Three Letters

The sun is just sinking beneath the horizon, basking the hotel room with splashes of gold, azure, and purple haze. Sitting at his desk, pen and paper before him, Lieutenant Colonel Donald Penobscott prepares to write to the woman he married only months earlier. She is a strong willed, feisty woman, the "suitable wife" his parents wish him to have. She will bear him strong, well versed children; little ones he will be proud to pass on the name Penobscott. He smiles to himself as he imagines lazy Sunday evenings as he sits before the fire, sharing stories of his years in Korea as Margaret prepares dinner. For yes, she is indeed his sturdy, strong wife, but there are women's duties to consider. Donald believes that women should have the right to vote, and to serve their country in times of need, but she must never forget the equally noble role of housewife and mother...

Donald's mind returns to the task at hand, and he picks up his pen, dating and addressing his letter with his usual beautiful script.

My dear Margaret,

Oh, how I long to be able to address you as such in person, instead of simply writing it in a letter. To be able to feel the touch of your skin and gentle caresses, taste the sweetness of your kiss.

Donald pauses, a slight wave of guilt washing over him. For as he writes, he imagines not his wife in his arms, but Darlene. The one of raven hair and soft, gray eyes, full lips painted crimson... he sighs, feeling the desire nearly overwhelm him, and wills himself to continue.

I understand that your CO was unable to grant you the R&R you requested. I, too, am deeply disappointed. I had looked forward to our strolls in the Tokyo gardens, a romantic candlelight dinner for two, a few nights in a fine hotel.

But it is not Margaret whom he sees lying next to him, bare breasted in the moonlight, running her fingers through his hair and gently cupping his cheek in her hand. He sees not his wife sitting across from him, laughter on her lips as they share a glass of after dinner champagne. This time Donald sets down the pen, breathing deeply. He cares for Margaret, always will despite the distance, literal and figurative, his marriage as created. The news that his bride had been denied the requested leave had brought not the bitter taste of disappointment, but the thrill of yet another weekend with his lover. He moans in pleasure, but the moment of lust is cut short by the small photograph of his wife in her Class A's. He had foolishly believed that the fancy he had felt was love. For at one time, the fantasies had been of her, blue-green eyes sparkling as she laughed (a sound even he had recognized to be a rare occurrence). He had been attracted to her no nonsense, strict military ways, to the sound of her voice as she barked orders to her nurses. And yet, there was the gentle side she reserved for her parents, the caring, nurturing bedside manner as she soothed fevered brows and changed dressings. Yes, she would make the fine wife his family so desired.

Donald picks up the photograph and lays it, face down, on the desk. He cannot bear to see her face when he knows she is writing to her nothing but lies. Picking up his pen for a third time, he finishes the letter and sets it beside the one he has already penned, the one destined not for his wife, but his lover. He smiles, thinks of his beautiful Darlene as he picks up the letter intended for his wife and slides it into the wrong envelope.

XXX

Margaret Houlihan's eyes are still burning, the tears still fresh on her cheeks as she holds him close amidst the shelling bombarding them outside. The words of the letter, intended not for her but her husband's lover, still linger as she presses her lips to his, fingers running through hair once a youthful black but now peppered with gray. Hawkeye Pierce, the man she had resented, loathed, and yet somehow yearned for, is in her arms, running his own fingers through tangled, blonde waves, pressing his body against hers in both lust and comfort. She hears herself moaning, his nickname slipping from her lips sounding foreign. They kiss for several minutes; for a few moments more she wonders if the camp playboy will take advantage of her, silently begs him to. But as much as he is a lover, Hawkeye is also a gentleman. When at last they pull apart, the tears are dry, images of Donald and the horrible woman, Darlene, momentarily banished.

XXX

Dear Hank,

I'll never forget that night we spent in that abandoned hut.

Margaret looks up from the letter she has written, meant for Donald, and is now reading aloud to Hawkeye. The man she had very nearly slept with, whose friendship she had also nearly lost due to their stubborn ways. "Do you like Hank?" she asks and the surgeon responds with his usual wit, face neutral but with that telltale twinkle in his deep, blue eyes. His answer is in typical Hawkeye fashion, and Margaret resists the urge to smack him across the arm before raising her letter and continuing.

You gave me your warmth and caring when I was afraid. And now I think, from time to time, when I'm afraid again, I may have the courage to let another person know it. You helped me grow a little.

She once more looks up from her letter, smiling warmly at the man across from him, the man she had always trusted with her life, even during those nights before Donald, when she had been the other woman during her relationship with Frank Burns. Her eyes never leave his when she speaks the final words of her letter. "Thank you, Hank," she says.