Free Walking the Perfect Square by Reed Farrel Coleman

GUESS IF the New York Jets and Giants could play in New Jersey and if Cincinnati’s airport could be in Kentucky, it was kosher for the Mary the Divine Hospice of New Haven to be in Hamden. At least it was still in Connecticut, right? The hospice, like many of the huge Victorians along Whitney Avenue, was exquisitely detailed with gingerbread turnings, a wraparound porch and a variety of patterned shingles. The pumpkin, brown and hunter green color palette didn’t exactly thrill me, but given its proximity to what I guessed was a lake and lush parkland, I could see why the diocese had selected this sight for a hospice. I told the woman at the front desk as much.
    “Oh,” she said, “it was serendipity, really. A wealthy Yale alum willed this property to the church a few years back. Before that, we were located in New Haven between a crack house and an abandoned supermarket.”
    That explains it, I thought, but didn’t bother her with my meanderings about NFL franchises or airports. When I did get around to asking for Sister Margaret, the receptionist’s face took a decided downward turn. “Are you Mr. Prager?” she wondered.
    I could feel my heart sinking into my shoes. “Is he—”
    “No, Mr. Bryson hasn’t left us yet, but . . .” she trailed off in a less than reassuring tone.
    “So he’s all right.”
    “No one here is all right, Mr. Prager.”
    “I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant.”
    “I understand,” she said.
    I doubted it. I repeated my request to see Sister Margaret, the nun who had called me earlier that day.
    “She’s in with Mr. Bryson and Father Izzolino.”

    “Last rites?”
    “I’m afraid so, yes. But you’ve got to have faith, Mr. Prager.”
    I restrained myself from laughing. “Maybe,” I suggested, “if Mr. Bryson knew I was here, he might hang on a little longer. Can I—”
    “Sorry, but that’s impossible.” Rubbing her chin, the receptionist pondered how to proceed. “Sister!” she flagged down a woman in a blue habit with a simple kerchief-type wimple.
    “I’ll see what I can do.” The nun put her hand on my arm. “It may take several minutes. We have a small chapel through that door, if you’d like to reflect.”
    “Thank you, Sister,” I smiled, “but no. I wouldn’t want to be disrespectful. I’m Jewish and—”
    “So was he,” she said, pointing to a crucifix. “Let me go see if I can get Sister Margaret.”
    I asked the receptionist if there was a quiet place where I could use my cell phone. There was a lounge, she said, just past the chapel. She thought I would be fine there.
    The empty lounge looked out onto a lovely sloping lawn, a flower garden and the water just beyond it. I punched my daughter’s number in. As I waited for the connection to be made, I noticed the wall clock, checked my wristwatch to confirm the time. 4:50 P.M.; in another four minutes it would be exactly eighteen years since Sarah’s birth. As I listened to her phone go unanswered for a third ring, it struck me that a hospice was a pretty macabre venue for phoning in birthday wishes. Then again, maybe not. Maybe it was the perfect place.
    Someone rapped on the wall behind me. “Mr. Prager?” a woman’s voice called my name.
    I clicked the phone off and turned. “I’m Moe Prager.”
    “I’m Sister Margaret. So nice to meet you.” She pumped my hand. “Thank you for coming.”
    “Same here,” I mumbled. “I mean, I’m glad to have made the trip.” I think I was taken aback by the fact the sister was dressed in a pale blue nurse’s uniform.
    She took note of my confusion. “Yes, Mr. Prager, I am fully qualified. Some of our guests call me RN squared; real nun and registered nurse. Just a little hospice humor. You need that, that and faith.”
    Sister Margaret was built like a snowman with penny copper eyes and button nose. Though she wasn’t smiling, exactly, she did exude a sort of calm that seemed to fill the room. I guess that’s a
valuable asset in a