An Unholy Mission Page 6

  Frederick locked the door and turned off the lights behind them as they trotted across the great room to the bedroom they shared so enthusiastically. Olympia turned and was closing the door behind them to keep out the cats when she heard a distinctly musical ping from the antique clock on the shelf over the woodstove.

  “I hear you, Miss Winslow, and this is really none of your business!”

  “Did you just say something?” asked Frederick.

  “Not really,” said Olympia.

  Nancy Farwell was lying on her side, facing away from the door, when Luther Stuart entered the room. The lights were dimmed, and Elinore was using a clip-on lamp to read her book so as not to disturb her roommate.

  “She’s sleeping,” whispered Elinore, gesturing to the still form in the bed next to hers. “Maybe you should come back tomorrow.”

  “I’ve spoken to the nurse,” said Luther. “I told her I’d just sit beside her bed and read my Bible. I won’t stay long. If she wakes up, we’ll visit, and if not, I’ll still have brought her the word of God.”

  Elinore shrugged and went back to her book, but before long, still holding the book and wearing her reading glasses, her head dropped forward, and she slipped into a light doze.

  Luther eased the visitor’s chair up close to the far side of Nancy Farwell’s bed. He sat and watched the rise and fall of her shoulders and listened to the labored breathing over the sounds of the machines that were helping to extend her life until a liver might be available. She lay with one hand under her chin and the other extending just beyond the edge of the hospital bed. He opened his Bible and laid it on his knees. Taking Nancy’s limp hand in his, he began to read to her from the “Book of Psalms.” He kept his voice low, almost chanting the ancient words of praise and comfort and stroking her upturned palm with his thumb. “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want …”

  Seven

  By the time Olympia and Frederick arrived at the restaurant, Jim had already staked out a booth in a far corner and was perusing the menu.

  “We’re not late, are we,” asked Olympia?”

  Jim shook his head. “I’m early. There’s almost no traffic on a Saturday morning, so I breezed right through.”

  Frederick reached over and shook Jim’s hand in greeting before sliding in beside Olympia.

  Once Olympia had inhaled most of her first cup of coffee, and Frederick had made similar inroads on his tea, they ordered their food. Frederick had to be reassured that it was not against the rules to have a sweet (maple syrup on his pancakes) and a savory (in this case, sausages) on the same plate.

  “How unlike the home life of our own dear Queen,” huffed a jovial Frederick.

  “Get over it,” said Olympia.

  With that bit of lighthearted theatrics out of the way, Olympia cut to the chase. “So, Jim, what do you know about professional interfaith ministry?”

  Jim set down his cup and looked across the table at his long-time friend. “It’s legit, Olympia. Usually it’s someone who feels the call to ministry but either isn’t affiliated with a particular denomination or may claim a religious affiliation but wants to serve more than just his or her own people.”

  “Could someone with those credentials qualify as a hospice chaplain?” Olympia surveyed the remains of her coffee and took a small sip.

  “I don’t see why not. Why, is there an interfaith minister in your group at Mercy?”

  “There is. It’s just that I never met one before, so I didn’t know what to think at first. He always wears a big silver cross around his neck, says it’s so people will know he’s a chaplain. He’s been assigned to the hospice unit, but he keeps turning up on my patch. The other day I found out he’s been paying regular visits to one of the women on my unit.”

  “Is she in hospice care?” asked Jim.

  “I don’t think so, but sometimes they assign people to hospice care even if death isn’t imminent. I read something about palliative care and pain management on her chart. I need to check that out with the nurse manager. I do know she’s on a transplant list, and there’s concern as to whether she’ll live long enough to get it. Anyway, she mentioned him when I was with her on Thursday. She told me he comes in after hours to see her. I asked her roommate about him later. She said that he’d been by a couple of times, and the patient seems to enjoy the visits.” Olympia held her fingers to her lips. “You understand, I can’t use their names even to you.”

  “Actually, you can. I go there all the time, so we can call it professional confidence or courtesy.”

  “I know, but Frederick’s here.”

  “Olympia, you’ve been single too long. I may be a priest, but the married clergy that I know often take their spouses into their confidence. It’s not like Frederick is ever going to meet the guy, is it?”

  “Not likely, and for the record, Frederick is not my husband.”

  Now it was Jim’s turn to raise a loving eyebrow and say, “All but in name, Olympia, and don’t be so defensive.”

  Frederick, who had been sitting there listening, joined the discussion.

  “Have you said anything to your supervisor or talked to any of the other student chaplains about your concerns?”

  “I’ve only been there a week, so it’s probably way too soon. To be honest, Jim, I don’t know if there’s anything to say. I do know there’s something about him that makes me uneasy, and the thought of him coming in after hours to visit a patient, well, I don’t know if that’s usually done.”

  “I’ve often come in at night after a late class or after Saturday confessions. Sometimes it’s the only chance I get. You people have to keep regular hours. That’s part of the requirements of the program. But if he’s already there, what’s the harm in his staying on for a while?”

  “Nothing when you put it that way, and I don’t want to get off on the wrong foot with Sister Patrick and the others by calling attention to myself or playing tattletale. That can be the kiss of death in a cohort group.”

  “So can an unscrupulous chaplain,” said Jim, shaking his head and addressing the other side of the argument. “You and I both know that some people are attracted to religion for all the wrong reasons. If we witness something that’s unprofessional, and we don’t speak up, then it’s my thinking that we share part of the responsibility for the deed itself. A misconducting clergy person can do enormous harm. Speaking from my own corner of the spectrum, how many people in the Catholic Church bear permanent physical and emotional scars because their abuse was covered up and not reported?”

  “I don’t think he’s doing anything that bad, Jim, but there’s something about him that makes me uncomfortable. I wish I could say what it was. On the other hand, it could just be me. What do you think I should do?”

  Jim reached over and tapped her on the forearm.

  “Do you see what Frederick is doing right now?”

  “Taking notes on the back of a napkin. He’s always writing things down.”

  Jim shook his index finger at Olympia in emphasis. “Start documenting your observations, Olympia. Write down anything and everything that piques your interest, arouses your concern or makes you uncomfortable. Then date it and e-mail me a copy.”

  Olympia nodded. “I’m sort of doing that already. We have to record our interactions with our patients and present them in the group meeting for discussion.”

  “Ah, the dreaded verbatims, scourge of Clinical Pastoral Education, I remember them well. But with regard to the guy you’re worried about, if you start to see a pattern in what he’s doing, run it by me or another one of the chaplains you can trust. You’re absolutely right to proceed with caution, Olympia, but in our business, you can never be too cautious or too observant. People, especially people who are ill and likely frightened, will trust an authority figure with their deepest secrets because they need comfort and reassurance. Clergy have a unique power that in the hands of the wrong person can result in the very worst of consequences.”

  Olympia
remained quiet for a moment, remembering other instances where the curious power of the cloth had been cruelly exploited.

  “You’ve made your point, Jim. Thanks for listening.”

  The priest held his two hands out toward his friend. “You want me to check this guy out next time I’m there? No harm in that.” He pointed to his Roman collar, “With this thing on I can walk through walls and talk to anybody. Luther doesn’t know me, and don’t you mention me. If you see me in one of the units, look the other way. I’ll make it my business to take a walk through the hospice unit at Mercy sometime in the next week and see what I can see. I have a parishioner there I need to visit. If I can just happen to meet up with Luther, it won’t be hard to strike up a conversation. From what you say, he’s pretty out there when it comes to his so-called mission.”

  “Oh, Jim, I think that’s a great idea. He’d never suspect that a priest was actually checking him out.”

  “Let me see what I can find out on the QT,” said Jim. “It may be something, and it may be nothing, but in the years I’ve known you, Olympia, you’ve never been very far from the mark, and that means this all deserves a closer look.”

  When they got home, Frederick announced that he needed a cup of tea and offered to make one for Olympia. While he busied himself in the kitchen, Olympia reached for Miss Winslow’s diary. She kept it beside her chair, and when she had time, she picked it up and read a few pages. It was her personal window on the history of the house she now called home and the life of the woman spirit with whom she shared it, Leanna Faith Winslow, Mayflower descendant and persistent busybody.

  November 24, 1861

  The waiting is unbearable! Because this is my first attempt, I truly have no idea how long it will take before I learn whether or not my story has been accepted for publication. I fill my days with making ready for the winter, tending to my growing son, (he stood without assistance today!) and when the rare moment presents itself, working on another story. Jonathan is an early riser, but he is in bed by seven in the evening. So unless I have visitors, which in truth I rarely do, my time is my own to use as I wish. This would not be so if I were a wife.

  I do confess that on more than one occasion, I wrote with such intensity and for such a length of time I saw the sky go pale outside my eastern window. And I do also confess I have paid a very dear price for such self-indulgence on the following day.

  When it is not too cold or wet outside, I visit with my women friends. We sip tea and marvel at our children, but the nights are lonely. Then I cannot help but think of Jared and wonder how he fares. But I have closed that door, and it does not benefit me to think of ever opening it.

  More anon, LFW

  Eight

  Olympia got to the hospital early enough on Monday morning to dash into the hospital cafeteria for a quick cup of coffee before going up to her unit. As luck would have it, Luther Stuart had the same idea. She acknowledged his nod of greeting and come-hither wave and carried her double cappuccino with whipped cream and cinnamon over to his table. This was a bonus, an unexpected opportunity, beyond the watchful gaze of Sister Patrick or the jurisdiction of a charge nurse, to get to know more about this man on her own terms.

  “You’re looking well this morning, Olympia. Have a good weekend?” Luther pushed his plate to the middle of the table. “Want to share my muffin? It’s bigger than I can eat by myself. I’ve already cut it in half.”

  Olympia eyed the half muffin. She didn’t need any more calories added to what she was already consuming in the cappuccino, but the smell of the cranberry-orange confection dissolved her willpower, and she accepted with a guilty grin.

  “Thanks, Luther. I don’t really need it, but …”

  Luther looked across the table at Olympia. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those women who are always counting calories, Olympia, and if you are, forget it. You’re fine just the way you are.” Then Luther paused and added, “I think you’re a very attractive woman.”

  Olympia ducked her head and smiled. She couldn’t help being pleased by the compliment. She was always wishing to be twenty pounds thinner but not so much so that she actually did anything about it for very long. So a man who appreciated her for the size and shape she was had at least one point in his favor.

  “So, how’s it going now that we have the first week behind us? At least I’m learning my way around the complex and remembering everybody’s names.” Olympia was licking her fingers and collecting the crumbs on her napkin as she spoke.

  He shook his head and looked doubtful. “I’ll feel more confident after I get through my first verbatim this afternoon. I’ve never been good at writing. I’m better at speaking. I feel like I’m more in control.”

  If Olympia found anything odd in this remark, she didn’t comment on it. She did, however, file it for future reference, should she ever need it.

  “We’re here to learn, Luther. That’s how I look at it. It will be everybody’s first time in the verbatim barrel today.”

  “What do you mean by verbatim barrel?” asked Luther.

  “It’s a reference to an old and very rude joke, my friend.”

  “I didn’t know ministers told rude jokes.” Luther looked both intrigued and dismayed.

  “Ministers are human, Luther. The calling may be divine, but it’s humans who answer the call.”

  “I think I’d like to know more about the human side of you, Olympia.” The intrigued look became an intense stare.

  “What you see is what you get, Luther, and I think it’s time for both of us to go upstairs.”

  “Can we have lunch some time?” Luther stood, smoothing his jacket and positioning the silver cross in the space above the buttons.

  “Sure,” said Olympia, deliberately keeping her voice casual and impersonal. “We both eat lunch here in the cafeteria; no doubt our orbits will intersect again before the term is out.”

  “I certainly hope it’ll be sooner than that,” said Luther, taking Olympia’s arm and steering her in the direction of the elevator. “I want to know more about Unitarian Universalism, as well. This may be my only chance.”

  Olympia’s momentary discomfort dissipated. “That, I can talk about at length. You may be sorry you asked.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” said Luther. “Try me.”

  After lunch the six chaplains sat at the table, each with their stack of verbatim sheets in front of them, waiting for Sister Patrick to choose the first to present what he or she had written. Olympia was not particularly nervous. She’d been through this before. But Patrick was different from her first supervisor, and until she knew exactly what the woman expected, she, too, was just the tiniest bit on edge.

  The nun began by explaining that they would each take turns having their verbatims read in the manner of a play script or radio drama, with different members of the group taking the parts of the people on the lists. No names, of course. Then she turned to Olympia.

  “I’m going to ask you to go first, Olympia, mainly because you’ve done this before.” To Olympia’s skyrocketing eyebrows she said, “That doesn’t mean I expect it to be perfect, but at least it will show the others how the process works.”

  Five sets of shoulders dropped visibly.

  Ugh! Thanks for setting me up, thought Olympia. She gathered up her papers and began passing copies to the people seated around the table.

  “Do you want to assign parts, or shall I?” asked Patrick.

  “I’d much rather you did,” said Olympia, flashing an engaging smile at her supervisor, “I may have done this before, but it was a while ago, and I’m sure you have your preferences.”

  “As a matter of fact, I do,” said the no-nonsense nun.

  Olympia wasn’t surprised.

  “I think the person who wrote the verbatim should listen to it rather than be one of the readers. It makes more of an impact when you hear your own words read back to you by someone else.”

  Olympia didn’t bother to say she had used this te
chnique all through her twenty-five years plus of teaching. She said only, “My, what a good idea.”

  Patrick assigned the parts of chaplain, nurse’s aide and patient, the three persons involved in the interaction Olympia had described in her verbatim, to the three other women in the cohort group. Then she reminded everyone once again that because of patient confidentiality and the intense and very personal nature of Clinical Pastoral Education, they were never to use an actual name, not even their own, when writing or reading a verbatim.

  When they finished reading Olympia’s case, Patrick commented only that she found it to be a spiritually healthy interaction and that Olympia did well to allow the patient to direct the conversation; but in the future, she said, a chaplain should always remember to offer to pray with a patient before leaving them. After that, the other cohorts asked contextual questions about the patient and the nature of his or her illness, but other than that, they had little to add.

  “We have time for one more. Luther, why don’t you go? We’ll do two more on Wednesday.”

  Olympia could hear the deep intake of breath to her immediate right as Luther stood and began passing his paper-clipped pages to the right and to the left.

  “Since this is a two-person verbatim, Olympia, I’d like you to take the part of the chaplain. Timothea, would you please be the patient?”

  Olympia and Timothea looked at each other across the table, and both took out their reading glasses. Thus prepared, they began reading:

  Chaplain: “Good morning, Mrs. Patient, I’m the chaplain assigned to this unit. Would you like to have a pastoral visit with me?”

  Patient: “I’ve never been much of a church-goer, but I suppose at this point, I’d better give some thought to my soul.”

  Chaplain: “No time like the present. Good thing I brought my Bible. How are you feeling today?”