Gilbert Morris (4 page)

A stiff wind threw the snowflakes across the highway in front of Ben. Dancing like tiny ballerinas, they were so dry they did not even stick to his windshield. The sky was pale gray, and the sun had hidden itself, but the weather report had said there would be no winter storms coming in.

Reaching over to his side, Ben flipped open the composition book he kept his notes in and held it up. He scanned the five names that he had written there. Willie had not had the addresses of two of them, but it had been no trouble to get them from the War Department. He had never met any of the men, but he familiarized himself by scanning the list.

Ben's thoughts centered on these five men. His father had told him that the rest of the squad had been killed or wounded by the time they had been surrounded at Bastogne.
But these five were the ones Ben would feature in his story. As the car sped along, he realized he had mixed emotions. He was still upset about getting done out of his trip to Spain, but this had the makings of a good story. It could be a good piece of writing, and that always excited Ben. Glancing down at the bottom of the page, he saw an amplification of the names. Beside Charlie Delaughter was a note: Survived the war but died in 1972. Delaughter had at least one child, a daughter named Charlene. Dr. Charlene Delaughter. Practices in Evanston, Illinois.

This had been a break, for Evanston was within driving distance of Chicago. Ben had found Dr. Delaughter's name in the phone book. He had not been able to speak with her, but a nurse had called back and informed him that Dr. Delaughter would see him at five o'clock on Wednesday. He had quickly taken the appointment, and now as he made his way toward Evanston, his mind was already preparing itself for the story he would write. Willie had told him that Charlie Delaughter had been one of the best men he had ever known and that he was the one that should have gotten the medal. “He never quit. He never refused a tough job. He never complained. That was Charlie. I still miss him, Son. . . .”

* * *

Finding a parking place at St. Charles Hospital was not particularly difficult. Night was closing in now, and the wind drove tiny fragments of sleet and flakes, stinging Ben's face as he got out of the car. The two-inch layer of snow coated the parking lot and made crunching noises as he walked toward
the front of the hospital. He shivered beneath his lightweight coat, drawing it closer about him as he climbed the steps.

When he entered the building, he saw an elderly woman sitting at the desk marked Information. Advancing to the desk, he nodded and the woman smiled pleasantly, saying, “Good evening. Can I help you?”

“I have an appointment with Dr. Delaughter.”

“She's probably operating. That would be on the second floor, and the elevator's right over there.”

“Thank you very much.”

“Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas to you.”

Ben had never learned how to handle such phrases as “Have a nice day” or “How are you doing?” He felt obligated to respond, and for the meaningless “Have a nice day,” he'd made it a habit to merely smile. Once when a man had asked him, “How you doing,” Ben had made it a point to tell him in great detail. He had shocked the man, who'd muttered an excuse before Ben finished giving him an update. Ben learned to just say, “Fine.”

As to the holiday greeting “Merry Christmas,” Ben knew he couldn't say, “Bah humbug!” so he surrendered and simply said the words.

The hospital was not busy, and Ben felt uncomfortable, as he always did in hospitals. He could never explain this feeling. Strangely enough, he had never been a patient in a hospital, not one day in his entire life, but everything about them frightened him. The smells, the uniforms, the broken
bodies being wheeled on stretchers up and down the halls, some of them looking already dead.

On the second floor, he went to the desk where a man and a woman were laughing and drinking from paper cups. The woman was young and attractive, and the man was overweight and had a flushed face.

“Yes, sir, may I help you?” the young woman said.

“I am supposed to meet Dr. Delaughter.”

“She's in surgery. I'm afraid you'll have to wait. There've been a couple of emergencies.”

The heavyset young man nodded with his head. “Waiting room is right down the hall.”

“Can you get word to Dr. Delaughter that I'm there?”

“Sure, we'll tell her,” the man said.

“Is there any place to get something to eat?”

“The cafeteria closed early. Sorry about that.”

Ben did not want to leave the hospital for fear he might miss Dr. Delaughter. “What about a coffee machine?”

“I'll get you some,” the pretty young nurse said. She got up, disappeared down the hall, and the young man studied Ben. “Got someone in the hospital, buddy?”

“No. Not this hospital.”

“We got a full house. We had to call Dr. Delaughter. Kid got thrown out of a car.”

“She's a surgeon?”

“Pediatric surgeon mostly. The best, too. If I had a kid got hurt, I'd want to have Doc Delaughter take care of her if I could.”

That sounded like a lot of
ifs
to Ben, but he was interested in finding out all he could about the woman. “She been on service here long?”

“I guess so. I just came a month ago myself. I come from Georgia. It's cold up here. I wish I was back there.”

Ben listened as the young man extolled the glories of Georgia and the South over Illinois and the North until the nurse came back. “Here you are, sir.”

“Thanks.”

“Here's some sugar and cream.”

Ben took them, smiled his thanks. “You'll call me when Dr. Delaughter's free?”

“Yes, and I'll let her know you're here,” the nurse smiled.

Ben nodded, walked down the hall, and entered the waiting room. A middle-aged couple looked up as he entered. They were sitting close together and holding hands. Both of them had tense looks on their faces.

“Hello,” Ben said. They greeted him but said nothing. Ben sat down and sipped at his coffee. It was pretty bad. Ben had often said that the worst cup of coffee he ever had in his life was very good, but this almost made him decide to change that statement. It tasted something like he imagined old tar would taste. For the next hour and a half Ben sat and fidgeted in the chair. He made the rounds of the tables beside the chairs, going through the magazines. Most of them were for women:
Redbook
,
Ladies' Home Journal
,
Cosmopolitan
,
Better
Homes and Gardens
. Ben scanned through them, trying to find something that interested him and wondered with some irritation why they didn't have a
Sports Illustrated
or a
Popular
Science
. Didn't they know a man had to endure the miseries of a waiting room as well? Finally he gave up, went down to his car, and got the notebook.

After returning to the waiting room, he sat there making notes, trying to recast the story without a great deal of success. The story would come from the people, and he hadn't met any of them yet.

“Do you have someone in surgery?”

Ben looked up quickly and saw that the middle-aged man had spoken to him. “No, I don't. How about you?”

“Our daughter,” the man said. He could not control the slight tremor in his voice. “She's only three.”

“I hope it's not serious,” Ben said. He made his living with words, but in situations like this, he could never find words that had much meaning. He dreaded funerals, for what can one say to the survivors? He understood that people should go, and they should say something, but such things were a torment to him. He hesitated before asking, “What happened to your daughter?”

The man started to speak then had to stop and clear his throat. The woman, who looked to be in her early forties, said quickly, “She was with some friends at a party and was thrown out of a car. The door popped open.”

Ben tried desperately to think of something that would bring a faint encouragement to the couple. He saw the pain and the fear written across the faces of the pair and made the inane remark, “I'm sure she'll be all right.” Then he realized he should have said, “I hope she'll be all right,” but it was too late to change it.

“Dr. Delaughter is doing the surgery,” the woman said, and hope came to her eyes. “We know she's in good hands.”

“Is Dr. Delaughter your doctor?”

“More or less. She's a pediatrician, but she does mostly surgery now.”

“What's your daughter's name?”

“Her name's Angela. I wanted to name her Angel,” the man said, “but Mary here talked me out of it.”

“Angela is a fine name. I suppose it means angel in Spanish.”

“Yes. I think so,” the man said. “That's what she is, an angel.”

“You have other children?”

“No. I had five miscarriages. We married late, so she's all we have.”

Once again a feeling of helplessness touched Ben Raines.
I' d hate to be a doctor and bring bad news to a couple like this,
he thought. He tried to think of something comforting, and nothing came to him. Fortunately, at that moment, a woman in the garb of a doctor with a stethoscope around her neck stepped in. At once the two got up and rushed to her. “Is she all right, Doctor?” the woman cried.

“She's going to be fine.”

Ben watched and listened carefully as he studied the woman. She was tall and had ash-blonde hair. He put her age at somewhere around thirty-five. The hospital garb did not conceal the fact that she was still a shapely woman, and it interested him how the two clung on her words. He listened and felt a gust of relief, as if Angela were his kin.

“It wasn't nearly as serious as we thought at first. She'll have to stay here for a few days, but she's going to be just fine.”

Ben listened as the two poured out their thanks to the doctor, and then when they hurried away to be with their daughter, he arose and said, “Dr. Delaughter?”

“Yes.” The doctor turned to face him. “You must be Ben Raines.”

“Yes, I am.”

“I'm sorry to be so late, but—”

“It's all right. I'm just glad things turned out for the little girl.”

“It was a little bit more difficult than I let them know, but they are very fragile, and I didn't want to disturb them.” She had gray eyes, or blue or green. It was hard to tell in the harsh light of the waiting room. They were large and well-shaped and were studying him carefully. “Are you hungry?” she asked suddenly.

“Starved.”

“Then let's go get something to eat.”

“I don't want to put you out.”

“It never puts me out to eat. Do you like Italian?”

“I like any kind of food. I even like airplane food.”

“Not really?”

“No, but Italian is fine.”

* * *

Luigi's was exactly what an Italian restaurant ought to be. It had the atmosphere of Italy somehow, and the sharp
spicy aroma of garlic and other good things saturated the air. The owner, none other than Luigi himself, looked very much like a working member of the Mafia except he had a gracious smile. He greeted Dr. Delaughter warmly and seated the two at a table. “We don't see you enough, Doctor.”

“You certainly don't,” Dr. Delaughter smiled. “I'd weigh two hundred pounds if I came as often as I want. What's good tonight, Luigi?”

Luigi spread his hands in a pure Italian gesture, overly dramatic. “When you get something not good at Luigi's? It's
all
good!”

“Surprise us then.”

“I will do that. You justa' wait!”

As the owner left, Ben said, “Dr. Delaughter?”

“Just Charlene will do, or most of my friends call me Charlie. I hate it, but they do it anyway.”

“Charlene then,” Ben grinned. “And, as you know, I'm Ben.”

“I know quite a bit about your dad but nothing about you.”

“You never met my father, did you?”

“No, but I have letters that my dad wrote to my mother when he was in the war. You'd be surprised at how important Willie Raines was to my dad.”

“I'd sure like to see those letters.”

“Of course. I can't give them to you, but you can make copies.”

“That would be great.”

They waited until the meal came, talking in generalities about the weather and Chicago and trying to get each other's
measure. The meal, when it came, was outstanding. It started with freshly baked bruschetta with red peppers and garlic in olive oil for dipping and a large plate of antipasto with the meats thinly sliced and the black olives very salty. Next came a small salad with thinly sliced tomatoes, onions, black olives, grated cheese, slivers of garlic served with a light, spicy dressing. Finally Luigi brought out a large platter with small helpings of spaghetti and meatballs, veal parmesan, lasagna, and a four-cheese ravioli, plus a basket of piping hot garlic bread.

Luigi hovered over them, opening a bottle of wine and instructing them on how best to enjoy the meal. When he left, Charlene Delaughter said, “He treats his customers like I like to treat my patients, gives them his full attention.”

“How long have you known you wanted to be a doctor?”

“Since I was three years old.”

Ben grinned. He liked this woman. She was direct. He liked her looks, too, for her oddly colored eyes held some sort of laughter but also mirrored some ancient wisdom. Her eyes were wide-spaced, and as he looked into them, he noticed that they seemed to have no bottom. Her complexion would have been the envy of many teenage girls, and he could not help but notice the ripe and self-possessed curve of her mouth. She had that assurance that most doctors have, and she also had a gift of listening that many doctors did not have. He found himself telling her about the story he intended to write.