Gilbert Morris by The Angel of Bastogne

Doctor?”
    â€œI’d like to read the story he’s writing. I know it’s not finished yet, but he won’t show me a word of it.”
    â€œI don’t let anybody see my work until it’s perfected.”
    â€œOh, you’re a prima donna, are you?” Charlene made a face. “I hate you artistic types.”
    â€œWell, you scientific types are no better. You don’t understand the imaginative spirit.”
    The two stayed for more than an hour, and there was a great deal of laughter in the room. Mabelene Williams, the black nurse, came down once and said, “You folks makin’ a lot of noise. You gonna disturb the other patients.”
    â€œIt’s all right, Mabelene,” Willie grinned. “This lady’s a doctor. She’s giving me treatments.”
    Mabelene looked doubtfully at Charlene. “Is that right? You’re a doctor?”
    â€œThat’s right, but I wouldn’t do much good here. I’m a pediatric surgeon.”
    â€œIs that right! Well, I guess it’s all right if you wanna make a little noise. You feelin’ all right today, Sergeant?”
    â€œFeelin’ real good, Mabelene. By the way, where’d you get that name of yours? I never heard it before I met you.”
    â€œMy mama named me after some eye shadow. I do think it’s pretty.”
    â€œIt is a nice name,” Charlene said quickly. “And I’ve never known anybody named Mabelene before either.”
    â€œI’m one of a kind,” Mabelene grinned and left the room.
    â€œShe’s a mighty good nurse. Has to put up with a lot out here,” Willie said.
    â€œWe’ll come and see you after we get back from visiting Pete’s family.”
    â€œHe was a good boy, good soldier.”
    As the pair left, Charlene said, “I like your dad. It must be hard being cooped up in there.”
    â€œI wish I could keep him at home, but I’m never there.”
    â€œNow don’t go off on a guilt trip about that. I know you come to see him as often as you can.”
    â€œNo, I don’t.”
    Charlene cast a quick glance at Ben but said nothing as they walked toward the car.
    * * *
    Two days later Ben was sitting in his office when his editor popped in. Sal Victorio stood for a moment watching Ben, who had his chair tipped back and was staring up at the ceiling. “What are you doing?” Sal demanded.
    â€œI’m writing. Can’t you see? I’m creating words, making up a story.”
    â€œYou’re asleep is what you are. How’s that story on Christmas coming?”
    â€œFantastic. Going to be the best editorial on Christmas ever written.”
    Sal stared at his star reporter then grunted and left.
    Ben opened his eyes and leaned forward and put his hand flat on the desk. He had been lonely for the past two days, and the story had not gone well. He slowly reached over, picked up the phone, and dialed a number. He asked for Dr. Delaughter, and by some miracle he got her. “What are you doing?” he said.
    â€œI’m working. What are you doing?”
    â€œKilling time. Not writing a story.”
    â€œYou have writer’s block?”
    â€œThere’s no such thing.”
    â€œThere’s no such thing as writer’s block? I thought there was.”
    â€œDid you ever hear of a plumber’s block? Did you ever hear a plumber say, ‘Oh, I can’t unstop that sink. I just don’t feel it!’ Did you ever hear of dishwashing block? No. There are no blocks. Just lazy people. I guess that’s what I am.”
    â€œWell, I’ve got the cure for it. I’ve got a chore for you. I was going to call you.”
    â€œFor me? You want me to hand you the scalpel while you do the operating?”
    â€œNo, thanks.” Charlene’s voice sounded amused. “I’m going to the children’s ward at six o’clock tonight. I want you to go with