Dead Certain

the Prescott Memorial Auxiliary go about their business of raising the funds necessary to support the charitable work of this unique and world-class hospital.
    “When my grandfather, Everett Prescott, founded Prescott Memorial, it was with the idea of helping those less fortunate than ourselves. His friends took up his call to do the same, and his children and their children followed in his example. For four generations these families embraced the object of his generosity. Thus, supporting the hospital became more than an obligation, it became a tradition, one that has grown from those few founding families to include many, many members of the community, including all the wonderful people who are here tonight.
    “But tonight I’m afraid Prescott Memorial Hospital takes your money under false pretenses,” my mother declared. The room fell silent, and she paused to let what she had just said sink in.
    “Oh, no,” I thought to myself, thinking of her signature at the bottom of the confidentiality agreement with HCC and yet powerless to do anything to prevent what I knew was coming next.
    “Last Thursday the board of trustees of Prescott Memorial Hospital voted to sell it to a company called Health Care Corporation.” Small gasps of surprise went up around the room, and Mother again waited until they had subsided.
    Her eye searched the crowd until she found Gerald Packman. Now she spoke to him directly. “If Health Care Corporation is successful in its bid to acquire the hospital, not only will these traditions end, but every penny that is raised here tonight, along with the millions of dollars in charitable contributions that have been raised in years past, will go to line the pockets of a for-profit corporation. That is why this year’s steering committee and I have just voted to refund to you all contributions made this evening.
    “But, please, let’s not let such a sad turn of events put a damper on the lovely evening so many people have worked so hard for. My husband and I have just written a personal check to cover the cost of this evening’s meal, and I hope that you all will continue to enjoy the evening as our guests.”
     
    Of all the possible scenarios that I’d imagined for how this evening would turn out, none came even close to the reality of that night. Like the moment of terrible quiet that follows an accident, as soon as she made her announcement, the entire ballroom seemed to stand still. For a full minute nothing out of the ordinary happened.
    Mother folded up the small piece of paper she’d consulted when she spoke, and made her way down off the dais. But the usually bored society reporters who’d come for the open bar expecting to write fluff were still sober enough to recognize a story when it fell out of nowhere and hit them in the head. By the time Mother set her foot atop the bottom step, they were sprinting for the phones.
    Not surprisingly, Elliott was the first person to grasp the implications of what was happening. While Gerald Packman gaped and the medical staff buzzed, I remained glued to my seat by my own sense of incredulity. But Elliott was already on his feet and at my mother’s side, whispering in her ear as he walked her back to the table for her purse. As he bent his head to hers I saw her nod, her eyes wide with understanding, as he led her firmly by the arm.
    As she bent to get her bag he collected me with his eyes, and I rose and made my way to my father’s side.
    “Come on, we’re going,” I whispered to him urgently. Startled, he did not protest, but drained his glass and heaved himself to his feet.
    We followed behind Elliott, who laid a protective arm across my mother’s shoulders and steered her through the room, firmly but politely moving her through the press of people rising from their chairs to besiege her with questions and congratulations.
    As soon as we’d cleared the door, I led the way, picking up the pace as we ducked down the half flight of stairs '1 past the elevators that led not toward the Walton side of the hotel where the main entrance lay but, like Alice down the rabbit hole, to the now darkened arcade of chichi shops that ran along the Michigan Avenue side past the Cape Cod Room to the seldom used entrance on East Lake Shore Drive.
    Compared to the crush of Walton this was a quiet residential street, an urban backwater with neither shops nor businesses, buffered by a small park and the deeper quiet of the lake. Of course, it was only