CHAPTER 7 – TABLE GAMES
Dinner was held at its usual time in the mess tent, and Charles was now hungry enough to appreciate the sustenance it would give him. Besides, he had to keep his strength up for whatever was to come later.
After getting his food, Winchester sat down across from Pierce and Hunnicutt, who were in the midst of a debate, being as the corn resembled some kind of garden beetle.
"I'll bet potato beetles taste better than whatever they call this," Hunnicutt remarked with a frown.
"Why do you think they're called potato beetles?" Pierce responded. "It's probably because they taste like potatoes."
"We should rustle us up some grubs," Hunnicutt said, all smiles now. "They'd be more flavorful than this—and far juicier. Where do you think we should start looking, Hawk?"
"Charles here has done us the favor of converting the Swamp to an actual swamp, so the mosquito larvae should be coming up in the spring."
"What about your little bed buddies, Pierce?" Charles remarked dryly. "A chitin-encased vial of your digested blood would be a very attractive entrée; wouldn't you agree?"
"Aw, can't you see I'm trying to eat, Charles?" Hunnicutt huffed in a greatly exaggerated manner. "That kind of talk just turns my stomach."
"Per your concern, they're no longer tenants of mine," Pierce commented to Charles. "They've pooled their funds and can now afford the rent for the Winchester Arms."
Winchester's jaw dropped.
"You wouldn't—"
Pierce's smile was positively devious.
"Wouldn't I?"
Charles spoke sharply, his voice grave.
"I thought you'd have enough common decency to keep your lice to yourself."
"I'm confused; do decent humans have lice?"
At that, Winchester stood and slammed his tray down on the table.
"You are utterly infuriating! I cannot stand sitting here with you uncouth cretins!"
"Of course you can't stand sitting," Hunnicutt remarked with a shrug. "You can't sit standing either."
"I have had it!" Winchester roared. "I'll make the Swamp so miserable you'll stay away at all costs."
"Can't afford that yet or else we would've done that already," Pierce shot, a big toothy grin on his face.
Winchester's face turned red with fury and he stepped over the bench seat, storming off to sit at an uninhabited table.
"Chuckie's touchy today, isn't he?" Hunnicutt commented, after Major Winchester was out of earshot.
"Something's going on with him," Pierce replied. "He's wound up like a spring. I get the idea that he has Swamp-free plans for his evening slumber."
"You're kidding," Hunnicutt replied. "Why would that be? Wait; lemme guess—did he spill his cologne in the Swamp?"
Just then Margaret entered the mess tent.
"Hey, Margaret; feeling any better?" Pierce asked. Winchester turned to look, noticing that she didn't look any different than usual. She was wearing her usual clothing and her face didn't look red from crying, so why had she stayed away all day? More importantly, had she forgotten what she'd commanded of him?
"I'm fine," she replied curtly, glancing around the room. For a short moment her eyes locked with Charles's. Feeling a cough coming on, he turned around abruptly and took a sip of water.
"The special of the day is pasta al dente," Pierce explained in a fake Italian accent, scooping up a rigid rigatoni.
"Well, that doesn't sound so bad," Margaret replied.
"Yeah, but the dente refers to what it'll do to your teeth."
"I should have known," she commented, rolling her eyes.
Charles watched Margaret out of the corner of his eye as she moved her filled tray to the beverage area and poured herself a cup of coffee. It was far too late in the evening for so much caffeine, unless…
His shoulders fell as she strode directly to Pierce and Hunnicutt's table and sat with the two surgeons. Soon afterwards, Colonel Potter and Father Mulcahy joined them. Winchester was all alone at his table, the only one in the mess tent that wasn't full of chatting people.
"Winchester, what are you doing sitting over there by your lonesome?" Potter called out, noticing how irritated Charles looked.
"Ask Pierce and Hunnicutt," Winchester replied through his teeth, not even bothering to turn around to address his C.O.
"What is this all about, you two?" Potter asked the surgeons.
"He couldn't stand sitting here," Hunnicutt mumbled with a full mouth.
"Well, that makes sense," Father Mulcahy added. "It would be very difficult indeed to stand sitting."
The group laughed at their humor. Winchester scoffed. All together, his peers were a group of uneducated barbarians whose collective wit couldn't fill the bottom of a shotglass.
Muttering to himself, Winchester quickly finished up his meal and walked out of the tent, feeling quite edgy.
"Major Winchester."
He had almost reached the Swamp by this point, his hand reaching for the doorknob. Yet at the sound of a woman's voice, he spun around. It was Margaret standing before him, her arms crossed.
"Major Houlihan," he replied, his eyes downcast. It was difficult to look her in the eye after what she'd seen earlier today.
"I trust you haven't forgotten about our meeting."
He cleared his throat, wanting badly to loosen the collar of his green jacket.
"Uh, no, Madam," he muttered, fiddling with his collar. "I must inquire, however; how did you get away from the mess tent without arousing suspicion?"
"They think I'm gonna tell you off once and for all," she replied. He looked up for a moment, but at the sight of her face, allowed for his eyes to drop to the ground once again.
"How in the world did you keep them at bay?" he murmured, kicking a dirt clod. "I'm sure Pierce would have given his left leg to see me receive my just deserts."
"How do you think? I told them I'd give them a knuckle sandwich."
"Probably better than what was being served tonight ," he muttered.
"That's what Hawkeye said. Ugh, he's rubbing off on you," she replied with an exasperated sigh.
"I could be free from his influence if I were to bunk elsewhere, you know," he said smilingly, glancing up at her briefly with a raised eyebrow.
"They did listen to me, as you can see," she said, ignoring his last comment, "even though they were smart alecks about it."
She paused for a moment, noticing Winchester's disturbing lack of eye contact. Was he already becoming irritated with her? "Major, why can't you look me in the eye?"
"Ah," he said, keeping his head down but forcing himself to look at her face. "No reason, I assure you."
"There is a reason. What is your problem?"
"It's nothing, Margaret." His eyes wandered on her face, unable to lock onto her eyes for more than a second or two at a time.
"You're lying," she fumed, temper ever-rising. "Tell me the truth."
He sighed with exasperation at the thought that he'd have to admit embarrassment. For some reason, only Margaret Houlihan had the ability to boss him around without any rejoinder from him. He'd always obeyed her without question, and now would be no different.
"I believe it's because no one has seen me… as you have," he murmured ever-so-quietly, his face reddening with shame.
"You mean, this morning?"
"Yes."
Margaret's insecurities blurted out of her. "It's not because you're sick of me then?"
"Goodness, no!" he replied too enthusiastically. At the awkward silence that followed, he thrust his hands in his pockets, staring at the ground with keen interest.
"Good, because there's more where that came from," she replied, attempting to justify the blatantly insecure question. His stomach flipped.
"I thought this evening would be about you," he murmured, swallowing loudly.
"Isn't it?" She pinched his arm, making him refocus on her. This time he allowed his eyes to lock with hers. He squinted apologetically.
"Of course… Madam."
Nine fifty-five pm. Only five minutes until the meeting with Major Houlihan. Winchester lingered near the mess tent to gather his thoughts, feeling gusts of snow swirling around him. The weather had called for the snowfall to begin this evening and to only continue for an hour or so, far less than what was needed to shut down the roads. Even so, it had snowed more than he'd expected, already about three inches in an hour's time—but it was due to stop anytime now. It was rather cold and so he had put an additional coat on over his green military jacket and an intricately-knitted scarf around his neck. He left his childhood red toboggan cap back in the Swamp—it just didn't feel appropriate to wear such a hallmark of his boyhood to an adult meeting. His legs beneath the standard issue green trousers were the only region where he felt the draft of the icy winter air. However, he was glad that the heavy army boots the officers and enlisted men were expected to wear kept his feet relatively warm. The compound was empty under the darkness of night. What did Margaret have in store for him? To avoid suspicion with Pierce and Hunnicutt, he had not taken a second shower as he'd wanted to do, but he did comb his hair and use a bit of mouthwash. Suspicious, he looked around himself—where were they hiding?
And more importantly, what had brought about this change of heart in Margaret? Never had she given him a fair chance to impress her. Would tonight be his chance to do just that? Hopefully she'd give him a chance to woo her properly. He patted his coat with a little smile, knocking a light layer of snow off the garment in the process.
Margaret, meanwhile, paced back and forth in her tent. She'd have to find out about funeral plans for her father, if they hadn't already occurred, and give her sister a call. This rendezvous with Charles was a welcome distraction from thoughts of the man who had shaped her destiny by making her feel as if she always needed to strive harder. If Alvin Houlihan could only see her now, seducing a blue-blooded major with more funds than three generations of her own military family! Of course, this little affair with Charles was nothing more than a temporary distraction from the grieving process. He'd say something unbelievably arrogant, and things would go back to the way they'd always been. He'd been sweet to her during his tenure at the 4077th, but she didn't love him in the least. He was far too haughty and condescending for her to tolerate for very long.
Nine fifty-eight pm. Now standing before Margaret Houlihan's door, his well-read book of poetry surreptitiously tucked into the lining of his coat, Charles quickly scanned the surrounding area. No one was around, as far as he could see. Where the hell were Pierce and Hunnicutt? Did they expect him to be somewhere else? He barely stifled a smile. Of course they did. It would be impossible for them to even imagine the possibility of a nighttime rendezvous between spitfire Houlihan and the recipient of her two very public slaps. They'd certainly failed to believe he'd once had a date with Audrey Hepburn until he'd produced a picture of the occasion as irrefutable evidence of the dinner date. Of course, that date would be mild compared to what he believed Major Houlihan had in store.
He lifted his arm up, taking a deep breath and holding it as his knuckles rapped politely on the wood.
"Come in," a voice called from inside. The voice was unmistakably Margaret's. He swallowed as he turned the doorknob. What in the world was he getting himself into?
A/N: I just wanted all you readers to know that this story has already been completely written and yet I like to take people's advice to heart (especially if it's similar between reviewers) and improve my story before posting the next chapter. Do know that this will not fall by the wayside as my other stories have-as long as people continue to read it and occasionally leave me much-needed feedback!
