leaning out for love

In a stroke of what Hawkeye calls bravery and Margaret calls stupidity, she calls Helen to ask if she wants to come hiking in Point Reyes with her and Oliver for Independence Day. Normally Helen does not let Margaret get her way whenever she feels like it, which is one of the things Margaret loves the most about her. So she expects Helen to politely decline and say she has plans, but Helen is so enthusiastic about the idea that she even volunteers to drive.

"Really?"

"Of course. It's a perfect plan— I can't stand the fireworks these days. Too damn loud."

"I didn't know that."

"Yeah, well, it's sort of a recent development." Helen doesn't elaborate— but then, she doesn't need to. Who wants to talk about the war? "I'll get Thursday off, too. You want me to get an extra thermos for coffee?"

They talk the whole way up, speculating about the drug ring Margaret's landlord is probably running in the basement and wondering if Eisenhower is going to have another heart attack. They tell stories of their worst dates and try to catch each other in a lie, but Helen is too good at bullshitting, so Margaret throws a sandwich wrapper at her and ends the game. Oliver hangs his head out the back window of Helen's shining blue Ford, ears flapping wildly in the breeze. Margaret kicks her bare feet up on the dashboard and is wildly, blindly happy as they talk shit about Army officials.

"Incomb! He'll never make Lieutenant Colonel. If dumb were dirt, he'd be an acre." Helen laughs at that for some reason. "What's so funny?"

Helen glances over at her. "Nothing. Only that's my expression."

"You don't have a patent on it."

"Hey, alright, Major. I just think it's funny to hear you use it. Please, tell me more about Incomb's idiocy."

Margaret happily continues the story of how the dean of medicine attempted to grope a very important donor. Halfway through, she looks over to make sure Helen is still listening— and finds Helen already looking at her.

"What are you looking at?" The words stumble out of her mouth.

Helen shrugs a little and glances back at the road. "What else is there to look at?"

"The road." She points ahead of them— and suddenly it's like the part in a movie where the hero rounds the bend or comes over the top of the cliff and everything falls away— the road is leading them into the sky, and there's the ocean, right below them. 

"Hey," says Helen. "This is some view." Her forearm rests on the window frame; her right hand drums on the steering wheel; the wind tosses her hair left and right.

"Some view," Margaret repeats.

They hike all day, surrounded by hills that look a tiny bit like Korea, if you don't count the lack of bomb craters and the smell of the ocean. They collect shells, and try to identify birds, and almost step on a plover nest. Oliver tries to eat a mouse. In the evening, they eat sandwiches on the beach, huddled beneath a gigantic blanket, and watch the stars.

"This place feels like somewhere people were never meant to be," Margaret says.

"How could we be anywhere else?" Helen replies. She looks at Margaret and smiles. The waves crash and hiss.

It's the perfect place, the perfect time to say I love you, I've always loved you. Which of course means that when she tries to speak, the words get caught in her throat and she can't say it. She is never going to be able to say it properly.

Helen looks back at the ocean and sips her coffee: the moment passes.

They're quiet on the way back. Helen drives and Margaret sits shotgun, tired and itchy; she's probably got two hundred new bug bites. She feels scratchy on the inside too, like she's stuck in a life that's too small for her and she isn't brave enough to change it, no matter how much she tries. Things are different, she reminds herself, you've changed. But everything still feels the same.

The sea rages and blends into the gray sky below them. Margaret thinks she feels that kind of tumult when she sits next to Helen.

She's tired of being here, in this little life, stuck on her best friend. A little part of her wants to leave and move somewhere new and terrible where nobody knows her name, somewhere without confusing, beautiful women named Helen; somewhere without friends who really do want what's best for her. She rests her head against the window and thinks maybe Oliver would like being somewhere with a lot of grass.

The colors outside flow together: gray, blue, tan, green. Maybe it's the lack of sleep, or the rhythmic, soporific rattle of the car as they wind their way along Route 1, but at some point Margaret falls asleep and does not dream.

One weekend BJ invites her over to their house for lunch. Hawkeye opens the door in bare feet, the most outlandish purple Hawaiian shirt Margaret's ever seen, and a furry gray lump on his head. Naturally, she has a laughing fit on their front porch. Hawkeye just crosses his arms and waits for her to calm down.

"I'm sorry, Hawkeye, but you look like a Cossack," she gasps.

"Wrong country! Meet Marlene." He removes the blobby hat from his head; it unfolds itself into a small gray cat with green eyes and white eyebrows. He plops the cat into Margaret's arms and ushers her inside. Their house is bright and airy and filled with books and art and drawings from Erin, to-do lists in Hawkeye's spiky handwriting and phone numbers in BJ's blocky print. Newspapers and file folders blanket the scratched kitchen table— they must be working on a case— but somehow it doesn't seem as messy as the office. It's just the normal clutter of two people sharing a home.

"Why is your cat called Marlene?"

"As in Dietrich?"

"I understood that. But what the hell kind of a name is that for a cat?" Hawkeye turns from where he's been rummaging around in the fridge.

"The eyebrows. See?" Marlene yawns hugely and leaps out of Margaret's arms and onto the kitchen table to recline on a small stack of coupons and newspaper clippings. She does indeed have eyebrows resembling Marlene Dietrich's.

BJ saves Hawkeye from a long argument by ambling into the kitchen with a gigantic bowl of salad and what appears to be a head-sized pomegranate. He's in a similarly hideous yellow Hawaiian shirt, draped over another shirt reading BERKELEY LAW. There's something strange about seeing both of them in regular (she tries not to think about it as "civilian") clothing, in the house that they share. However, the clothing is nowhere near as strange as the thing that appears to have taken up residence on BJ's upper lip.

"Hi, Margaret! Want something to drink?" She stares at him, unable to form a coherent response.

“You’re staring at the mustache, aren’t you," says Hawkeye. "It’s terrible—  go on, you pay him for his services, you can tell him it’s terrible.” 

BJ says cheerfully, “Well, you can take the man out of the army, but you can’t take the army-hating spirit out of the man.” He pours Margaret a glass of lemonade, which she didn't ask for, but she's too shocked to complain.

“You had a mustache in the army? What on earth did your CO say?” 

Hawkeye rolls his eyes. “BJ used to tell Colonel Blake that a man needed a little rebellion on his face in order to stay sane.” 

Margaret raises an eyebrow, looks straight at Hawkeye, and says as blandly as possible, “Rebellion? Was that what they called you in the army?” 

BJ throws his head back and laughs as Hawkeye gasps in mock offense. "Are you insinuating that I was anything less than professional?"

“It’s his second middle name after Franklin,” says BJ, still laughing.

"Beej, don't laugh."

"Why not?"

"You moron, she's insulting both of us."

The rest of July passes like this: She walks the dog, goes to work, waits for news. She attempts to knit a sweater, but gives up halfway through and decides to make it a blanket. She gets sick of waiting and goes to Hawkeye and BJ's office, or to their house, ostensibly to talk about her divorce but really just to sit around and talk. They rope her into a few schemes, working as an unpaid consultant for Pierce and Hunnicutt (or Hunnicutt and Pierce), Attorneys at Law. She listens to records with Helen and watches her out of the corner of her eye the whole time, trying to catch Helen watching her back. She makes plans with Hawkeye to confess her feelings, which really means Hawkeye says stupid things to get her to laugh:

"Stuff a love letter into an Easter egg. Then— then you do an egg hunt, and the one with the letter in it will be painted gold. She'll crack it open and find your confession. Who could resist that?"

"She likes oranges? Okay, how's this: peel an orange, write your love confession on a little scroll, put it back in, and sew the peel up. What's wrong with that one? I mean, you're a surgical nurse, I hope you know how to sew."

"I got it. Corn maze, and you'll be waiting with a romantic picnic at the center. Autumn-specific, of course, but I think it has a certain je ne sais quoi about it."

She shoots them all down, of course, but it's nice to know she has someone she can talk to.

*******

August slips in with no fanfare, only heavier air and golden light. One day she visits when Hawkeye is trying to make pierogi with BJ's "assistance." She's only been there about half an hour when BJ throws flour at him, and within minutes he's chasing a screaming Hawkeye around the house trying to pelt him with flour. They seem to forget she's there because BJ rounds the corner and catches Hawkeye in his arms, and they start kissing right there in the kitchen, flour mingling with the dust motes dancing in the evening light, food abandoned on the counter. She is both strangely touched and terrifically disgusted by such a public display of affection.

"Ugh," Margaret mumbles, and shuts the door behind her as she leaves.

She supposes having to deal with the insufferable amount of love in their house is a fair tradeoff. After all, Hawkeye has to deal with her having a mental breakdown on his living room floor.

"There's no way she wants me," Margaret groans to the ceiling.

"There's no way she wants you."

"I'm an idiot who's going to screw up my friendship."

"You're an idiot who's going to screw up your friendship."

"Can you stop repeating everything I say?"

"I can stop repeating everything you say."

"I should just give up. I'm not cut out for love."

"Bullshit," says Hawkeye, lying on the carpet opposite her. "You're loved."

"Love is stupid."

"No, it isn't."

"No, it isn't."

"See? I'm always right. You know, I wish everyone I went against in court was that easy to convince."

They go on like this until the shadows on the ceiling change shape and the sun starts to sink. Hawkeye is in the middle of trying to lecture Margaret about the importance of expressing one's feelings when BJ comes home with two armloads of groceries and politely asks if either of them are in the mood to help, or if they are just inclined to lie there.

Somehow, Hawkeye talks her into inviting Helen to their house for dinner and bridge. He claims that BJ's genetics lead him to have a strong craving for suburban card games in late summer, so really Margaret would be doing them all a favor. BJ contends that this is horseshit and Hawkeye just wants to scope Helen out. Margaret agrees, partly because this is the least stupid plan they've come up with, but mostly because she wants someone else to see what she sees, to tell her that yes, all those little looks and touches mean what you think they do.

Over pork chops and coleslaw, they discuss the Eisenhower campaign and the kinds of idiots they let graduate from law school these days; talk shit about medical deans and the worst neighbors they've ever had; tell stupid jokes and swap gardening suggestions. By the time dessert is through, BJ is onto a description of the motorcycle gang that keeps ripping through their neighborhood at one in the morning.

He sounds almost admiring as he says, "We're talking Harley-Davidsons, fifty horsepower; we're talking leather jackets—

"He's talking. I'm not listening," says Hawkeye, gathering up the plates.

Helen sighs and puts her chin into her hands. "Boy, you're making me nostalgic for my motorcycle days."

BJ's whole face lights up. "No kidding! What did you ride?"

"Oy," Hawkeye mumbles as he heads into the kitchen. "Another nut."

Helen's smile looks like it's going to jump off her face. "A black FL Knucklehead. Nothing lately, though; no place to keep it in this city. You?"

"That's beautiful. I've got a BMW R51 myself." This must be something good, because they both lean across the table and start gushing away about link spring suspensions and flathead engines and compression ratios.

Margaret sweeps the rest of the silverware up and joins Hawkeye at the kitchen sink. They roll their eyes in unison as Helen and BJ wander in, still chatting about motorcycles, giving each other exasperated looks in companionable silence. Neither of them is really paying attention until Margaret hears Helen say, "You know, I've been thinking about getting a bike again. Maybe I'll use my bridge winnings."

"A bike!" Margaret whips around, aghast. "Do you know how dangerous those things are?" Neither Helen or BJ seems to hear her; they're happily discussing how all mechanics are hell-bent on ripping people off. She rounds on Hawkeye. "If Helen becomes an organ donor, it'll be all your fault."

"Me! How is this my fault?"

"If you hadn't invited us over for dinner, BJ never would have brought up the motorcycles, and then Helen never would have started talking about getting one!" She dries the plates furiously as she talks.

"Hey, don't blame me for her mid-life bike cravings! It's probably just— I don't know, early-onset menopause or something."

"Hawkeye Pierce, you're a real chauvinist."

"A— oh, that's rich, coming from you."

"From me—! I've never been so insulted in my life!"

"Really? You should try it sometime, it's fun." At some point they turn around and find that Helen and BJ have disappeared.

They're sitting on the floor of the garage, grease all over their hands. Helen is elbow-deep in BJ's blue bike, mumbling something about a frozen link in the chain.

"Hey, there you are," says BJ happily. "We were wondering when you were going to join us."

Helen smiles too. "You want to come see?"

Hawkeye scoffs and Margaret rolls her eyes and says, "No," but she finds herself approaching the bike until she's standing in between Helen and BJ. Helen's eyes narrow with amusement and she looks entirely too smug, so Margaret scowls and says, "You've got stuff on your forehead." She licks her thumb and rubs it away.

"So you did want to see." Still too smug.

"No, I most certainly did not. I wanted to have a clean bridge partner."

Helen gives BJ a wry smile. "Well, I know when I'm licked." BJ thinks this is very funny.

"My god," Hawkeye mumbles, glaring at BJ. "You two are a match made in heaven. Maybe we ought to switch partners."

"Absolutely not," Margaret sniffs. "I wouldn't trade Helen for you in a million years. We're going to lick you."

Hawkeye breaks his glare to leer at her. "Really? Should I get whipped cream?"

"Degenerate. We'll see who's grinning when Helen and I go to Tahiti on your dime."

"I've always been a fan of Paris myself," Helen adds before they can really get going, rising and wiping her hands on a rag.

"Very confident, Whitfield."

"I've earned the right to be, Pierce. I've bled more people dry than most graduates of Harvard Law." She tosses the rag in her hands to BJ. "Any last words before the funeral, Hunnicutt?" Hawkeye snorts but BJ just smiles sweetly and says: "We'll see." Margaret suddenly has the feeling that BJ is much more competitive than he looks.

In the end, Margaret and Helen win by a mile. Hawkeye pretends to get angry enough to throw them out of the house, but they keep laughing as he screams "TAKE THE SOFA WITH YOU! I'LL NEVER BE ABLE TO PAY!"

Just as they're about to drive off, Hawkeye runs onto the front step and yells that Margaret's forgotten her sweater (although she could have sworn that she didn't bring a sweater tonight). She hops out and hisses, "What the hell is this?"

He glances behind her to the car, where Helen is sitting patiently in the passenger seat. "This is BJ's idea. Anyway, this plan was a success." He grins and waggles his eyebrows. "She was giving you some serious looks, if you know what I mean."

She sighs. "I'm going home."

"Okay, wait, wait." He grabs her elbow, suddenly serious. "She likes you, that much is clear. But she's not going to wait forever. You know what I mean?"

"Yes. I wish I didn't."

"Tough shit." He hugs her quickly. "Hurry along now, and don't do anything I wouldn't do."

"I wouldn't want to do anything that you do."

August passes and passes, and mostly it's made up of moments in which Margaret's tongue gets stuck and her Houlihan willpower fails. Thinks maybe— Helen left her arm there a little too long, sat a little too close, smiled a little too gently— but she doesn't say it.

*******

In the end, it's a Friday afternoon, and they've both got the rest of the day off. They're washing their lunch dishes at Margaret's kitchen sink, complaining about uppity new nurses who think that fashion is more important than saving lives.

"Huh! That girl is so stuck up, she'd drown in a rainstorm," scoffs Helen as she dries the forks. "I've half a mind to—" she stops abruptly and switches to a whisper. "Margaret."

"What?"

"Look, a butterfly!" She looks up— there it is, hovering above the window box of lantanas that BJ gave her as a housewarming present, wings shining black and blue.

"I wonder what kind it is," Margaret murmurs.

"It's got orange spots, that mean anything to you?"

"Chanel 1934, spring collection, I think." She feels rather than saw Helen's answering smile. It feels like a dream, like she's been waiting her whole life to stand at Helen's side at the kitchen sink of her little apartment, in the clear afternoon light of early September, Margaret washing and Helen with a towel slung over her shoulder, watching a butterfly at the window. They stand there together for what feels like a long time.

Haven't I been waiting? Margaret thinks. Haven't I been waiting my whole life for this moment? Doesn't it have to be now?

The butterfly flaps its wings once, then the wind carries it up and away. Still, they don't move.

"I guess," Helen says at last, still very quiet like she doesn't want to ruin the moment, "we'll have to go shopping soon."

"What for?" Inside, Margaret is as still as the sea. She doesn't dare look over at Helen; she might lose her will to speak.

"For when your divorce comes through, silly. Then you can get back out on the town. Find a new man. One with two eyebrows."

"I'm not so sure I want a man," Margaret says equally quietly. She is very calm now. She sends a final prayer to whoever might be listening that Helen understands what she's trying to say.

Helen stills beside her. The sun, the tap running, the squeak of dishtowel on plates. "No?"

"No."

Helen reaches around Margaret to set a plate on the counter beside her— she's just run out of space next to her, Margaret thinks. But instead of retracting her arm, she winds it tentatively around Margaret's waist. Steps a little closer, just behind her. Wraps her other arm around Margaret's waist too.

In the hush of the kitchen, Margaret's answering sigh is audible as she relaxes to lean back against Helen. There is no orchestra, no sinkhole, no screaming generals bursting out of closets to accuse them of immoral behavior, no world outside the light and the tap still running and Helen breathing against her back as Margaret's hands reach up to rest on Helen's forearms.

"I've wanted to do this for a long time," Helen murmurs.

"Me too."

She feels Helen's voice moving through her own body when she responds: "So why didn't you?"

"I didn't think you'd ever let me."

Helen lets go and they turn to face each other. She brushes a little hair out of Margaret's eyes, and leans in— but Margaret stops her.

"Wait," Margaret says. Helen freezes— fear, sadness, hurt— then they're tucked away and her face is blank.

"I—" Margaret doesn't let her get any further, just takes the towel off Helen's shoulders and starts drying her own hands, then takes Helen's between her own.

"Our hands are damp," Margaret says by way of explanation as she rubs Helen's hands dry. "I don't want to get your hair wet."

Helen makes a noise that sounds motherofgod and leans forward to bury her face into the corner of Margaret's neck. "Houlihan, you nearly gave me a heart attack."

"I'm sorry!" But they're both laughing a little.

"You're not."

"Alright, so I'm not. Sue me." Helen laughs into her shoulder; Margaret rubs her back gently, still feeling like this can't all be real.

"Hey, Major."

"Yes, Whitfield." Margaret tries not to sound undone by just standing and breathing Helen in.

"That's a pretty cool response for someone whose heart is going so fast."

"What would you know about it?"

"I can feel it."

"Oh." So much for playing it cool. Margaret can't feel her own heartbeat at all. She can't really feel her body except for the places where it's touching Helen's. "Is yours?"

Helen straightens up to look at her. "What?"

Margaret reaches out as though to take Helen's carotid pulse, but they're already leaning in as she repeats, "Is yours?" and the words don't even sound like hers, they must be some half-remembered dream; and then they're kissing exactly like she imagined it and there's no space to think about voices and dreams and pulses.

It's a little messy, the angle isn't perfect; it's quick, and new, and hungry; and when Margaret distantly tries to think about the situation she registers only a floating sensation that isn't quite exhilaration and isn't quite relief.

They kiss until one or the other (it's impossible to tell who) starts laughing and they pull away. (Lord, what's wrong with us? says Helen as she tosses her head back in laughter. God only knows, says Margaret and still smiling, kisses Helen's throat.) They laugh until they want to kiss again.

"Why didn't we do this before?" Margaret's smile hurts a little.

"I didn't think you'd let me," says Helen, and kisses the base of her throat. I would, she thinks. Yes, I would have. She must have spoken aloud, because Helen pulls back, hair a little mussed, lips red and swollen. "Would you?"

"Yes," she says again, deliberately. "Yes, yes." The thing in her chest— which must be happiness at last— sits in her chest, warm and breathless.

Mostly things don't change. They keep their own apartments. They see each other on weekends (but rack up astronomical phone bills). They talk about work and dogs and bridge and mutual friends. They shower separately— years of army life have made them value the privacy of the bathroom.

"We need our independence," Margaret says.

"We're used to being alone," Helen replies, ever better at calling a thing by its name. "We've got to take things slowly or it'll be too much."

"Yes." A pause. "Helen, I don't want you to get bored."

"Bored of what?"

"Waiting, you know. For me to be less…"

"Less of yourself?"

Another pause. "I just mean you could have any woman in San Francisco if you really wanted."

"I don't really want."

"Be serious."

"I am. You're my best friend and I've loved you for years and that's all there is to it."

"It can't be that simple."

"Why not?"

"I just don't think it can. What if it falls apart? What if…"

"If?"

"What if we're doing it wrong? I've never done— this before, with a woman, and neither have you, and we don't know what we're doing! Aren't we supposed to be— taking things slowly? Being cautious?"

"Margaret." Helen throws her arms up. "You ripped a button off my blue blouse with your teeth. We've spent the last five hours in bed. There's nothing very slow about this. And anyway—" she rolls over to face Margaret. "Not knowing what to do is no excuse for not trying. Okay, we've got our problems— we can't pretend we don't— but I know yours already and you know mine, so that's the hardest part out of the way. Now if we try to make some kind of life, have some kind of happiness together, and it all goes to hell— then at least we know we did what we could. But if it doesn't, if it works…" Margaret traces the downy lines of the hair on Helen's arm.

"We could do it." She looks up at Helen. "Right?"

Her face is half in shadow, but Margaret thinks she's about to smile. "You tell me."

"We could do it," she repeats firmly. "We want to. Good or bad, we want each other enough to give it a go."

"That's it," Helen says and reaches for her. "Keep telling me." And she does, and eventually there's no more need for words.

The next morning, Margaret gets up early to take the dog out, but instead of climbing back into bed, she finds herself sitting at the kitchen table, staring out the window and drinking coffee, wondering if God is real. Maybe he isn't, she thinks, not after the war. She wonders if there's a prayer to say to make happiness last. Helen would know about that kind of thing— a noise behind her.

There's Helen in the doorway, as though she knew what Margaret was thinking, smiling tiredly and scrubbing at her temples.

Come here, she tries to say, only it comes out as "Hello."

"Hello to you too," says Helen, and comes to stand behind her at the table. She rests one hand on the back of Margaret's head. She looks down at the newspaper, but Margaret can tell there's something she wants.

She looks up. "What is it?"

Helen just shakes her head. "Nothing."

"Don't bullshit me."

Helen smiles faintly. "Sorry. I've never—" she stops.

"Helen?"

"I've never been with anyone I didn't bullshit." She pauses again. This is a confession, an admission of something. "But then, I've never been with you."

"You can't with me."

"Why would I bother? You'd see right through me like always." She doesn't sound bitter, just matter-of-fact. Margaret nods.

"So what was it you wanted to say to me?"

Helen is quiet for a minute. She sounds almost surprised when she says, "I think that was it."

"Really?"

"Yeah." Leaves blow past the window. Oliver twitches on his bed in the kitchen. San Francisco stretches its limbs and starts to come awake. "You coming back to bed?"

"It's seven-fifteen."

"Sure," says Helen, gently taking the empty mug from Margaret's hands and placing it in the sink. "But it's Saturday."

"Hmm. You make a compelling argument." Margaret rises, winds her fingers into Helen's bathrobe. "Maybe you should quit nursing and become a lawyer."

Helen throws her head back and laughs. "BJ and Hawkeye would starve."

*******

It isn't perfect, of course. They fight as they always have. Helen would always rather try and fix a problem on her own instead of asking for help, so she waits until it's almost too late and it's blowing up in her face. Margaret is stubborn and is used to getting her way all the time; she's still terrified that the feeling is going to pass and leave her empty and alone. One day they start arguing about whether or not to call a TV repairman, and half an hour later they're in the middle of a terrific blow-out about how exactly they plan on keeping up appearances.

But the thing about falling in love with Helen is that Margaret already knows her, knew what she was getting into. The thing about Helen is that she's just as stubborn as Margaret, and for some insane, unfathomable reason, she wants Margaret back.

"We've got to try," Margaret says softly when she's exhausted all cruelty and fear of failure. She leans against the green-tiled wall, watching the side of Helen's face where she's seated at the kitchen table.

There's a long pause before Helen looks across at her. Margaret looks back, bracing herself for lingering anger and disappointment— but finds only something that looks like relief mixed with exhaustion, and Helen doesn't try to hide it. "I suppose we do," she says, and rises to take Margaret into her arms.

And somehow love becomes little things: Helen's ankle pressed against her in the night. Long arguments over the best way to cook a turkey. Giants games. Adjusting the curlers in each other's hair. Paring apples to eat in bed as they each work through their own pile of bills. There was a time, she remembers, when love was sudden engagements or quick weekends away or expensive presents from a mail-order catalogue. 

On the whole, she likes this version of love better.

The divorce comes through at the end of October, on an otherwise unremarkable Tuesday. She comes home on Wednesday to an apartment full of people: Hawkeye and BJ (in a cowboy hat and misshapen boater respectively); Sheila Anderson and her two small sons, running around with Erin and blowing party horns; Peg and Yvette, looking totally unfazed by the chaos; and of course Helen.

There's screaming and laughing and confetti made of shredded legal documents that Oliver tries to eat from the air. Peg hugs her hello and congratulates her profusely on her liberation; Yvette shakes her hand and pronounces the divorce a victory for women everywhere. It's not a big party, but Margaret is overjoyed. She's catching up with Sheila when BJ tugs at her sleeve and asks her to come into the kitchen. There on the counter is a beautiful white cake, which has clearly been made by a professional because Hawkeye's projects are never that symmetrical. On top it's iced, in swirling green frosting: WE LOVE YOU MARGARET!

Below that, in smaller, messier pink letters, slightly crooked: SCREW THE SNOT!

BJ gives her a big, goofy grin. "You like the touch at the bottom? Yvette said it was a little lopsided, but I thought it added panache."

"Oh, you," she says, and bursts into tears. BJ immediately gathers her into his arms and yells for Hawkeye, who takes one look at her and in turn yells for Helen.

"Oh, Lord," says Helen, moving around the table and taking her from BJ. "What's the matter?" She strokes her hair.

"The stupid cake!"

"Hey, we worked hard on that," says BJ, digging around for a tissue.

"No, no, the cake's not stupid— it's just that it's really over now— and I'm crying at my own party, and I f— I hate crying!"

She feels Helen tense a little. Pulls back, wipes her face with a dish towel. "Yes, it's over." She searches Margaret's face. "Is that— are you upset about that?" She glances over at Hawkeye as though for reassurance.

"No. Only that—" she rests her cheek on Helen's shoulder. "Only that we wasted so much time."

Sometimes she wakes to find Helen in her bed and thinks it's an old dream come back to haunt her, and gets a little thrill every time she remembers that this is her life, that she can wake Helen up by crawling on top of her, that they can have coffee and slightly burned toast and kisses any day they want.

She rolls over onto her side to look at Helen, still asleep. A few strands of her hair glint gray in the early morning half-light. Her mouth is slightly open, and she's wearing one of Margaret's old shirts with a hole in the collar. Margaret is madly in love with her. She lies there sleepily, wanting to remember everything, to tug her happiness around her like a blanket so she can be warm forever—

Just then Helen shifts towards her in her sleep, stretches her hand out a little. Something in Margaret stirs at this, unfurls itself, and she moves closer to touch Helen's hand with her own. Just a brush of fingers, but it's enough. And maybe she's dreaming, or just seeking warmth, but Helen sighs in her sleep and curls towards Margaret.

Margaret closes her eyes and drinks in the smell of Helen's hair and the warmth of her body and the press of their ankles under the covers, filled with heavy, sweet contentment.

Maybe the moment will pass. No matter, she thinks as she begins to drift into sleep, Helen's breath warm against her neck. They will have many more.