AN: Well I'm still not entirely happy with this story but I'm nothing if not persistent so I'll see it through to the end. In any case, I'm so sick of staring at this chapter and not changing anything that I had to post it for my own sanity. On another note, I'm quite proud of my use of 'Fall' instead of Autumn. Very authentic don't you agree :)
John Francis Patrick Mulcahy pokes his head around the vestry door. Dust motes float lazily in the muted light of the stained-glass windows. A low hum rises from the pews and even his failing ears can detect that chatter is at a minimum. Everyone is suitably subdued as they take their places and it all seems a little too sombre to him. Not at all appropriate for the dark haired joker he remembers from Korea. The Father closes the door quietly and turns back to his preparations. He reassuringly pats the bulk in his pocket and checks that it is connected properly to the bud in his ear. Most days he prefers to do without the awkward hearing device but this afternoon's service must be perfect. Hawkeye deserves nothing less. The gentle padre reflects on his invitation to preside over the service. Apparently, he must have meant something to the lanky physician. Said physician certainly meant something to the priest. Among many others. The Father is deeply touched just to be here.
Done with the mundane preparations, Mulcahy kneels before the small window for one last, private prayer before facing the swelling crowd on the far side of the door. Although not nearly as elaborate as the stained-glass masterpieces in the main church, this bare window seems all the more captivating for its simplicity. The burnt coppers and reds of a Fall evening in Maine are as perfect and picturesque as their biggest fan had always claimed. This was the Maine that would bring a light to Hawkeye's eyes. Many in the camp had smirked cynically as the enthusiastic surgeon waxed poetic about this jewel of the east coast but the little priest had always been enchanted by the stories. They brought out an innocence in Hawkeye which he was all too often guilty of dispensing with. Maine and Hawkeye, Hawkeye and Maine. They would forever be inextricably linked in the Father's mind. Standing before the vibrant scene, the pervasive hint of the ocean tantalising his senses, Mulcahy understands. It is clear that Crabapple Cove is truly the Eden of Hawkeye's legend.
Bowing his head against the perfect vista, Mulcahy utters his prayer. For Hawkeye. The man was always reckless and irreverent. Most certainly not pious. But a heart as filled with joy and love as Hawkeye's deserves to find paradise. He has already served his time in hell, condemned for sins not yet committed. They all have. No, not a pristine soul but a perfect one all the same.
Bathing in the golden warmth of the late afternoon sun, Father Mulcahy is filled with hope. For Hawkeye and for all of them.
Done with his personal reflection, the priest crosses himself once, smiles wistfully and steps outside to let the communal grieving begin.
