PUTTING IT IN WRITING
Hawkeye slammed open the door flat against the wall, even though he knew he'd be the one who would have to fix it. All he regretted was that he had not shattered the glass pane in the process. He wanted to kick something—or someone. He wanted to howl with fury, and only in passing did he congratulate himself for controlling his feelings long enough to get out of public view.
Alright, so it was just a passing remark, a josh, really. But it sliced through him precisely as a scalpel. "…when ya make an honest woman of her…" How dare they? Damn small town sensibilities. First of all, their relationship was nobody's business. And second, how dare they imagine that anyone could "make an honest woman" out of Margaret Houlihan.
Margaret was more honest than George-cannot-tell-a-lie-Washington and Honest Abe Lincoln rolled into one. Honest? He snorted. There was no one he trusted more, no one with purer motives or clearer standards. No one else treated him directly, instead of tippy-toeing around him since his breakdown. Honesty was an essential part of the woman—it could never be "imparted" to her, and certainly not by him.
He was shaking. He forced himself to sit, and pulled out his notebook, fumbled for his pen. "# 186-- her honesty" he scrawled. He had been keeping a list of reasons why he loved Margaret. It began as aimless doodling while he was waiting on the phone one day. This revelation made 186 entries so far.
His breathing returned to normal, and he wondered impersonally if this list was a symptom of obsession. He shook his head; he really didn't need another symptom of anything. But as he sat and contemplated her, more reasons came bubbling to mind.
#187—her sacrifices. Memories of the deprivation she had willing suffered in Korea while she focused on helping others. More recently, the sacrifices she had made for his sake.
Professionally, she could have chosen to work at any exciting city in the world, medical centers that would have been more financially rewarding than her part-time job at the two-bit local clinic where patients sometimes paid with zucchinis or kittens.
Socially, she risked her reputation just by living with him without benefit or blessings of clergy. Wistfully, she'd mention inviting some co-workers over for coffee or casserole or cards. But she always recognized when he wasn't "ready" for company. She would love to dress up and go dancing with him, but he was rarely in the mood.
He knew she would love to spend a day in town shopping for female frippery, getting her hair and nails done. But she didn't want to leave him alone with his thoughts for too long. And there was really no reason to indulge in girly primping in order to munch popcorn in front of the Magnavox or take their evening walk with Tuttle the mutt, who didn't care what color she wore on her nails as long as he got his Kibble.
#188—her encouragement. If he were honest, he would admit that she was the only thing that drew him back to Life, back towards the light from the edge of darkness that had threatened to claim him forever. It was for her that he worked so doggedly at his therapy. He wanted to recover, to grow, to present her with the new and improved Benjamin Franklin Pierce. She displayed so much confidence in him, it was contagious.
#189—her commitment.
#190—her determination. Apparently, Houlihans never surrender. And never let anybody else give up, either.
Hawkeye stopped scribbling. He nearly stopped breathing. Why would this wonderful woman agree to be permanently, legally bound to him, anyway? Why was she being so nice to him? Was he merely another adoptable war orphan?
She had never even hinted at marriage. Maybe she had no desire to twist her life up with a muddle-minded mental patient. Even if he did ask her.
What if he did ask, and she said no? Could he risk that rejection? He loved her. He wanted the very best for her. But what if it wasn't him?
Slowly, he closed the notebook and slipped it back into his pocket. I guess this is why she doesn't want me alone with my thoughts too often, he realized. Briefly, he considered chugging a drink, but they kept no alcohol in the cottage. "Lead us not into temptation," she'd chant with a smile.
Maybe she still kept that little flask…hidden somewhere, of course; then upbraided himself for even considering such a thing, when he'd just been waxing poetic about her honesty and her sacrifices for him. But maybe…
Hawkeye began to poke around their home, shifting through a drawer here, a cupboard there, behind books and beneath pillows. When he got to ruffling through her underwear drawer, he began to feel twinges of guilt. "What am I doing?" he asked himself. "This is pitiful."
And then he found it. Under some frothy lingerie she saved for special occasions, he discovered a journal. In her handwriting. No stopping now (after all, he was not the honest one…he was the sneak) he flipped through the entries. And there was a list, with the topic neatly centered and underlined: Why I Love Hawkeye. Ranging from warm to wild to whimsical, it cataloged 199 reasons why she was with him.
Reason # 191 (he added to his list)—She loves me back! And he grinned.