Sisterhood (19 page)

“I’m with the Donald Knight Clinton Foundation,”
she said, ignoring his leer. “We have a board-of-directors meeting here?”

“Oh, yes, ma’am. Eight o’clock, room one thirty-three. Across the lobby to the elevators, one floor up.” He glanced at her overnight bag. “Will you be registering with us tonight?” Again the leer.

“No, thank you. I’ll be staying with friends.” She walked away, leaving the man with his fantasies.

Two women, one from Dallas and the other from Chicago, spotted Barbara as they entered the lobby and caught up with her at the elevator. A brief but warm exchange, then the three rode up together.

It was Monday, not yet twenty-four hours after the inquiry at Boston Doctors Hospital. The women, sixteen of them in all, had hastily rearranged their schedules and traveled to the Copley meeting from all parts of the country—New York, Philadelphia, San Francisco, Miami. They came because Peggy Donner had sent for them and because of their commitment as regional directors of The Sisterhood of Life.

Room 133 was plush—forest green crushed-velvet wall covering, lithographs of elongated horses at the Punchestown Races of 1862, conference table in the center, serving table to one side, and an overstuffed green leather couch beneath the lone window.

Barbara shook hands with the earlier arrivals and made a quick count. Twelve. The four from Boston, including Peg, were late. “No coffee?” she asked no one in particular as she opened her briefcase, extracted a thick folder marked “Clinton Foundation,” and set it at the head of the glossy walnut table.

“The chief orderly was just here,” one of the women answered. “He said the crash cart would be up shortly.” Her humor dented the tension in the room, but only transiently. The emergency meeting was unprecedented, and of those present only Barbara knew its purpose in detail. She checked her watch. Eight ten. Their
regular quarterly meetings seldom started late. But this was Boston’s show, and although she had some other business to transact, she would wait.

Around the room, in small groups and muted voices, the women shared news of their families, their nursing services, and their institutions. They had come together from worlds where each of them held title, power, and influence. Susan Berger, nursing coordinator for the Hospital Consortium of San Francisco, chatted with June Ullrich, field investigations administrator for the largest pharmaceutical house in the country. They knew, as did all the others, that their lofty positions were due, in part, to their involvement with The Sisterhood of Life. Functioning through its visible arm, the Donald Knight Clinton Foundation, the movement published a monthly newsletter updating the status of various philanthropic Sisterhood projects and outlining available upper-echelon nursing positions for which members would receive special consideration.

As coordinating director of The Sisterhood, Barbara Littlejohn was also administrator of the Clinton Foundation and of half a million dollars in voluntary contributions made each year by Sisterhood nurses. Although the titles were hers, the influence and much of the power still rested with Peggy Donner. Barbara checked the time again and spread her notes on the table. Five more minutes and she would begin, with or without Peg.

At that moment the bell captain, a ferretlike man with petroleum hair, marched in with the coffee cart. He floated a tablecloth over the serving table and arranged the cups, sterling, and coffee urn with a flourish. As a finale, he stepped outside the room, returned with a large floral centerpiece, and ceremoniously placed it between the neat rows of cups.

“Flowers,” Susan Berger remarked. “Now this is a
first. Peggy must be softening us up for another of her schemes. God, but they’re lovely.”

The bell captain smiled, as if taking the compliment personally. He spent a few, final center-stage moments straightening the arrangement, then backed out of the room, still smiling. Despite his efforts, the vase still seemed to be overflowing with dahlias. The Garden would be watching and listening, they warned; the offspring appraising the parent. It was a warning that only one at the meeting would understand.

Ruth Serafini, the robust, dynamic dean of the nursing school at White Memorial Hospital, was the first of the Boston group to arrive. Peggy Donner had spawned the movement in Boston, and although it had spread rapidly to hospitals throughout the country, the Boston representation was still by far the largest. Three directors, including Ruth, were needed to oversee activities in the New England states. Peggy herself was no longer involved with day-to-day operations.

“Are the rest coming soon?” Barbara asked after a brief handshake.

“No idea. I got caught in traffic.” Ruth poured a cup of coffee, then took a place at the table.

“Sorry for the delay, everyone,” Barbara said finally. “I think we should start and get through the Foundation business. It’s only been six weeks, so there won’t be a financial report tonight.” Those standing took seats. Barbara surveyed the group one at a time and smiled. How far they had come from the small cadre of nurses who had once met in Peggy’s basement to share their visions and ideals and to form The Sisterhood. As she moved to begin, the final two arrived. The first, Sara Duhey, was a striking young black woman who held a master’s and Ph. D. in critical-care nursing. The second was Dotty Dalrymple.

“Welcome,” Barbara said warmly. “Nothing like being twenty minutes late for your own party.”

“Not ours, Barb,” Dalrymple said. “Peggy’s. She’ll be here soon. Wants you to go ahead with whatever business you have.”

“Very well.” Barbara glanced at her agenda. “Meeting’s in order. First, we’ve gotten progress reports from our rural health centers. Patient visits are up almost one hundred percent in both the Kentucky and West Virginia clinics. The nurses administering them assure us that within the year both places will be flying on their own.” The directors applauded the news, and the two seated closest to Tania Worth of Cincinnati patted her on the back. The centers had been her brainchild and had been approved largely because of her commitment to them. Tania beamed.

Discussion moved quickly through other projects: daycare centers for children of actively working nurses, modern equipment for underfinanced hospitals, scholarships for work toward advanced degrees in nursing, efforts to upgrade the function and image of hospital nurses. Susan Berger gave a brief report on efforts around the country to establish living wills, giving each person the right, ahead of time, to limit the life-preserving measures employed on him. To date the efforts, conceived long ago by Peggy Donner, had met with little success.

“Last but not least,” Barbara said, “we’ve gotten a letter from Karen. Some of you never met her, but she was on the board for several years before her husband received an appointment to the American Embassy in Paris. She sends love and hopes that we’re all well. In less than two years she’s made it all the way up to assistant director of nursing at her hospital.” Several of the older women applauded the news. Barbara smiled. “It seems,” she went on, “that Karen has located five Sisterhood members from a list I sent her of those who
have moved to Europe. She says they are close to organizing a screening committee, but can’t agree on whether the European branch should name itself in English, French, Dutch, or German.”

“Perhaps we should find out what Sisterhood of Life would be in Esperanto,” one woman offered.

The directors were laughing at her suggestion when Peggy Donner entered. Instantly the room quieted.

In the silence Peggy made deliberate, individual eye contact with each woman. Almost grudgingly, it seemed, the gravity in her expression yielded to pride. These were the most beloved of her several thousand children.

“Seeing you all once again lifts my spirit as nothing else ever could. I’m sorry to be late.” She moved toward the head of the table, but stopped by the huge spray of dahlias. Her lips bowed in an enigmatic smile. Then she lifted a pure, regal white blossom and cradled it pensively in her hands. Finally, with a glance at Barbara, who confirmed that it was time, Peggy took over the meeting.

“It has been nearly forty years—
forty years
—since four other nurses and I formed the secret society that was to grow into our Sisterhood.” Her voice was hypnotic. “Recently one of those four nurses, Charlotte Thomas, died at Boston Doctors Hospital. She was Charlotte Winthrop when we first met—only a senior nursing student—but so vital, so very special. She remained active in our movement for only a decade or so, but during that time she was responsible, as much as anyone, for our remarkable growth.

“She had a terminal illness, complicated by a cavernous bedsore, and expressed to me her desperate desire for the freedom of death. She expressed that wish to her physician as well, but as too often happens in his profession, he turned a deaf ear and was using the most aggressive methods to prolong her hopeless agony.

“Several days ago, I called an exceptional young nurse
in our Sisterhood, Christine Beall, and asked her to evaluate Charlotte for presentation to our Regional Screening Committee. For many reasons, personal and professional, it was impossible for me to do so myself. The Committee approved and recommended intravenous morphine. Through a series of unforeseeable and unfortunate circumstances, an unusually thorough autopsy was performed and a critically high blood morphine level was found.”

The nurses sat in stunned silence as Peggy outlined the investigation that followed and John Dockerty’s session in the Tweedy Amphitheater. She paced as she talked, absently using the flower as a prop. Her tone was even and calm, her presentation purest fact. Only when she discussed David Shelton did emotion appear in her words. She described his background in great detail, stressing the difficulties he had encountered through his use of alcohol and drugs. There was disgust in her face and her voice. “A disturbed young man,” she said categorically. “One who would be doing the medical profession a great service by leaving it. ”

Peggy’s pacing became more rapid as she searched for words. “My sisters,” she said gravely, “it has been over twenty years since our system of Regional Screening Committees was established. Over those years more than thirty-five hundred cases have been handled without the slightest hint of our—or anyone’s—involvement. There is every reason to believe that the situation that has developed in Boston will never occur again. Unfortunately, it has this once. I have been close to Lieutenant Dockerty since the very beginning of his investigation. Although he suspects this Shelton is guilty of Charlotte’s death, he is not convinced. More and more, he is learning of a special relationship that existed between Christine Beall and Charlotte: He has even mentioned the possibility of requesting her to submit to a polygraph test. I will not allow that to happen!”

For the first time several at the table exchanged concerned glances. None had ever seen her so close to losing control. The atmosphere in the room became increasingly uncomfortable.

Peggy continued. “We are a Sisterhood. Our bond is as sacred and immutable as if it were blood. When one of us suffers, we must all share her pain. When one of us is threatened with exposure, as Christine is now, we must all fly to her aid. I, and each of you, should expect as much from our sisters. We must protect her!” The woman’s voice had risen to a strangled, desperate stridency. For a time there was silence, save for pulses of leaden rain clattering across the window behind her. Around the room uneasiness gave way to strain and, for some, an icy foreboding. Petals dropped from the flower, mangled in Peggy’s hands.

Barbara Littlejohn moved to reestablish control. “Peggy, thank you,” she said, struggling to blunt the tension in her voice. “You know that we all feel as you do about the movement. We are certainly committed to giving Christine Beall all the support we can.” She hoped against hope that her reassurance would have some impact on what she knew Peggy was about to demand. The woman’s vacant stare told her otherwise.

“I want that man found guilty.” Peggy’s words, barely audible, were spoken through clenched teeth.

The women gaped at her in disbelief. Dotty Dalrymple buried her face in her hands.

“What are you talking about?” Susan Berger was the first to react. There was incredulity and some anger in her voice.

Peggy glared at her, but Susan did not look away. “Susan, I want the pressure off Christine Beall. There is no telling what might happen to her or to our Sisterhood if the police try to break her down. I’ve worked too hard to allow anything like that to happen. Our work is too important. I want the Board’s approval to
take whatever steps are necessary to protect Christine and our interests. With a little ingenuity, I’m sure we can convince the police of Dr. Shelton’s guilt. Considering his background, the most that would happen to him is a few months in some hospital and a year or two away from medicine. That seems a small price to pay for—”

“Peggy, I can’t go along with this.” Ruth Serafini spoke up. “I don’t care what this Shelton has done. Something like this works against the dignity of a man’s life, against everything we stand for.” Her plea brought mutters of agreement and support from several others. Serafini glanced around the table. Of the fifteen women, seven would support Peggy no matter what she asked of them. The others? A vote would be very close. Ruth pushed forward. “What if we just let things be and see what happens? If necessary, we can supply Christine Beall with money, lawyers, anything she needs. At this point it’s not even a certainty that—”

“No!” The word was a slap. Ruth Serafini backed away from Peggy’s eyes as if they were lances against her chest. Peggy pressed her assault. “Don’t you understand? A piece at a time, no matter how hard she resists, Christine will tell them about us.

“Can’t you see the distortions that would appear in the press? It would ruin us. It would end forever our dream. I will never allow that to happen!” She hurled the mutilated flower on the table and turned to the window. Her shoulders heaved with each rapid breath. For a time the only sounds were her breathing and the eerie music of the autumn storm. Yet when she turned back Peggy was smiling. Her voice was soft. “My sisters, a year ago I presented a plan by which I felt we could at last inform the public of our existence and of the holy task we have undertaken. With several thousand taped case reports from the finest, most respected nurses in the world, I felt we could mount a campaign
for acceptance so intense that those opposed to our beliefs would have no choice but to acquiesce. It would have been the culmination of a life’s work, for me and for all of you.