Bishop as Pawn by William X. Kienzle

accomplished the hoped for. His own concerns and problems were forgotten for the moment.
    He left ER and proceeded to the pastoral care department to check on the patients he hoped to visit.
    There weren’t many. Most on his list were people who, after previous casual visitation, had asked him to return. Actually, only one elderly man was a bona fide parishioner of Ste. Anne’s.
    Checking further, he found that quite a few on his list had been released. One had died. That left only five, including the parishioner, to call on.
    As luck would have it—as his luck frequently had it—four were not in their rooms. CAT scan, X rays; two in physiotherapy.
    But good old dependable Herbert Demers was in.
    Herbert seldom went anywhere. Doctors periodically tried to have him transferred out, claiming that the treatment he was getting in the hospital could just as well be administered in a nursing home. And—this was an extended busy period—they needed his bed.
    But, inevitably, just as arrangements were complete, Herbert would lapse again into a critical condition, requiring extensive, sometimes intensive, care.
    Herbert’s condition was further complicated by an order to resuscitate.
    That had come about shortly after he was admitted. Herbert’s family consisted of a grandson and the grandson’s wife. A doctor didn’t want to take the time and trouble to explain to them the various options available. So he used the catchall, “Do you want us to do everything we can for your grandfather?”
    The couple would have been perfectly disposed to waive extraordinary measures and let Grandpa expire in peace. If Grandfather had been able to express himself, he very definitely would have been of the same mind.
    But Herbert couldn’t express himself. And the family could not bring themselves to come right out and say, “No, we don’t want you to do everything you can for him.”
    The doctor won that one. He was spared having to take the time to explain that, under certain circumstances, he could direct that if Herbert were actually dying, the staff could be ordered not to attempt resuscitation. Herbert could mercifully be allowed to do what his body demanded—die.
    So Herbert lingered on. The vital signs were there, Just barely. He did not need oxygen tubes; intravenous tubes connected his frail body to medication and nourishment.
    No one knew what, if anything, was on his mind.
    To Carleson, Herbert was the ultimate source of motivation. No matter what problems or troubles one experienced, there was always Herbert Domers. Nothing haunted Carleson as much as the thought of having his soul imprisoned in his body rather than animating it
    Herbert occupied a semiprivate room. The bed next to the window was empty. Carleson hesitated at the door. “What happened to Mr. Girondello?” he asked a passing nurse.
    “Oh …” She stopped to recollect. “… he expired during the night.” She continued on her course.
    Carleson mulled that over as he stood in the doorway.
    Did Herbert know his roommate was gone? Did he understand? Could he understand? Had he heard Mr. Girondello breathe his last? Had Herbert wished it had been himself?
    Who knew?
    “So then, Herbert, how goes it today?” Carleson expected no reply. His goal today, as always, was to try to provide a little distraction for his parishioner. Without knowing whether the man could even understand what was said, the priest did know that Herbert could hear and see. Those were simple functions to test.
    Carleson laid his overcoat and hat on the chair near the window and drew one of the more comfortable chairs close to Herbert’s bed. “I bring you greetings from the Ambassador Bridge,” Carleson said. “You remember the Bridge … from a little distance, especially at night when it’s all lit up, it looks like a rainbow. And if it were a rainbow, I guess your house would be the pot of gold … ‘cause that’s where it is: right at the foot of the bridge.
    “Your house