Chapter 2

Bacon. Hot sizzling bacon is what woke him, the scent wafting through the cottage, into the open door of the guest room where BJ slept.

BJ’s wife was a busy woman. They never had bacon for breakfast.

His stomach twisted at the absence of his daughter’s laughter, the way she often woke him by jumping onto the bed.

He’d slept deep, travel’s heavy exhaustion knocking him out without a single dream, into an inky blackness of rest. 

Light filtered through blue curtains, illuminating the room and BJ sat up, rubbing the sand from his eyes. He pulled himself out of bed and towards an antique bureau, blinking at his mirrored image. He tamed his bedhead into submission, pretending not to notice the way his hairline was beginning to pull back. He scratched his chin, looking himself up and down. How different had he looked to Hawkeye?

He still wore last night’s worn cotton pajama pants and faded gray t-shirt. He fought against the desire to change. If they were appropriate for dinner, they had to be appropriate for breakfast. This was Hawkeye’s home after all.

BJ creaked his way down the stairs, studying the framed pictures along the walls. The Pierces clearly had taken many of these photographs themselves, rather than paying a photographer like the Hunnicutts had. Briefly, he remembered the Polaroid camera he and Hawkeye had shared in Korea, though they had ended up giving it to Klinger. He’d had all these fanciful ideas about the kinds of photos he’d send home.

BJ continued to follow the pleasant cooking smells down into the kitchen, where Daniel Pierce sat at the breakfast table, reading a newspaper. Hawkeye, flitting around the room, was cooking up nothing less than a feast.

A jolt ran through BJ, pure excitement at once again seeing Hawkeye in civilian clothes, dressed in flannel pajama pants with a hole at the knee, which peeked out below the fraying white-and-yellow striped apron. Draped over Hawk’s blue t-shirt, it covered the bottom half of what could only be the word “Boston.” 

He watched Hawk sway around the kitchen as he cooked, doing everything as a dance, singing Cole Porter songs to his eggs.

“Night and day,” Hawkeye sang. “You are the one…” He paused to smile at BJ, gesturing to the big spread of food. “There’s an oh such a hungry, burning, yearning inside me…”

“Keep singing, Hawk,” BJ told him. “You’re cracking me up.” 

“You mean that?” He laughed, turning the stove off. “I think I’ve got the words all scrambled.” He filled a plate with toast, sausage, bacon, and eggs, then handed it to BJ, still smiling.

BJ took his plate gladly, moving across the room to sit next to the elder Pierce at the oak kitchen table, scratched and scuffed from years of use. Hawkeye, finished cooking, sat down across from him, simultaneously setting down his and his father’s plates.

“Is this the typical routine?” BJ couldn’t help but ask. It was all exactly how he’d dreamed it. For years, Hawkeye had lyrically painted him the picture of the home, over and over again. Crabapple Cove, where Dad was a doctor and Hawkeye was the class clown.

“Pretty much.” Hawkeye sniffed at his piece of bacon before taking a bite, his satisfaction made clear with a positive hum.

BJ followed his lead, digging into the food, and a moan immediately escaped him as the flavors bounced on his tongue. There was cheddar mixed into the expertly cooked scrambled eggs. The bacon? Nothing less than perfectly crispy. “You? Cooked this?”

“Dad taught me everything I know,” Hawk grinned, a redness rising in his cheeks.

Dr. Pierce merely shrugged his shoulders. “It’s the best reason to get out of bed each morning.”

BJ nodded sagely and kept attacking his plate. He’d never had a breakfast so good, not even the most nostalgic ones.

The meal was grounding, the perfect counterweight to the underlying gnawing anxiety that followed him, especially now that he sat across from one Hawkeye Pierce in an idyllic Crabapple Cove kitchen. He couldn’t still be dreaming.

 Since returning home, his dreams had become incredibly vivid. It felt like his own mind would grab his wrists and pin him to the scene, leaving him stuck in long grueling stretches of surgeries or prank wars or evenings in the O Club where he’d had too much to drink. Sometimes, he worried that he’d never made it home at all. He could still be dreaming. Asleep on his cot in Korea.

Back home, in that little house in Mill Valley, he’d scoop Erin into his arms and pepper her with kisses, the tension leaving him as she laughed and laughed. In his dreams, he could never smell the strawberry children’s shampoo she used or feel the warmth radiating off her skin. She was real and tangible and something he had made.

He already felt guilty for leaving her, though he knew he had to go.

Fretting about his daughter, he’d tuned out the bickering between Hawkeye and Dr. Pierce about portion sizes and salt intake and only began to listen again as the highlights of the Crabapple Cove Courier were read aloud, that old familiar thing.

A few months back, in some fit of mania and sickness, BJ had looked into the logistics of having the paper mailed out to Mill Valley. Hawkeye had gotten it in Korea, after all. He decided against it, once he realized the information he sought would only come from obsessively scanning the obituaries section each week.

He’d stood over his sporadic notes of the math involved, head swimming in bourbon, when Peg had come downstairs. She’d had a puzzled look on her face. The knot in his stomach twisted so hard he’d choked down tears and suddenly decided to forget the whole thing.

The morning’s paper was far cheerier than the ones in BJ’s dreams, focusing on the subject of the Crabapple Cove School’s graduating class. Celebrations were to begin the following weekend, meaning the Courier was chock full of articles about the graduating students.

“Did you have one of these, Hawk?” BJ asked, peering through the pictures of smiling teenagers, photographed in various school activities, from theater productions to community service.

“I had an entire two-page spread,” Hawkeye laughed. It didn’t sound like a joke. “Dad has it saved somewhere.”

“In the office, with your diplomas,” Dr. Pierce nodded.

BJ smiled fondly. “I’m sure we’ll have plenty of time for baby pictures, too, won’t we?”

“Oh yes!”

“Ha ha,” Hawkeye fake laughed. “I’m not embarrassed of my baby pictures, Beej. I was quite the looker.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” BJ teased, lightly kicking at Hawkeye’s shins underneath the table.

Hawk’s smile was warm, looking down at his plate. Dr. Pierce, next to him, continued to list off the news. Wentworth’s was having a sale on hot dogs for Memorial Day. There’d be a parade on Monday, up Cemetery Hill, where a service would be held.

“Would you like to go?” Dr. Pierce had asked his son carefully.

Hawkeye merely shook his head.

“So, BJ,” Dr. Pierce shifted his attention, setting aside the newspaper. “What would you like to do while you’re in Maine?”

“Hmm.” BJ sat back in his seat, thinking. It was concern and adrenaline that had pushed him to Maine. He hadn’t stopped once to imagine what would actually happen once he’d gotten there.“I’d like to see the town,” he offered, though it was obvious. “We could go hiking—“

“We’re not doing that.” Hawkeye quickly vetoed. 

“Why not?” BJ frowned at him. “It’d be fun.”

“Knowing us? We’d wind up lost and kill each other.” 

“Oh come on, we won't get lost.”

“Don’t you remember Ralph?”

“Ralph Harrison?” Dr. Pierce furrowed his brow.

Hawkeye laughed, throwing his head back. “Actually, you’re not far off.”

He slipped into telling a story from the war, easily brushing over the depressing Thanksgiving they spent at Kangsong Battalion Aid in favor of detailing the journey the two of them went through when BJ’s “shortcut” got them lost.

“It all worked out,” BJ rolled his eyes. “We helped that injured farmer, we got antibiotics to camp, and Ralph got to surrender his heart out.”

“Don’t forget the motorcycle you picked up.”

“I try to forget that part.”

“You’re still sore about Clayton Kibbee wrecking it?”

“Clayton Kibbee!” Dr. Pierce’s eyes widened.

“Oh, don’t remind me,” he pinched the bridge of his nose. “No, he wrecked that beautiful red one I got from that McKegney kid.”

“Right, we brought this one back in an attempt to rectify our colonialist tendencies.”

“We were only borrowing it in the first place!”

“Sure, Beej,” Hawkeye rolled his eyes. “Like you don’t see a motorcycle and lose all reasonable thought.”

Under the table, BJ kicked him again. Hawkeye laughed, then threw a piece of bacon at him. BJ watched the trajectory and leaned back, catching part of it in his mouth.

“Very good,” Hawkeye clapped as BJ got a firm hold of the piece and ate it. “I forgot you were a football star.”

“I was a track star, too,” he finished the last of the bacon on his plate.

“I can just picture you, all cute in your letterman jacket. The fantasy of the bookish girl reading on the bleachers.”

“Is that what you were?” He wasn’t sure if he meant to imply the fantasy or the girl.

“Absolutely,” Hawk simply grinned.

“Hawkeye was never the athletic type,” Dr. Pierce chuckled. “He made up for it with other talents.”

“You should see me tap dance, Beej, I’m a real star.”

“He’s very heroic, despite appearances,” BJ told Hawk’s father, taking a sip of coffee. “He’s all ego until you hit something real, then he’ll get that bashful look on his face.”

“What are you talking about, I’m full of myself!”

“Did you tell your dad about Tuttle?”

“Tuttle?” Dr. Pierce perked up.

“How do you know about Tuttle?” Hawk furrowed his brow.

“Radar,” he answered.

“Tuttle followed you to Korea?” Dr Pierce asked, barking out a laugh.

“Of course he did!” Hawkeye smiled, wide and prideful. “I went to college, he went to college. I went to med school, he went to med school. You should’ve seen the things he did during residency.”

“That little troublemaker,” Dr. Pierce laughed again, shaking his head.

BJ frowned in confusion. “Wait, was Tuttle real?”

“Yes,” Hawk smiled.

“No,” his father said at the same time.

BJ looked back and forth between them.

Dr. Pierce looked over at his son, fond. “It was always ‘who drew on the walls, Hawkeye?’ ‘It wasn’t me, Daddy, it was Tuttle!’”

“An imaginary friend?” BJ hooted a laugh.

“More like an imaginary menace,” Dr. Pierce scoffed into his sausage, though it was all for show. He was trying to hide a smile.

“Well, Tuttle scammed the army out of supplies and funds to help Sister Theresa’s orphanage,” BJ elaborated.

“Is that true, Ben?”

“Tuttle really cleaned up his act,” He winked. “Though, unfortunately, he, uh…” Hawkeye trailed off, his gaze suddenly far off, a world away. 

“Hawk,” BJ frowned, calling for his attention.

“Hmm?” He looked over at BJ, still looking distant, far off. BJ put a hand on top of his.

Hawk looked down at their hands and blinked for a moment, before snapping back into place, sitting up and blinking away the moment. “What were we talking about?”

BJ glanced over at Dr. Pierce, who sighed and turned his attention back to his plate, pointedly ignoring the moment.

“Just bragging about your exploits to your father.” BJ plastered on a smile.

“Beej, seriously,” Hawkeye pulled his hand back, sheepish. “You oughta stop buttering me up, I’m beginning to feel like a lobster roll.”

“God,” he paused, dreamily—Half-performance, half-genuine desire. “Lobster rolls,” he hummed.

“Add that to the list,” Hawkeye instructed his father.

They finished breakfast, the elder Pierce bidding them adieu and heading into town, taking the car along with him. BJ knew the walk couldn’t have been far, given how fast they’d arrived at the house after the convenience store, but Hawkeye had insisted they were better off with vehicles of their own.

Once BJ was unpacked and sufficiently dressed, he met Hawkeye outside, where he’d pulled two bicycles from the garage, both decently sized for either of the grown men. The bike he let BJ use was the one he’d had in Boston, throughout residency. It was a newer model and comfortably fit BJ’s frame. Hawk ended up on the bike he’d used throughout high school. A little beaten up, but relatively usable. The newer bike had only arrived in the humble town after Hawk’s drafting. He hadn’t wanted to sell it.

BJ hadn’t ridden a bicycle since he was fifteen, when his friends all began to get nice cars that their parents had bought them. That’s when his secret love for motorcycles had grown, fixing up a Harley in Nicky’s garage, hidden away from his parents.

“What do you want to see?” Hawkeye asked, deferring to his guest.

“Everything,” BJ had smiled.

They biked all around town, Hawkeye shouting out various locations. Ballinger’s Drugstore, where he had his first job; the theater, which played movies and hosted community productions; a bookstore; the post office; fishing supplies. They biked through neighborhoods, up and down hills. That’s where Kathy Harrison lived; That’s still Dexter’s house; This was Principal Vanderhaven’s house, we egged it every year on Halloween. 

Eventually, Hawk took them downhill, down to the docks and to the titular cove. 

They parked the bikes, stumbling down an incline together to reach the rocky shore. It was low tide, revealing an algae-covered landscape of rocks that rose and fell in jagged patterns. He was thankful for the stability of his Chucks as Hawk grabbed his hand and tugged him along the rocky surface. 

He thought of the summer he lived in Pacific Grove, taking that course in Microbiology. He hadn’t ended up liking it, though he’d excelled in the class regardless. The work felt cold, far too removed from the connection to humanity, from BJ’s fascination with the workings of a human body. He’d wished he’d taken one of the marine biology courses instead, having developed an intense fondness for the animals he saw along the bay. BJ fell in love with the ocean that summer, living alone in a shack on Monterey Bay.

The following spring, he drove Peg out for a picnic at Lover’s Point. They had walked along the shoreline together and he knew that Peg knew he was nervous, the way her eyes scanned him, the way she tapped his wrist in Morse code. U. O. K. He’d felt better once they stood out facing the sea, staring at the rockface that looked like a couple kissing. As Peg fiddled with her camera, taking a photograph, BJ got down on one knee. 

A seagull squawked at them, pulling BJ’s focus back to the present, before the knot in his stomach became too large to handle. He could hear the waves farther out, crashing against the rocks.

Hawkeye smiled at him, still holding his hand as they hiked up the slippery slope to view the colorful pools of water. Feathery bursts of pink and purple. Iridescent mussels, spiraled shells of periwinkle snails. Orange starfish. Once again, his heart ached for Erin, imagining the way her eyes would turn to saucers, staring out at the tidepools. He’d have to remind her not to stick her hands in them, to leave the ecosystems untouched. He’d carry her piggyback throughout the whole day.

“So,” Hawkeye cleared his throat, having dropped his hand. “What do you think?”

At their feet, a crab scrambled along the rocks.

“It’s amazing, Hawk,” BJ smiled, watching the ease settle on Hawkeye’s shoulders. “Absolutely beautiful.”

Hawk sat down, patting the hard surface next to him. BJ joined him.

“Could we swim?” He asked, looking out at the water.

“Not if you want to keep your toes,” Hawkeye barked out a laugh, tossing his head back. “It’s freezing. It’ll still be freezing in July.”

BJ studied him again, watching the salt breeze disturb Hawk’s mess of black hair, which he still kept long. 

Hawkeye turned to him, catching him staring, and smiled wide. “Like what you see?” He teased.

“Yeah,” BJ croaked out, intelligent thought out the window. He did like what he saw. Hawkeye, in his element. Hawkeye, at home. He looked so much better. It was hard to believe this was the same man who’d called him the other night.

“Welp!” Hawkeye suddenly got to his feet. “We best be off now.”

“Off to where?” BJ furrowed his brow, taking Hawkeye’s outstretched hand.

“Lunch.”

They ordered four Italians from Dottie at the convenience store, and while her father, Big Rick, made them, Hawkeye explained the construction of the sandwich to BJ, waving his hands wildly as they stood in the small store.

“Give your father my best,” Big Rick smiled as he placed the lunch on the counter.

“Who says any of these are for Dad?” Hawkeye quirked a smile. “All four of them are for me.”

“The potato chips are for me,” BJ added, to be included.

“Right,” Hawkeye nodded.

Big Rick just shook his head while Dottie giggled. She was decidedly not high school aged, working the store counter mid-day Thursday. He wondered if her easy camaraderie with Hawkeye was indication of a romantic spark, but he felt sick at the idea of Hawk chasing someone so young.

Outside, they waved hello to other townsfolk, though Hawkeye kept them on task, setting up the bikes.

They placed the brown paper bag of the lunch haul in the basket of BJ’s bike, securing it with a thick blue rope. Again, the walk wouldn’t have been too challenging, but Hawkeye had insisted on biking. They had to travel a half-mile uphill, after all. 

Biking brought back a rush of nostalgia, a heat in his chest coiling around the fantasy of having Hawkeye as a boyhood friend. Playing in the creek, fighting over toys, pulling off some truly magical pranks. There’d been so many terrible days, but the days of the war that he’d remembered with any kind of fondness had all been something like that. BJ and Hawkeye, childish and giddy.

If he’d grown up with Hawkeye, his parents would’ve hated it. BJ’s mother would scoff and say he’s a bad influence, BJ’s father would belittle Daniel Pierce for raising such a poor-mannered fairy boy. BJ would’ve loved it.

Halfway up the hill, BJ realized that he had been wrong to judge Hawkeye’s insistence on biking, his legs already burning. He huffed and puffed the rest of the way, pulling into the parking lot behind Hawk, taking a moment to lean back on the seat, feet planted on either side, and hang his head, catching his breath. Hawkeye laughed, the one that sounded like a donkey braying or a goose honking. BJ laughed too, though he still panted. He was sure he looked like a mess: red in the face, sweat-slick hair, and yet he felt amazing, glowing in relief.

They untied the rope around the basket, Hawkeye taking the bag and gesturing BJ ahead, into the small red building.

A bell rang overhead, and they stepped into a carpeted waiting room with cream-white walls and cushioned blue chairs.

“Good afternoon,” sang the woman behind the desk, dressed in a smart tweed blazer. She smiled at BJ and then visibly brightened as Hawk entered after him. “Hawkeye! Your father said you weren’t coming in today.”

“Just in for lunch,” Hawkeye smiled at her. “Beej is getting a tour of the town.” He turned to BJ, nodding towards her with his head. “Beej, this is our secretary Rebecca. Rebecca, this is my good friend BJ Hunnicutt.”

BJ extended a hand out to her.

“He’s a doctor as well,” Hawkeye added, smiling.

Rebecca shook his hand, a tinge to her cheeks. She had to have been around their age, though he noted the lack of ring around her finger. He looked over at Hawkeye, who remained a bachelor, but Hawkeye’s attention was on the lunch bag.

“Your father is finishing up with a patient, Hawkeye, and Dr. George is in the lab.”

“Dr. George?” BJ raised an eyebrow, but Hawkeye ignored him, headed for the white double doors.

“Thanks, Rebecca,” Hawk smiled at her. She smiled back.

They pushed through, into a baby blue hallway, white linoleum at their feet. BJ paid special attention to the doors they passed. Three patient rooms, one of which was occupied. A single trauma bay. A lab. Restrooms. Hawkeye brought him to the door marked Offices and BJ opened it for him, watching Hawk step into the room.

Overhead bookshelves were stuffed with medical textbooks, with copies of the New England Journal of Medicine. Two large, pristine filing cabinets were placed next to one of the three desks that took up space in the small room. A stack of files sat on the desk, next to a white mug packed with lollipops. On the other side were several pens and a framed photograph of a young boy sitting in a woman’s lap, holding a stethoscope up to his ear, resting the diaphragm on his mother’s chest.

Hawkeye set the bag down on the messiest of the desks, where several medical journals were left open next to a notebook of scrawled handwriting. He turned back to BJ and caught him staring at the photo.

“I told you I’ve got good baby pictures,” he laughed, picking it up.

“It’s a good one.” BJ told him earnestly. He could just picture Dr. Pierce glancing over at the image throughout the day, prideful. He wondered what it meant for him that Hawkeye had become a doctor. For BJ, it’d barely been a choice.

“I heard there’s lunch?” An unfamiliar voice popped up behind them, through the open office door.

“Italians,” Hawkeye did a jazzy gesture with one hand, setting the picture back down.

BJ turned around, catching the bespectacled eye of a shorter, red-headed man.

“The famous Dr. BJ Hunnicutt,” the man broke into a smile. “We meet at last.” He held out his hand. “Dr. Michael George.”

“Famous?” He questioned, shaking Michael’s hand.

“Hawkeye has a lot to say about you.”

“Quit it, Mikey,” Hawk intercut. “You’ll inflate his ego.”

“Go ahead and inflate it,” BJ laughed. “What does he say?”

Michael glanced over at Hawkeye behind him, who no doubt was shaking his head. He flashed BJ an apologetic smile and stalked across the room, retrieving his sandwich from the bag, pointedly staying quiet.

“No fun,” BJ complained.

Michael sat down at the third desk, setting down the paperwork he’d brought in from the lab. He moved them aside, along with a framed wedding picture, and unwrapped the sandwich with a big smile, thanking Hawkeye.

Hawkeye rummaged through the bag, pulling out his and BJ’s sandwiches, the large bag of chips, and the 4-pack of soda they’d purchased, handing one over to Michael. He pressed BJ into his father’s chair with his sandwich and his drink, sitting next to him in his own office chair.

BJ, trying to be polite, made small talk with Michael. Like most of the town, he was born and raised in Crabapple Cove. He’d always been three years behind Hawkeye in school and in high school, they finally got to be friends.

“So Hawk’s the reason you wanted to be a doctor?” BJ joked.

“A little bit,” Michael agreed with a laugh, earnest.

He turned to smile at Hawk, who brushed it off with a joke. “It’s so very tough to be this charming and influential,” he rolled his eyes.

“You’ve got kids?” BJ asked.

“One on the way,” Michael smiled, a look of fondness spread across his face, giving away how excited he had to be. “You?”

“I’ve got a little girl. She’ll be four in July.”

He wiped his hands with a napkin, feeling around to grab his wallet and pull out a picture of her, when behind him, Dr. Pierce groaned. “Mine’s gonna be thirty-four.”

Hawkeye, pointedly ignoring the comment about his growing age, smiled up at his father. “Italians,” he gestured to their lunch.

BJ had immediately hopped to his feet, suddenly embarrassed to have been eating at the man’s desk. “Sorry, sir, I—”

“No, no,” Dr. Pierce shook his head, gently pushing BJ back down, just as Hawk had done before. BJ did as he was told, apologetically. “Have you gotten the tour yet?” 

“I figured I’d let you do the honors,” Hawk answered. He turned to BJ, a smear of oil on his chin, making it shine. “You’re in for a treat.”

Dr. Pierce pulled in a stool from one of the patient rooms, sitting next to his son to enjoy the meal he and BJ had provided. As they ate, he filled BJ in on the details of their facility.

The building was finished back in ‘48, built from funds granted by the Hill-Burton Act. With the intention of four and a half beds per thousand people, Crabapple Cove, with just over eight hundred, was able to get four, if you included their meager trauma bay. Daniel Pierce’s original office had been downtown, down the street from Ballinger’s, but now they had a decent set-up that better accounted for the closest hospital being an hour’s drive away. Thankfully, they rarely got serious cases. This was private practice. Childhood checkups, elderly physical therapy. Broken arms. Polio vaccinations. Pregnant mothers. Emergency Medicine wasn’t their forte.

After finishing lunch, Dr. Pierce walked the three of them around the building. They looked at instruments, at medical supplies; they examined the patient rooms and walked through the Lab; BJ enjoyed the camaraderie of being around other doctors, the way jokes volleyed around a room, especially with Hawkeye. It was part of what kept him from private practice, which had led him to work at the University of California Medical Center. It would’ve been lonely, after a decade of training alongside his fellow doctors, to suddenly be on his own.

Once the tour was concluded, appointments were due. Daniel walked them out of the building, clasping a hand on BJ’s shoulder. The man was effortlessly warm and welcoming, a trait that so obviously had been passed down to his son. He tsked when BJ called him “sir” and corrected him with a “Daniel” whenever BJ slipped and called him Dr. Pierce. Relax, his expressions always read. You’re okay.

“Enjoy our little town, BJ,” Daniel smiled, the pull of his lips almost identical to his son. “Don’t let Ben get you into too much trouble now, will ya?”

“I’ll try,” BJ promised, shaking his hand.

They stepped out to a gorgeous, sunny afternoon. Out behind the clinic, they overlooked the hill, with all the roads, houses, and greenery wrapping around the titular cove. The tide was beginning to come in.

“Where to?” BJ asked

Hawkeye grabbed BJ’s watch to check, then frowned. “Your watch is a few hours slow.”

It was still set on Mill Valley time. Nearly eleven. It was Thursday, BJ remembered, and Peg had an open house in half an hour.

“It’s almost two,” he calculated.

Hawkeye hummed, considering their options. “Let’s dilly dally a bit, then I’ll take you up to school.”

“I hope they sit our desks together.”

He scoffed. “Oh sure, so you can steal all my pencils?”

“I only want to borrow one!”

“Nice try, Hunnicutt. My utensils are not so easily shared.”

 “Can’t say the same about your tonsils.” The joke slipped out before he could catch himself, a little sharper than he intended.

“Hey!” Hawk clutched his chest in a show of mock offense. Maybe some real offense, too.

“I’m really surprised you weren’t drooling over that secretary,” he teased.

“No thank you. I’ve learned my lesson with divorcees.” 

“Oho?” He chuckled. “Am I sensing a story?”

Hawk shook his head. “I’ll need a few more drinks before I can tell it.”

“I’ll buy you an ice cream.”

“Sold!” He suddenly put on an announcer’s voice. “To the man with the big feet.”

They raced dangerously down the hill, bikes swerving in and out of each other, laughing heartily. BJ felt sick with joy.

~

Lying in the hotel room, BJ paged through the copy of Charlotte’s Web he’d picked up in Maine. Peg had smiled wide when she’d taken it out of his suitcase, eyeing the cover. She ought to know what it’s like to live on a farm. He’d elected to read it through himself first, Erin asleep on his chest as he stretched out on the bed, reading quietly to the hum of the air conditioner. It was a little too mature for Erin’s tastes just yet, he’d quickly realized, but he let himself get engrossed, rather than let his mind wander to the nervousness Hawkeye had carried throughout the day, the way he’d set his jaw and refused to even look at BJ, to acknowledge him any more than what was considered polite.

The sound of a key sliding into the room’s lock interrupted the book, where he’d been reading about the fantastic sway of Mr. Zuckerman’s rope swing, of the mothers around that worried, though no child ever fell. Peg stepped into the room, her arms full of shopping bags.

Upon their group meeting in front of the lions, Margaret had suggested a trip to Marshall Fields, Peggy eagerly touting out a hearty Give the lady what she wants! With the briefest of goodbyes, the two of them sped up the street.

“How come they never invite me?” Hawkeye had faked annoyance, making his voice extra nasal. “I could use some retail therapy.”

“You could do some sole-searching.” BJ had offered. Yesterday, Hawkeye would have laughed. Today, he just nodded. He smiled a little, though it was tight-lipped.

In response, BJ politely rejected the invitation to lunch with the Pierces and the Potters, carefully not looking over at Hawk. Instead, he and Erin went for hot dogs. 

It had been the right choice as a small excursion, sitting in the park with Erin, watching her nibble the just-mustard dog she’d requested.

“Can I have some?” Erin asked, eyeing the colorful array of his Chicago-style dog.

“You’re not going to like it,” he shook his head.

“Please, Daddy?” She’d blinked up at him with those big green eyes. He couldn’t deny her.

BJ let her take a bite and watched her grimace.

“Yucky?” He asked her.

Erin nodded her head, face still puckered.

“You can spit it out,” BJ handed her a napkin and watched as she did so, trying not to laugh. “I told you, sweetheart.”

“I hate pickles,” she shook her head.

“Don’t say hate, Erin,” BJ corrected her. “Hate’s a strong word. You should say dislike.”

“I need a strong word,” she told him. “I hate them.”

Afterwards, he took a picture with Peg’s camera and hoped it would come out. It was colored film and Erin’s green eyes had been dramatically wide while her face was smeared with yellow mustard. There was a spot on the stairwell that was perfect for it.

On their journey back to the hotel, pausing their day for a nap, BJ had carried her on his shoulders once more.

“Do you feel like a skyscraper?” He’d asked as they walked.

“Absolutely!”

She slept soundly, now, lulled to sleep by BJ’s best recollection of the Ugly Duckling, quite tired himself. He’d slept in too late for her nap to take hold of him as well, the book thankfully relaxing enough.

“Hello, darling,” BJ hummed over the top of it, his voice kept low to accommodate his sleeping angel, her golden hair splayed out along his chest.

“I’ve come to steal her away from you,” Peg whispered, setting down her large bounty.

“I’m not invited?” He raised an eyebrow, ready to steal the jokes Hawkeye had made earlier.

“Margaret and I are having Girl Time,” she shook her head.

She walked over to the bed, humming something sweet. She pressed her fingers into his hair, pushing it back behind his ear.

“Maybe you could use this time to go talk things out with Hawkeye,” she suggested, looking BJ square in the eye. “I’d hate for an argument to spoil the whole weekend.”

The two of them had spent an hour together in the galleries, hadn’t they? That’d been dangerous, letting them go off on their own, especially after last night. But he hadn’t been able to object, not in front of everyone. It wouldn’t have helped any, as he never had luck telling either of them what they could and couldn’t do.

“What’d he tell you?” BJ swallowed.

“Nothing,” she waved her hand through the air. “I could talk to him for you, if you’d rather.”

“No,” he shook his head, face suddenly flushing red. “I’ll work it out with him, darling.”

“That’s good,” she smiled at him, then dropped her hand to tuck a strand of hair behind Erin’s ear. “Time to wake, my sweet,” she whispered, gently shaking her.

Erin opened her eyes, smiling up at her parents. He was mesmerized by her, his little girl. Embarrassingly, he’d always wanted to be a father. He remembered a sudden streak of middle-child jealousy he’d had at age seven. A meltdown over Clara getting to play with Alice’s babydolls when he wasn’t allowed.

Sometimes, Erin looked just like Clara, with that shock of light blonde hair and the bright yellow dress that Peg’s mother had made. It scared him more than he meant it to, a ghost of memory too tender to touch, to disturb its current resting place in the back of his head. She still had his address, if she’d ever decided to write to her big brother again.

Peg scooped Erin into her arms, squeezing her tight. “Now that you’re up, we're going shopping with Miss Margaret, Erin. Up to the Magnificent Mile!”

“Really?” BJ raised an eyebrow. “You’re spending the whole day shopping?” He didn’t know how she’d fit these new purchases in her suitcase, which he already thought was considerably overpacked.

“We’re on vacation, BJ,” Peg cautioned, Erin resting on her hip.

“Alright,” he agreed, not wanting to press further, especially in front of Erin.

Peg frowned, just for a moment, and then she smiled again. “Talk to Hawkeye, okay?”

“Okay.”

And then she’d left, leaving BJ alone with his book.

He’d checked his watch, which was still two hours behind, and then eyed the time on his bedside alarm clock. Half past one. It wasn’t too early for a trip down to the hotel bar.

While shaving his mustache in the Tokyo airport bathroom, BJ had stared at his reflection, trying to find the man behind it again, and promised himself that he would dry out. For the sake of his daughter, for the sake of his wife, for his liver. The agitating tangle of guilt and homesickness that wreaked havoc on his stomach would finally come to an end. 

But then that first evening, after all the tears and merriment that the day had brought, Peg had asked him to come sit at the kitchen table. She’d sat across from him, a double of Glenfiddich in each hand.

“Celebration booze?” He’d laughed.

For years, BJ had prided himself in being able to tell when something was wrong with her, this look he’d catch in her eye, her pupils widening but her expression far away. He used to pester her, getting in her way and on her nerves until she’d crack. Then, the tears would roll down her porcelain cheeks and out it would come, everything unraveling as she buried her face in BJ’s chest. But he’d missed it, somewhere in the mess of emotions of coming home, because when they clinked their glasses together and brought their drinks up to their lips, Peg did more than sip, gulping down the expensive scotch.

“Peg,” he’d looked on in shock. “Darling, what’s wrong?”

“Sorry, I just—” She caught her breath for a moment, her smiling veneer washing away and revealing a rather sad expression. “I needed some courage.”

Panic immediately raced through him. Had she been hiding something from him? Or had she, an ocean away, somehow discovered the things he’d begun to hide from her? With a wince at the waste, he downed his own drink and set the glass down, reaching out across the table to grab her hand. “Tell me, Peggy.”

It was odd to have so much fear, so much hesitance around her. Peg was not only BJ’s wife but the first true friend BJ had. Not counting Leo (and Leo was hard to count). She knew about his gnawing anxieties, about his relationship with his father, about the minor childhood indiscretions that still haunted him.

“Darling,” she squeezed his hand, her green eyes wide and teary. “These last two years have been so difficult. I can’t imagine what it was like for you over there. But I—” she sighed, picking her words carefully. “We can’t keep focusing on the past—” She winced, correcting herself. “On what you’ve missed.”

BJ had pulled his hands back, suddenly overwhelmed with shock. “Are you telling me to suck it up?” He asked, heart thrumming in his ears. “To just magically get over missing the first two years of my daughter’s life?”

He had missed so much. Erin couldn’t even lift her head when he’d left. Now she could talk, she could walk, she’d gone from baby to little girl. At the airport she’d squealed in his arms, shouting “Daddy’s home!” and he’d burst into tears, cradling her blonde head of hair, blinking the tears away as Peg had hugged him, as she kissed his cheek and told him it was alright.

“You know that’s not what I’m saying, BJ.” There was anger behind the look she shot him. In just a few hours, BJ had already been bitter and hurtful, his handle on his emotions still worn thin.

“What are you saying?” He pushed, and then he leaned across the table to pour himself more scotch.

“Whatever happened there, whatever you missed here. I forgive you for it.”

“You forgive me?”

“I don’t know, BJ. These women I’ve met, their husbands— I’d rather not know anything that happened.”

He had long ago promised Hawkeye he’d never tell Peg about that night he’d comforted Nurse Donovan. This will pass. Like a kidney stone. He made a similar promise, to himself, after Aggie O’Shea plucked at his heart strings. It hurt that he had this to hide from her, that he couldn’t be truthful to the first person he’d been truly honest with. He was, however, relieved to be released from these lies, that it was an agreed notion it would do nothing but hurt her to know.

“You let things fester inside you. You fixate. And you let it form into these anxious balls of anger until you finally find something to release the pressure.”

He opened his mouth, quick to defend himself, but she put her hand up.

“I know, I know, I’m not saying I'm innocent of it either, darling. And the war— You have so many reasons to be upset, my love. But I don’t know how to help you. And I can’t— I can’t be the person who does.”

He blinked at her.

“Erin’s not even going to remember you were gone.”

“But I’ll remember, Peg. I’m never going to forget it.”

“You don’t have to,” she told him, hands drumming on her empty glass. “I need you, BJ. You don’t have to be the same man you were, God knows I—” Peg cut herself off, shaking her head. “I don’t want there to still be an ocean between us.” 

He felt ill as he watched her fingers twitch. The same way his mother’s would when she had nicotine cravings. His heart broke, suddenly. They really weren’t the same people anymore.

She reached out for his hands again. He let her take them. “You are home, darling. I need you to try to be here.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Whatever it takes to keep you happy, dear,” he lifted her hand up to his lips, kissing it.

That night, BJ kissed away Peg’s weepy tears and made love to her in their bed, their marital bed, which he’d finally returned to, after all these years. He held her close after, promising to protect her from the life he’d lived, and just before he drifted off, struggling to fall asleep on a surface that wouldn’t leave his back aching in the morning, he thought of Hawkeye. He’d had to have made it home by then. He could just picture Hawk, fast asleep, face smushed into the pillow, sleeping away the lingering effects of the war. BJ admitted, in the exhaustion of the day, in the confusion of what Peg had asked of him, that he missed him already. First thing in the morning, he had to write a letter.

BJ was already two drinks in when a stranger slid into the barstool next to him. He had warm brown eyes and flashed a crooked smile to the bartender as he was handed his drink. He caught BJ’s eye, catching him staring, and held up his glass in a cheer.

BJ clinked their glasses together.

“What’s got you so glum?” The stranger asked, looking him up and down.

“Do I look glum?” He furrowed his brow.

Hawkeye had always walked up to him like this, sliding in next to him and saying Quit moping!

“You’ve got glum all over your face, kid,” the man smirked. “C’mon, what’s got you down? You’ve been fighting with your old lady or something?”

“Something like that,” BJ chuckled, looking down at his drink.

A handful of people were milling around the bar, now that it was early Friday afternoon. He’d trailed the bar with his eyes, looking for anyone who might recognize him. The stranger had a suitcase at his feet, four letters emblazoned in gold, though he couldn’t read them from this angle.

“Eh, she’ll forgive you,” the man shrugged, leaning onto the bar, closer to him. “You’ve just got to grovel.”

“Grovel?”

“Yeah, grovel. When my Louise is sore with me, I get real pathetic. I get down on my knees, I kiss her feet, I debase myself with apologies. Women love it. It makes them feel good to have power over you.”

BJ swallowed, flashing a smile. “If my plan doesn’t work, I’ll be sure to give it a try.”

“John,” the guy gestured to himself, then held out his hand.

“BJ,” he answered, shaking it.

“BJ?” John repeated.

“That’s right.”

“What’s that stand for?”

He shrugged with practiced nonchalance. “Anything you want.”

“Anything?” John smirked, a certain glint in his eye.

BJ’s face suddenly felt hot, suddenly aware of the implication. But he kept taut to his routine. “Anything,” he repeated, finishing off his bourbon.

John’s eyes flicked around the bar. He caught the bartender’s eye. “Another round,” he’d grinned. “And whatever he’s having.”

BJ thanked him sheepishly, unsure what to do with his hands. He gratefully took the fresh drink, feeling his flush spread across his chest and run down the midline of his body, down between his legs.

He’d done this before. Teasing a little too far to fetch a free drink. He would take the booze and make up an excuse, make up someone who was waiting for him. There was a lightheaded feeling that came with the attraction of a man across the bar.

John gripped his shoulder, leaning into his ear. “I’d invite you up to my room, but I’m not sure that’d fix things with your old lady.” His voice was sultry, a notably warm, northeastern accent.

“Right,” BJ laughed awkwardly. Something twisted around in his stomach. He couldn’t make eye contact.

“But, I’m here all weekend,” John emphasized. “If your plan doesn’t work.” He laughed again, tossing his head back. He knew he was charming, just dripping with confidence and flashing that smile. It was almost overwhelming. In some ways, it reminded BJ of Leo, the way he carried himself. Or the bigger guys from his high school football team, who’d walked around the locker room without shame, not a towel in sight.

“What about your old lady?” BJ croaked. He sipped his drink, trying to remind himself where he was. A reunion. A hotel full of people who knew him exclusively as Family Man: BJ Hunnicutt.

“Groveling,” John grinned. “It works like a charm.” He stood up out of the chair, throwing cash onto the bar.

His mouth was dry. His brain was fogged. It was the knot, moving around in his stomach like that. It was loosening, floating along a sea of hot bourbon. His face was heating up. He needed to calm down, needed to just let John walk away. It was suddenly embarrassing that he’d sat at the bar and already gotten drunk enough to let a man approach him like this. Worse was that he’d been approached at all. This wasn’t Polk Gulch. It was a hotel bar. Was there something in the way he carried himself? Was there something in how he’d sat, how he’d folded into himself, that had signaled to this man that he’d be easy to talk to, that he might have any interest in the same sex.

Suddenly, he felt a little sick.

And then it got worse.

A voice cut through the bar. Deep and nasal. Unforgettable.

“Hey, Trapper!”

He froze, suddenly.

He was at a reunion. He should’ve known.

He looked on in abject horror as one Benjamin Franklin “Hawkeye” Pierce rushed into the bar, tackling this strange man with a hug.

John caught him in his arms, lifting Hawkeye in the air. He spun him around, like a Hollywood dame, causing Hawk to laugh and squeal.

BJ was in a nightmare. He had to have fallen asleep while Erin was napping and was now stuck in the dream. Maybe the whole day had been a dream. Maybe BJ was still on that flight to Chicago. Maybe he was about to wake up in the Swamp.

He pinched himself. It hurt. So, he downed the rest of his drink.

Hawkeye’s face was flushed as he was set down, holding onto the man’s arms for balance, pure joy spread across his face. “When’d’you get in?”

“An hour ago,” John—Trapper grinned. He squeezed the back of Hawkeye’s neck, delighted from head to toe. “I’m a bit too early for check-in, though.” He gestured to his suitcase at his feet, a bulky thing of sleek black leather. The initials had read JFXM.

“Oh, you can take it up to my room,” Hawkeye immediately reached for the bag.

No, he panicked. BJ, face red hot in embarrassment, cleared his throat.

“Oh, Hawk,” Trapper, fucking Trapper, started. “This is—”

Hawkeye turned, a look of genuine surprise on his face when he noticed him, twisting the sharp knife even further. “Beej!”

Trapper furrowed his brow, looking at BJ. “Beej?”

“BJ,” Hawkeye jumped right into introductions, unaware of the tension he’d broken. “This is the sensational Trapper John McIntyre. Trap, this is BJ Hunnicutt.”

He spared no epithets for BJ. He was still mad, then. 

“Ah,” Trapper’s eyes lit with recognition. “My replacement!”

A strangled noise escaped BJ’s throat. He needed to leave. He shouldn’t have come down for a drink. He should’ve stayed in his room reading Charlotte’s Web.

“You’re Trapper John.” BJ managed, staring at this big, blond man. Margaret had told him that Trapper had been quite handsome, but it’d been easier to imagine him not, to posture himself superior. He was frozen in time, his brain struggling to play catch-up, to marry together the overwhelming mix of feelings that were rushing around inside him.

“You two already met?” Hawkeye raised an eyebrow.

Trapper laughed heartily, his hand gripping Hawk’s shoulder. “Just some light bar chatter about him and his old lady.”

“Of course,” Hawk scoffed.

He was going to throw up. He placed a hand to his forehead and motioned for the bartender, asking for water.

“Are you drinking?” Trapper asked Hawkeye behind him, now that they’d already flagged the man over.

“Dry martini,” Hawkeye ordered, and BJ could just hear the smile in his voice; he didn’t have to look back to know that Hawk was grinning from ear to ear. “You just missed Margaret, she’s up shopping the Mag Mile.”

“Oh really?” Trapper put more cash on the bar, paying for the drink. How often did he buy other men drinks in bars?

The waiter placed the glass in front of him. God, he hadn’t realized he was so thirsty, chugging it down.

“With BJ’s wife and kid,” Hawkeye added.

“Ah,” Trapper nodded, shaking the rocks in his glass. He looked over at BJ, who stayed focused on his water. “That’s another way to stay on her good side,” he joked.

Hawkeye reached across him to grab his martini, legs brushing up against his.

“You alright, Beej?” He asked. More teasing than sincere.

“Fine, fine,” he plastered on a smile, pushing away his empty glass.

“I was gonna go find you, but here you are!” Trapper rested a hand on Hawkeye’s back. “Should we get a booth?”

“I’ve got a bottle in my room,” Hawk hummed in a voice he usually reserved for flirting with nurses.

Something awful burned. Nausea. Anger. Extreme discomfort.

“Let me buy you a couple rounds first,” Trapper insisted. “I’ve missed you something awful.”

“Oh, alright,” Hawkeye sighed dramatically. “I guess you can liquor me up.” He started to pull them towards a booth.

“You coming, BJ?” Trapper asked, a tilt of his head.

BJ glanced over at Hawkeye, who’d narrowed his eyes into a glare. This was a challenge, wasn’t it?

“I’ll be right there,” he smiled at Trapper, then turned back to the bartender, putting more money on the bar. “Pour me a double.”