"I always get mugged on memory lane." BJ stuffs the photograph in his pockets and whips around at the unexpected voice. "Or propositioned. More often the latter, now that I think about it." BJ's jaw drops. Hawkeye, clad in his army greens and ratty red bathrobe leans against a tall oak, ankles casually crossed, arms folded over his chest. His eyes are laughing; they're like a brilliant blue evening sky dancing with sparkling fireflies. Impish light glows from them, free from the clouds of pain that BJ always remembered. Hawkeye glistens from head to toe; it is as though all of the magic he once pretended to have has finally been bestowed upon him. Hawkeye's humour reminded BJ of the calm before a tropical storm; it was like butterflies flittering between swaying palm trees before the gentle surf turned into violent waves and the sky, as black as Hawk's hair, cracked and fell. Hawkeye is all light and gentle surf now. His hair is as dark as a thunderhead, but now it shimmers with shards of light, like the night sky over the ocean.
"What brings you to Crabapple Cove, handsome stranger?" Hawkeye's eyes flick up and down BJ's frame: a quick, evaluative glance. This glance has slid over countless girls: quick as a circus magician's slight of hand, confident as the weather, soft as a dove's feather. BJ remembers the flicker of jealousy he felt, in Korea, as it flicked even quicker over the firm frames of handsome men. It was discreet, but he always caught it. Hawkeye's expression is amused now, almost a smirk. It is as though a moment he has been rehearsing in his head for a long time has finally come to pass, and he hasn't quite made up his mind whether to laugh.
"Y-you do," BJ stutters. He is afraid that if he speaks, this exquisite vision will disappear. The Hawkeye of photographs, so many years between, is tangible again.
"Then you've come to the right place," Hawkeye replies, "I've been expecting you." Suddenly, in the blink of an eye, he is wearing a tuxedo with a jaunty bowtie. A top hat sits precariously on the top of his head, tilted to one side.
"Hey!" BJ exclaims. "How did you..."
"Welcome," Hawkeye interrupts, sounding like a tour guide or a maitre d' or the master of ceremonies at a sleazy cabaret night. Everything about him seems to glitter. "To the sights, the sounds, the ladies, the gentlemen..." Hawkeye pauses and wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. "Of Crabapple Cove! I am your host, Benjamin Franklin Pierce, MC, MD. The first stop on our tour of this enchanting community is the old Pierce homestead. Light refreshments will be served." Hawkeye is still an impressionist, rather than an actor. His adopted attitudes are artificial, but BJ doesn't mind. He follows as the ghost leads him through a maze of stones and memories that blend into a still grey-green patchwork, to the edge of the graveyard. Hawkeye encourages him to climb over the low log fence, worn smooth by so many winters, and then signals for him to follow him along a small path through the woods. BJ would like to chat, but the ghost is always a step too far ahead. When he finally arrives at the end of the trail, in a small apple orchard, the ghost is gone.
"What brings you to Crabapple Cove, handsome stranger?" Hawkeye's eyes flick up and down BJ's frame: a quick, evaluative glance. This glance has slid over countless girls: quick as a circus magician's slight of hand, confident as the weather, soft as a dove's feather. BJ remembers the flicker of jealousy he felt, in Korea, as it flicked even quicker over the firm frames of handsome men. It was discreet, but he always caught it. Hawkeye's expression is amused now, almost a smirk. It is as though a moment he has been rehearsing in his head for a long time has finally come to pass, and he hasn't quite made up his mind whether to laugh.
"Y-you do," BJ stutters. He is afraid that if he speaks, this exquisite vision will disappear. The Hawkeye of photographs, so many years between, is tangible again.
"Then you've come to the right place," Hawkeye replies, "I've been expecting you." Suddenly, in the blink of an eye, he is wearing a tuxedo with a jaunty bowtie. A top hat sits precariously on the top of his head, tilted to one side.
"Hey!" BJ exclaims. "How did you..."
"Welcome," Hawkeye interrupts, sounding like a tour guide or a maitre d' or the master of ceremonies at a sleazy cabaret night. Everything about him seems to glitter. "To the sights, the sounds, the ladies, the gentlemen..." Hawkeye pauses and wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. "Of Crabapple Cove! I am your host, Benjamin Franklin Pierce, MC, MD. The first stop on our tour of this enchanting community is the old Pierce homestead. Light refreshments will be served." Hawkeye is still an impressionist, rather than an actor. His adopted attitudes are artificial, but BJ doesn't mind. He follows as the ghost leads him through a maze of stones and memories that blend into a still grey-green patchwork, to the edge of the graveyard. Hawkeye encourages him to climb over the low log fence, worn smooth by so many winters, and then signals for him to follow him along a small path through the woods. BJ would like to chat, but the ghost is always a step too far ahead. When he finally arrives at the end of the trail, in a small apple orchard, the ghost is gone.