Recessional: A Novel (54 page)

As the story unfolded on the screen, with Hopkins at his controlled best, their hands met again and remained clasped throughout the show.

In the days that followed, it was now Andy who proposed to Betsy and Yancey that they have a brief rally on the tennis court, and he invariably paired with Betsy, who each day became more attractive to him.

Two weeks later he surprised her by suggesting that they return to the Captain’s Table for dinner, and as they sat on the banquette they had used previously with a great shark staring down at them, he said quietly: “I like this place. I catch myself visualizing it as I work, as if it were our restaurant.” And that evening they also returned to the movies and held hands throughout the show. When he brought her home and walked with her through the corridors to her apartment, she lingered at the door as if the evening were not yet completed, and gently he moved toward her, took her by the hand and drew her to him for a good-night kiss.

As he walked slowly back to his own quarters he thought: I’m behaving like a fourteen-year-old schoolboy. Well, I have problems a teenager doesn’t have. I’m still tormented by the ghosts of the past.

But he did manage to take the first big step. With a painful effort, he succeeded in burying forever the ghost of Ted Reichert, that pitiful young doctor he’d had to fire from his clinic. The memory of him had tortured Andy in his relations with Betsy Cawthorn. But now he realized: “Reichert and me, there’s no comparison between us! He was an arrogant fool. I’m not. He played one-night stands. I don’t.” And the fear was exorcised for good.

For the first time he began seriously to consider the possibility of a life with Betsy: “I’m only twelve years older, and there are lots of couples in Gateways who have that big a difference or bigger.” When he reached his quarters he went into the bathroom, stood before the mirror and assessed himself. After combing his hair and sucking in his stomach, he concluded that he was still eligible, and that twelve years was not so daunting.

Once Mr. Hasslebrook’s true identity had been exposed, the representative of Life Is Sacred became an important fixture in the Palms. Setting up a kind of office in his Gateways room, he became both the critic of how the retirement area operated and the self-appointed defender of the patients’ right to live. He kept on the table in his room copies not only of the literature put out by Life Is Sacred, pamphlets against euthanasia, but also those of sister organizations that were opposed to abortion. He himself rarely mentioned the crusade to protect the unborn, feeling that his primary obligation was difficult enough to require his full energy.

When Dr. Zorn and Krenek tried to stop him from haunting the third floor of the health-services building, they learned that he had acquired semilegal status as an
amicus curiae
, friend of the court, who policed nursing homes to ensure no one was committing euthanasia. As he visited the bedridden people in the hospice, he assured everyone that he was there to guarantee that they would receive good care and be protected from anyone who might want to shorten their lives: “I am here to do God’s work and to ensure that you are treated according to Christian principles. I am your friend, and you may call on me for guidance at any time.” His manner was grave but reassuring, and he gave many a feeling that in the confusing world of the hospice they had a friend they could trust.

If someone like Mrs. Umlauf had signed a living will that would legally empower the doctors to terminate a life that no longer had
any meaning, he did not try to persuade the patient to revoke that decision. He offered to pray with patients so inclined in the hope that their sentient life would be prolonged and promised to do what he could to help them avoid slipping into a life-ending coma. As to Mrs. Carlson’s protracted dying he insisted that it was the procedure that God had ordained. He kept close watch on the doctors and nurses and he was pleased that Mrs. Umlauf stopped her visits to Mrs. Carlson’s room. She had told the office: “I cannot abide what’s happening to Mrs. Carlson. It’s inhuman, un-Christian and probably against the law.” She was assured that she was
100
percent wrong. It was in strict conformance to Florida law and Mr. Hasslebrook was in effect an agent of that law.

For some weeks the members of the tertulia observed Mr. Hasslebrook from a distance, perplexed by what they were seeing and especially hearing. Some residents thought him a godsend because of his concern about their welfare, others considered him an unconscionable busybody. This difference of opinion piqued the curiosity of the tertulia and Raúl Jiménez proposed inviting Hasslebrook to dine with them one night. President Armitage opposed the idea: “I talked with him at length one night, or tried to. Found him a total bore, a Yes-No man without an idea. I judged he had made a mistake in coming to a place like this.” Jiménez argued: “But if he’s an agent of the Life Is Sacred group he must have something to say, and I’d like to hear it.”

So the invitation was extended, and the men, who had heard of his taciturnity and lack of ideas, were surprised to encounter an entirely different kind of person. He spoke not only with vigor but also with a considerable command of the language. He was, in fact, loquacious: “Graduated from Holy Cross, but I’m not a Catholic. My wife died some years ago. Left six children, all properly launched. I was a member, but not a partner, of a good law firm in Boston. I was casting about for something of significance to apply myself to, and I discovered Life Is Sacred. I suppose the loss of my wife had made me brood about such things.”

“What principles does it espouse?” Ambassador St. Près asked, and he explained, “The name tells it all. At the moment of conception human life becomes the most precious commodity on earth. I don’t get too involved in the abortion crisis; there are a lot of good Christians working on that. I’m concerned about the orderly, Christian miracle of death, the ending of a sacred life.”

“I understand,” Senator Raborn said, “that you’re opposed to euthanasia.”

“A horrible word. A horrible act. I am committed to fighting it in every way. That’s why I’m here. Our group slips people into organizations like this that are running hospices, where terrible things go on. The perpetrators have to be exposed and condemned and sent to jail if they persist in committing murder.”

“You term it murder?” Raborn asked, and Hasslebrook started to reply at length: “I suppose you men could be classified as typical East Coast liberals”—but Jiménez cut him short: “I’m a Roman Catholic conservative, like your former wife, probably, and I am strongly opposed to euthanasia. I too consider it murder.”

Rebuked, Hasslebrook apologized, then continued with his set speech: “Men who do my type of work, protecting the aged, serving as friends of the court to see that the laws are observed, have been much influenced by the lessons of Hitler’s Germany. The Nazis started killing the Jews, whom they called an unclean race. Then it was the Gypsies. Then they killed the Poles, an inferior race. And the homosexuals, deviates from the norm. And the physically handicapped. And in the prison camps they planned the steady extermination of the aged because they were too old to contribute much any longer. Gentlemen, when you start down that fatal road you wind up, inescapably, killing everyone who is not like yourself. Mark my words, if Hitler had invaded some nation with a big black population, he would have had to exterminate them, too. And one still wonders how his pure-race Germans could ever have cooperated in harmony with the yellow-race Japanese. Sooner or later—”

President Armitage, who had been disgusted with Hasslebrook when the man first appeared at the Palms, was now intrigued by the thoughtful logic behind his rejection of euthanasia. “Explain to me, Mr. Hasslebrook, how your logic leads you to such strong conclusions about orderly death?”

“As direct as a bolt of lightning on a clear day. Once the law gives you license to exterminate life at either extremity—the unborn or the elderly—soon you will justify writing your own rules for doing it at any midway point. You begin by advising the pregnant woman that she can abort her baby because she has a fifty percent chance of having a Down’s syndrome child. That settled, you can later get rid of your unpleasant aunt because she’s so tedious. And of course your grandmother because she is such an unproductive burden—she must
go. And finally you shoot your wife because she is in considerable pain, and
you
can’t stand to see her suffer. It isn’t that
she
can’t stand it.
You
can’t, so you murder her. The word is murder, gentlemen, and don’t try to mask it with Greek words and unusual spellings.”

He delivered these last words with such force that for some moments the tertulia was silent, a phenomenon in itself, but then Armitage, as the humanist, asked: “And you are satisfied that you have the right to dictate how the rest of us must end our lives. Who gives you that commission?”

“Who gave anyone the right to say, in 1933: ‘Adolf Hitler, to kill a man simply because he is a Jew is a crime. And if you persist, society will have to hang you.’ Nobody was ordained to say that, but somebody should have. Same today. I have no moral sanction for what I do, only my share of the human experience. That ordains me, makes me a priest of the highest order.”

Raborn asked almost insultingly: “Do you ever think of yourself as a fanatic?”

Hasslebrook smiled at him: “No, I’m not going down the Goldwater route: ‘Extremism in the defense of liberty is no vice.’ If I were a fanatic I would do damage and should be condemned. But when society is heading down paths that are perilously wrong, somebody had better shout a warning.”

“And you think any form of euthanasia is perilously wrong?” Raborn persisted, and Hasslebrook snapped back: “I do.” Raborn, wishing to nail down exactly how far the stranger would go in combating existing law, asked: “How many of us at this table have executed living wills and distributed copies to our families and close friends?”

Before the men could respond, Jiménez saw Dr. Zorn entering the dining room on an inspection and called out: “Zorn! Over here! Have dessert with us. A most fascinating discussion,” and a sixth chair was drawn up.

Hasslebrook and Andy sat facing each other, and Armitage, always observant, sensed there was bad blood between them. Obviously the doctor considered the newcomer a spy intending to damage the Palms, and Hasslebrook was aware that in trying to monitor conduct in Extended Care he must inevitably cross swords with Zorn.

Jiménez was explaining: “Mr. Hasslebrook has told us he’s vigorously opposed to euthanasia, and Senator Raborn has asked for a show of hands. How many have executed a living will permitting our
lives to be ended by either wise doctors or trusted friends? Hands, please.” Jiménez and St. Près sat immobile, but Raborn, Armitage and Zorn raised their hands.

“I’m surprised—” Hasslebrook began, but chose not to continue.

“What were you going to say?” Armitage prodded. “You were looking at Dr. Zorn.”

Reluctantly Hasslebrook said: “I was surprised that Dr. Zorn, who operates a hospice—”

“We do not use that word,” Andy said edgily.

“But that’s what it is, whatever you call it. I’m surprised that he, of all people, should sponsor the living-will concept. Is not your obligation on the third floor to keep people alive as long as possible? Doesn’t the law demand that? Doesn’t Christian charity demand it?”

Slowly and carefully, and cursing himself under his breath for having allowed Jiménez to drag him into a discussion like this, Andy said: “In Extended Care our doctors who come in to serve there, our permanent nurses who supervise the place, and all our staff, including me, are totally opposed to euthanasia—”

“We weren’t talking about that,” Hasslebrook said abruptly. “We’re talking about living wills—invitations to commit murder.”

“Oh, wait a minute!” Senator Raborn exploded. “I abdicate none of my right of decision to anyone else to end my life. But when I’m non compos mentis, a vegetable—”

“Do not use that stupid, pejorative word to describe a human being in a temporary coma—”

“But if it’s final and fatal, it can’t be described as temporary.”

“Gentlemen!” Jiménez said. “We’re having a discussion, not an alley fight. The question before us, if I remember correctly, is: How can Andy Zorn, as a medical doctor obligated to support human life whatever the conditions, justify having executed a living will? Well, Zorn?”

Grudgingly Andy said: “As the man in charge of Extended Care I am totally committed to preserving life to the last possible moment. As an ordinary human being concerned about my own welfare, I do not want to be kept alive by the latest heroic measure invented last week by some ambitious medic.”

“No man with those ideas is qualified to manage an institution that stresses health care, including a hospice,” said Hasslebrook.

“If he has character and commitment, he is,” said Armitage, and the confrontation ended because St. Près said in a conciliatory tone:
“Now let’s get back to Senator Raborn’s question, which started this debate: ‘How many of us have living wills?’ ”

Jiménez spoke up: “I’ll answer first. I don’t, because I’m a good Catholic, and our Church has harsh rules. No suicide can be buried in consecrated ground.”

“Do you consider a living will synonymous with suicide?” Raborn asked, and Jiménez said: “The Church does and that’s good enough for me.”

“And you?” Raborn asked the ambassador, who said: “I’ve enjoyed the wild fluctuations of life so much that I want to be present to see the end, however it comes.”

“But if you lie there unconscious?” Raborn asked. “What kind of ending would that be?”

“I choose to think that even though I might look unconscious, that I’d be clever enough to catch some signals of what was going on. I’d still be in the great game. That’s reward enough. I’ll sign no will allowing some referee I don’t know to blow the final whistle. I want to be listening when the real whistle blows.”

Raborn turned to Hasslebrook and asked: “So what do you tell Armitage and me with our living wills legalizing what you term suicide?”