The Sisterhood - Michael Palmer [63]
Barbara shook hands with the earlier arrivals and made a quick count. Twelve. The four from Boston, including Peg, were late. “No coffee?” she asked no one in particular as she opened her briefcase, extracted a thick folder marked “Clinton Foundation,” and set it at the head of the glossy walnut table.
“The chief orderly was just here,” one of the women answered. “He said the crash cart would be up shortly.” Her humor dented the tension in the room, but only transiently. The emergency meeting was unprecedented, and of those present only Barbara knew its purpose in detail. She checked her watch. Eight ten. Their regular quarterly meetings seldom started late. But this was Boston’s show, and although she had some other business to transact, she would wait.
Around the room, in small groups and muted voices, the women shared news of their families, their nursing services, and their institutions. They had come together from worlds where each of them held title, power, and influence. Susan Berger, nursing coordinator for the Hospital Consortium of San Francisco, chatted with June Ullrich, field investigations administrator for the largest pharmaceutical house in the country. They knew, as did all the others, that their lofty positions were due, in part, to their involvement with The Sisterhood of Life. Functioning through its visible arm, the Donald Knight Clinton Foundation, the movement published a monthly newsletter updating the status of various philanthropic Sisterhood projects and outlining available upper-echelon nursing positions for which members would receive special consideration.
As coordinating director of The Sisterhood, Barbara Littlejohn was also administrator of the Clinton Foundation and of half a million dollars in voluntary contributions made each year by Sisterhood nurses. Although the titles were hers, the influence and much of the power still rested with Peggy Donner. Barbara checked the time again and spread her notes on the table. Five more minutes and she would begin, with or without Peg.
At that moment the bell captain, a ferretlike man with petroleum hair, marched in with the coffee cart. He floated a tablecloth over the serving table and arranged the cups, sterling, and coffee urn with a flourish. As a finale, he stepped outside the room, returned with a large floral centerpiece, and ceremoniously placed it between the neat rows of cups.
“Flowers,” Susan Berger remarked. “Now this is a first. Peggy must be softening us up for another of her schemes. God, but they’re lovely.”
The bell captain smiled, as if taking the compliment personally. He spent a few, final center-stage moments straightening the arrangement, then backed out of the room, still smiling. Despite his efforts, the vase still seemed to be overflowing with dahlias. The Garden would be watching and listening, they warned; the offspring appraising the parent. It was a warning that only one at the meeting would understand.
Ruth Serafini, the robust, dynamic dean of the nursing school at White Memorial Hospital, was the first of the Boston group to arrive. Peggy Donner had spawned the movement in Boston, and although it had spread rapidly to hospitals throughout the country, the Boston representation was still by far the largest. Three directors, including Ruth, were needed to oversee activities in the New England states. Peggy herself was no longer involved with day-to-day operations.
“Are the rest coming soon?” Barbara asked after a brief handshake.
“No idea. I got caught in traffic.” Ruth poured a cup of coffee, then took a place at the table.
“Sorry for the delay, everyone,” Barbara said finally. “I think we should start and get through the Foundation business. It’s only been six weeks, so there won’t be a financial report tonight.” Those standing took seats. Barbara surveyed the group one at a time and smiled. How far they had come from