Prologue
Margaret had never been happier the night that she received the Purple Heart. She had never been so proud of herself. She had only wished her father had been there. But Alvin Houlihan died in the spring of 1954. He had died while in combat and had also received the Purple Heart. It had been sent to his wife, who died a week later, with a broken heart.
Margaret now sat by herself, in her small San Francisco apartment. A small cake with one lone pink candle sat in front of her on the table. She cried as she sang to herself, "Happy birthday to you, Happy birthday to you…" She broke off in a small short sob as the pink wax fell onto the chocolate frosting.
Margaret had retired from the army, after taking three months to recover from the bullet wound in her femur. Margaret had seen enough blood, enough death in her life. But she couldn't escape the memories that still lingered in her mind. She dreamed about her nights in the M*A*S*H unit.
Long nights holding clamps to stop the blood gushing out from arteries. Sometimes at night she woke up, bile in her mouth… it wasn't long before she would throw up. She stayed awake at night listening to music on her radio. Anything to drown out the sounds of young soldiers moaning in pain, calling for their mothers. She wondered how she could have been so strong then and so weak and fragile now. Why is it she never got sick while she was up to her elbows in some soldier's insides.
But her she was, crying over memories, and the fact she had given her life to the army. What did she have to show for it? Margaret had once said, "There are so many things I was sure I'd have in my life by now. Every birthday reminds me of what's still not there. This just turned out to be another day in the middle of no where."
Nowhere was all right. But being with no one was worse. Not even a cat. Not that she had ever liked cats (especially not after eating one in Korea!).
Margaret looked at the candle and watched as the pick wax pooled out over the cake. She finally took a deep breath and blew the candle out. The smoke swirled and Margaret wiped her eyes.
There. She was now thirty-five. Five more years and she'd be forty. She couldn't imagine this. She had always excepted to have a home to come back too, but her husband had divorced her after hearing about the affair she had with Major Burns. She tried to explain to him she had just been lonely, but she had left her anyway. Good riddance, she had said… but now she wasn't sure anyone would want to marry her. Let alone want to have kids. I might as well get on with my life, Margaret thought. But where would she go what would she do? She really didn't need to get a job. The pension she received from the Army was more than adequate.
All she had been doing lately was writing letters to colleagues from war days. To see how they were doing, what they were doing, and how they felt about the memories. Finding a kindred spirit throughout the ashes of the war.
Speaking of the mail… maybe she should go down stairs and get the mail. She had forgotten to do so when she got up this morning.
Margaret opened her apartment door and along the landing and down the stairs to the front door. In the mail cubbyhole for apartment six there were a few letters. Bills, more than likely, the thought as she pulled out the letters. She dared not look at them. She walked dignified, refined, slowly up the stairs. Afraid to hope that maybe she had received a letter from Frank. She walked into her apartment and closed the door with her foot. "Happy Birthday to me!" she sang loudly.
Yes, she dared to dream, that perhaps Frank had sent her a letter. Perhaps it wasn't just an affair. Maybe it had been true love. She read over the first letter… "To Resident….trash…" She flipped to the second letter. "To Major Houlihan." This letter was postmarked, Chicago, Illinois. She tossed aside letter number two, after all Frank lived in California… she closed her eyes and prayed silently. "Please Lord,… please, I just need a letter from him…" She took the last letter by one hand and lifted it up and slowly, ever so slowly opened her eyes.
It took a moment for her to register. And then the tears came.
In red ink was a stamp and then a scrawl, "Return to Sender: No Frank Burns living at this residence".
