Cannot Wait to Get to Heaven - Fannie Flagg [64]
He said, “Well, daughter, it would mean a lot more coming from you, but all right.” He stood up and walked out onto the porch, shook his head in amazement, and said, “I don’t understand it, boy, but you got yourself a yes.” Both the girls screamed, jumped up, and ran inside to find Elner, giggling and excited. Will beamed from ear to ear and walked up and shook Mr. Knott’s hand. “Thank you, sir, thank you,” he said. “You tell her I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“I will.” Then Mr. Knott put his hand on Will’s shoulder, pulled him aside so the others couldn’t hear, and said quietly, “You know you got the best of the lot, don’t you, son?”
Will looked him straight in the eye and answered, “Yes sir, I do.”
True to his word, Will came back a year and a half later and bought twenty-five acres about ten miles from her daddy’s farm. Elner had never expected to marry, had never dreamed she would be the first sister to get married. But later Will told her he had her picked out from the start. “I knew it the first time I laid eyes on you that you were the one for me. Yes sir.” He said, “You are my big strong beautiful woman.” They made an odd couple, tall and stocky Elner and little skinny Will, but they had been happy together, and she couldn’t wait to see him again.
Meanwhile, back in Elmwood Springs, poor Verbena Wheeler had been so embarrassed to have to call the radio station back, and now she wished she hadn’t walked over and told Cathy at the newspaper office about Elner, but she had. She picked up her Bible and flipped through it looking for help. After finally finding the perfect quote, she dialed Cathy.
“Cathy? Verbena. I want to read you something from Luke 8:52 to 55.”
“Oh, Lord,” thought Cathy, “not again.” But said, “All right.”
“Are you listening?”
“Yes. Go ahead.”
“But he said, ‘Do not weep; for she is not dead but sleeping.’ And they laughed at him, knowing that she was dead. But he took her by the hand and called out, ‘Child, get up!’ Her spirit returned, and she got up at once.”
Cathy tried to be patient and waited for her to explain why she had to read it to her, but Verbena was silent.
“Yes, and…?”
“I think you should know that we have a similar situation going on right this very minute. Elner Shimfissle just got up!”
She Did What?
3:39 PM
Franklin Pixton, the head of Caraway Hospital administration, was a tall, natty, preppy-looking man of fifty-two. He dressed in a neat suit, striped shirt, and bow tie, and wore horn-rimmed glasses. He was a typical upper-level executive whose main job was to hobnob with the old rich and the new rich and raise money for the hospital, a job he did well. He and his wife belonged to the right clubs, his children attended the right schools, they lived in the right redbrick English Tudor home. He was not about to let some small matter like a patient mistakenly being declared dead put his hospital at risk. After he received the phone call, he told the nurse that he wanted to see all involved personnel in his office in one hour, and gave instructions that they were not to discuss the matter with anyone.
He then hung up and immediately dialed the hospital lawyer, Winston Sprague, a specialist in risk management matters.
“We have a situation,” Pixton said.
“What?”
“Patient pronounced dead. Several hours later she started talking.”
“Oh shit,” said Sprague.
“Graphic, but correct.”
“Who was informed?”
“Just the immediate family, as far as I know.”
“OK,” said the lawyer, “do not…accept responsibility, admit any blame or fault. You can apologize that it happened, yes, but make it vague…nothing specific. Do not think or say the word malpractice. Give me thirty minutes to get there. I’ll meet you downstairs.” The young lawyer, who was nicknamed “Preppy Number Two,” grabbed his briefcase with the usual waiver inside, threw on his jacket, slicked his hair down in the back, and took a deep breath. He had to go over there and win one for the Gipper. The Gipper in this case was his boss, Preppy Number One. Franklin Pixton. Winston Sprague