I nodded. I knew that.

“…and she and Cordelia are barely talking,” Bernie continued. “I heard them in Cordelia’s office.” She glanced down at the floor, blushing slightly at admitting to eavesdropping. “Elly said, ‘She had no right to say it. It’s ugly,’ and Cordelia answered, ‘Danny shouldn’t have called her a whore.’ And Elly said, ‘Danny’s got a right, don’t you think?’ And Cordelia said, ‘No, I don’t think so.’ And I could tell she was mad. Cordelia doesn’t get mad much. That was it. Elly walked out. Do you know who Danny is?” Bernie asked. “Elly’s boyfriend?”

My splitting headache stopped me from laughing.

“No, just a friend,” I prevaricated, then changed the subject. “What about lunch? Aren’t you eating?”

“I came in to see if you wanted something. I could run to the store.”

“If you’re going for yourself.” All I wanted was something to drink. A cola to settle my stomach. I added some yogurt so it would look like I was eating something.

Bernie said she was going to the store for herself, although I was dubious.

She returned almost immediately, much too quickly to have gone out.

“Sorry, Micky, we have to leave.” Her expression was somber.

“Leave?”

“Another bomb threat. A letter. Just like those other letters. And since you were really bombed…”

No wonder Bernie was nervous.

“Picnic time,” I said, as I gingerly sat up and swung my legs off the cot. Yeah, I really wanted to go sit out in the hot sun and wait for this building to blow up. Of course, I thought, as I stood up, that was probably better than sitting inside waiting for the building to blow up.

Bernie stood beside me, wanting to help, but too diffident to put her arm around my waist.

Oh, well, let the kid get her very cheap thrill of the day, I thought, draping my arm around her shoulder and letting her steady me.

“You look like death warmed over,” Sister Ann observed as she joined us in the hallway and took my other arm around her shoulders. Between a nun and a nineteen-year-old. I hoped the bomb wouldn’t go off just yet. This would be a hell of a way to die.

“The flu,” Bernie lied for me.

“The Jack Daniel’s strain,” I corrected ruefully.

“Ah, yes, I’ve heard of it,” Sister Ann commented.

It was bright and sunny outside. And hot. We aimed for the shade of an oak tree across the avenue. Once I was comfortably ensconced between roots, Bernie took off to fill our lunch order. Millie was talking to some of the displaced patients. I couldn’t see Elly anywhere. Cordelia was down the block, using a pay phone. Sister Ann settled herself beside me.

“Do you do this often?” she asked.

“What? Wait out bomb threats?”

“No. Drink to excess?”

“Well…I’m trying not to.”

She was quiet, waiting for me to continue.

“I…I know I have a problem,” I finally admitted. “I’ve really tried to cut down in the last few months, but…old habits.”

“How old are your habits?”

“I didn’t start drinking the minute I walked into Aunt Greta’s house, but…” I shrugged.

“But?” she questioned.

“But…” I shrugged again.

“Junior high?”

“High school. Sixteen,” I admitted. “I…uh…hung out in bars.”

“At sixteen?”

“I was tall for my age.”

“How could you afford it?”

“I worked and…” I stopped. Was I about to admit that to a nun?

“And?” she probed.

“And I drank very slowly.”

She nodded, her expression neutral.

“What was I supposed to do? Hang out at church picnics?” I demanded sarcastically.

“Well, don’t you think,” she said calmly, “that a church picnic might have been better than trading sexual favors for a few drinks?”