Chapter Text
Erin Hunnicutt stood in the hallway of her father’s apartment building, just outside his door, she thought, if the scrap of paper in her pocket, where her mother had written the address and phone number, was to be believed. She’d been turning the note over in her palm the entire trip there. She’d smudged the letters while staring out the window in the plane. She’d ground her teeth and dozed off without putting her mouth guard in, despite Mom’s insistence that she keep it at hand, in her carry on.
There are some things that can’t be reversed, she’d say. I can’t buy you brand new teeth, not even with help from your father.
Erin had a tendency to latch onto things like that, to take good intentioned advice and spin it out of context. She made mantras for her fears.
So she repeated as she climbed the stairs, with her neon green shoulder bag and matching suitcase on wheels:
There are some things that can’t be reversed.
Like the divorce. Erin remembered everything about that day. She remembered walking home from her friend Molly’s house. She remembered worrying about the grass stains on her new skirt. She remembered the gentleness in Mom’s voice, and the crease between her eyebrows. She remembered the look on her father’s face, like he was going to cry, and the liquor on his breath. It had surprised her, back then. Though it wouldn’t, now.
There are some things that can’t be reversed.
Like Dad’s apartment, in the city. He didn’t have any furniture. They ate Chinese food on the floor. She cried herself to sleep in her sleeping bag. She asked him questions he evaded. They’d divorced when she was 12. Now, she’d turn 16 in a couple months. He’d stayed in San Francisco up until six months ago, when he packed up everything and left for Seattle. He left with little more than a phone call. Mom knew more than Erin. She’d been happy for him. Erin had mostly been angry.
There are some things that can’t be reversed.
Like this summer. Over the phone, her father’s voice had sounded lighter. When she was little, his voice was thick and gravelly, like there was always something hidden underneath his words. He’d tell her to clean her room in a tone just a smidge off center and she’d fixate on it for hours. She’d dust every record on her shelf. She’d hide all her toys in the back of her closet.
It was just a summer in Seattle. He had a loft with a couple of his war buddies. Erin hadn’t known her father had war buddies, or any buddies really. He didn’t talk about the war.
She knew he’d been a surgeon during the war. She knew he was there for ages, or at least that it felt like ages to her mother. She knew he’d missed her first words and steps and birthdays. She knew that the panicked dreams she had all through grade school, of suddenly being orphaned and alone in the world, had something to do with her father’s time in Korea.
But, for the most part, Erin Hunnicutt didn’t know her father.
There are some things that can’t be reversed.
She muttered the phrase, breathlessly, at the top of the stairs. Her teeth were grinding again. At the airport there had been a call from Mom waiting for her. Her father was supposed to pick her up but he’d been detained with a surgical emergency and instead he’d called her a taxi.
“Hawkeye will be at the apartment to meet you,” Mom said, over the phone. “You met him a long time ago. Your dad will be back later tonight.”
Erin’s hands were shaky. She didn’t like planes. She didn’t like taxis. And she didn’t like new people. Around her father she pretended she was braver than she was, and less chronically anxious.
She reached out and knocked.
The man who opened the door was wearing an apron and a red bathrobe over his shirt and shorts. She looked down at his mismatched socks and his slippers and then up at his reading glasses and dark, graying hair. His hair was mussed, and he looked just as panicked as she felt.
“Erin?” the man said.
“Are you Hawkeye?” Erin said.
“You look so much like him it’s astounding,” the man said. “Hawkeye Pierce, it’s a delight to properly meet you.”
Hawkeye extended his hand and Erin shook it. She flushed. She hardly remembered Hawkeye. Before, he’d been a blur of big smiles and chaotic energy in the space beside her father.
“Nice to meet you,” Erin said.
She stared at the blue of his eyes behind his smudged frames. He was rail thin and tall, like her father. He had bags beneath his eyes and he hadn’t shaved.
“Come in,” Hawkeye said. He helped her with her bag.
“This couch pulls out,” Hawkeye continued. “We’ve got fresh sheets and blankets for you.”
She looked around the living room while Hawkeye explained that his other two roommates were working as well, but would be home soon.
“You don’t have to work?” Erin said.
She was sizing up the shabby couch and the cluttered coffee table. The whole room was full of the glowy, sunset light from outside. The light was making it difficult to hate everything about her father’s apartment, which was what Erin had resolved to do. There were big bookshelves lining the walls and a cozy looking easy chair with a bright orange knit blanket thrown over it. There was an end table with an ashtray and a tiny, beat up TV in the corner. She could see into the kitchen too: mismatched chairs, big lace doily at the center of the table, flowers hanging upside down to dry over the sink. The loft felt lived in. Dad’s old apartment had never felt like that.
“I’m in charge of the welcome committee,” Hawkeye said. He’d crossed the room, turning to attend to the various pots and pans Erin could see bubbling on the stovetop. “And dinner,” he added.
Dinner looked like spaghetti. It was, regrettably, one of Erin’s favorites.
“My mom said we met when I was younger,” Erin said. She was still holding her green bag, standing stiffly in the middle of the living room. “Have you and my dad been friends for a long time?”
“Let’s see…we met in ‘52 That’d be 15 years now. I guess when you put it like that it just makes me sound old,” Hawkeye said.
Erin didn’t think he looked any older than her father. She’d always thought her father looked old, that there were lines in his face that weren’t in the faces of her friends’ fathers. She’d seen photos of him just before she was born. He looked young in those pictures. There was a childlike quality to his smile.
“You met my dad during the war,” Erin said.
Hawkeye smiled at her, and then tilted his head to one side, curiously. “He really didn’t tell you a thing about me, did he?” he said.
“My dad doesn’t tell me anything,” Erin said.
Hawkeye rolled his eyes. “Well, that makes two of us,” he said. “Your dad, I mean, not my dad. My dad calls me to tell me what he had for lunch.”
Erin snorted. It came from trying to hold in a laugh. There was something ridiculous about the whole conversation. It was as if Hawkeye was on her side, instantly, and didn’t deem her deficient in some way. Approval was never that freely given, in Erin’s experience. Neither was trust. Adults, especially, were never on her side.
Hawkeye’s grin spread. “Oh, I’ve got a lot of cracks about Beej. I love him to death but he still drives me crazy,” he said. “Can you put your bag down and take a seat somewhere? You’re making me nervous and when I’m nervous I burn garlic bread,” he said.
Erin sat down in one of the kitchen chairs and slung her bag over the back of it. Hawkeye was now fully engaged in finishing dinner, it seemed. Erin was grateful that his eyes were off her. There was something intense in his gaze.
“How’s your mom?” Hawkeye said.
“She’s good,” Erin said. Hawkeye’s back was still turned so she took the opportunity to pick at her cuticles. “She just sold a house. Henry wants to take her to Paris.”
“Henry?” Hawkeye said, looking over his shoulder. He looked alarmed.
“My stepdad,” she said, and Hawkeye’s expression relaxed.
Mom got remarried a couple years ago. It was a courthouse wedding. Erin had been permitted to wear one of her mother’s old dresses, a pretty periwinkle number with a floral pattern and lush fabric that she smoothed compulsively with her hands. Henry was nice. He gave her space. He smiled a lot and he didn’t overstep. Erin was the only one of her friends with a stepdad. He’d invited Erin to Paris too, but she didn’t want to be a nuisance. Erin often felt like the divorce was her fault, though she’d never said this out loud, not even to the child psychologist she’d been made to see for a couple sessions.
Sure, her parents were still friendly. Sure, it hadn’t been some big, drawn out thing with screaming matches and tense conversations. But Erin Hunnicutt’s parents had promised to be together forever, in sickness and in health and all that jazz, and then they had her and soon enough it had all fallen apart.
Hawkeye wiped his palms on his apron. Erin sat hunched, with her hands between her knees.
“Your dad really wanted to meet you at the airport,” Hawkeye said.
“I know,” Erin said. The reassurance sent something queasy through her stomach.
“You’re all he’s been talking about these past few weeks. He was going to take you out someplace fancy,” Hawkeye said.
Erin’s head bobbed, hair falling into her face. Her hair was long, long enough to obscure her vision or use as a scarf. Mom said she hid behind her hair.
“We’re all excited that you’re here,” he added. “I imagine it’s intimidating to be shipped off for a summer with a bunch of your dad’s old friends. Beej has all sorts of things planned—”
“Like picking me up?” Erin cut in, sharply. Her face burned, on instinct. She hadn’t wanted to let on that she was angry, really. Sometimes she felt like anger built up in her, like a shaken soda can.
Hawkeye smiled. Something twisted up in Erin’s chest. What are you smiling for, old man?
“I’d be angry with him if I were you. It’s too bad BJ’s the best surgeon in Seattle,” he said.
He dumped the pasta into a strainer, stepping back so the steam didn’t hit him full in the face. He shut off the burner with the sauce pot and put his hands on his hips, assessing his work. Hawkeye had to be a surgeon if he was friends with her father during the war. She could almost see the two of them in their scrubs.
“Is he really, or are you saying that because he’s my dad?” Erin said. She was grinding her teeth again, irreversibly.
“Really,” Hawkeye said. “Although, I can’t say I’m entirely objective.”
There was something distant and fond on Hawkeye’s face. Erin decided it was none of her business.
There was a loud thump in the hallway. Both Hawkeye and Erin jumped, and then the door opened.
“Christ, Margaret, did you drop a bowling ball out there?” Hawkeye said.
A blonde woman bent to scoop up her grocery bags in the doorway. When she straightened, Erin saw that her face was red and her eyelashes were long. Her hair was French braided and she was wearing slacks and a big blue button‐down with the sleeves rolled to her elbows. It looked like a men’s shirt. Erin couldn’t help but stare.
“I’m trying to make sure we’re prepared, Pierce. BJ will be back with Erin any minute,” the woman, Margaret, said. She looked up at Erin with wide eyes.
“The minute has come and gone,” Hawkeye said. “Beej got called in for surgery. He sent a cab for Erin.”
“A cab?” Margaret said.
“He’s patching up that kid with the bad heart,” Hawkeye said. He crossed the room and took her bags from her. “Erin Hunnicutt, meet Margaret Houlihan,” he said.
Margaret looked at her like a deer in headlights.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, young lady,” she said, with a nervous smile.
Erin liked her, instantly.
“It’s nice to meet you,” she said.
“You’re just in time for spaghetti, Margaret. Would you two mind setting the table while I put Margaret’s emergency rations away?”
“Pierce—”
“You’ve got four boxes of corn flakes. How much do you think one kid can eat?” Hawkeye said.
Erin laughed, and they both looked at her and then at each other.
The door opened again. A dark haired woman wearing nurse’s scrubs stood in the doorway. She closed the door behind her and grinned at the three of them.
“Hi,” she said. She pulled a clementine out of her pocket and tossed it in Margaret’s direction. Margaret caught it. “Vitamin C, Houlihan,” she said.
“Helen’s convinced Margaret’s coming down with a cold,” Hawkeye said, to Erin.
Helen set her bag down and flopped into the armchair with the orange blanket.
“Erin, this is Helen Whitfield,” Margaret said. She was already sinking her fingernails into the clementine peel. “She’s very sweet but also very wrong about my immune system.”
“Nice to meet you,” Erin repeated.
“Well, kids, soup’s on,” Hawkeye said.
He laid out dinner: a steaming heap of pasta, marinara and shredded cheese, a salad with greens and carrots and sliced cherry tomatoes, the garlic bread, just singed and cut into generous pieces, a pitcher of lemonade.
“I’ve got ice cream and brownies too,” Hawkeye said.
“You’ve outdone yourself, Hawk,” Helen said, passing Erin the garlic bread.
He shrugged. “I’ve been keeping busy,” he said.
Erin ate, because she was hungry and they were all looking at her for approval. Hawkeye turned on the radio for background noise. Margaret asked Erin about school and she gave the standard, polite answers. Hawkeye explained that they’d all met in the same MASH unit. Helen and Margaret worked as ER nurses at the hospital where Erin’s father worked. Hawkeye was a surgeon too.
“But you don’t work with my dad anymore?” Erin said.
The table fell silent. Margaret moved stray pieces of lettuce around her plate.
“I’ve been taking time off,” Hawkeye said. “Off of work, off of being a functioning member of society, the works, you know?”
“I’m not sure you were ever a functioning member of society,” Margaret said.
“It’s a relative term,” Hawkeye said. He reached for another piece of garlic bread. “Besides, someone’s got to be the housewife. I’ve been hard at work cooking and cleaning for you animals.”
Helen sipped her lemonade. “Well I’m sure as hell not going to be the housewife. What about you, Margaret?”
“I’m fine right where I am,” Margaret said. She was balancing her chin on her palm, and staring only at Helen.
“Fine,” Hawkeye said. “We can take turns. I’ll start and Beej can go next.”
He stood and started to clear the table. “I’ll cook forever as long as BJ stays on dish duty,” Hawkeye said.
“Oh, I’m on dish duty am I?” Dad said.
Erin turned to look at him, standing in the doorway, looking exhausted, but pleased with himself. He had the same stupid mustache, but alongside more scruff than she remembered. His hair was longer, and he looked happier than she’d seen him in a long time. He looked around at the four of them, and smiled, wide, when his eyes fell on Erin’s.
“Hi Erin,” he said.
“Hi Dad,” Erin said.
He crossed the room and hugged her. She pressed her face to his chest, breathing in familiar scents: hospital room, disinfectant, laundry soap, sweat. And new ones: cologne, cigarettes. She put her arms around him and found that he was sturdier. His grip was tight, like he thought that the second Erin stepped out of his arms, he’d never see her again.
“I see you’ve all been introduced. And that I’ve missed dinner entirely,” he said, pulling away at last.
“I made you a plate,” Hawkeye said, from the sink. He was already rinsing dishes, despite his previous delegation.
“And you didn’t miss dessert,” Margaret said.
Erin squirmed in her chair. Her father made his way to the fridge and pulled out his plate of cold spaghetti and a beer. He paused at the sink, beside Hawkeye. Hawkeye took a bottle opener out of a drawer and opened Dad’s beer. Dad put his arm around Hawkeye’s shoulders and squeezed as he slipped past.
Margaret stood and helped Hawkeye with the brownies and ice cream. Helen turned off the radio and got up to put on a record. Dad sat down next to Erin.
“How was the flight?” Dad said.
“How was the surgery?” Erin said.
Dad sipped his beer. “I wanted to meet you, Erin. I really did,” he said.
Erin scoffed. “I’m not being shitty. I’m really asking,” she said.
Dad stuck his fork into his pasta. Margaret and Hawkeye were at the counter dishing out ice cream and having some private conversation. Erin watched Hawkeye bump his hip into Margaret’s. They were both smiling.
“It went well. He’s stable,” Dad said. His eyes were on her. Erin was still looking around at Dad’s war buddies. Which of these people did you leave Mom for?
Hawkeye put a bowl of brownie and ice cream down in front of Dad, and then one for Erin.
“What’s the agenda for tomorrow?” Helen said. She’d slid in beside Margaret again.
“I thought we could go for breakfast? And then I could show you around the city for a while. I don’t have to be into work until 2 tomorrow—”
“You’re working on a Saturday?” Erin said.
“We’ll have plenty of time together. And you won’t get bored. Hawk can take you to the movies,” Dad said.
Erin was surprised at how quickly he’d volunteered Hawkeye’s time. Hawkeye, evidently, wasn’t. He nodded, eagerly.
“As long as BJ’s paying for our popcorn,” Hawkeye said.
“Okay,” Erin said.
She’d already abandoned her plan for the silent treatment, for snippy comments, and expressions engineered to inspire guilt.
She hadn’t been expecting any of this. She hadn’t expected cheerful roommates and comforting furnishings. She hadn’t anticipated Hawkeye, with his sad eyes and his nervous camaraderie with her.
The corners of Dad’s eyes crinkled up. “I’m really glad you’re here, kid,” he said.
Erin looked down at her melting ice cream.
“Me too,” she said.
The second Hawkeye closed the door behind them, BJ’s mouth was on him. He kissed his neck and his jaw and his cheeks and his lips. It wasn’t the first time he’d done so. Actually, it was pretty typical for Beej to be all over him after a hard day. Hawkeye preferred that reaction to his silences and foul moods back when they shared a tent and not a bedroom.
“I thought we talked about this,” Hawkeye managed, breathlessly, between kisses. “You’ve got to use your words.”
“Thank you for tonight. I don’t know how you did it,” BJ said.
His hands had migrated, sneaking up the back of Hawkeye’s shirt, just under his ribs.
“Did what?” Hawkeye said. He was getting a little distracted.
BJ pulled away, his expression clouding. Hawkeye thought he’d memorized all of Beej’s expressions, all his wrinkles and smile lines, every shift of his gaze. He could look at him across the room and know exactly what he was thinking. He’d started memorizing the day they met, he thought. It would be a ridiculous thing to say out loud, but that didn’t make it any less true.
“I expected her to be hostile. She’s so quiet on the phone. I have to ask her to speak up,” BJ said.
Hawkeye hadn’t known what to expect from Erin. He knew she hadn’t been apprised of all the details. She didn’t know, for example, that Hawkeye had shown up in California, nine months ago, two weeks after his father’s funeral, and discovered that Beej no longer lived in the charming Mill Valley house Hawkeye knew only from pictures.
“She was very nice to me,” Hawkeye said.
He’d been expecting a little girl. He didn’t know why. But Erin was poised. She looked older than 15, with her good posture and her serious expressions. Her hair was long and straight and dirty blonde, and she looked like BJ, except her eyes, which were her mother’s. After BJ had set her up with the pull out couch in the living room, and Margaret had seen to her bath towel and washcloths and a pair of house slippers, Hawkeye had made his evening cup of chamomile (to go alongside his sleeping pill) and watched Erin braid her hair into two long pigtails and curl up on her side in just the way that BJ had in the Swamp. Her shoulders scrunched to her ears, and she gripped a spare pillow tight to her chest. Hawkeye said goodnight and turned off the kitchen light.
“Well, you did something,” BJ said.
“I didn’t even shave, or get out of my pajamas, like you asked,” Hawkeye said.
Hawkeye rubbed a hand over the sharp line of his jaw, and watched Beej watch him. It had been half an argument that morning, when BJ was late for work and Hawkeye couldn’t get up. BJ had been stressed and irritated and concerned, sitting on the edge of the bed, half‐dressed, pulling on his shoes. Hawkeye had been fighting the familiar feeling of being rooted to the mattress.
I thought things were getting better. BJ had said things and not you.
Margaret had talked Hawkeye into the Seattle move. Beej came around quickly. He hadn’t been thrilled to be so far from Erin and Peg, but Peg had always been adamant that she didn’t want to hold him hostage in San Francisco. Especially since she was remarried, and he only saw Erin on weekends.
Margaret said a change would be good for him, over the phone, while BJ was packing. Hawkeye had just woken up from a 22 hour nap. He’d eaten half a piece of toast, gotten nauseous, and curled back up on Beej’s mattress. BJ had coaxed him into changing, at least, and washing his face. He’d brought him the phone and a cup of coffee.
“BJ’s worried, Pierce,” she’d said, voice low. “I think it would be good for you to be among friends. It’ll be a fresh start.”
A laugh forced its way out of his throat. “Oh, I see…you’re diagnosing me with hysteria and prescribing a trip to the seaside,” he said.
He was trying to shake off the dread that BJ’s worried had inspired.
“Think about it,” Margaret said.
“I’m sure BJ will stuff me in a suitcase and drag me to Seattle,” he said.
“As long as I get to see you,” Margaret muttered. “I miss you, Hawkeye.”
Hawkeye coughed. “I uh…I miss me too,” he’d said.
She’d been right, of course. The change had kept him from drowning. Only lately he’d been plagued with insomnia instead of the oppressive exhaustion of before. He’d get up and wander the apartment. He’d spooked Helen several times, perched on the kitchen counter in the dark.
It wasn’t all bad. He’d taken up cooking, to keep his hands busy and because BJ ate the things he made with such fervor it seemed a shame to stop. He’d never been much of a cook before the war, but once he’d gotten home he’d poured over his mother’s old recipes, written in neat, tiny, script on yellowing notecards. Dad had been happy to eat Hawkeye’s cooking too.
It didn’t matter that there was very little Hawkeye could stomach anymore. It didn’t matter that the steam rising off of the pot of beef stew with rosemary potatoes (Margaret’s family’s recipe) reminded him of the steam from warm bodies in the operating room. It didn’t matter that some days he was back in Korea, with frosty fingertips and blood on his apron.
It was better than the alternative. The first days in the apartment he was near comatose. He was all over BJ, though, lust was the first thing he’d been able to extricate from the numbness that had replaced his personality. Beej’s touch was like a drug, and he’d been off it for so long. BJ had been surprised, receptive, and willing to forgive the fact that Hawkeye barely ate or showered or got out of bed at all. They’d carried on that way, to a point, until it all got too depressing.
“You’re like a zombie, Hawk,” Beej had said.
Hawkeye couldn’t even sit up to look at him.
“And you can’t fuck a zombie,” Hawkeye said.
So, cooking, and cleaning, and pacing around the apartment just to keep himself out of bed. Then, he’d ventured further:
One. The convenience store down the block, where he’d buy the paper and a candy bar, had a feral cat that wandered the aisles, and would run right up to him after a few weeks of slipping her treats.
Two. A public park with a big fountain that kids threw coins into. He’d walk big loops and then sit down on a bench to write. Letters to Dad, mostly, and shopping lists.
Three. The sprawling grocery aisles, where Hawkeye moved among other bored or frazzled housewives, and then walked home with too many bags, so his arms ached, and he was panting by the time he reached the apartment’s lobby to snag the mail.
Hawkeye’s travel radius grew, and then his stamina, and then his ability to hold conversations in the living room, or around the kitchen table, or even over the phone, with Sidney, Charles, Trapper, and a few of his old friends from Crabapple Cove.
And now, apparently, he’d found an adequate way to communicate with Erin, who had no idea she was talking to her father’s partner. They hadn’t fully discussed what Erin should know, and what was better to conceal. BJ, Hawkeye knew, had always favored hiding.
“You made Erin feel more welcome than I did. I wasn’t even here,” BJ said.
They were laying down now, so their sides were pressed together. The building had settled. BJ had opened the windows for the breeze, and Hawkeye could hear the sounds of the city. He tried to listen more deeply, to catch some sound of Erin in the living room. He wondered if she slept easily, like he had when he was a kid.
“You thought you were going to lose that kid today, in surgery,” Hawkeye said.
BJ was quiet. Hawkeye stared up at the ceiling. His hand found BJ’s in the dark.
“Yes,” BJ said.
“And he’s alright?” Hawkeye said.
Beej turned his face to the side, burying it in Hawkeye’s shoulder. He hummed, affirmatively.
“I wished you were there,” BJ said.
“Moral support?”
Another hum.
“Does Erin know how many bedrooms are in the apartment?” Hawkeye asked.
“She can count. She’s got a basic grasp of the floor plan, I’m sure,” Beej said, voice muffled against Hawkeye’s shirt.
“Who does she think you’re sharing a bed with?” Hawkeye said.
“I’m sure she’s not thinking much about where her dad’s sleeping,” BJ said.
“Au contraire, monsieur divorcée," Hawkeye said.
“Can we talk about it later?” BJ said. He exhaled heavily, something between a groan and a sigh.
“We’re coming up on later, Beej. In fact I think we’re past later,” Hawkeye said.
“Surgical support,” BJ said.
“What?”
“That’s what I meant, earlier. Not just moral support. It’d be nice to have your surgical support,” BJ said.
“That’s a dirty trick, changing the subject like that,” Hawkeye said.
Beej hummed again, he was half‐asleep, Hawkeye could tell.
“I’m full of dirty tricks,” BJ said. “But you knew that already.”
Hawkeye sighed. “Goodnight, Beej,” he said.
The breeze slid through their curtains, so they billowed, big and white, for a moment. Hawkeye could swear he heard rustling from the living room, and a squeak of mattress springs. Their bedroom fell silent. Hawkeye closed his eyes.
“I’ll talk to her in the morning, Hawk,” Beej said, into the quiet. “Don’t worry.”