Chapter Seventeen

WEDNESDAY MORNING ARRIVED COLD AND blustery.

At the hospital, anxiety tightened James’s neck muscles and bunched his shoulders together. Gazing out a window that overlooked the front of Hope Haven, he massaged his neck to ease the strain. It didn’t help.

He checked his watch again. Almost ten thirty, nearly time to begin the demonstration. The whole morning had crept by like someone had drugged his watch and its hands couldn’t move. He flicked his fingernail against the watch face. Maybe the battery was running down.

Nelson had wanted to come march with the employees, since the whole idea had been his. But it was a school day and the last rehearsal of the play was scheduled before tonight’s performance.

Would the employees who’d promised to join in the march show up? In this freezing cold weather? He didn’t want to be the only one with his neck stuck out a mile.

How about the TV station and the newspapers he’d contacted? A story about a small-town hospital wasn’t exactly earth shattering. In this weather, reporters might want to cover an indoor event and stay warm. Without news coverage of the demonstration, it wouldn’t have any impact on public officials. The pay cuts would already be effective without any objection except from the employees, and there’d be no way to reverse the decision.

Lorraine Wilder, the day-shift nurse supervisor for General Medicine, joined James at the window. A tall, angular woman with dark hair and a prominent nose, she was in her fifties with nearly thirty years’ experience as a nurse.

“You must have checked your watch ten times in the past fifteen minutes,” she said.

Guilty heat flooded James’s face. “Sorry. I’m a little nervous. Any number of things could go wrong—”

“It’s going to be fine, James. You’ve organized the event beautifully. The employees are excited. We’ll make a big splash that the public and board of directors will hear. They’ll be on our side.”

“I hope you’re right.” James eyed a red cedar tree across the street, its branches waving wildly in the wind. The protesters would be lucky to hang onto their signs.

Even if the public got behind the employees, that didn’t guarantee any additional funds would be forthcoming.

Their pay could still be cut.

“Since you’re uncharacteristically useless on the floor this morning,” Lorraine said, her tone kind and supportive, “why don’t you go on downstairs and make sure everything is ready?”

He snapped his head around. “Really? I don’t want to leave you in a bind.”

“Go, James. The floor’s quiet. I’ll handle things for you and take the late shift on the picket line when you get back.”

He gave her a big smile. “Thanks, Lorraine. You’re a champ.”

“Probably more like a champion sucker.” She jerked her head toward the stairs. “Get outta here. And don’t let anybody get frostbite. We don’t want the staff out on disability if we can help it.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He tendered her a casual salute, then hurried upstairs to get his heavy parka and his cap with earflaps from his locker.

Back downstairs, he walked smartly toward the exit and stepped outside. The cold air struck him in the face with an icy slap.

Wincing, he vowed to schedule the next outdoor event he organized during summer.

He retrieved his picket sign from his van along with several signs with generic messages that said things like Honk If You Support the Hospital. The wind nearly turned the signs into kites. Or lethal missiles.

As he walked toward the sidewalk, several employees joined him, all of them bundled against the cold.

“Hey, man,” one young fellow said, “sure hope you’ve got a bunch of radiant heaters lined up waiting for us. This is some arctic blast we got going on.”

“Sorry,” James responded. “I forgot to put them on special order.”

“Oh well, there’s a cute chick in admissions I’ve been trying to cozy up to. Maybe we can keep each other warm.”

Good luck with that, James thought.

As employees arrived, James reminded them to picket between the two entrances to the parking lot and the ambulance entrance. No one was to block traffic. Keep moving around in a loop and stay on the sidewalk. Wave to the passing cars.

Excitement replaced James’s anxiety when a TV truck from a local station arrived. The TV crew raised a dish antenna on the truck and set up to take video of the protest.

“Excuse me, Mr. Bell?”

James turned at the sound of a female voice and found a young woman with bright red hair and a notepad in her hand. “Yes?”

“I’m Valera Kincaid, reporter for the Deerford Dispatch. I’d like to speak to you for a moment, if I can.”

Yes! James nearly pumped his fist in the air. Despite the weather, the Dispatch and Ms. Kincaid were going to cover the demonstration as she’d promised earlier. So was the local television station. Maybe the tape would reach a wider audience in Springfield, or even nationally.

“Of course,” he said. “I’d be happy to talk with you.”

“First, tell me what this is all about.”

James began explaining the situation to the reporter. Minutes later a pretty blonde TV reporter, who should have been wearing a lot warmer clothes in this weather, stuck a microphone in his face. James kept talking, answering Valera’s questions and those of the TV reporter. But he didn’t once look at the camera.

The thought of speaking directly to a television audience, even if it was an unseen audience, made his mouth go dry and the palms of his hands sweat inside his gloves.

Traffic on the street began to slow; drivers honked their horns. The picketers began to sing, thoroughly enjoying themselves. Or maybe they were just trying to stay warm.

A reporter from Springfield showed up and started peppering James with questions. He fielded them as best he could and referred other questions to Albert Varner, who was now walking the picket line with his employees. He’d earned their loyalty today by being on their side.

From the corner of his eye, James spotted two long, ten-passenger vans pull into the hospital parking lot and stop. Each van had the name of a local senior citizen retirement home painted on the side, Peaceful Valley Retirement Community.

Bundled up against the cold, the passengers exited at a snail’s pace, some with canes, some with walkers and all of them with picket signs.

What in the world—

The phalanx of seniors shuffled over to the sidewalk and fell in line with the employees, who cheered as the oldsters raised their signs: Save Our Hospital.

The reporters and TV personnel hustled over to interview the new arrivals and get more photos and video shots.

James chuckled. God works in mystenious ways. This could be the best PR ever!

He strolled over to one of the van drivers, a middle-aged man wearing a red, white and blue knit cap. “How did those folks hear about our protest?”

“A resident’s granddaughter works here at the hospital. The ol’ gal got all riled up about the hospital cutting her granddaughter’s pay. She stirred everybody else up, and here we are. A couple of letters to the editor got them going too.” The man shrugged. “I mean, you really don’t want to mess with a bunch of old folks. They got time on their hands and like nothing better than to mix it up with those in authority. You wouldn’t believe what they do when they’re served something in the dining room that they don’t like. We’re talkin’ a hundred angry little old ladies. You don’t want to mess with them, I’m telling you.”

Smiling, James glanced around. The next shift of employees was making its way to the picket line so the first batch could go back to work or lunch. Everything seemed to be running smoothly except for the traffic trying to get into the hospital parking lot.

“If you and your buddy can drive your vans to the far end of the lot, there’s parking there, and you’ll be out of the traffic pattern.”

“Will do.”

James wandered back over to the picket line. A police patrol car was parked across the street, apparently driven by Cesar Rodriguez. But Elena had dragged her protesting husband into the picket line to march along with her.

Farther back in line, Cameron marched beside Anabelle, who had Sarge on a tight leash. The puppy wore a red knitted sweater and little booties on his feet, which Sarge kept trying to bite off.

A wave of regret caught James by surprise. Fern wasn’t here, couldn’t be here, to walk beside him. The tight grip of multiple sclerosis was sucking the life out of her. And him.

Please, Lord, don’t desert us in our hour of need.