Recessional

  Jiménez, outraged, rose from the table, bowed to the other members of the tertulia, ignored Mrs. Quade and stomped off with this parting shot: ‘I do not wish to associate with heretics. Popular legend! It defames the word of God as given in the Holy Bible.’

  When he was gone, Senator Raborn said: ‘Well, you certainly stirred up a hornet’s nest, Mrs. Quade.’

  ‘It’s only the truth.’ She nodded to her hosts, then added a telling point: ‘Everything I said was developed by Catholic scholars, the great men of the Church, centuries before Martin Luther was born. Catholics produced some of the finest theologians the world has had. They knew they needed Mary.’

  For three days editor Jiménez was absent from the tertulia, but his chair was taken one night by Lewandowski, who spoke further about developments in the Human Genome Project. Specialists in various nations were identifying one gene after another which accounted for specific diseases and imperfections in human development: ‘Last month it was discovered that an irregularity on chromosome seven seems to be a principal cause of cystic fibrosis. At the speed we’re working in even the little laboratories we can expect miracles by the end of the century.’ St. Près spoke for all when he said: ‘I’m not sure I want to see all your miracles, Lewandowski,’ and the others laughed.

  On the fourth evening editor Jiménez returned to the tertulia, pulled up a fifth chair, walked sedately to where Reverend Quade was sitting alone and said, as if he were a courtier addressing a queen: ‘Would you grace us with your presence tonight?’ With a slight bow she rose, took his arm and accompanied him to the corner table.

  ‘I have invited Helen to join us,’ he explained, ‘because I owe her an apology,’ and as the men wrote out their dinner orders, he continued: ‘I’ve spent the last three days in libraries, checking on the veracity of what she said the other night about the history of the Virgin Mary in the life of the Catholic Church. I used Catholic studies mostly and can now assure you that almost all she told us that night is true. I apologize,’ and he leaned across the table to kiss her hand.

  ‘What exactly did you find?’ President Armitage asked, and Jiménez replied: ‘Most fascinating. The Church Fathers wanted desperately to find in the Bible some proof that would substantiate the idea that had become so popular with the general public, because of the legends and the colorful tracts. In the New Testament they could find nothing, not a word, just as Helen said. But a very clever scholar at the end of the fourth century, when Mary had been dead for more than three hundred years, found in the Old Testament a cryptic passage written by the priest of the Temple, Ezekiel, some six hundred years before the birth of Christ, which the scholar was convinced proved the perpetual virginity of Mary. He had to do some fancy rationalizing to reach his conclusions, because the passage itself is totally obscure.’ Taking from his pocket a small piece of paper he began: ‘I copied it, word for word, from the real Bible, and I shall read it to you now,’ and he bowed to Mrs. Quade: ‘It all depends upon the word gate:

  ‘Then the man brought me back to the outer gate, and it was shut. The Lord said to me, “This gate is to remain shut, It must not be opened; no one may enter through it. It is to remain shut because the Lord, the God of Israel, has entered through it.” ’

  When none of the men could figure out what this crucial text was saying, Jiménez continued: ‘With full apologies to Reverend Quade for the word I must use, the church fathers explained that the word gate meant the vagina of the Virgin through which Jesus would enter the world, and through which no other mortal would ever pass.’ Raising his hands in a kind of triumph as if he himself had solved this puzzle, he said: ‘In the passage written about 600 B.C. Jesus is not identified, nor the Virgin Mary and certainly not her private parts, but nine hundred years later the Church was so eager to find proof of her perpetual virginity that they accepted this strange interpretation of a text almost a thousand years old.’

  Folding his paper with its quotation from Ezekiel Chapter 44, verses one through three, he concluded: ‘It seems that drastic measures, tortured interpretations, were required, but in the end a great good was accomplished, delivering a noble portrait of a noble woman to the peasants of the time, men and women like us, who desperately wanted to believe.’ Again he nodded toward Reverend Quade: ‘And it was Helen’s obstinacy that brought the truth to us.’

  From that moment on, the tertulia referred to the brilliant woman who often ate with them as Helen. She had established her own credentials.

  The widow Clay had finally decided to have a lumpectomy as planned, and when the chemotherapy caused her hair to fall out, she also inherited Mrs. Mallory’s expensive French wig, but when it came time to sort out the various medical bills she found that her troubles were just beginning. The problem was that her various doctors and experts each seemed to have his or her unique pattern of submitting bills, so that she could never determine whether she should pay the doctor immediately or wait till some governmental agency or private insurance company would reimburse him or her for part of the bill, whereupon Mrs. Clay would be responsible for the remainder.

  Of course she had Medicare plus minimal additional coverage from her dead husband’s company, but each of these organizations operated in such mysterious ways that she never knew who owed what or who was to pay for each procedure. So she was harassed by eight different agencies: five doctors, the hospital, Medicare, and private insurance in a jungle so tangled and uncharted that in total frustration she sought guidance from Dr. Zorn. He found he could answer almost none of her questions and became so fascinated by this aspect of American health services in day-to-day operations that he started to ‘bird-dog each of the steps.’ Knowing that he was not well enough informed to unravel the paper trail he suggested to Mrs. Clay that she consult with Miss Foxworth, who had made herself the Palms expert in the workings of health-care bureaucracy. The widow thanked him: ‘I graduated from a good college, but on this I’m totally lost,’ and before she left Zorn’s office she showed him a threatening letter she had received that morning. It dealt with a visit to a local doctor’s office, warning her that if she did not pay the balance of her overdue account her case would be put in the hands of a local bill collection agency with possible damage to her credit rating: ‘Patrons have found that if delinquency is once reported, it is a difficult matter to get it removed. Please protect your good reputation. Pay this arrears now, and no action will be taken. You have two weeks to comply.’

  She explained to Zorn that her deceased husband, a meticulous businessman, had always paid every bill presented to him by the doctor in question and had been assured that the doctor’s office would handle the rest of the paperwork: ‘I’ve done the same, and now I get this threat. What can I do, my credit rating is important, because if a widow loses it she has a difficult time getting it restored.’

  ‘That’s what Miss Foxworth is skilled at. May I listen in on what happens? In my job I ought to know.’

  The conference was held in the accountant’s crowded office, where she kept a vast number of important addresses and phone numbers to help her unravel the mysteries of American health care: ‘First let me get the facts straight. You were treated by five doctors?’

  ‘Yes. There are so many involved in treating a cancer patient. And I paid each one the part of his fee that he wanted. His office staff promised me they’d take care of the rest of the paperwork.’

  ‘You have your canceled checks proving payment?’

  ‘I don’t know. I have their bills, which I marked “Paid in full” and the date.’

  ‘Could you get the canceled checks?’

  ‘I suppose so. Yes.’

  ‘But some of the doctors have sent additional bills, the unpaid balances, asking you to pay up?’

  ‘Yes. But they promised me Medicare would pay that. Or my husband’s company insurance, Home Health of Minneapolis.’

  ‘And you paid your hospital bills?’

  ‘Yes. This long sheet of paper is the bill
.’

  ‘How many days in the hospital?’

  ‘Only seven. I recuperated fast.’

  ‘So the total hospital bill, before any payments, was this figure? $18,950? Has the hospital threatened you?’

  ‘They demand that I pay, but they haven’t made any threats.’

  ‘Have you spoken with anyone in the Florida Medicare office?’

  ‘Several people, but I don’t recall their names, since each time I called I spoke with someone different.’

  ‘Let’s see if we can get anywhere by starting with Florida Medicare.’ Miss Foxworth dialed the 800 number and after listening to about ten minutes of music, she finally got a clerk on the line. ‘Good morning. I’m calling on behalf of Clara Clay.’

  ‘Who are you? Are you authorized to speak for her?’

  ‘I’m the accountant for a Tampa retirement center, and Mrs. Clay is right beside me.’

  ‘Well, ma’am, my computer says that’s impossible. According to our records, Clara Clay died several months ago—October 15.’

  ‘What! She’s very much alive, sitting right beside me as we talk.’

  ‘If you’ll hold a moment, I’ll get my supervisor.’ And Nora had to listen to another five minutes of cloying music until the supervisor picked up the line.

  ‘Yes, this is Mrs. Kennedy. Are you calling about Clarice Carpenter Clay of Coral Gables?’

  ‘No. Mrs. Clara Cunningham Clay of Tampa.’

  ‘Just a minute, let me check the name on the computer. Well, I’ll be … When names are so nearly identical, errors do slip in. Glad to hear this Mrs. Clay is still with us. She’s right there? Please put her on the line. Welcome to the land of the living, Mrs. Clay. Was your husband Dortmund Clay of Chicago?’

  ‘No, Detwiler Clay of Indianapolis.’

  ‘And your Social Security number?’ When it matched the one in the computer, Mrs. Kennedy said brightly: ‘A deplorable mistake, but understandable. The computer here mixed up the files of the two Mrs. Clays. It will take us some time to sort out what bills and information belong in which file, but when we do there’ll be no further embarrassment to you.’

  Getting Clara restored to life and her file in order required all morning, but in the space between telephone calls Miss Foxworth had an opportunity to check the various bills and found them in order and not excessively higher than normal. They were from Dr. David Farquhar, the Palms’ medical director; Dr. Joel Mirliton, the radiologist who did the mammography; Dr. James Wilson, the surgeon specializing in cancer operations; Dr. Leon Jenner, the anesthetist; Dr. Ed Zumway, the administrator of the six-week radium treatment; and the Good Shepherd Catholic Hospital, for seven days’ stay. The total bill, including extras, was $27,080.

  When Mrs. Clay inspected the last bill, she shuddered, for she found items like ‘Two aspirin $6.85; three gauze bandages $11.90; two Zantac pills $15.50’ and a flood of other charges of many dollars each for items she could have purchased herself for pennies. But when she complained, Miss Foxworth said: ‘Hospitals have to stay open so that when you need them, they’re there. What they charge for any one item doesn’t really count. They have to make the bill big enough to stay in business.’

  ‘You think the bills, overall, are reasonable?’

  ‘They’re what we see all the time. If you’d had something that required six months in the hospital, eleven different doctors, total charges of upwards of a hundred thousand dollars, then you would really sweat.’

  ‘All right. I agree that my bills are trivial by comparison. But how do I find my way out of this jungle of who pays for what? And how can I avoid having the collection agency destroy my credit because I didn’t pay some bill I never knew about?’

  ‘Mrs. Clay, remember this. Your case is not exceptional. Nobody has gone out of his way to do you harm. It’s the system, especially the paperwork system. To tell you the truth, Mrs. Clay, you’re one lucky woman! Dead one moment, alive and kicking the next.’ Her final words were even more comforting: ‘The good thing about all this is that once Medicare gets this case of mistaken identity straightened out, you may owe next to nothing. We’ll just have to wait until we hear, then if you still owe a little, you’ll pay up and not have to worry about it again.’

  When the widow left the accounting office, Dr. Zorn asked: ‘Was her case typical?’ and Miss Foxworth used her left thumb to indicate the hundred and eighty-two residents in Gateways: ‘Each one has his or her own special problems with health costs. So much paperwork, so many different systems, so much of what you might call “planned chaos,” that I’m surprised anyone can keep his or her head above water.’

  ‘Your own records? Can you keep them straight?’

  She gave a mirthless laugh, reached in her top drawer and pulled out two letters warning her that unless she paid the delinquent bills they would be turned over to a collection agency: ‘I’m the local expert and I can’t understand my own accounts!’

  The four men who constituted the tertulia were judged by the other residents to be the brains of Gateways, and the corner in which they met was viewed with awe and a touch of pride. They were presumed to be of such high intelligence that common folk could not really converse with them, and when word did leak out about what they had been discussing of an evening, people were apt to say something like ‘What else would you expect of those brains?’

  These assumptions of superior intelligence were fortified at the bridge table, where Senator Raborn and Ambassador St. Près were so adroit in bidding and play that they were not allowed to be partners. As Ms. Opliphant complained: ‘You simply cannot follow their bidding. You and your partner have ten clubs, but they open the bidding with two clubs, no way they could make it. Then they bid spades and diamonds and in the end one of them says four hearts and that’s what they intended from the first, because partner jumps to six, and they make a slam.’ The two experts explained several times that they used a variation of the Italian system and even wrote down what their various bids meant for all to see: that two diamonds showed heart strength and so on. During play they allowed their explanation to rest on the table, and when they made an esoteric cue bid they would point to the line on the card that explained what it signified, but still they won, so their partnership had to be outlawed.

  Intellectual and bridge prowess aside, the men of the tertulia were remarkable for another reason—their age. One of them, Senator Raborn, was in his eighties; two of them, Ambassador St. Près and President Armitage, in their late seventies; and one, editor Jiménez, had just turned seventy-one. They were about to demonstrate that even at their advanced years they enjoyed abilities and dreams no one could have imagined.

  The adventure started one night after dinner when St. Près said: ‘The four of us ought to be engaged in a lot more than abstract philosophizing. We have the talents to attempt some big effort,’ and the other three showed immediate interest. There was protracted discussion about what might be a practical project, and even after waiters cleared their table they remained huddled, discussing and rejecting proposals such as starting a class in a nearby junior college to be given some modest title like ‘the wisdom of the world,’ or the formation of a civics club that would teach high school students the true meaning of democracy. ‘No,’ the ambassador said, ‘we’re still spinning our wheels, still verbalizing. I intended something we could do with our hands.’ When they pressed him for an example, he gave one that was so bizarre, so totally beyond normal reasoning, that at first the other three rejected it, but the more they talked and revealed hidden aptitudes, the more practical St. Près’s suggestion became until, sometime after eleven that night, the four men agreed upon what would be a gallant effort, preposterous perhaps, but one that would challenge and demand their full energies.

  The program started early next morning when Senator Raborn, a man who knew how to get things done, called on Ken Krenek with a publicity brochure distributed by the Palms some years before: ‘It says here in bold type that when functioning,
the Palms will offer women comfortable nooks for teas and socials and bridge, and their husbands, and I quote: “a fully equipped hobby shop with hand tools and a lathe.” I represent a committee asking that this promised amenity be provided. Now.’

  Krenek knew from reports assembled when the senator and his wife applied for admission to the Palms that Raborn had been famous in the Senate for using his seniority and personal power to bring ever-larger infusions of federal money into his state. One cynic pointed out that if his state got any more government installations it would sink, and Raborn himself had once observed that ‘people in the big cities can laugh at us rubes out in the sticks, but their taxes go to support our operations.’ So Krenek knew the odds were that Raborn would get his workshop.

  Ken first called Miss Foxworth to see if there was any budget provision for such a room and she could recall none. He then discussed the problem with Andy, who capitulated to the inevitable: ‘You say we printed it in one of our early brochures? We did? Then, I guess we have to see to it that it’s done. A wood lathe can’t cost a fortune. Get one.’

  When Krenek asked where they were going to find a room, Andy reminded him that there were still vacant one-room apartments on the first floor of Gateways. Krenek went back to Miss Foxworth to determine where they could tuck in a workshop, and she pointed out that they’d had trouble disposing of one of the ground-floor rooms that opened directly onto a parking lot, and the decision was made to use it.

  The Palms was generous in providing not only the lathe but also the hand tools that would normally go with it, and the four tertulia members were equally helpful in donating their own equipment to the common effort, so that soon the new work-room was humming night after night behind a door that was never opened to the other residents. Rumors circulated about what might be going on inside, but not even the two wives, Marcia Raborn and Felicita Jiménez, knew what their husbands were doing there. What was obvious was that it involved wood, lots of high-powered epoxy glue, and bits of canvas, but this information did not explain the mystery.