"Hello, Colonel," Margaret greeted softly.
"Margaret!" the old man exclaimed happily. "I'm so glad you called!"
Margaret tried to smile as she clutched the receiver to her ear. "I told you I would." She mumbled, wishing she could just hang up the phone immediately.
"Well how are you, Margaret?" his voice had dropped to a lower tone and Margaret angrily wiped away a lone tear. She didn't want anyone pitying her.
"I'm fine," she said a bit harshly.
"I have some news that you're not going to want to hear." Potter said reluctantly.
Margaret took a deep breath, she had a feeling he was right. "Well?" she prompted aloofly.
"Some troops found a group of American POW's." The old man took a deep breath; he could hear Margaret's ragged breathing on the other end of the line.
"They had all been shot and then thrown into a mine field, a couple of men hit mines; most of the men were covered in third degree burns."
"One of them was Pierce." Margaret finished for him; she wasn't interested in the details.
"Yeah. He was the same height, although they weren't able to actually see any defining facial expressions, and he had the dog togs in his pocket."
Margaret covered her mouth and tried to keep from crying. She knew it wasn't likely that he would survive but a part of her had hoped and prayed that he had escaped somehow.
"Thank you for telling me," she garbled, trying to compose herself.
"I had to call his father four days ago and tell him. " Potter continued. "We talked for about a half hour. He told me he'll be having a funeral for Hawkeye tomorrow. They should have received the casket yesterday."
"Colonel, I need to go, I need to get ready before my friend gets back," Margaret hastily told him. She had to get off the phone before she burst into tears.
"I know its hard, Margaret, but I think it would be best if you went," he told her gently.
"I really have to go," she insisted
"Alright, Margaret," Potter relented, his heart aching for the young woman. "Good luck."
"Goodbye, Colonel." Margaret whispered. She slammed down the receiver and stared and scooted the phone off her lap and onto a small end table. She stared at the floor, struggling to keep her tears at bay, for almost a half hour. She didn't hear the sound of keys, jingling just outside the hotel room.
"Margaret?"
Margaret's head jerked up as she hears her friend's worried voice. "He's dead," she whispered.
"Who?" Lorraine felt fear grip her heart, and she prayed it wasn't Alvin. She knew her friend couldn't handle losing one more person.
"Pierce," Margaret stared at Lorraine through tear-filled eyes. "You remember him don't you?"
Lorraine quickly walked over to her friend and kneeled over to give her a comforting hug. "I'm so sorry, Maggie," she whispered.
Margaret nodded dumbly, still refusing to let herself cry, and pushed her friend away. "I need to get a flight to Maine," she said suddenly. "Can you help me?"
"I guess I could call Matthew once we got there…"
"No," Margaret interrupted. "I need to go by myself."
Lorraine looked at her curiously. "But how can you…"
"I'll manage!" Margaret snapped angrily before looking at her friend gloomily. "I'm sorry," she apologized. "I just need to go by myself. And besides, I don't want you to miss meeting Matthew. Can you drive me back to the airport?"
Lorraine sighed and nodded. "Alright, but I wish we could have stayed together longer."
"I know," Margaret worked up a small smile and touched the side of her friend's face. "I love you Lorrie,"
Margaret struggled to get into her wheelchair as the friendly cab driver attempted to assist her. "I'm awfully sorry, Ma'm," he said bashfully after he almost dropped her on the gravel driveway.
Margaret straightened her skirt and shook her head. "It's alright," she said, her cheeks flushed from humiliation. She knew she was going to have to look into hiring a private nurse very soon. She couldn't handle being on her own, it was impossible and nothing could change that.
Margaret dug into her purse and paid the man, giving him a large tip. "Thank you," he said sincerely as he jumped back into the cab. Margaret sighed as he drove away and looked up at the large house in front of her.
She wasn't sure how to describe it. She couldn't call it Victorian, although in certain aspects it did look the part. It had a large bay window, but yet there were pillars in the front, resembling an old Colonial mansion. And more confusing still, was the house's sprawling layout which appeared to be that of a ranch style house.
"Kooky men living in a kooky house," she mumbled to herself as she struggled to wheel the chair through the gravel. She was grateful to notice a ramp on the side of the porch and made her way towards it.
"Are you looking for Daniel?" a car pulled to a stop in front of the house and an older man smiled at her questioningly.
Margaret nodded hesitantly and the man pointed down the road. "He's at the church already; I can take you there if you want." He offered. Margaret was about to decline, but she couldn't. She desperately needed to be at the funeral and she knew she couldn't make it on her own.
"I would appreciate it," she said as she turned the chair around.
"Ah, hold it right there, Miss." He turned off the engine and jogged over to her. "There's no reason you need to bother with that. I've carried quite a few gals over the years if you know what I mean."
The man, who looked about sixty-five, winked as he leaned over and picked Margaret up effortlessly. "You don't weigh a thing," he commented lightly. "Why, once I tried to pick up my Nancy, that there was a mistake for sure, I threw out my back for almost a moth. The fattest darn woman I've ever seen." He shook his head disapprovingly as he sat Margaret down in the front seat.
"The name's George Mason," he offered his hand and Margaret shook it.
"Margaret Houlihan."
"Ben's Margaret?" he asked in surprise, a delighted smile on his face. Margaret's face blanched and he quickly retracted his statement when he saw the woman's expression.
"Daniel always read Ben's letters out loud at our poker games," he explained in a hurry. "Ben always had the funniest stories about you folks from the 4077th."
With Margaret still looking decidedly uncomfortable, George jogged back to the wheel chair, folded it up expertly and then deposited it in the back of the car.
"So is Nancy your wife?" Margaret asked, hoping he wouldn't bring up any more storied about Hawkeye.
"She was one of 'em." George said flippantly. "The third I think."
Margaret smiled slightly and looked out the window, wondering what it would have been like growing up around people like George.