I know we are not supposed to judge people,
but where Kennie was concerned, I found it impossible.
I decided he was the wrong person in the wrong kind of work.

I'm a swing-shift nursing supervisor,
and it's my job to evaluate workers' performances
at a convalescent hospital.

Kennie was a new employee, tall and very strong, not bad looking,
with his blond hair cut to the collar and dark green eyes.
After a few weeks' probation, I had to admit he was clean,
punctual and reasonably efficient. But I just didn't like him.

Kennie looked like a hood.

I knew the neighborhood he came from - a cesspool of
gangs, drugs and violence. His language
was street talk, his manner wry, his walk
springy and controlled like a boxer's, and
his expression closed off like the steel
door on a bank vault. He seemed too large
and carefully controlling of a powerful will
to be able to fit into the highly specialized teamwork
of a convalescent hospital.

The vast majority of our patients come to
us in the final stages of terminal disease
or with the most terminal of all diseases -
old age. They come to us crippled,
weakened, confused and defeated, no
longer able to function out in the world.
Many have lost the faculty of rational
thought, a casualty of failing health and a
world that often seems brutal and indifferent.

Mary B. was one of those.

Attendants call her Mary B. because she was one of four
Marys in the West Wing.

At ninety-four years old, Mary B. was frail as a cobweb.

She outlived her husband and sisters, and
if she had any children, they had long
since abandoned her. She was in almost
constant motion as long as she was awake.

Mary B. had an obsession that someone had
taken her purse. She searched for it all
hours of the day and night. Unless tied
to her bed or wheelchair, she would go
through the door onto the street, into the
men's wards, through the laundry room and
into the kitchen, mindlessly searching and
never giving up. When restrained, she
wanted her wheelchair in the hallway,
where she stopped everyone who came near.

"Can you lend me a comb?" she asked.
"I've lost mine. It was in my red purse.
My money is gone, too. Where is my purse?
Where is my purse?"

Every day it was the same,
until Mary B.'s queries became background noise,
like the sound of carts loaded with hot trays rumbling down the halls,
the hum of air conditioning or the static of the intercom.

We all knew Mary didn't have a purse. But
on occasion someone would stop to listen
to her out of kindness and concern,
although we were furiously busy. Still,
most of us maneuvered around her with,
"Sure, Mary, if I see your purse I'll bring it back."

Most of us - but one.

The last thing I expected of Kennie was
that he would listen to Mary B., but
strangely, he always had a word for her.

What is he up to? I wondered, watching
him. My first suspicion was that he
might be working here to steal drugs.
I thought I had spotted a potential troublemaker.

Every day as Mary B. stopped him to ask about her purse,
and as Kennie promised to look for it, my suspicions grew.

Finally I concluded that Kennie was planning something involving Mary.
He's going to steal drugs, I told myself,
and somehow hide them around Mary. Then
some accomplice will come in and sneak
them out of the hospital. I was so sure
of all this that I set up more security
systems around the drug-dispensing department.

One afternoon, just before supper, I saw Kennie
walking down the hall with a plastic grocery bag in his hand.
It was obviously heavy.

This is it, I told myself, scrambling from behind my desk.
I started after him, but realized I needed more evidence.
I halted behind a laundry cart, piled
high with baskets. It was tall enough
to conceal me, but I still could see
Kennie clearly as he strode down the
hall toward Mary B. in her wheelchair.

He reached Mary and suddenly turned,
looking over his shoulder. I dodged out of sight,
but I could still see him peering up and down the hall.
It was clear he didn't want anyone to see what he was doing.

He raised the bag. I froze...until he
pulled out a red purse.

Mary's thin old hands flew up to her face
in a gesture of wonder and joy, then flew
out hungrily like a starved child taking
bread. Mary B. grabbed the red purse.
She held it for a moment, just to see it,
then pressed it to her breast, rocking it like a baby.

Kennie turned and glanced sharply all
around. Satisfied no one was watching,
he leaned over, unsnapped the flap,
reached in and showed Mary a red comb,
small coin purse and a pair of children's toy spectacles.

Tears of joy were pouring down Mary's face.
At least, I guessed they were.

 

Tears streaked my face, too.

Kennie patted Mary lightly on the
shoulder, crumpled the plastic grocery
bag, threw it into the nearby waste-can,
then went about his work down the hall.

I walked back to my desk, sat down,
reached into the bottom drawer and
brought out my battered old Bible.
Turning to the seventh chapter of
Matthew I asked the Lord to forgive me...

At the end of the shift, I stood near
the door used by the aides coming to
and leaving work. Kennie came bouncing
down the hall carrying his coat and radio.

"Hi, Kennie," I said. "How's everything
going? Do you think you'll like this job?"

Kennie looked surprised, then shrugged.
"It's the best I'll ever get," he grunted.

"Nursing is a good career," I ventured.
An idea was growing. "Uh, have you
ever thought of going on to college for
a registered nursing degree?"

Kennie snorted. "Are you kidding? I
ain't got a chance for anything like
that. The nurse's aide course was free
or I wouldn't have this job."

I knew this was true. Kennie set down
his radio and pulled on his coat. "Take
a miracle for me to go to college," he
said. "My old man's in San Quentin, and
my old lady does cocaine."

I clenched my teeth but still smiled.

"Miracles do happen," I told him.

"Would you go to college if I could
find a way to help you with the money?"

Kennie stared at me. All at once the
hood vanished, and I caught a glimpse
of what could be.

"Yes!" was all he said.
But it was enough.

"Good night, Kennie," I said as he
reached for the door handle. "I'm
sure something can be worked out."

I was sure, too, that in Room 306 of
the West Wing, Mary B. was sleeping
quietly, both her arms wrapped around a red purse.

By Louise Moeri