Chapter Text
It was a warm day in Maine - for January: which is to say, the temperature had risen to just above freezing during most of the afternoon, and Daniel Pierce had a good day. Also, it was Thursday, and tomorrow he planned to make the thirty-seven mile drive to Portland, see his son, and drive him back home for the weekend.
After three years during which he never got to see his son except in photographs or, once, on television (tiny, grainy, black-and-white), and hardly ever got to hear his son's voice, to be able to hear him nearly every evening (they called each other almost compulsively) and to be able to see each other every weekend, well: it made most Thursdays good days, knowing that.
(The actual weekends, often, not so much.)
There were tracks on the path up to the front door, in the flurry of snow that fell at lunchtime: he had a visitor. The visitor was standing in the front porch, and by that, Daniel Pierce knew he couldn't be a Crabapple Cove native, because in this weather, no one would stand on the front porch and wait when they could look for Doctor Pierce's spare key and let themselves in.
"Hey there," Daniel Pierce greeted him. The man didn't reply: he turned slowly, seeming to just become aware of Daniel, and looked at him in a kind of bewildered way. He was shorter than Daniel, wearing glasses, and he wasn't dressed for a Maine winter, Daniel realised: he was wearing a thin coat, a thin hat, and his shoes didn't look like they were meant for walking through heavy snow.
"Come on," Daniel said, deciding that introductions could wait. He unlocked the door, tapped the man's shoulder, and had to all but push him inside. The hall was dark: Daniel used the downstairs parlor as a consulting room sometimes, but it would warm the place up better if he lit the kitchen stove, and anyway, his visitor hadn't made an appointment. Daniel switched the hall light on when he realised the man wasn't following him through, and waved at him. "Come on," he said. "Sit down through here."
He switched the kitchen light on too, and added kindling and a couple of sticks of wood and a match to the kitchen stove. The room would be warm soon. He turned round and eyed the man standing by the kitchen door. "Well, sir?" he asked, expecting an introduction. "Get your coat off and get warm. How do your feet feel?"
The man stood there and looked at him, very intently. After a long moment, he said, "Are you Doctor Daniel Pierce?"
"Ayuh."
"I'm - I know your son. Hawkeye." The man tucked his hands under his arms. "I came here hoping to find him. Is he here?"
"Hawkeye's in Portland," Daniel said. "He works at the Maine Medical Center. Do you know him from college, or from Korea?"
"Korea," the man said. "Portland, did you say?"
Daniel nodded. He turned away to the sink to fill a pan with water - the man looked like he could use a hot drink. "He'll be here tomorrow," he said. "Mind saying who you are? Any friend of my son's - " That wasn't quite true, of course. He turned round. The man was still standing by the kitchen door. He hadn't moved or taken his coat off.
"I was hoping to see him," the man said, sounding very tired. "Where did you say he was working?"
"Maine Medical Center," Daniel said. "Look, son, get your coat off, hang it up on that hook, and sit down. You're not going anywhere til you get warmed up."
As if accustomed to obedience, the man took off his coat. Under it, he was wearing a brown knitted cardigan and a black button-down shirt, neither one thick enough for proper warmth. He hung the coat up where Daniel had pointed, and sat down. Daniel brewed coffee. He put a full mug down in front of the man, set down a jug of milk and the glass jar of sugar with the ceramic lid - Hawkeye had cracked that lid years ago and glued it back together again - and sat down on the other side of the table, with his own mug of coffee.
"Now, do you mind saying who you are?" Daniel asked.
"Francis Mulcahy," the man said. "I should - I'm sorry, I should have said - I'm quite deaf. I can't hear you unless I can see your face."
"That's hard," Daniel observed. "You knew my son in Korea? Were you at his unit, 4077th?"
"Yes."
"Then I met your sister in New York, in '52," Daniel said, pleased to have placed him. "You were the unit chaplain, weren't you? Hawkeye always spoke well of you. Your sister's a terrific saxophone player. How is she?"
To his surprise, the man seemed to crumple. He put down his mug of coffee, which he had been gripping with hands reddened with cold, and ducked his head, clutching his hands together and tucking them under his chin. He didn't say anything for a moment. Then he lifted his head. "I'm sorry," he said. "I shouldn't have come here. I need to get back to the bus station."
The bus station in Crabapple Cove was a fancy name for an unheated shed used as a depot. There was a waiting room of sorts, but it would be locked by now, because the last bus of the day had already left.
"Is there something wrong with your sister?" Daniel asked.
"No," the man said. "Kathy's fine. I'm sorry to have troubled you, Doctor Pierce. I should be on my way." He gathered himself together and stood up. Daniel stood up too. "Sit down," he said, very firmly, and then realising that the man probably couldn't see his face well enough, gestured largely with his hands. The man looked at him and shook his head and turned away from the table to get his coat.
"Sit," Daniel said, realising the man couldn't hear him, patting him on the shoulder - he was too thin and he wasn't wearing enough layers - pulling out the chair again, gesturing with his free hand. "Sit, sit!"
"I'm sorry, I can't explain, I really should go - " The man sounded quite sincere, but also exhausted. He did sit down. Daniel sat down again opposite from him.
"Look, son - " He was pretty sure that wasn't the right way to talk to a chaplain, but he was feeling too old for this. "You aren't dressed right for this weather, and anyway, the bus station is closed for the night. I don't know what Hawkeye told you about me, but I don't bite. What did you want to see him for?"
"I'm on my way from Philadelphia to New York," Francis Mulcahy said after a moment. "I just thought I'd stop by and see him. The bus station is closed? Where is there - what would be open in town?"
Daniel Pierce said nothing. He drank his coffee. While flatlanders in Maine often did downright foolish things, he didn't believe someone could misread bus routes and think that Crabapple Cove would be on their way to anywhere, or that anyone would tramp two miles in the snow in shoes that weren't meant for walking on anything but city pavements, just to "stop by".
"How do your feet feel?" he asked.
Francis Mulcahy looked confused. "Cold," he said.
"Numb? Tingling?"
"No, just cold."
Daniel finished his coffee. He was thinking. Most of the guest houses round here were closed for the season. There were a handful that would take someone in, especially if it was Doctor Pierce asking, but that would mean calling round to ask, and then driving Francis Mulcahy there. And the man was clearly not equipped for walking round rural Maine in January: it must have taken grit to get the two miles to the Pierce house. He needed a hot meal, and probably the indefinite loan of a pair of good socks and a good jersey. Gloves and a scarf, too. There was bound to be something that would fit him in the stockpile of knitting both he and Hawkeye kept adding to: Hawkeye bought yarn in Portland, and he and Daniel had been spending winter evenings knitting. It had been easier than talking, even though he'd missed talking to his son for three years. Were there boots in the house that would fit him?
"I think," he said, having thought things through, "you'd best stay here for supper."
Francis Mulcahy picked up his coffee cup, and drank from it. He put the cup down again. He raised his eyebrows and smiled at Daniel: a very sweet smile.
"I think I'd better go find somewhere to stay the night before I have supper," he said. "Thank you very much, Doctor Pierce."
Daniel shook his head. He explained the guest house situation off season. He realised a few minutes in to his explanation that the man had obviously stopped tracking what he was saying. "So, you'll stay here for a hot meal," he said firmly.
Francis looked at him, a tired look. "You're really very like your son," he said.
"Thank you," Daniel said, unsurprised. He and Hawkeye didn't look much alike - well, they both had the Pierce face, but even there they weren't much like - and Hawkeye was thinner, taller, and he got his black hair and blue eyes from his mother. But everyone had always said they were alike. "You need to freshen up? Bathroom's down the hall. Didn't you bring any baggage?"
"I had a case," Francis said. "I left it at the cafe by the bus station. I asked the way to the Pierce house, and I didn't want to - I wanted to find out if Hawkeye was here."
"Ah," Daniel nodded. He went to the phone and dialed. The cafe was closed for the day, but Daniel Sheffield should still be cleaning up. He identified the case without surprise and agreed to drop it off on his way past.
"Friend of my son's, from Korea," Daniel said, in answer to Sheff's unvoiced curiosity.
"Ayuh?" Sheff said. "Expecting company?"
"My son said this friend might stop by," Daniel said. Hawkeye hadn't, but anything told to Sheff would be all round Crabapple Cove as soon as Mary Sheffield got on to her party line. "If he'd cabled me what bus, I'd have been at the depot to pick him up. But he thought it's not that far, I'll walk."
Sheff and he both laughed, and Daniel ended the call, grinning to himself. Then he dialled the Portland number.
"Hi Dad," Hawkeye said.
Daniel didn't ask how he knew it was him. They exchanged their usual, pro-forma enquiries about their day's work, enjoying the sound of each other's voices.
"A friend of yours paying a call," he said.
"Yeah, who?" Hawkeye said. He sounded bored. Hawkeye's friends from boyhood had dropped by, and Hawkeye didn't seem to get on with them any more.
"He says he's Francis Mulcahy."
There was a short pause. "Father Mulcahy? He's visiting you?" Hawkeye didn't sound bored at all.
"Well, I think so. He looks a little like his sister. He says he was on his way from Pennylvania to New York, and he's just dropped by to see you."
"I'll come," Hawkeye said. "I can get the overnight bus from Portland and walk up from the bus depot. I'll be there in, in just few hours. Don't let him leave."
"Wait," Daniel said. "You've got work tomorrow."
"I'll call in sick."
"You will not," Daniel said.
There was a pause.
"Dad - " Hawkeye said, sounding cracked and desperate."Put him on the line, let me talk to him."
"I don't think I can do that."
"Why the hell not?" Hawkeye sounded actually frantic.
"He says he's deaf," Daniel said.
"Deaf?" Hawkeye sounded a bit calmer - if anything, annoyed. "Father Mulcahy isn't deaf."
"He says he is." Daniel said. He glanced at the man, sitting at the table. "And I'm pretty sure he is."
"Father Mulcahy?"
"Look, son, I made him stay for supper. I'll talk to him over supper, and I'll call you after we eat. You have something to eat yourself, okay, no dining on whisky?"
There was a pause. "Yes, dad," Hawkeye said finally.
Daniel sat down again across from Francis. "I was just talking to Dan at the cafe. He'll bring your case by after hes finished cleaning up and locking up for the night."
"Thank you," Francis said. "That's very kind of you."
"His car has snow-chains on, and it's not so far out of his way," Daniel said. He paused. "And then I called my son."
Francis looked up then, his eyebrows going up a little. "Hawkeye?"
"I've only got the one," Daniel said. He paused. "I told him you were staying for supper and he should call again after he'd eaten. Seemed quite keen to speak to you."
"Oh," Francis didn't look very happy to hear that, Daniel thought: he smiled, but he looked sad. "I'm not sure I should have come here," he said.
"Well, I'm pleased to see you," Daniel said, deciding that he was: Hawkeye had sounded properly awake, If Daniel called too late in the evening, Hawkeye had the radio blasting and he was drunk. Not very drunk. He had never shown up for work drunk or even hungover - and Daniel, hating himself, had checked. "I hope you'll stay over til Saturday morning - I usually run up to Portland, meet Ben, and we drive back here for the weekend. I was going to bake salmon, and since you're here, fry potato pancakes, that sound good to you?"
"I really do think I should go," Francis said. He sounded uncertain.
"Stay and have supper," Daniel said. "I had enough of eating meals alone every night when Hawkeye was in Korea."
By the time they had eaten supper, and Sheff had delivered Francis's case, and Daniel had let Francis do the dishes, Daniel had made up his mind - unless Hawkeye told him otherwise - that Francis would be staying the night. He had a couple of spare rooms.
Hawkeye answered the phone in Portland at first ring. "Is Father Mulcahy there?"
"He's wiping our supper dishes. Did you have supper, son?"
"Yes."
"What?"
"Pasta and gin, with just a touch of vermouth," Hawkeye said. "Tastes great. Dad, I'll be with you as fast as I can after work on Friday. Don't let Father Mulcahy leave. Did he say why he's here?"
"No, he did not," Daniel said, carefully. "I can drive up and collect you on Saturday morning, just the same as usual."
Hawkeye made an indescribable noise down the phone.
"What's wrong?"
"I can just see him," Hawkeye said. "Up to the elbows in suds, at our kitchen sink. I don't want him to leave before I get there."
As it happened, right then, Francis was at least up to the middle of his forearms in dish-soap suds. He looked happier than he had done all evening, and he was scrubbing the fry pan.
"I might run out of dishes by then," Daniel said, and heard, with relief, his son's loud laugh. "Listen, I can't keep him if he really wants to go. But he came here to see you, and I'll let him know you want to see him. I think you should let me drive you down to Crabapple Cove on Saturday morning. I'll call you tomorrow night. How are things at work?"
"Oh, fine," Hawkeye said, after a moment.
"How are things with you and Allen?" Robert Allen and Daniel Pierce had gone through med school together. Daniel had gone home to Crabapple Cove and a career of sometimes expecting payment in fresh-caught salmon, or eggs, or poached venison, and Allen was now chief of surgery at Maine Medical Center: Allen remembered Hawkeye from back when he was an intern, but even so, he was happy to give him a job when Daniel had explained his son needed more work than there was for him to do in Crabapple Cove.
"Fine," Hawkeye said. "He asked after you."
"I hope you told him something interesting."
Hawkeye laughed. "I should tell him you're dating a Catholic priest."
"Ayuh, that'd fetch him," Daniel said. He eyed Francis. He wasn't wearing that tidy white collar Catholic priests wore.
"Dad, can you ask Father Mulcahy..." Hawkeye's voice trailed off.
"Sure," Daniel said, after a while. "But you'll have to tell me, because I'm no mindreader."
"I just wanted to know..." Hawkeye's voice trailed off again. "No, it doesn't matter, I can ask him myself."
"Sure," Daniel agreed.
"Not that it even matters," Hawkeye said.
"Ayuh?"
"No, it really doesn't matter," Hawkeye said.
"Sounds like it," Daniel agreed.
"I wanted to know if he'd got my letters. But he probably didn't. Or maybe he did. They were stupid letters anyway."
When Hawkeye had got home for Korea, too thin and too much grey in his hair and looking strangely fragile, he had slept, waking only for meals, which he often didn't finish. He had set up his radio in his room and kept it playing. Daniel switched it off once, thinking to save the batteries, and Hawkeye had woken up with something between a scream and a yelp, "What is it - what is it - ?" before he'd realised where he was and who Daniel was.
When the long sleeping had tapered off, and Hawkeye had started eating meals properly, and cooking them, and going on walks down into Crabapple Cove to mail letters and buy supplies - stamps, food, gin, whiskey, fresh batteries for his radio - which played, non-stop, day or night, unless Daniel was trying to talk to Hawkeye, and then Hawkeye would switch it off and listen and even give disjointed replies. Hawkeye wrote letters. Hawkeye talked of going to Europe (which worried Daniel at first, until he realised Hawkeye was no more likely to go to Europe than back to Korea). He talked of travelling to see friends, in California, Iowa, Illinois, Pennsylvania. He wrote letters and sometimes, someone wrote back, and Hawkeye read and re-read the letter, and replied back, and then, it seemed, usually the friend didn't write back again. Daniel hadn't supervised his son's mail since he was sixteen. He had wondered if he should now. When he asked if Hawkeye would like to help out with the practice, Hawkeye had cheerfully agreed, but "No kids."
About half the practice was kids. Hawkeye had been great with kids. But, fine, no kids.
The work did Hawkeye good. He slept better, he drank less, the frenetic writing of letters slowed down, but there wasn't enough to do, there wasn't really enough work here for two doctors, not even when one of them refused to treat anyone under the age of eighteen. But Hawkeye seemed calmer. He seemed to be drinking less. He all but stopped writing letters. Daniel liked a glass of whiskey in the evenings, but Hawkeye could get through a substantial part of a bottle in one evening. And he kept buying more. Actually, Daniel was not even sure how much Hawkeye was drinking, except he was always sober for work.
"Well," Daniel said, on the heels of Hawkeye saying "stupid letters". He knew not to leave long gaps where Hawkeye's words could fall in.
"Well, whether or not he replied to your letters, he must have got them, because he knew you were living here. And he came right here, wanting to see you. What have you got on your schedule for tomorrow?"
"Grand rounds with Allen," Hawkeye said. That was a given on a Friday morning. "I can't remember. It's all the same thing."
Daniel kept an eye on Francis at the sink, and teased out from Hawkeye the schedule for tomorrow. A light day. Hawkeye wasn't operating. That was a pity: days when Hawkeye was doing surgery, he drank less.
"That's it," Daniel said. "I need to get back to our guest, or he'll have to start scrubbing the stove top. He's about run out of things to clean. I'll call you tomorrow night, and I'll see you on Saturday."
"Night, Dad. I love you."
"I love you. Sleep well." Daniel said, and smiled at the phone as he hung up, because Hawkeye had never forgotten to finish a call with "I love you" even when he was calling from the phone booth in the store to find out if they needed more cornmeal.
Francis Mulcahy was a tad like one of those wind-up toys that just kept going. He still looked pretty tired, but he was hard to convince he should sit down and take his ease. He had managed to respond to what Daniel was saying over supper, but, while they were sitting by the stove, he began to look confused and would nod and smile as if he'd understood. Daniel decided enough was enough.
"My son's expecting to see you on Saturday morning," Daniel said, leaning forward, wondering if that would make what he was saying any clearer. He blinked against the dazzle from the lamp. "Francis, you look dead on your feet. I'll get sheets and so on for the bed in the spare room, and you can sleep til noon, if you've a mind to."
"Oh," Francis said. He stared at Daniel, looking quite out of it. "I shouldn't put you to the trouble."
"It's no trouble. I'll even hand you the bedding and let you make the bed yourself, if you like."
"Certainly, "Francis said, actually sounding as if he supposed Daniel meant it.
By the time Daniel came downstairs again, having put sheets on the bed and found fresh blankets and pillows and a coverlet, Francis was asleep in the armchair. He'd taken his glasses off, and they were sitting on the table by the glass of whisky, of which he might have had one mouthful.
Like Hawkeye, Francis woke up awkwardly, as if he expected to be called to work: but once he had put his glasses on, he went up the stairs as Daniel pointed - Daniel carried his case: Francis looked none too steady on his feet - and wished Daniel a good night before closing the door.
Once Daniel was in bed, he picked up his book and opened it where he had left off last night. This was the best way of getting to sleep he knew.
As Hawkeye and the Mohicans had, however, often traversed the mountains and valleys of this vast wilderness, they did not hesitate to plunge into its depth...
He read on, waiting for his eyelids to droop shut. The familiar noises of the old house settling around him did not keep him awake, and nor did the rattling sounds of the trees and night critters outside, not even when - as it did sometimes - it sounded almost like someone crying.