Chapter 6

The air in the room was hot against her face, and the voices from all the people crammed into the limited space blended and seemed to create a curtain of sound, hovering over people's heads.
Even though everyone was wearing clothes appropriate for the occasion, the colors almost hurt Margaret's eyes, and they made her dizzy. Green, she could have handled green, but the sight of Charles' very nice dark blue suit, and Klinger's gray shirt was almost too much to handle. She longed for his Mud Hen-sweater. Or something from the Shirley Temple-collection, that would have been even better, much more familiar.
Her old MASH-family was mixed together with the Potter's relatives and friends, neighbors, and townspeople, and it was quite confusing. People were chatting, walking around with plates in their hands, and glasses filled with Muriel Greenwood's black currant punch. It did carry quite the punch, as it turned out. It tasted like sunshine and lazy summer afternoons at first, but after about half a glass, Margaret had realized there were more ingredients than berries and sugar in there. It was quite delicious, but didn't help with the dizziness, quite the opposite.
Everyone's voices were getting louder and louder, the noise level correlating with the level in the punch bowl lowering. It seemed quite inappropriate for the evening before a final goodbye, but also very fitting.

Margaret and Hawkeye had stayed close together at first, her hand in his or his arm around her waist, but a while back they had been separated, and only able to work their way back to each other again for a short moment. Some of the guests had been thrilled to have so many people of the medical profession in the same room, and Margaret had been pulled to the side by a woman with huge glasses who smoked constantly, covering them both in a thick fog, while telling a very complicated story about a strange growth in the back of her sister's neck. The woman had been sure it was a parasitic twin, because apparently it was 'just like my sister to suck the life out of everyone around her'. When Margaret eventually managed to get back to Hawkeye, smoke still burning in her eyes and throat, he had been whisked away almost immediately by a tiny lady with steel gray hair, who insisted he would feel her knee, which apparently made a strange, crunching sound sometimes. 'Almost like when you eat a full grain cracker with parmesan cheese', she had explained, and that seemed like a very specific type of crunch, for sure. The same woman also had some trouble with her wisdom teeth, apparently, because she had now cornered Charles, who was politely looking into her gaping mouth with a look of utmost professionalism. Beatrice held on to his elbow and did a poor job of hiding the look of horror on her face. Margaret smiled. She really liked Charles' wife. Beatrice was softspoken and sweet, but with a sharp sense of humor that shined through now and then. It had been lovely to talk to them for a little while, Charles had beamed like the sun itself when he talked about their four-year-old son, the proud heir to the Winchester legacy, who was home in Boston, spending his weekend with his grandparents, and a new schnauzer-puppy named Mr. Beardy. Hearing the puppy's name leave Charles' lips had been a thing of beauty. But most beautiful was the shine of happiness and pride in his eyes when he spoke of his son.

Margaret saw Hawkeye across the room. He was now standing with Mildred, the tiny lady with the crunching knee, and a group of the Colonel's friends, whose names Margaret couldn't remember. As she looked, she saw him reach his hand up and scratch his neck, just above the collar of his shirt. It was a habit he'd had for years, a tick, like he wanted to scratch a hole in his skin and let something out. Unease. Frustration. A feeling of the walls closing in. A turtle afraid of his own shell, as he had once said, and trapped in the hot living room with so many people moving around, she could feel it too. The air wrapped itself around her, and it felt like her eyelashes were clumping together in the humid warmth. She longed for fresh air and silence, to walk or run, just find an outlet for the strange, nervous energy that had been building all day and sat like a ball of barbed wire in her chest. Everything felt surreal, like her body had arrived in Hannibal, but her mind was still out on the roads somewhere.
That morning, Mrs. Finnley had prepared such a lovely breakfast for them before they left the inn, and it had seemed rude to rush through it. Mr. Finnley had hovered around their table, obviously with something on his mind. His wife had apparently told him that their guests had served in Korea, and he wanted to sit down for a while and talk about his own experiences in Word War 2. There was no way they could deny him that.
Traffic had been much heavier than the day before, and a pile-up on the interstate had trapped them in queues for hours. Up until then, Margaret had been in no rush to arrive at their destination but at least the movements of the car had calmed her a bit, the fields and towns rolling by outside the window had helped to keep her mind busy. But just sitting and waiting, staring into the back of the truck in front of them, had been so incredibly frustrating she thought she was gonna explode.
When they finally arrived, an eternity of a hardly moving queue and one missed exit later, the Potter's house had been filled with people. The greetings with her old friends Margaret had imagined had been cut short, surrounded by strange faces, and therefore felt off. But she had gotten hugs from BJ and Klinger, and a kiss on the hand from Charles, as predicted. She had seen pictures of Radar's beautiful twin girls and exchanged pleasantries with Father Mulcahy at a normal speaking volume, thanks to his new hearing aid.
It had been wonderful to see them all again, despite the reason, despite everything. All of them looked so lovely, even with a few more gray hairs and wrinkles. She wanted to really look at them, though. Look, and ask, and listen, just them, just her old family. She wanted it so much it hurt, and she had seen the longing in Hawkeye too. Had heard it in his voice, slightly higher than usual and a bit strained. The man who had once been the king of any party was not interested in working a room full of strangers anymore, he too seemed to crave the familiarity of old friends.

Margaret started to turn around to put her glass down, she couldn't handle any more of the sticky black currant sweetness, and then head over to him. But when she turned, there was suddenly another person between her and the table, and the black currant punch sloshed over the rim of her glass as she flinched. Both she and the other person took a quick step back to avoid getting splashed.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be behind you! I wasn't trying to sneak up on you or anything, Major. I mean ma'am. I mean…"

Margaret raised her hand not holding the glass.

"Radar, calm down. And it's Margaret, no need to Major me anymore, remember? I'm the one who's sorry. Did I get any punch on you?"

"Oh no, it's fine. Good thing, though, that stuff would have burned straight through the suede."

He looked down at his shoes, and Margaret couldn't keep back a smile. She very much liked how he said 'suede', like it was a very important word. And it was, of course it was.

"Those are some very nice shoes," she said, and that put a smile on Radar's face too.

"Thanks. I don't get a chance to wear them a lot, so it's nice to be able to. Not that this is nice, though, it's the opposite." His face fell. "I swear, when I got the news, I couldn't even speak, I just… stopped."

He shook his head and looked away.

There were no survivors.

The words echoed through Margaret's mind, making her flinch. That moment was forever burnt into her brain. Radar's voice, out of breath, like his heart just couldn't take it. The silence in the OR, only broken by the clatter of a dropped instrument. She remembered her own tears, making the world blurry, and the sharp pain as she bit the inside of her cheek to try and focus on the work in front of her. Everyone had drifted around like ghosts for days afterward, a heavy blanket of silence draped over camp and refusing to let go.
There had been silence for Henry Blake, but there was chatting for Colonel Potter. Chatting and mingling and strong punch, and it was ironic and sad, and suddenly it made Margaret feel a bit out of breath too.

"I was thinking earlier," Radar continued, and looked out over the room "how great all of this would be if he was here."

"It would be amazing."

"Yeah, amazing," he said and looked back at Margaret. Even though his hairline was even higher now, and his features having lost some of the roundness from his youth, he looked almost the same. Had his father lost his hair early too, Margaret wondered, but she didn't let the question cross her lips, of course not. She suddenly saw the image of a younger Radar in her tent, delivering news he knew she wouldn't want to hear, ready to flee out the door at any second. She felt a soft wave of fondness for him, for the man in front of her, and for the young, scared boy he once was. She wished she had been kinder to him.

"You know, Colonel Potter was the one who told me about you and Captain… I mean Hawkeye," Radar continued. "I thought he was joking at first, but then when I thought about it, I kind of got it. I guess I was a little upset I didn't see it coming."

He gave her a smile, his eyes still a bit shy. And sad. All grown up now, young Radar. Creeping up on 30, a husband, a father, and a gentleman farmer. The anger had left him, a long time ago probably. The black cloud of wrath that had surrounded him during his last days in camp. Margaret hadn't really talked to him back then, not about anything personal, but just being in his presence during those days had felt like being around a thunderstorm, the turbulent, dark energy making the air crackle.

"I'm really happy for you, guys," Radar said. "I think you're good together. You look good. I mean, good as in happy. Not that you don't look good, you look great, Major. Margaret. Not that I'm looking, I don't…"

"Radar?" Margaret arched her eyebrows, and then gave him a big smile. His cheeks had turned a bright shade of pink, and it was very sweet. "Thank you. I'm happy for you too. Patty seems very nice."

"Oh, she is, she's the best. I still can't believe it, you know, how I got so lucky. I think I should go find her, actually, she doesn't like being around strangers. It was good talking to you, Margaret."

He pronounced every syllable in her name very carefully, like they were a new, exotic taste in his mouth, and he didn't really know what to make of it.

"You too. Hey, Radar?"

"Yeah?" He had taken a couple of steps away from her, but turned and faced her again.

Margaret took a breath, trying to formulate a sentence she hadn't even known she would speak just seconds ago; it was like her body had decided for her without consulting her mind. It was quite simple, though.

"I'm sorry. I wasn't very nice to you back then. I was going through a lot, and I know I took it out on you sometimes. Often. I think I just forgot how young you were, and that you were going through a lot too. I should have treated you better, and I'm sorry."

There it was. An apology brewing for a decade. Radar blinked and adjusted his glasses. New ones, more square. They looked good on him.

"That's okay. I know you had a lot to handle, and that things were... well…"

He took a step closer.

"Like, I remember this one time, in post-op. Things had been going nonstop for days, I don't think anyone had slept or eaten real food in God knows how long. And there was this new nurse. She was tall and had really shiny, black hair, and she kept following you around. And I guess she did something wrong, because you… well, you yelled at her, pretty loud, and then Captain Pierce came walking up, and he…"

Radar lowered his voice and looked around, as if making sure no one was listening.

"He called you Hot Lips, and he kissed you. Everyone cheered, and things were fun for a second, you know? I remember actually smiling for the first time in forever. But then you rushed out, and you walked right past me, and you looked like you were about to cry. I mean, I was cheering along with everyone, but then I saw your face, and… I don't know. And it's fine now, you have obviously forgiven him an everything, and that's great, but… I'm just thinking, if someone did anything like that to my girls when they grow up, for whatever reason, I could just kill him, you know? So, I guess it wasn't always easy for you either."

Margaret felt the walls of the crowded living room turn frail, and in a sudden flash she was back in another room in another lifetime. Yes, she did remember, she remembered it very well. The never-ending deluge of wounded, like a river of flesh. The endless hours in the OR, piecing together those who could be saved, while the not so lucky ones grew cold under white sheets. Those whose frail flame of life had gone out on the way to salvation, or under sharp lights on the operating table.
Only short moments of rest before another wave hit them. A rest that was never peaceful. Her whole body had been like a spring, ready to go go go. Never stop going. The taste of coffee and peanut butter sandwiches on stale bread in her mouth, barely distinguishable, though, under the smell of blood and disinfectant that had invaded every crevice in her head. Her hands raw from scrubbing over and over and over again.
And the new nurse. Pale and scared, had arrived in camp just as the floodgates opened and the river turned vicious. Capable enough at her job, but completely lacking initiative, when she was done with one task she would walk up to Margaret and just stand there, waiting in silence to be told where to go next. If she wanted to stand around like a statue in her own time, that was fine, but it was inexcusable on duty.
Margaret had turned away from a patient in post-op, tray of morphine in hand, and there statue-nurse was once again, right behind her, just standing and staring with her mouth open and eyes wide. Margaret had almost dropped the tray bumping into her, and the flame of fury igniting deep within had been impossible to stop. In the crowded, noisy room, the reprimand seemed to echo, and left a stunned silence in its wake. Margaret hadn't even meant for it to come out so harsh. Even though she was right, resources were scarce, and a dropped bottle of morphine could mean big trouble for several patients, and that was unacceptable. Still, she regretted it, but the words were already out, just hanging in the air. Margaret could remember the angry looks from the other nurses burning through her skin. Statue-nurse couldn't stand having her shortcomings pointed out to her, apparently, and she certainly didn't lack initiative when it came to crying. Her tears had made the flame of anger in Margaret burn even brighter, there was no time for emotions. No time to feel, you needed to have discipline, push it all down, and deal with it some other time. Or preferably never.
Margaret had sat the tray down and been about to order the nurse out of there, but then someone had grabbed her and spun her around. For a second, her entire body grew cold. Doctor Robbins, she thought, while the person pulled her close and dipped her in a kiss. Doctor Robbins, who had cornered her in the supply room, forced her down on a table. Doctor Robbins, who could sculpt delicate features on the faces of the rich and famous, but also had hands made of iron. Maybe he had come back, or maybe it was one of the others, other men with hands made of iron, men who felt entitled, who thought she owed them. But no, it hadn't been any of them, just Pierce. Again. Margaret hadn't even heard him coming, had just heard him say something, but when wasn't he? There he was, dipping her low and pressing his lips against hers, while the room filled with cheers and applause.
Yes, there had for sure been tears in her eyes when she made a hasty exit, she remembered wishing for a mask so people wouldn't see her face burn red with humiliation.
Later, two of the not-too-seriously wounded in post-op had tried to kiss her too, and several others had kept calling her Hot Lips for the rest of their stay, their propositions like a tangled web she needed to navigate while keeping professional. They had made her feel like nothing, like a thing, nothing but a joke. But of course, no one had known that. Except maybe Radar.

Margaret blinked, had to focus hard to snap out of the memory, to be all together present in the crowded living room again, and not tangled in memories. She met Radar's eyes, the ones that had probably seen more than she ever could have guessed. He nodded to himself, then he straightened his back, lifted his chin, and looked very stern.

"But you could still have been a lot nicer to me, so I'll take that apology again, please."

Margaret laughed. She liked this version of Radar, all grown up and so full of confidence.

"I'm sorry. I truly am."

"Thank you, I accept your apology."

He held his hand out, and she took it. A very formal handshake between the farmer and the nurse, the costumes of the Company Clerk and the Major left behind a long time ago, just empty husks in the rearview mirror.

"So," Radar continued, "did I show you the pictures of my girls?"

"Yes, you did."

"Oh."

Margaret smiled.

"I'd love to see them again."

A couple of minutes later, Margaret watched Radar walk away, heading over to Patty who was standing by the window, sipping her punch. She lit up as Radar approached, the two of them seemed very happy, and that warmed Margaret's heart. Radar's voice was still clear in her head.
'Edie is gonna be a veterinarian, for sure. For sure, I just know it. This summer, when Thumbelina, that's our goat, had a hoof infection, she insisted she'd sleep out in the barn and look after her. And then Laurie wanted to come too, and they couldn't be out there alone, they're only five and all, so I had to come too and so did Patty, all of us under one big blanket, and Thumbelina on top.'
Laurie was gonna be an artist, though, Radar had said with a voice bursting with pride. She was always drawing and painting. Actually, he had brought a drawing she had made of the whole family, it was upstairs in his bag, did Margaret want to see it later?
Yes. She would very much like to see it later.

She looked over at Hawkeye and met his gaze, he seemed to be stuck with a couple of the Potter's neighbors now. There he was, the man who had once dipped her in a kiss in front of a crowded post-op just to shut her up, how was it even possible it was the same person? His hair was more salt than pepper now, his movements slower and more thoughtful. There was very little left of the young man who had once made it his mission to rebel against the whole world and any kind of authority. The one always forming his own personal crusade against everyone who didn't see things his way, his eyes always on the lookout for any weakness in his opponent, so good at finding those tiny cracks, those tender spots that would hurt the most.
He was uneasy now, uncomfortable in his own skin, she could see it in the way he kept shifting his weight on his feet. She saw his hand wander up to his neck again, and he scratched under his collar.
Margaret kept his gaze and raised her eyebrows in a question and nodded towards the patio door. He immediately nodded back. It felt like their secret club again, the one that had started back in Korea, in hushed meetings late at night in her tent, the lights dimmed low, their bodies melting together, making both of them forget for a while.
Their secret club wasn't so secret anymore, though, Margaret thought as she made her way across the crowded room, making sure to look like a woman on a mission so no one would stop her.
Not so secret, but still very much needed.