. She was fond of reminding him of the man who considered himself destitute because he had no shoes until he saw a man with no feet. Or, as his father expressed the same idea, if someone hits you on your toe with a hammer, you’ll forget every other misery you’ve got.

With a slight smile, he headed for what had become a home away from home—Receiving Hospital.

As usual, he left his car in the parking garage and went through the Emergency entrance.

Immediately, he sensed a difference. It was as if the familiar staff were shrinking from him—or was it merely his imagination at work? Certainly he was conscious that being charged with murder simply had to change the way people related to him.

Suddenly, from among those who seemed to be standing back, a man stepped forward briskly. It was Dr. Schmidt, a most capable young intern. “Yo, Father Carleson, read any good murder mysteries lately?”

It broke the ice. All the others, none of whom seriously thought this popular priest could have murdered anyone, gathered around Carleson, offering support.

Smiling and shaking hands, Carleson said, “I know this is a cliché, but you’ve really made my day.”

Camaraderie was so thick and spontaneous that it seemed as if it were a birthday celebration.

In the next few seconds, everything returned to normal. Business was slow at this moment; no one had been rushed in for some time. A few patients were reclining or sitting on gurneys with Emergency personnel asking questions or administering medication.

As Carleson made his way to the door leading to the hospital proper, he was flagged by a nurse who had been talking to one of the resident surgeons. Carleson, with an expectant look, crossed to them.

“I was just telling Pete here about something funny that happened yesterday, Father,” the nurse said. “I thought you’d get a kick out of it.”

Carleson tightened the small circle with his presence. There was no doubt in his mind, he could use some diversion.

“This happened to my pal, Annie, who works in oncology,” the nurse said. “She had a patient who’d been hanging in there by a thread for several weeks. He’s got a wife and two kids, both girls, teenagers.

“About a week ago, we got the wife’s permission to take the guy—Clarence—off life support. They expected him to check out rather promptly after that. But he didn’t. He’s been in a coma pretty much since then. The doctor’s been wanting to get Clarence out of here—home or a nursing home—but everybody’s afraid to move him. He could check out easily while he’s getting transferred. In general, nobody quite knew what to do, how to handle it.

“Then yesterday, Annie took the wife aside and explained about giving him permission to leave.”

The resident nodded knowingly; Carleson looked puzzled.

“See, Father,” the nurse amplified, “sometimes a moribund patient will hang on to life because he thinks there are things unresolved that he has to take care of. He thinks he’s needed, and somehow that gives him enough will power to fight off death.

“So, anyway, Annie tells the wife she ought to make it clear to Clarence that he can let go.

“Later, Annie is walking down the corridor and she can hear Clarence’s wife yelling. She’s yelling, obviously ’cause Clarence is in this coma. And she yells, ‘Clarence, I forgive you every mean, rotten, nasty, vicious thing you’ve ever done to me! Girls, kiss your father good-bye! Clarence, die already!’

“And he did. Right then.”

Both the resident and Carleson laughed.

Carleson, upon reflection, was aware of the phenomenon of clearing the way for imminent death. But he had never heard a more illustrative, yet humorous, anecdote demonstrating the theory.

Still chuckling, Carleson made his way into the hospital.

It didn’t take long to wipe the smile from his face. The intake department overflowed with patients and their relatives and friends. Most of them were so used to being put on hold that they fully expected to sit in these chairs watching mindless television forever. Forever was the time it took to process the sufferer into a room, a cubicle, or an Ace bandage and out.

No one seemed to identify him as that clergyman they’d seen on TV news or on the front page. He was grateful.

As he made his way down the corridors, he took care to share a confident smile with the worried visitors searching for the room that held their loved one.

Some of the visitors and a few of the patients pushing IV stands paused to talk to him. Somehow they sensed that this was a priest who really understood what it meant to be alone, to be abandoned, to face overwhelming odds. Some asked for a prayer. Others bowed their heads for a blessing.

In some strange way, these interventions, far from sapping his energy, gave him strength. Busy hospitals such as Detroit’s Receiving communicated to him the sense that this was where he was supposed to be. These people—so frightened, so alone—were, in a special way,
his
people.

Now he found himself on the floor where Ste. Anne’s one and only hospitalized parishioner should be. Carleson made his way toward the nurses’ station, hoping that Herbert Demers was no longer here. No longer, indeed, in this life.

Ann Bradley, R.N., looked up from the screen where she’d been searching for records. “Oh, hi, Father. Come to see Mr. Demers?”

It was no surprise that she recognized the priest. By this time, almost all the hospital employees knew him. He’d been there for, in the course of time, all shifts.

“He’s still here?”

Bradley nodded grimly. “That’s about the way we feel, father. Every time any of us comes on duty, there are a certain few patients we expect to find gone. Mr. Demers certainly is among that group. He doesn’t really cause us any trouble. But there’s so little we can do for him. Make sure the IV tubes are working. Turn him. Talk to him. Funny thing,” she said, thoughtfully, “every once in a while I get the feeling he’s trying to tell me something.” She shrugged. “Of course he isn’t. It’s something like a baby: We get the impression we’re communicating but, outside of maybe he feels our touch, nothing.”

“What if …” Carleson hesitated. “What if he did? What if he did communicate with you?”

“What do you mean?”

“The last time I visited him—I know this isn’t going to make much sense—but I’d swear he formed words with his lips.”

“Really!” Bradley lost all interest in the computer screen. “What did he … uh, ‘say’?”

“He said … he said, ‘Help me die.’”

“He said that? Are you sure?”

“Yeah. I really am positive. I’d just told him a story—a joke, actually—about a patient in one of those old-fashioned oxygen tents. Somebody was accidentally standing on the oxygen hose killing the patient.” He stopped, then shook his head. “I can’t tell you why in the world I was telling somebody as sick as Herbert Demers such a black joke. I guess I just felt I should say something. And I didn’t think Herbert would know what I was talking about anyway.

“But, after this joke about a visitor killing the patient, Herbert very slowly and very deliberately mouthed those words: ‘Help me die.’”

“Weird!”

“My thought exactly. But what would you do if you had that experience? What if Mr. Demers asked you to help him die? What would you do?”

“Well, I’d note it in the log, make sure the doctor knew about it.”

“That’s it?”

“It? Oh, you mean would I act on it? Well, no. Of course not. You must know, Father, there are lots of patients—terminals, people with a lot of pain—who want to die. But that’s completely out of bounds.” There was surprise, mingled with a touch of shock in her manner. As if the last thing she ever expected from a priest was the hint of approval for euthanasia.

“Yeah, sure, of course,” Carleson said. “Just wondered. I think I’ll go see Herbert now. See if he wants to mouth any more messages.”

Carleson’s offhand demeanor convinced Bradley that he hadn’t been seriously suggesting euthanasia. Just considering all possibilities.

Carleson entered the room. The second bed was vacant and tightly made up, awaiting the next patient.

Herbert Demers lay motionless in his bed, his skin almost as white as the sheet. The rise and fall of his chest was almost imperceptible. Carleson took the elderly man’s hand. He felt a pulse—barely.

After a lengthy period of sitting and stroking Demers’s hand, Carleson recalled the story he’d just heard in the Emergency Room. What the hell, he thought, it might just work. It certainly was worth a try.

Carleson slid his chair as close as possible to the bed. He squeezed Demers’s hand tightly. There was no answering pressure.

“Mr. Demers …” Carleson spoke loudly. Then, considering the old man was in a coma, the priest decided to throw caution to the winds and shout. “Mr. Demers … Herbert …” Carleson shouted, “it’s all over. Your family is all grown up. They love you, but they don’t need you anymore. You’ve had a good, long life. It’s over now. You can go to God. He’s waiting for you. All you have to do is let go. Let go, like you were going to sleep. Let go and go to God, Mr. Demers. Let go and go to God, Herbert.”

Carleson repeated the exhortation twice more, in more or less the same words. At the end, he was actually perspiring. He had poured so much of himself into willing Demers into eternity that he was nearly exhausted.

After he had been silent for several minutes, Ann Bradley entered the room. Evidently, she had been waiting in the corridor for Carleson to finish.

She stood next to the bed across from Carleson. She grasped Demers’s wrist and held it several seconds. She placed his arm gently on the bed. She placed her fingers on the patient’s neck, feeling for the carotid artery. She looked at Carleson and shook her head.

“He’s gone?” Carleson was willing at this point to believe in magic.

“No,” Bradley said. “Sorry. He’s still very much with us. But” —she smiled—” nice try.” She left the room.

Carleson remained seated, close to Demers. This doesn’t make much sense, he thought. There should be some provision for cases like this. Demers had concluded his life long ago. There was no doubt whatsoever in Carleson’s mind that Demers had communicated. He had pleaded for help in dying. So, this was no vegetable lying on this bed. There was a soul in prison, longing to be free.

With nothing much better coming to mind, Carleson decided to recite the rosary aloud. Maybe that familiar prayer would strike a chord in the old man’s memory.