Same Time Next Year
I'm sitting in my rental car outside the cabin. The lights are on because Hawkeye's inside, and I know exactly what he's doing. He's cooking supper (salmon, if I had to guess) and setting the table, and he's probably cursing me under his breath right now, because he thinks I'm late.
We've been coming here the last weekend in July every year since 1954. That was one year after the war ended, and we hadn't seen each other since we hugged goodbye at the 4077th. That was a tough year, at least for me. Going from seeing him every day—living with him, eating with him, even showering with him—to not seeing him at all. A much harder adjustment than I would have imagined. When finally we were able to coordinate our schedules to get together for a weekend—coincidentally exactly one year after the ceasefire—I was ecstatic.
For some reason, I didn't tell Peg that I was going to see Hawkeye. I told her I was spending the weekend at a medical convention in Manhattan.
Our getaway was a cabin at a lake in upstate New York; Hawk had been there before and said the fishing was terrific. I expected a laugh-filled weekend with my best friend. Some golf, some fishing, some drinking, lots of catching up.
What I didn't expect—what neither one of us planned—was the sex.
It just happened. We got back to the cabin that first night after a long walk, talking nonstop, often talking over one another, we were that wound up and had that much to tell each other. It was late and we were laughing and we'd had a little wine earlier in the evening. But I'm not going to blame the wine or the hour. It happened because we wanted it to.
He was standing just inside his bedroom door and we were talking about something and still laughing, and I'm sure I had every intention of saying goodnight and heading to my own bedroom. But instead I stepped toward him, and he stepped toward me, and we realized in the split second before our mouths met what we were about to do. But we didn't stop; we just let it happen. And there was this incredible rush of emotions, suppressed for so long but finally coming to the surface. We kissed hungrily, both of us making tiny whimpering sounds in the back of our throats, and clothes started to drop to the floor.
I never did use my own room.
We spent most of the rest of that weekend in bed, and it was incredible. When it came time to leave Sunday night, I felt panicky and tense. I didn't know what we were going to do… was this the start of something, or was it our last goodbye?
As I was about to get into my car and drive off, Hawkeye looked at me and smiled. "Same time next year?" he asked.
And that was how it began. Every year, the last weekend in July is ours. We come to the same little cabin by the lake, where we fish, or play a round of golf, or play some chess. But mostly we make love, wrapping ourselves around each other and shutting out the world, forgetting everything and everyone, including my wife and daughter, for that weekend we're alone together.
This is our 11th year of coming here. We've never missed a July. In '58, Hawk showed up even though he had a nasty case of the flu. I fussed over him and nursed him while he spent nearly the whole time in bed, sniffling and coughing and feeling bad. I held him and entertained him with stories about Erin and made him chicken soup. In a way, it was one of our best weekends, because I loved taking care of him like that.
Hawkeye has never married. He used to talk about the women he dated until one time I got jealous and angry and told him I didn't want to hear the details of his love life. I know it didn't make any sense, considering I was the one who went home to a wife after our annual trysts. But Hawkeye seemed to understand, even if I didn't. He didn't talk about his girlfriends any more after that. One morning a few years ago, while we were lying in bed snuggling and watching rain fall outside the window, he told me he had never loved any woman as much as he loved me.
I have this silly grin on my face now, remembering that. I'm smiling for a lot of reasons, actually. But mainly because this is the year that everything changes. This is the year I don't go back home to my wife.
She found out about us last year. But she only just told me this morning, as I was leaving. "You're not going to a medical convention, B.J. You're going to see Hawkeye," she said, casually and practically emotionless. "I've known since last year." I didn't say anything; I was shocked into silence. So she continued, "I called hotels in New York City, looking for a medical convention, and I kept coming up empty. Would you believe I actually called the Chamber of Commerce. No conventions, they said. So then I called Hawkeye's, but of course he wasn't home. I'm not stupid, B.J. I realized what was going on."
"I'm sorry, Peg. I should have told you a long time ago."
And that was how I left. With her knowing the truth, and me knowing I wouldn't have any reason to go back.
So here I sit in the car, about to go inside and tell Hawkeye it won't be just one weekend a year anymore. It'll be forever. It'll be the two of us growing old together.
I'm nervous as hell, but I've never been more excited. I can just imagine Hawk's reaction, his initial surprise and then his joy. I can picture our life together, sharing everything including maybe a practice, completely devoted to each other. I cannot wipe the smile off my face.
There's a bottle of wine on the seat next to me, and I grab it as I get out of the car. I inhale deeply; the air is fresh, the day is beautiful. And my future is waiting.