MASH 11 MASH Goes To San Francisco Read online

  On her left-hand ring finger, the Reverend Mother Emeritus wore a forty-two-carat square-cut diamond ring that had been presented to her by His Royal Highness Sheikh Abdullah ben Abzug as a small token of his appreciation for her having established the nursing and midwifery services of the Boris Alexandrovich Korsky-Rimsakov Memorial Lying-In Hospital in Abzug’s capital. It had become the custom of the GILIAFCC, Inc., for both senior church officials (such as the founding disciples) and new recruits to kiss the Star of Abzug, as the diamond was known, as a symbol of their recognition of Reverend Mother Emeritus as their shepherdess. (On such ceremonial occasions, the Reverend Mother Emeritus also carried the traditional ecclesiastical symbol of the churchly shepherd, a shepherd’s crook—in other words, a pole with a curved-over top end.)

  And finally, the Reverend Mother Emeritus wore—suspended from a stout gold chain about her neck— another cross, the vertical member approximately ten inches long, with the words “Mother” and “Emeritus” spelled out in diamonds, and the word “Reverend” spelled out in square-cut rubies. The dimensions of the cross and its weight usually caused the Reverend Mother Emeritus’ bosoms to be brought into prominence as the chain dipped into the valley between them. While most of the Reverend Mother Emeritus’ good works took place in New Orleans, Louisiana, at the Headquarters Temple of the GILIAFCC, Inc., she participated in the four annual pilgrimages. Of these, the most important was the “Back to the Beginning Pilgrimage” to San Francisco, California.

  It had been at a table in Finocchio’s Restaurant in San Francisco that the man now known as the blessed Brother Buck had held The First Supper, at which he and the twelve founding disciples had brought the God Is Love in All Forms Christian Church, Inc., to life. The Blessed Brother Buck, who before the call had been one of San Francisco’s most sought-after male models and escorts, had come to the prayerful conclusion that it was his duty to found a church for those whom other organized religious bodies ignored or condemned vigorously.

  To quote from the Official History: “The first dozen members, known as the founding disciples, included a fine artist, two hairdressers, a writer, two ballet dancers, a male model, two interior decorators, and the quarterback and two defensive tackles of the San Francisco Gladiators professional football team.”

  Shortly after its organization, partly because the Blessed Brother Buck (possibly in error) thought New Orleans would provide a more fertile field for his missionary labors than San Francisco, and partly because the move was encouraged and financially underwritten by two affluent new converts, International Headquarters was moved to the Crescent City. Two founding disciples (one of the defensive tackles and the writer, who had just signed a long-term lease on what they described as a “darling” apartment) remained behind to establish the First Missionary Church of GILIAFCC, Inc. Annually, the “Back to the Beginning Pilgrimage” was made, headed by the Blessed Brother Buck and, later, by his widow.

  Over the years, this most important pilgrimage had become a rather elaborate affair. There were welcoming ceremonies at the airport when the Reverend Mother Emeritus, her entourage, the Founding Disciples who could make it, and the GILIAFCC, Inc., all-male a capella choir arrived.

  A motorcade to First Church, as it was popularly known, followed the welcoming ceremonies. The same evening, a Memorial First Supper was held in Finocchio’s Restaurant, following which there was a procession through the San Francisco entertainment district to the Embarcadero. Led by Papa Louis’ Old-Time New Orleans Dixieland Jazz Band, the procession included the Reverend Mother Emeritus—in full regalia—sitting in a gilt-covered chair (which was borne on the shoulders of twelve of the more muscular devotees), and the a capella choir. The faithful and their friends brought up the rear.

  As the procession proceeded along the streets, with the Old-Time Jazz Band playing “We Will Gather At The River,” “Amazing Grace,” “There’ll Be a Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight,” and other such inspirational numbers, the Reverend Mother Emeritus alternately raised her hand in blessing and threw gold-plated coin-shaped discs (patterned after New Orleans’ famous Mardi Gras doubloons) bearing the likeness of the Blessed Brother Buck to the cheering multitudes.

  From time to time, the procession would leave the streets and pass through one or more commercial enterprises along the route. A number of converts had been made in this way. There was something magical, in a circus sense, about the procession, and joining the procession (which was generally held around midnight) often struck many lost souls as far more promising than remaining hung over a bar stool watching the strippers.

  After the procession reached the Embarcadero, it was the Reverend Mother Emeritus’ custom to quietly disappear. If the Romans could have their Mardi Gras, she reasoned, there was no reason at all that her flock shouldn’t have an excuse to kick up their heels once a year, too. But she knew that her presence at such revelry would only put a damper on things, so she slipped away as soon as she could at the end of the procession.

  And so it came to pass, as it says in the Good Book, that one night a rather striking lady wearing a cape, and with what looked like a chartreuse Bishop’s cappa magna tucked under her arm, strode into the bar at the Mark Hopkins Hotel, took a seat, and informed the bartender that she would like a triple martini, very easy on the vermouth, and save the olives for the vegetarians and other health-food nuts. As she gave the order, the lady heard a shocked intake of breath, but paid no attention to it. There were still, she knew, some people who presumed that a woman alone in a bar was looking for a man.

  But when she had drained the triple martini at a gulp and handed the empty glass back to the bartender for a refill, and there came again the sound of a shocked intake of breath, together with a mumbled “Hypocrite,” it was too much for her female curiosity. She reached into a pocket of the cape, took out her glasses, and turned toward the sound of the sucked-in breath.

  There was a modestly dressed young woman sitting on a bar stool glowering at her.

  “Were you speaking to me, Sister?” the Reverend Mother Emeritus asked.

  “You should be ashamed of yourself!” the young woman said.

  “Probably,” Reverend Mother Emeritus replied. “But I gather you have something specific in mind?”

  “I saw you tonight!” the young woman said.

  “And now that you mention it,” Reverend Mother Emeritus replied, “I saw you earlier tonight, too. You were wearing a lot fewer clothes at the time. In an establishment called, if memory serves, Sadie Shapiro’s Strip Joint.”

  "You were in some kind of far-out religious procession,” the young woman went on, “dressed up like a bishop. And here you are in a bar, swilling martinis!”

  “You have no idea, honey,” the Reverend Mother Emeritus replied, “how tiring it is to get hauled around for hours on the shoulders of twelve men. I am simply following Saint Timothy’s suggestion, First Timothy, chapter five, verse twenty-three, to take a little wine for my stomach’s sake and my other infirmities.”

  “Huh!” the young woman snorted.

  “Anyway, I had my clothes on,” the Reverend Mother Emeritus said. “Which is more than I can say for some people.”

  “I’m working my way through nursing school,” the young woman said.

  “Ha!” the Reverend Mother Emeritus snorted disbelievingly. “That’s a likely story.”

  “If there was the slightest possibility that you knew anything at all about medicine about the training of nurses, I would explain it to you, but under the circumstances—‘Some are already turned aside after Satan’—that’s also First Timothy—chapter five, verse fifteen—it would be a waste of my time.”

  “I’ll have you know,” the Reverend Mother Emeritus said, raising her voice and getting to her feet, “that I have forgotten more about nursing than you can ever learn, you somewhat clumsy stripper!”

  “Clumsy stripper! I’ll have you know that I’m so good I have a fan who sends me a dozen long-stemmed roses, a box
of Fanny Farmer’s Genuine Old Creole Pecan Crispies, and a little trinket every day.” She paused and held out her wrist, which bore the very latest digital light-emitting diode wristwatch. “That kind of a trinket. This is today’s trinket. Yesterday, it was an electric blanket to keep me comfy and cozy, the note said, when my act is over. That’s how clumsy a stripper I am!”

  “Speaking professionally,” the Reverend Mother Emeritus said, “as a nurse, I mean, with what you’ve got to shake, honey, you don’t need much talent!”

  “What do you mean, speaking as a nurse?”

  “You heard me, honey—R.N., as in Registered by God Nurse!” the Reverend Mother Emeritus said, slight pique appearing in her otherwise dulcet tones.

  “You? A nurse? That’s a laugh!”

  Reverend Mother Emeritus hiked up the skirt of her silver lame gown. Strapped to her leg, above the knee, was a sort of purse. From it, she took a leather wallet. The silver lame gown (more properly, cassock) was form-fitting, and there was no place on or in it for a wallet or anything else that a lady might need.

  “Have a look at that!” she said triumphantly.

  The wallet was handmade. On one side, a medical caduceus, superimposed on the insignia of the United States Tenth Army Corps (Group), had been carved; below this was the word “Korea.” The other side bore the carved legend, “Presented to Major Hot Lips Houlihan, U.S. Army Nurse Corps, by the boys in Ward Three.”

  The well-bosomed blonde looked at it intently. “How do I know this is yours?” she asked.

  “Open it up, open it up,” the Reverend Mother Emeritus snapped. When opened, the billfold revealed a fan of plastic envelopes, each holding, back to back, two photographs.

  The blonde looked at the photographs, and then back at the Reverend Mother Emeritus. The years had taken their toll, of course, but there was no question that the Army nurse in the photographs was the woman sitting beside her. One of the photographs showed her in surgical greens posing with two tall chaps and a somewhat smaller one, similarly clad. The nurse in the picture had an arm draped around the smaller man.

  “That’s Dago Red,” the Reverend Mother Emeritus said, pointing with a long fingernail painted with gold-flecked purple nail polish to the smaller fellow. “Now the Archbishop of Swengchan. Ask him whether I’m a nurse or not!”

  Her fingernail moved to the other two men in the photograph. “And that’s Dr. Hawkeye Pierce, now chief of surgery of the Spruce Harbor Medical Center. And the other one is Dr. Trapper John McIntyre, the second-best chest cutter north of Boston and east of Chicago. Ask either of them, why don’t you!” The blonde flipped through the rest of the photographs. They showed the woman now sitting beside her in a variety of situations. There was one showing her poised like the Statue of Liberty (instead of a torch, she held a bottle of Scotch) atop a Russian T-34 tank. Others showed her in a hospital. The last photograph showed her in a Jeep. On the back of that was a red Department of Defense identification card, issued to Houlihan, Margaret J., Lt. Colonel, Army Nurse Corps, Retired.

  “I owe you an apology,” the blonde said. “I’m really sorry.”

  “You damned well should be,” the Reverend Mother Emeritus said. “Telling someone like me that you’re working your way through nursing school by prancing around the bar in Sadie Shapiro’s Strip Joint taking off your clothes.”

  “But that’s true,” the blonde said. “I am studying nursing. I hope to graduate in a year.”

  “Then what are you doing in Sadie Shapiro’s?”

  “Earning my way,” the blonde said. “I told you before.”

  “Where I come from, they have such things as scholarships,” the Reverend Mother Emeritus said suspiciously, but the white fire of her enraged pride had visibly cooled—it now merely smouldered menacingly.

  “The truth of the matter is . . . what do I call you?”

  “You call me Reverend Mother, that’s what you damned well call me,” that worthy replied.

  “The truth of the matter, Reverend Mother, is that before I knew what I was meant to be in life, I was already a stripper.”

  “I see.”

  “And you can imagine how the scholarship committees reacted when they came to the spot on the form that asked about previous employment.”

  “Yes, I can,” the Reverend Mother Emeritus said, now very much softened. “Tell me . . . what’s your name?”

  “Betsy Boobs,” the young blonde said, and then, hurriedly, “Oh, you mean my real name. Barbara Ann Miller.”

  “How are you doing in nursing school, Barbara Ann? Grade-wise, I mean. That sort of thing.”

  “I have an A—average. I hope to become an operating room nurse, and I try as hard as I can,” Barbara Ann replied. “What kind of nurse were you?”

  “I am an operating-room nurse,” the Reverend Mother Emeritus said. “Tell me, Barbara, can’t your parents help you out?”

  “I don’t have any parents,” Barbara Ann replied.

  “Would you mind if I checked on your story?” the Reverend Mother Emeritus asked. Without waiting for a reply, she snapped her fingers to catch the bartender’s attention. “Give me a phone, Charley,” she ordered. “And set the little lady and me up again.”

  The waiter delivered the telephone, and the Reverend Mother got the number of the hospital from Barbara Ann, dialed it, and drummed her fingers impatiently. It was not possible to tell whether the impatience was with regard to the time it took the hospital to answer the telephone or the time it took the bartender to mix the martinis.

  “Give me the chief of nursing services,” she said to the telephone. “Margaret H. W. Wilson, chief nurse, the MacDonald School of Nursing, calling.” Pause. “Yes, I know what time it is. What’s the matter, don’t you have a watch?” Pause, this time a long one. ‘“Sorry to bother you this time of night, but I felt it necessary,” she began. “My name is Margaret H. W. Wilson, R.N., chief nurse, MacDonald School of Nursing.” Pause. “Oh, you’ve heard of us? Good. Then you know we’re associated with the Gates of Heaven Hospital, right?” Pause. “What I need is some information, out of school, about one of your students. A girl named Barbara Ann Miller.” This time there was a long, long pause, during which the Reverend Mother nodded her head from time to time, but said nothing.

  Finally, however, she spoke again. “Well, your problems about that are over. First thing in the morning, you send all her records to us. You can consider her transferred as of right now.” Pause. “I’m sure there won’t be any trouble, even though Gates of Heaven does have a religious connection. Not only have I got a religious connection myself, but the Archbishop owes me a couple of favors. There will be no trouble, you can take my word for it. Nice to talk to you.” She put the telephone down, picked up her martini glass, and touched it to the martini glass in Barbara Miller’s hand.

  “Welcome to the Ms. Prudence MacDonald Memorial School of Nursing,” she said.

  “Is this for real?” Barbara Ann asked.

  “You can take my word for it, honey. Would the Reverend Mother Emeritus fool around about something as important as this?”

  Chapter Eight

  It did not go quite as smoothly as the Reverend Mother Emeritus had believed it would. From the very first, Barbara Ann Miller was anything but a typical anonymous student nurse.

  When the GILIAFCC, Inc., pilgrims returned to the Crescent City, bringing Barbara Ann with them, they were greeted by members of the news media—not particularly because their return was of such earth-shaking importance, but because Colonel Beauregard C. Beaucoupmots, publisher of the New Orleans Picaroon-Statesman and owner of WOOM-TV (“The Voice of the Cradle of the Confederacy”), was one of the Reverend Mother Emeritus’ greatest admirers.

  His admiration was not for her theological achievements nor for her medical skills. Colonel Beauregard Beaucoupmots was enamored of the lady he called “Miss Margaret” as a lady. He had first encountered her at the final rites of the Blessed Brother Buck. When she had spread her ar
ms wide in a final gesture to the mourners, a strong gust of wind from Lake Ponchartrain had pressed her gown tightly against her body. The colonel hadn’t seen such an exciting sight since he was fourteen, when his father had taken him to see Sally Rand and her Dance of the Bubbles at the New York World’s Fair of 1939-40. As soon as what he considered to be a decent interval had passed (that is to say, the next day), he had proposed marriage. Upon rejection, he had repeated the offer to take her as his bride on the average of once every eighteen hours ever since, and showed no signs of discouragement whatever.

  If getting publicity for either the GILIAFCC, Inc. (which organization the colonel referred to privately as “Miss Margaret’s faggots”), or the Ms. Prudence MacDonald Memorial School of Nursing was the way to Miss Margaret’s heart, then the Picaroon-Statesman and WOOM-TV were at her service.

  Although there had been at first some resistance from the editor about such round-the-clock coverage of the GILIAFCC, Inc., it had soon passed. The editor learned that his readers were far more interested in reading about the day-to-day undertakings of the GILIAFCC, Inc., membership than they were in, for example, the things columnists Evans and Novak wrote about. Evans and Novak seldom provided a smile, much less hysterical laughter.

  And so, when the door of the airplane opened, and the Reverend Mother Emeritus emerged to raise her shepherd’s crook and offer a blessing to the inhabitants of the Crescent City, the ladies and gentlemen of the print and electronic media were on hand. Their cameras saw, and their sharp little pencils recorded, the new addition to the Reverend Mother Emeritus’ entourage.

  In the mistaken belief that Miss Barbara Ann Miller was a member of the GILIAFCC, Inc., faithful, four reporters, two cameramen, and the anchorman of the seven-thirty news—none of whom had been inside a church in a decade—showed up that same day at the International Headquarters Temple begging for admission.