Read Online The Side of the Angels by Christina Bartolomeo, Kyoko Watanabe - Free Book Online Page B

had a sixth sense, Weingould’s secretaries, like that of a mother who can hear her baby stir in its sleep from three rooms away.
    Properly started by Mary Bridget, the tape revealed nurses marching down New Jersey Avenue and East Capitol Street with signs that read, “Every patient deserves a nurse,” and “Patient care first, profits last.” It was a very cold day, you could tell that from the flat, bright blue sky and the wind that whipped at the signs and blew the banners. Most of them were wearing sensible coats or down jackets over their uniforms. Contrary to
Playboy
fantasies, nurses in general are far from glamorous.
    â€œThe rally was pushing for a whole series of measures on patients’ rights, most of which never made it out of committee,” Weingould said. “But a lot of politicians turned out, since health care is everyone’s favorite issue these days. Okay, here she is.”
    The camera cut to a woman in a navy blue coat standing at a podium with the Capitol rising behind her. Her dark hair was confined in a low, ladylike ponytail. She wore a small union pin on her lapel, and her hands were gloveless and chapped-looking.
    Not many people appear to advantage at a podium. They hang over it, or back gingerly away from the microphone, or mumble into their chests. Clare Murray didn’t look half bad. She was tall and sturdy, with wide shoulders held straight back and a rather straight-up-and-down torso that would probably be prone to solid stoutness inlater life. My brother Joey called a certain Celtic cast of feature “potato-faced Irish,” and Clare was one of those, with her square forehead and chin and slightly fleshy cheeks. Her eyes were her greatest beauty, wide-set and straightforward.
    Clare’s speech was about the need for a national whistle-blower act to protect nurses who spoke out against hospital cost-cutting practices that endanger patients.
    â€œIt’s not about our being heroes,” she said. “It’s not about us against management. It’s about our patients. Nowadays, some hospitals are even calling patients ‘care consumer units,’ as if by taking the humanity of patients away, it will be easier to forget them, to forget that they’re the reason hospitals are there, not the other way around. Well, we’re here to say we won’t let the patient be forgotten. Not by our hospitals, not by the insurance industry, and not by this Congress.”
    The crowd broke out in enthusiastic applause. Clare Murray nodded once and stepped away while the clapping and cheering were still going on.
    â€œShe’s good, she’s very good,” said Ron absently. He was eyeing the next speaker on the tape, a popular blond actress justly respected for her devotion to liberal causes. He was probably picturing her naked. Sometimes I wondered if Ron was strictly faithful to Dana. Some men had a roving eye. Ron’s entire persona roved, searching new worlds to charm and seduce. His romantic bravado in the days of his singleness had made Rudolf Valentino look self-effacing in comparison, and it was hard to believe that marriage, even a prospering marriage, had changed him entirely.
    â€œYeah, but Clare Murray may not be able to hold this thing together,” said Weingould. “This thing’s a war of attrition. Basically, can our nurses stay out on strike long enough and cause the hospital enough grief so that it’s less trouble for them to deal with us than to fight us? That’s the question.”
    Without glancing in my direction, he handed me the St. Francis file, then two five-pound binders of background material for light reading.
    â€œHow fast did you say you can get her up there again?” he asked Ron.
    â€œI just have to tie up a few loose ends,” I said. “You can address me directly, you know. I’m sitting right here.”
    â€œSorry,” Weingould mumbled. Ron glared at