Let the Rain Fall Down
His glass was half-empty. The moon was full.
Hawkeye Pierce actually saw two moons with his liquor-clogged eyes. He walked around the quiet camp, stumbling on the hem of his purple bathrobe. Underneath all he had on were boxers and a t-shirt.
A soft light flickered from Margaret's tent. He started toward it, thinking of her golden hair and soft green eyes and the perfume she wore. How her scent carried through the air on a hot, steamy night and made his stomach cartwheel.
But standing became too much of a chore for Hawkeye. The ground loomed closer and colder until his ass made hard contact. Crossing his legs, Hawkeye pretended to be an Indian sitting around a campfire, praising the gods of nature.
Through the door of her tent, Margaret watched his inebriated ballet and turned back to her sewing. The moon dipped behind a cloud. Fifteen minutes later she peered out again into a light rain. Hawkeye was now lying on his back, legs still crossed. Thirty minutes after that, she peeked out to find him face down, still grasping that martini glass. The rain had grown heavier now. Margaret rolled her eyes and threw a jacket over her pajamas.
He didn't move when she said his name. Turning him over didn't disturb his slumber. So, muttering curses under her breath, she grabbed an arm and dragged him the twenty or so feet to her tent. His boxers slid halfway down twice. Each time she stopped to pull them up, cursing the whole way.
When she finally burst through the door, it took all her strength to shove Hawkeye into a chair. He was muddy from top to toe, moaning and swaying back and forth.
"I don't know why you do this to yourself," she said. She'd bloodied his lip somewhere along the line.
Margaret went about cleaning him up. In one of her lockers, she found one of Donald's old t-shirts and a pair of Frank's boxers someone had once run up the flagpole. Hawkeye didn't move while she took off his dirty shirt and wiped him off quickly, like she was at gunpoint.
"Hey!" she said loudly, poking his arm. "You're going to have to change your own pants."
Mechanically, Hawkeye stood up and dropped his boxers. Her gaze fell on his lap momentarily, but she turned away and admonished herself for the look. When he slumped back into the chair, she whipped the other shirt over his head, stuffing his arms into the sleeves.
"Margaret," he said, opening his arms and leaning forward. She caught him just in time. His head landed against her stomach.
"You are a filthy…stinking…drunk!" Margaret hissed. She prayed he wouldn't throw up all over her. It had happened before. Twice.
But Hawkeye didn't say anything else. His grip began to loosen around her waist. In some deep recess of conscience she regretted the whole "filthy, stinking" line. He was clean now and all he smelled like was gin and Ivory soap. Hawkeye had been very good to her lately, what with the pregnancy test, her divorce and that stupid rubber tub.
Almost unconsciously, she ran her fingers through his hair. When Margaret dreamed lately, Hawkeye was always there. In one horrible dream, she was at his funeral. He was naked in the coffin and she was naked, too, carrying his martini glass.
Wrapping her small arms around his waist, Margaret managed to heave him into her bed…but in the process he fell forward on top of her, trapping her against the mattress. Crawling to a sitting position, she cradled him in her arms. His head fell against his chest.
"I wanted to tell you everything's going to be okay. There's just – I can't lie. It might not," she babbled.
Hawkeye took a deep breath. One of his hands rested on her hip. The action caused Margaret to hold him tighter.
"The thing is, when the war ends you can't do this anymore. One day maybe no one will save you and you'll run into the street or drown in the bathtub and we'll both be naked at your funeral."
She was talking to herself as much as him now.
"We both need to grow up."
Hawkeye began to move slowly. His head lifted until she found herself staring into his blue eyes. They weren't cloudy at all. The grip he had on her hip tightened.
"Margaret," he said slowly.
"What?"
"I love you," Hawkeye said very clearly.
His lips fell on hers, but all too quickly his eyes closed and his head fell again. They sat like that for a moment because Margaret was stunned. Was it the alcohol talking? Did he say that to everyone? She'd thought a lot about love lately. Chalk it up to her miserable experiences with Frank and Donald. Right now, she didn't think she could love anyone.
"I'm sorry," she told Hawkeye's sleeping form.
And she meant it.
November 1968.
Dinner was chicken soup but no one could really eat it. The flu bug crushed Crabapple Cove that year, closing schools and sending dozens of people to the hospital.
Margaret was the only person in the household that didn't have it. She paced from room to room as a cold November rain pattered on the tin roof. At the end of the hall, her youngest child slept fitfully. He cried out, sending her running. Ben Jackson had fallen out of bed. She gathered him off the floor and lovingly laid him back in bed.
"Momma, my throat hurts," he said miserably. Ben's cheeks were bright red.
"I know honey. You'll be better soon. It's just gonna take some time."
Ellie was in worse shape. She was curled around a plastic salad bowl. Margaret noted her daughter's skin color…light green, just like the bowl.
"Do you want your diving magazines?" Margaret asked, sitting on the corner of the bed.
"Uhhhhhhhhhhhhh," Ellie moaned, shaking her head.
"Lay down and take a drink of water," Margaret said in a neutral voice that belied her concern. Ellie took a small sip and buried her head in the pillow. Margaret kissed Ellie's cheek and laid a cool washcloth on her forehead.
In her own bedroom, Hawkeye had sweated through another pair of pajamas. He had been the first person in the household to catch the flu, thanks to his patients. At least the fever was subsiding and he was a little coherent than their kids.
"Are Ellie and Ben okay?" he asked, trying to get into a sitting position.
"I just checked. They're alright."
She carried a bowl of cool water and a washcloth over to the bed. Hawkeye smiled. Nursing training meant Margaret could give one hell of a sponge bath.
"There's some soup downstairs if you feel up to it," she said, pulling off his shirt.
Hawkeye shook his head. "Water's fine for now."
They'd had a rip-roaring argument the week before about Vietnam. Hawkeye had never been vague about his thoughts on the matter. He was railing over the troops the president kept pouring into the region and the loss of life. Margaret agreed, but she thought something had to be done to stop the spread of communism. They went back and forth for two days and were hardly speaking to each other when Hawkeye started to get sick. The two had arguments like this occasionally in the past, but they were happening now on a more frequent basis. This scared both of them.
"I could go for one of those hot toddies right now," Hawkeye sighed as Margaret ran the washcloth over his legs.
"No liquor," she said, smiling inwardly. She was in a very sensitive place now.
"Margaret, you have a magical way with a washcloth," he said, with a wink. This was evidenced by some movement in his lap.
"Okay, let's get you dried off and into some fresh clothes," she said quickly. It would have been easy to make love to him and forget all that had passed between them in the last week.
"Would you let Ben go to Vietnam? And come back dead or just as screwed up as we are?"
"Stop it!" Margaret screamed. "You're the only one screwed up around here about it."
Hawkeye grabbed her elbow, upsetting a glass that was between them. "Would you let him go?"
"Let go of me," she hissed, pushing him away roughly. " Yes, I would let him go. It's his…"
"Don't say it's his duty as an American!"
"It's his duty as an American."
Margaret picked up her glass and poured the remains of a Coke into his lap.
"Leave me alone," she said, storming out of the room. His lap smelled less like Coke and more like rum.
Hawkeye shrugged on a new pair of pajamas and climbed back into bed beside Margaret. She pulled him into an embrace. His head rested against her chest, and her heart sounded like distant cannons.
"I love you," he said.
"I remember the first time you told me that."
"On the breakwater."
Margaret smiled and chuckled. "No."
"I'm sure it was on the breakwater," Hawkeye said, getting agitated.
"You said it in Korea the night after Radar left," she said.
Hawkeye lifted his head. "I did?"
"You were drunk. I found you face-down in the rain outside my tent."
He was quiet. BJ knew and Hawkeye had known himself that he'd fallen pretty hard for Margaret at that point. "What did you say back?" he asked.
Margaret sucked in a whallop of air. "I think I said I was sorry. Look, I wanted to love you, but the way things were meant I didn't want to put my heart on the line again."
With a drunk, Hawkeye thought.
She snapped off the light and they sat in the dark for awhile.
"Oh well," he said, trying to lighten the mood. "All's well that ends well."
"I suppose," Margaret sighed. She turned over, leaving Hawkeye to listen to the rain and wonder what she meant.