Something short. Er . . . shorter, at least for me *g*
By Kate (CMT)
“What
did you say?” Hutch asked vacantly, bowing his head while gingerly fingering
the sore spot beneath his hairline. He
winced, uncertain if his discomfort was from the gnawing pain rooted just under
his bangs or the knife-like glare of the overhead fluorescents in Dobey’s
office.
“I said,” Starsky heaved theatrically like
a man repeatedly forced to explain the obvious. “Stop fingerin’ the bandage.
You ain’t helpin’ it any.” He swatted Hutch’s hand aside.
Startled,
the blond detective blinked and sat up straighter. That alone took more energy than he felt like sparing, but
Starsky’s curly head was already bowed over a last-minute report. It had been Starsky’s idea to commandeer
Dobey’s office while the captain was engaged in a meeting elsewhere in the
building. By escaping the routine noise
and general congestion of the squadroom, Starsky figured he’d be able to finish
his hastily scrawled report a lot quicker.
And that meant Hutch could strip off his blood-encrusted shirt, clean
up, and get comfortable much sooner.
While
it sounded like a good idea, there were a few general problems. “You know Dobey’s gonna want that thing
typed up,” Hutch observed tiredly.
“Tough.” Starsky didn’t bother raising his head. “We just got done with a double shift, you
get whacked with a set of nunchucks by some doped-up hood doin’ a bad Bruce Lee
impersonation, and we end up spendin’ four hours in Emergency makin’ sure you
don’t got brain swellin’ or something worse.
I vote we skip typin’ class and wing this thing with a Bic
ballpoint.” He shot Hutch a sideways
glance. “Besides - - you need a cold
shower to get that blood offa you and make you wake up before you’re tempted to
take a nap.”
Hutch
yawned. The ER doctor at Memorial
General hadn’t seemed monumentally concerned by the laceration on his forehead
or his subsequent concussion, but the man had made a point of telling Hutch to
take it easy - - and to stay awake.
He’d been out cold for a good forty minutes, after all. The taking it
easy part wasn’t going to be a problem, but staying awake for the next twelve
hours could be difficult. On a good day
it would be a piece of cake, but he and Starsky were just coming off a double
shift and he’d already been twenty-four hours without sleep. Starsky, at least, had managed to grab five
hours in the back of the Torino during their last stakeout before chaos erupted
in the form of a scuffle with the aforesaid “doped-up hood” and a set of hardwood
nunchucks. Hutch had gotten clipped before he could draw his gun, the blow
knocking him cold. Unfortunately, the
chain had caught him too, laying open the skin just beneath his bangs. The wound wasn’t deep - - it had only
required two stitches - - but it had bled profusely, soiling the front of his
brand new bisque-colored turtleneck.
$9.98 down the drain. Blood never came out.
He’d had enough experience with soiled shirts, jeans, and slacks to know
the turtleneck was probably shot.
“I’m
not all that tired,” he said, lying through his teeth. Odds were Starsky was probably already
feeling guilty about his five hours in the Torino, especially since they’d
flipped for it and Hutch had called foul.
“I think I’ll be okay to drive myself if you wanna head home.” He was tempted to finger the bandage again
but resisted the urge, knowing his hand would just get batted aside.
Starsky
scowled. “You said ‘wanna,’ Hutch. You only talk like that when you’re tired or in a hurry. Just hang on while I finish this thing. I’m almost done, then I’m gonna be your
shadow for the next twelve hours.”
“Starsky
- - ” The complaint was only half out
of his mouth when the door cracked open and Phil Baker looked in. The
brown-haired detective took one glance at Starsky bent over the report and
shook his head.
“Hey,
Hutch. If you can tear yourself away
from Hemmingway over there, you’ve got a visitor.”
“Blondie
ain’t here,” Starsky said without looking up.
He ignored the crack about his report-writing abilities, a running joke
that was commonplace and fairly widespread among Metro’s detectives. He’d earned the reputation by embellishing
even the most basic reports with plump adjectives and colorful modifiers.
“Whoever it is,” he called to Baker, “Just tell ‘em Sergeant Hutchinson already skipped out and they should come back
in a few days.”
“Starsky
- -” Hutch attempted again, watching
his friend aggressively dot an “i.” He
wasn’t sure which deserved the greater protest - - the fact his partner was
speaking for him or that Starsky was blatantly lying. Deciding his head hurt too much to sort it out, he let it pass
without complaint.
“I
don’t think this guy’s gonna buy that,” Baker replied. He vanished into the squadroom replaced a
moment later by a familiar raven-haired man with pale blue eyes and a precisely
trimmed mustache.
Hutch
blinked, uncertain if he was seeing things.
“Dad?”
His
exclamation brought Starsky’s head around in surprise. “Dr.
Hutchinson?”
Grant
Hutchinson’s face split with a wide grin then immediately fell flat when he registered
the splotches of dried blood on Hutch’s shirt.
“Ken?” His voice lurched up in
alarm as he stepped into the room.
“What happened here? Are you
hurt?”
More
than a little dazed, still trying to make sense of what his father was doing in
Bay City, let alone Metro, Hutch came to his feet sputtering something
inarticulate. Before he knew it, his
shoulders were caught in a strong grip, and he was held at arm’s length while
his father scrutinized his face. A hand
rose and gingerly fingered the bandage beneath his hairline.
“David?” Grant queried over his shoulder, never
taking his eyes from Hutch. “What
happened to my son?”
“Dad
- -”
“He
forgot to duck,” Starsky offered dryly, coming to his feet behind the taller
man. He grinned brashly. “How ya doin’, Doc? Seems like I just saw you not that long
ago.”
Hutch
had the presence of mind - - if somewhat muddled and sluggish - - to factor in
Starsky’s comment. It had only been a little over a month
since Bentley Crest’s ill-fated September Retreat when they’d last seen Grant.
While the reunion as a whole had been disastrous, it had afforded Hutch the
opportunity to grow close to his father - - a man he’d been at odds with most
of his life. Subsequently, he’d walked
away from Bentley’s retreat with a newfound respect and deeply-rooted love for
the father he’d previously responded to with defensive antagonism and
belligerence. Surprisingly, the only thing he felt now was a surge of warmth.
“It’s
always a pleasure, David.”
Hutch
was vaguely aware of his father turning and acknowledging his partner with a
quick handshake and a grin before immediately refocusing on him. The throbbing in his head left him slow to
respond when Grant tugged hard on his arm, pulling him into an embrace. The blatant affection still came as a shock,
bursting over him in a cavalcade of surprise and pure pleasure.
Such
greetings were still new, something to be treasured. He clung for a moment, not certain his misfiring brain would send
anything halfway sensible to his mouth.
Before he could summon a proper greeting, his father drew back, slid a
hand under his jaw and tilted his face into the light. A single black brow arched into Grant’s hair. “Stitches?” he asked simply.
“Two,”
Hutch replied, thankful he could manage the single syllable without sounding
impaired.
Behind
Grant, Starsky slid his report onto Dobey’s desk. “He got clipped with a pair of nunchucks during a drug
shakedown,” the curly-haired man explained, launching his pen at a plastic
caddy. He managed to sink the ballpoint
between a number 2 pencil and a red felt-tip marker. “He definitely ain’t no
Kato.”
Hutch
frowned. “Who?”
“You
know . . . Kato,” Starsky elaborated.
“Bruce Lee’s kick-butt character from The Green Hornet.” Shaking
his head, he refocused on Grant. “We
just came from the ER. Hutch got
something for headaches, and he’s supposed to stay awake for the next 12 hours
‘cuz of a concussion. They wanna make sure he don’t slip off, since he was out
cold for a good forty minutes. Problem
is, we just finished a double shift and he ain’t had any sleep in over
twenty-four hours.” Starsky grinned at
his partner. “I think he’s gettin’
pissy about it, ‘specially since he bloodied up his new turtleneck.”
Hutch
found his tongue. He knew Starsky was
yanking his chain but couldn’t help the reflexive response. “You know, Starsky, I can speak for myself.” Once
he said it, however, he wasn’t so sure.
He tried to remember what he’d been thinking before he’d been
distracted, and got tripped up by the pounding in his head. “Dad . . .”
Absently, he rubbed his temple.
“What are you doing here?”
“Visiting,”
Grant supplied. “I was in San Francisco
for a medical conference and it ended early.
Since I’ve got a day or two to spare, I thought I’d swing by and see my,
uh . . . favored son,” he grinned archly.
“ . . . before heading back to Duluth.”
Hutch
wasn’t so far gone that the term didn’t register. King Island and his heated verbal explosion at Grant that his
father should have had a ‘favored son’ to follow in his footsteps had been the
turning point in their previously spotty relationship. From that point forward, his father had
actually been receptive to his clumsy overtures and attempts to heal the rift
between them. When Grant grinned at him,
Hutch felt himself relaxing and smiling in return.
“I’m
sorry. I guess I’m not very good
company right now.”
“Oh,
but you’re wrong,” Grant countered.
“According to your partner, you have to stay awake for the next twelve
hours and it doesn’t sound - - or look - -” he added with a pointed glance for
Hutch’s bedraggled appearance, “ - - like you’re going to have an easy time
managing it. You’re perfect company,
since I’m going to make it my job to keep you entertained, focused and awake.”
“Mine
too,” Starsky seconded. “I was just
gettin’ ready to drive him back to Venice, then I was gonna camp out at his
place.” He rolled his shoulders,
allowing leeway in the event he was no longer welcome. “Unless of course, you’d rather spend some
time on your own with Hutch. I can just
as easily - -”
“Nonsense!” Grant waved the absurd notion aside. “I took a cab here and haven’t bothered to
check into a hotel yet. If Ken has to
stay awake for the next twelve hours, I’ll make do at his apartment, but I
could use some help in keeping him entertained.”
“I’m
not a kid,” Hutch said crossly, disgruntled when the conversation circulated
around him.
“You’re
not,” Grant agreed, slipping an arm around his shoulders. “But I remember you’re irritable as hell
when you don’t get enough sleep. I
don’t think I want to be dodging your mood swings by myself when I can have
David as backup.”
“Dad
- -”
“Forget
it, Blondie.” Starsky prodded him
toward the door before he could finish the complaint. “You’re outgunned. Just
shut up and enjoy the ride home.”
+++++
Starsky
drove his Torino while Grant drove Hutch’s much-abused LTD back to Venice
Place. It was an eye-opening experience
for the upper crust doctor who was accustomed to luxury in everything he owned,
automobiles included. Hutch could tell
from the disbelieving glance his father gave the vehicle that he was sorely
tempted to toss off a remark or two but held his tongue. It wasn’t until Grant parked the Ford in
front of Hutch’s apartment on Ocean Avenue, that he finally gave an incredulous
shake of his head and heaved a sigh of relief.
“I
didn’t think it would actually get us here,” he commented mildly, shooting a
sideways glance at his son. “I know you
haven’t touched any of the funds your grandfather put into Trust for you, but
surely you can afford something better than this on your salary?”
“It’s
got nothing to do with what I can afford, Dad,” Hutch returned. An absent glance in the side-view mirror
showed him Starsky’s Torino sliding into place behind the LTD. “I happen to like this car. She might
not be much to look at, but she gets me around just fine.”
Tiredly,
he popped the door handle and pulled himself to his feet. The movement awakened a new clamor of
rockets in his head, each prickly explosion splintering behind his eyes. Wincing, he closed the door and sagged
against the battered frame of the car.
If he weren’t so tired, he would have enjoyed the sight of his
immaculately-tailored father climbing from the decrepit Ford. Hutch knew the LTD wasn’t much to look at,
which only heightened the contrast to Grant’s V-necked cable-knit sweater,
light blue Oxford dress shirt and sharply creased heavy twill pants. Even
casual, he looks like he’s headed for the country club.
There
was a time that thought might have irritated him. Now it only conjured amused affection. Before he could contemplate it further, Grant was at his side,
slipping a supporting hand under his arm and steering him toward his
apartment. Starsky sprinted past,
opening the door with an obnoxiously sweeping bow. He grinned playfully. “After you, Kato.”
Hutch
mumbled something off-color, earning an amused snort from Grant. At the top of the stairs, he fumbled for the
key on the lintel but his father beat him to it, using the one on the car ring
to gain access. “You get comfortable,
Ken, and I’ll get my suitcase. I have
my medical bag with me too. I wouldn’t
mind a better look at that cut on your head.”
Hutch
mumbled an affirmative, knowing it was inevitable. Having grown up the son of a doctor, he knew there was little
chance of escaping examination when he was injured or sick. Even as a child when he’d been uncomfortable
around his father, Grant had always made sure every minor cut or sniffle was
well tended to.
Inside,
Hutch headed for the bedroom, sprawling face down on the bed. The mattress felt like sheer heaven and
within seconds of plopping his head on the pillow, he curled onto his side and
closed his eyes.
“Oh,
no you don’t.” Starsky rattled his
shoulder, sending a new ache pinging around inside his skull. “Sorry, buddy,
but you’ve got eleven-and-a-half hours to go.
I thought you wanted a shower?”
Hutch
groaned what he thought of the idea.
“Lemme alone.”
“No
can-do.” Starsky tugged on his arm,
forcing him to sit up and drop his feet to the floor.
He
hadn’t realized just how exhausted he really was until forced to part with the
siren call of the mattress. “Just five
minutes,” he pleaded. “Come on, Starsk
. . .”
“Uh-uh. I know you.
Five minutes’ll turn into five hours and I won’t be able to wake you up
at all. Next time, maybe you’ll
remember to duck.”
“You’re
a fucking sadist, you know that?” Hutch
snapped, growing immediately cross.
“Love
you to, pal,” Starsky tossed back with a grin.
“Come on - - you’ve got a date with a cold shower. I’ll get you some clean clothes while you’re
in there . . . maybe even make you something to eat if you smile pretty.”
“Stuff
it.”
Starsky
chuckled and propelled him toward the door.
“You really gotta work on your social skills, Hutchinson.”
Thirty
minutes later, showered and changed, Hutch had to admit he felt marginally
better. His head still throbbed, but at
least he didn’t feel ready to keel over with fatigue. The shower had thinned his exhaustion and even helped him focus
better. He changed into a pair of navy
sweatpants, white crew socks and an avocado-green tee-shirt. By the time he emerged from the bathroom,
his father and Starsky were busy in the kitchen, talking companionably as they
jointly oversaw a hastily prepared dinner.
Intrigued,
Hutch watched for a moment, enjoying the sight of his father and his partner so
completely comfortable with one another.
Diametrically different in every aspect of their personalities, they
somehow fit together with ease. As
uncommonly cultured as he was, Grant had come to appreciate Starsky’s frankness
and street candor. There was no
question Hutch’s partner ‘told it like it was’ and while that boldness had
initially left Grant flustered and annoyed, the upper-crust surgeon now found
it refreshing. In Grant’s world,
friends and associates often maintained relationships for personal gain and
advancement strategies. Hutch guessed his father found Starsky’s direct honesty
a welcome change of pace. Even now,
Starsky rattled on about customizing his precious Torino with new mags, his
usual exuberance coming through as he waved a spoon in the air above a small
saucepan of something or other to punctuate a point. Just a few feet away, Grant chopped lettuce and carrots for a
salad, grinning as he listened, occasionally inserting a question or comment of
his own. A year ago, Hutch never could
have conceived of his father holding a discussion with anyone about Craiger mags, let alone an overly enthusiastic street
cop who suddenly developed a slangy New York accent whenever he grew excited.
“What’s
for dinner?” Hutch asked, stepping into
the living area, trying to decipher the tantalizing mixture of smells wafting
from the stove. His stomach rumbled and
he realized he was hungry despite the low-level ache rooted in his head.
“Ho,
look at that!” Starsky tossed a glance
over his shoulder, flashing a broad grin.
“It speaks - - civilized-like too.
Amazing what a shower can do for a Scandinavian with a piss-poor
attitude.”
“Only
because you’re feeding me something other than pizza or burritos,” Hutch shot
back, heading for the refrigerator. He
rummaged around on the middle shelf until he found a beer. “I see salad.”
“That
was your dad’s idea,” Starsky inserted, appearing suddenly at his side. He confiscated the bottle before Hutch could
twist off the cap.
“Hey! What’s the idea?”
“Beer
makes you tired,” Starsky countered, moving around him to push the bottle back
into the refrigerator and close the door.
“In case you forgot, you’ve still got eleven hours to go.”
Hutch
frowned. “I appreciate the constant
countdown, partner.”
“And
well you should,” Grant added, placing the bowl of salad on the table. “Besides - - alcohol of any kind doesn’t go
with concussions, not to mention the medication they gave you at the
hospital. Trust me, Ken - - it will
just make your headache worse and make you feel miserable. Now come over here and take a seat while
David and I get the rest of the food on the table. I’ll pour you a glass of iced water.”
Irked
that he couldn’t have a beer, Hutch stalked toward the cupboard containing his
glassware. “I’ll do it myself,” he
grumbled.
“Kenneth,”
Grant said sternly, favoring him with a disapproving glance.
Hutch
immediately hedged. He found it amazing
that at 33 years of age he could still feel the effects of that glance and
frosty tone of voice, but he did. His
response had been ingrained since childhood when he automatically did whatever
his father ordered him to do - - at least when Grant spoke like that.
Heaving
a defeated sigh, he ran a hand through his shower-damp hair. Behind him, he heard Starsky chuckle.
“Yeah,
Kenneth, go sit down. Your dad and I will handle everything.”
“Paybacks
are hell, buddy,” Hutch muttered, shooting his friend a barbed smile, but he
did as he was told.
For
a hastily prepared meal, pieced together from leftovers he had in the
refrigerator, dinner wasn’t bad. Grant
had thrown together a salad of iceberg and romaine lettuces with some cherry
tomatoes, carrots and cucumbers. In
charge of the main meal, Starsky whipped up a casserole from leftover chicken
and boxed pasta, then drenched the whole thing in a mushroom-based soup. Hungry at first, Hutch found the ache in his
head replacing the rumble in his stomach after only a few bites. He tried to concentrate on the easy
conversation, even join in, but after a short time found himself squinting
against the glare of the overhead light.
He took another bite of the casserole, then closed his eyes and bowed
his head to massage his throbbing temple.
He
heard the scrape of a chair against the floorboards and after several seconds
realized the conversation had stopped.
Someone slid a hand onto his shoulder and squeezed gently.
“Here,
buddy - - take one of these.”
Hutch
blinked, tilting his head to gaze up at his partner. Starsky was standing slightly behind him and to the side, one
hand clasped on his shoulder, the other offering the plastic pill container
from the hospital.
“Um
. . .” He hesitated, not really wanting
the pills. Thankfully, he was mostly
past his inbred fear of addiction, having exorcised his demons last year. It hadn’t been easy telling Grant about his
ordeal with heroin, especially when he’d feared his father would be
judgmental. He’d stumbled through the
conversation, relying on anger and defiance, expecting Grant to criticize his
weakness, perhaps even disown him for allowing the stigma of drug addiction to
become attached to the Hutchinson name.
But Grant had done the complete opposite, berating himself because Hutch
hadn’t trusted him enough to confide in him at the time. He’d been supportive and doting, monstrously
hard on himself for being such a coolly aloof father. It was another step to healing the decades-old rift in their
relationship.
Yet
even with all of that behind him, Hutch still felt a glimmer of unease whenever
confronted by narcotics or medication in general. “Um . . .” he said again, his reaction to the proffered pills
automatic. His gut clenched in habitual
revulsion.
“He
needs two, David,” Grant instructed, nudging Hutch’s water glass closer. “One isn’t enough to really do anything.
Hutch
chanced a glance at his father. There
was that look again, coupled with an authoritative edge in his voice. He felt Starsky’s fingers tighten on his
shoulder, non-verbal assurance of his partner’s devotion to him. Both men were perfectly comfortable with him
swallowing a handful of pain tablets, so he supposed he should be too. With concentrated effort, he shoved aside
his instinctive aversion. Reluctantly,
he held out his hand, watching as Starsky tumbled two into his palm. The
pounding in his head steadily escalated and he secretly hoped the pills would
do something to alleviate the throbbing.
It
wasn’t until twenty minutes later, sitting on the couch while Starsky and Grant
cleaned up the kitchen that he felt a slight ease in pressure. Grant’s suitcase was by the door along with
his medical bag, and after a time his father grabbed the smaller case, telling
Hutch he wanted a closer look at the cut on his head.
The
exam was brief, lasting only a few minutes, but it seemed to satisfy
Grant. He set his bag on the coffee
table, then took a seat in a Tuscan-gold side chair across from Hutch and asked
for a more detailed explanation of how the injury had taken place.
Hutch
shot a glance to his partner puttering around in the kitchen. Starsky was busy cutting slabs of
cheesecake, putting the perfectly sliced pieces on three dessert plates. The fattening
treat wasn’t something Hutch normally kept in the refrigerator, so he guessed
Starsky had jogged down the street to the mom-and-pop bakery on the corner of
Ocean and Quay while he was in the shower.
“I
got a little careless,” Hutch told his father reluctantly. A year or so ago, he wouldn’t have bothered
to relay what had gone down at all.
Grant hadn’t been interested in his career, and he’d felt no compulsion
to share the day-to-day risks of his job.
But
all of that was different now. His father
was actually interested in what he
did for a living. The renowned surgeon
who’d once told him he was wasting his time by becoming a cop had actually
grown proud of his
accomplishments. The thought was
simultaneously warming and scary.
Warming, because after decades of feeling like a failure in his father’s
eyes, Hutch had finally achieved Grant’s approval. Scary, because their new relationship made Grant openly worry
about the danger he faced.
“It
really wasn’t any big deal,” Hutch said, not wanting to make an issue of it.
“He
was coverin’ my butt,” Starsky called from the kitchen. “There were two guys and one had the drop on
me. Hutch took him out but kinda left
himself open at the same time. The guy
knocked him cold before I had a chance to wing him.”
Hutch
lowered his eyes, instinctively knowing his friend probably harbored some
buried guilt over the incident. It was
just the way they were with one another - - overly sensitive whenever the other
was involved, especially if one of them ended up hurt. It was one of the reasons several of their
associates continued to dissect their exceedingly close relationship under a
microscope. We’re always good for some off-color gossip around the precinct.
“It
was no biggie, partner,” Hutch mumbled again, hoping to put his friend at ease.
“Sure
it was.” Starsky sat on the couch
beside him, shoving a plate of cheesecake into his lap. “If you hadn’t dropped that guy, I woulda
been out for a lot more than forty minutes - - like permanently.”
“You’ve
done the same for me plenty of times,” Hutch said moodily. He suddenly didn’t like the
conversation. Across from him, he
realized Grant wasn’t eating and had set his dessert plate on the coffee
table. Hutch did the same, abruptly
tired. Yawning, he stretched out on the
couch, layering his legs over Starsky’s lap.
“I don’t wanna talk about work,” he slurred slightly. “I’ve had enough of it over the last sixteen
hours.”
“Don’t
get comfortable,” Starsky warned, eyeing the way Hutch shoved a pillow behind
his back. He swallowed a forkful of
cheesecake, turning a cursory glance on his watch. “You still got ten hours, eighteen minutes and - -”
“Starsky,”
Hutch interrupted. “Shut up.”
Grant
chuckled. “He’s right, Ken. You need to keep yourself occupied. How about a game of cards?” Sitting up straighter, he did a quick glance
around the apartment. “You’ve got to
have a deck around here somewhere.”
“In
the drawer to the left of the sink,” Starsky supplied for his friend.
“Great.” Grant stood, closing up his medical
bag. “I haven’t played poker since
Bentley’s retreat. And come to think of
it, I didn’t play much there, too worried about my moody, sulking son.” He grinned.
“Dad
- -”
“Hey,
what’s this?” Grant lifted a shoebox
from the coffee table beside his bag.
It had been neatly papered in bright blue gift-wrap with amethyst swirls
and stars. The lid was wrapped separately, fitting neatly on top of the box,
allowing it to be easily removed. A
sizable hole was cut in the center of the lid, large enough for someone to fit
a hand through. Turning it over, Grant
gave it a curious glance.
“It’s
a party game . . . or it’s supposed to be,” Hutch said with a shake of his
head. “We never actually played it.”
A
single black brow climbed into Grant’s raven hair much the way Hutch’s
did. “We?”
“Starsky’s
girlfriend made it up,” Hutch explained. “We were supposed to have a party here
last night, but Starsk and I got stuck working a double shift so the whole
thing fizzled.”
“June
made up a bunch of questions and threw ‘em into a box,” Starsky continued,
picking up where his partner left off.
He waved his fork in the air to elaborate. “You know - - stupid things like ‘What three books would you want if you were stuck on a deserted island
for a year?’ The idea is everyone
gets to know one another, relaxes and has a good time.”
“Sounds
like fun,” Grant cleared the coffee table of everything but the box. “Let’s skip the poker and do this
instead.” He set his cheesecake aside
on an end table and moved his medical bag to the floor.
Hutch
blinked, certain he’d heard wrong.
Surely his private, introspective father wasn’t suggesting they play a
game that involved divulging personal likes and dislikes? “You want to play
June’s party game?” he asked incredulously.
“Sure,
why not?” Grant headed for the kitchen, retrieving a glass from the
cupboard. “It’ll give me a chance to
get to know David better.” He paused,
casting Hutch a direct glance. “And
you, for that matter. Do you realize I
don’t even know what your favorite color is, Ken? Or your favorite food?”
Hutch
sat up straighter, his heart pounding much too fast. He didn’t want to play the game with his father though he
couldn’t accurately pinpoint why. “It’s
green,” he sputtered, strangely unnerved. Desperate, he racked his brain for
Grant’s favorite color and came up glaringly empty. Why don’t I know that? “And I don’t really have a favorite food.”
“Everyone
has a favorite food, Ken,” Grant countered, returning with a glass of water,
making himself comfortable in the easy chair.
“Yeah,
like burritos,” Starsky said, springing to his feet and carrying his empty
dessert plate to the kitchen. Halfway
there, he returned to take Hutch’s, fully aware his partner wasn’t likely to
touch it. “June went to a lotta work to
make up that game. She’d probably get a
kick out of us actually playin’ it.”
“Okay,”
Grant called, obviously into the spirit of the moment. “How about that book question, David? What three books would you want if you were
stuck on a deserted island for a year?”
“Hmmm
. . .” Starsky paused to open the
refrigerator and rummage around inside.
His head disappeared. “I’m not
sure. Give me a minute.” A second later he reemerged with a can of
soda and a V-8. “Probably something fun
to take my mind off the whole deserted island thing. Maybe even a comic book.
No Playboys though - - that’d
just make me realize what I was missin’.”
He headed back toward the sofa, setting the V-8 by Hutch, popping the
can of cola for himself. “What about
you, Doc? What three books would you
take?”
“Let’s
see . . .” Grant looked thoughtful,
approaching the problem methodically.
“First a survival guide, so I’d last the year. If I weren’t a doctor, a first-aid book would be practical, but
since I already know the basics, I’d probably want something stimulating to
read as my second choice. Maybe one of
the literary classics or just some trite novel to pass the time.”
Hutch
laughed. “You - - a trite novel?”
“I
have been known to read King on occasion, Kenneth,” Grant countered with mock
stiffness, “And lately I’ve been experimenting with Wambaugh.”
“Cop
stuff?” Starsky grinned. “Hey, that’s cool.”
Hutch
had pulled his legs back, bent at the knees so that only his feet were pressed
up against Starsky’s demin-clad thigh.
Caught up in the spirit of the game, Starsky nudged his foot. “Your dad’s readin’ cop books. Ain’t that cool, Hutch?”
He
wasn’t quite sure that it was and decided not to comment. Part of him was disquieted to think his
father might be reading things like The
Onion Field and equating his son with the unfortunate officers in the
story.
Unmindful
of his hesitation, Starsky bounded ahead with the next question. “Okay, Doc, what about the third book? So far you’ve got the survival guide and
maybe Melville or Wambaugh. What’s the
third one?”
Grant
tilted his head to the side, thinking for a moment. “A photo album,” he decided after only the slightest pause. “With pictures of my family.”
“Wow.” Starsky looked stunned.
Hutch
felt his heart pound faster. He didn’t
know why the answer rattled him.
“That’s not a book,” he blurted.
His head was hurting again, the pain sinking spiny roots into his neck.
“The
question didn’t specify,” Grant answered.
“And you’re the only one who hasn’t taken a turn.”
Hutch
fingered his temple, trying to massage away the pain. “It wasn’t a real question.
You didn’t draw from the box.”
He could feel himself growing tenser but still couldn’t pinpoint why the
silly game had him on edge. When June
had first suggested it for the party, he’d thought it sounded like a fun idea.
He’d envisioned it being played with a group of his friends, maybe several
party guests he didn’t know all that well.
He’d seen himself ragging Starsky about his answers, even knowing many
of his partner’s answers before Starsky did.
Second-guessing his best friend had been what appealed to him the most
about June’s homemade game. He certainly
had not imagined playing it with his
father - - a man he loved but when it came right down to it, barely knew. And if he was truthful, Grant didn’t really
know him. They’d spent too many years at odds, making sweeping judgements
about the other instead of taking the time to really learn what made each other
tick. Hutch once thought he’d had his
father figured out, but over the last year had come to the shocking conclusion
he didn’t know Grant at all. At the
very least, the man he’d once deemed motivated only by prestige and wealth,
continued to surprise him.
A photo album.
He
hadn’t seen that coming. A year ago it
might not have even crossed Grant’s mind, but clearly he’d meant it.
Hutch
was suddenly aware of Starsky’s palm cupping the back of his leg. They’d always been astute enough to know
what the other was feeling. He knew Starsky had correctly read his flagrant
unease and was attempting to offset it with the assurance of touch. While
grateful for the connection, Hutch felt bad his friend was the one routinely
forced to bring stability to his relationship with Grant. I can never think straight enough to do it myself.
“I’ll
draw a new question,” he said hastily, hoping for something easy. There was no way he could follow up his
father’s answer after Grant had tossed photo
album into the pot. It left his
head reeling, his feelings teetering between confusion and heartfelt
warmth. He knew his father had changed,
but sometimes it was hard adapting to the blinding shock of those changes. It left him awkward, uncertain how to
respond, age-old insecurities whispering he’d just muck it up if he tried. So instead he leaned forward and fished in
the box for a new question. Unraveling
a small strip of paper, Hutch read the typewritten message aloud: “If
you had to own a pet, what kind would you choose and why?”
“That’s
easy.” Breathing a mental sigh of
relief, Hutch tossed the used question onto the coffee table. Allowing himself to relax, he leaned back
into the couch. “Some kind of bird,
like a parakeet. They’re
low-maintenance.”
“I
got that beat,” Starsky said. “I’d have
fish . . . a tropical aquarium. They
take even less care, you get more of ‘em, and they’re prettier.”
Hutch
raised a brow. As overly exuberant as
his partner was, Hutch thought he would have gone with the obvious and picked a
dog. He could see Starsky wanting a
bouncy mutt to greet him at the door when he came home or chase after Frisbees
in the park. “Prettier?” he
echoed. Getting comfortable, he
stretched his legs over his partner’s lap, more than a little appreciative when
Starsky absently massaged his calf.
“Fresh water or salt water?” he challenged.
“Huh?” Starsky stared at him blankly.
“Fresh
water or salt water,” Hutch repeated.
“Salt water takes a lot of care.
Even with fresh water you’ve got to have the right PH balance - - not too
alkaline or acidic, add chemicals, maintain the temperature around 72, filtrate
the water - -”
“All
right, all right!” Starsky said loudly, pressing down on Hutch’s leg to shut
him up. “I’ll get a freakin’
parakeet. They sound like a lot less
work.”
Hutch
grinned. Maybe June’s game wasn’t so
bad after all. This is what he’d been
looking forward to when he’d originally envisioned playing it - - rattling his
impressionable partner for the sheer fun of it.
“I’d
have a dog,” he heard his father announce neutrally.
“A dog?”
Hutch did a double take. Dogs
were messy. They required attention,
shed their fur, had to be put outside several times a day, and occasionally
even did wretchedly unforgivable things like throwing up on the carpet. Isn’t that what Grant had told him when he’d
asked for a dog as a kid?
Grant
took a sip of his water then returned his glass to the coffee table. “My dad got me a dog when I was six,” he
explained. “Just some stray mutt who
wandered onto our farm, but I loved that animal. I named him Rex after the Tyrannosaurus Rex because he was so
big. I had him for about eight years
before we had to put him down because of illness.”
“But
. . .” Hutch tried to make sense of the
story. He’d never known his father had
had a dog. Part of him couldn’t even
imagine his father as a kid on Kael Richard Hutchinson’s farm. The grandfather Hutch had loved never talked
much about his son, making Hutch realize Grant probably never had a strong
relationship with his own father. Kael had wanted his son to continue the
tradition of farming, but Grant’s heart had always been in medicine. Just as
Hutch’s had been in police work. “I asked you for a dog when I was a kid,” he
protested, half wounded, half confused. “You told me they were messy.”
“Well
. . .” Looking uncomfortable, Grant bit
his lip. He fidgeted in his chair, trying to fluff off the question. “You know how it is - -”
“No. I don’t.”
Hutch chose that moment to become difficult. He was tired, his head hurt, and he’d been coerced into playing a
game he had mixed feelings about. He
suddenly wanted someone else to be as miserable as he was - - or at the very
least marginally uncomfortable. His
irritability kicked up a notch as he forced the issue. “Why wouldn’t you let me have a dog?”
“Hutch.” Starsky squeezed his leg, hearing the strain
in his voice.
Ignoring
him, Hutch stared at his father expectantly.
“Well?”
“Well . . .”
Grant cleared his throat and shifted again. He chuckled nervously.
“How truthful do we have to be about these questions?”
“Completely,”
Hutch said flatly.
“Don’t
you think that’s bein’ a little rigid?”
Starsky attempted.
“No
. . . it’s all right, David.” Grant shifted again, this time striving for
comfort. He hooked his right ankle over
his left knee, sitting up straighter.
“It was a long time ago anyway.”
He directed his next statement to Hutch. “The truth is I wanted you to have a dog, but your mother just
had new carpeting installed in the living room around the time you asked. White, remember? We had to remove our shoes anytime we stepped into that
room. Drove me nuts. She was afraid of what a dog or a puppy
would do to it.” Grant shrugged. “We argued and she won.”
Hutch
stared numbly, shocked by what he heard.
“But you let me think you were the reason.”
“Well,
I certainly wasn’t going to have you mad at your mother. It was just easier to let you think I was
the one against it. Your opinion of me
wasn’t going to sink much lower than it already was.”
“Dad
- -” Mortified, Hutch dragged a hand
over his face. He didn’t like
remembering the childhood animosity and fear he’d harbored for Grant, always
caught up in trying to please, continually resentful when he failed. He recalled the hurt he’d felt when Grant
had told him he couldn’t have a dog, how unfair he’d thought his father was
being. He’d been secretly bitter about
it for weeks, adding yet another strike against his rigidly detached father.
And it wasn’t even his
doing. Mom was the one who didn’t want
me to have a dog. He even argued with
her about it.
“Next
question,” Starsky said loudly, sensing his inner turmoil. The dark-haired
detective hooked an arm over Hutch’s legs, holding them in place on his lap
while he leaned forward to pull a slip of paper from the box. “What
is your favorite movie of all time?” he read aloud, hastening the play
along.
And
so it went for a few hours, the questions not overly personal so much as
fun. Hutch admitted it would have been
a good party game after all and decided he’d have to make sure June brought it
for the next bash he had. Once or twice
he got up and stretched when fatigue caught up with him and he grew in danger
of drifting off. Somewhere after two
a.m. they took a break from the game and switched to poker at the kitchen table
for a few hours. By that time it was
all Hutch could do to keep his head up, his irritability growing along with his
exhaustion. Starsky decided a walk on
the beach would help, so the three of them traipsed outside, Hutch plodding up
and down the sand with Grant and Starsky flanking him.
The
cold air went a long way in waking him up, but it left him shivering, his head
pounding fiercely. His teeth were
chattering by the time he was finally back indoors. Starsky actually took pity on him and rounded up a spare blanket
from the closet. Wrapped in the downy
warmth, Hutch tried to curl onto the couch but was immediately dragged upright
by his partner.
He
groaned.
“Come
on, Blondie,” Starsky coaxed. “You’ve only got a little over an hour to go.”
“I’m
tired now,” Hutch complained. “Just let me go to sleep. I’m not gonna fall into a coma.”
“Probably
not,” Grant agreed, standing behind the sofa, adjusting a pillow at his
back. “But it’s better to err on the
part of safety. We’ll play a little more of June’s game and the time will pass
before you know it.”
“I
don’ wanna,” Hutch slurred. “How many
frigging questions did she write anyway?”
He knew his irritability bulldozed through but couldn’t silence his bad
temper. All he wanted to do was lie down
and close his eyes. He didn’t want to
think, didn’t want to talk, and most especially didn’t want to play June’s damn
party game.
In
direct mockery of his wishes, Starsky plopped down beside him, sitting just off
center of the couch, making it impossible for him to stretch out. With a defeated sigh, Hutch folded against
his partner, resting his head on Starsky’s shoulder. “Whas the question?” he asked wearily.
“I’ll
pick one.” Grant reached into the box,
sitting down in the adjacent chair. He
unfurled the strip of paper, frowning slightly before he actually read the
words aloud. “If you could change one thing about your life, what would it be?”
Hutch
felt his partner tense. He immediately
knew Starsky’s answer without his friend uttering a word. He also knew the question itself had to be
painful for a man who’d lost his father when he was only ten. Instantly, his irritability crumbled at his
feet, replaced by concern. “Bad
question, Dad,” he said, drawing back and sitting straighter. “Pick another one.”
“No,”
Starsky countered quickly. “It’s
okay.” He shot his friend a guarded
glance. “It’s not what you think,
babe,” he said quietly.
There
was something in his voice that made Hutch abruptly attentive. It was Grant’s
question yet Starsky had chosen to answer.
They’d been doing that all through the game, making the rules up as they
went, each spontaneously answering as the mood struck them. Suddenly Hutch wasn’t so sure he wanted to
hear his friend respond to this particular question.
“If
there were any way to have my dad back, I would,” Starsky said softly.
It
was what Hutch expected him to say.
Wasn’t the answer obvious? He
thought that would be the end of it, but Starsky surprised him by plowing ahead
and veering in another direction.
“God
took him for a reason, Hutch. I mean
think about it - - if he hadn’t died, my life mighta been entirely
different. Who knows if I woulda even
become a cop. I sure as hell wouldn’t
have come to Bay City and I never woulda met you. All the years we’ve spent as friends and partners just wouldn’t
have been. I like to think in some indirect way my dad was responsible for a
small piece of that . . . like he was watchin’ over me, guidin’ me along,
makin’ sure I ended up where I was supposed to be.” Starsky chuckled abruptly, trying to lighten the mood though it
was clear from his expression the thought sobered him. “I mean, hell, pal - - you coulda been stuck
with Baker or Sullivan as a partner.”
“Spare
me,” Hutch said, playing along, but the joking words didn’t match his
tone. His throat was abruptly tight and
dry. He had a feeling where Starsky was
headed and suddenly had to know for sure.
“If not your dad, then what would you change about your life?” he asked
quietly, his gaze riveted to the dark blue irises he knew so well. Don’t
say it. God, Starsk, don’t say it. It’s over, and I’m not worth that kind of
wish.
Starsky
slid a hand over his knee. “I woulda
found you before Monk touched you. I
woulda made sure Forest never took you on that trip.”
“Shit,
buddy.” Shaken, Hutch crumbled back
against the sofa. He’d known it was
coming, but to think of all the things Starsky could have changed in his life .
. . wished differently . . . it unnerved him to know his friend placed him
first. They were supposed to be playing
a simple party game about favorite colors, foods and movies - - not highly
personal earth-shattering revelations like this. He felt himself shaking, his
heart escalating into a rapid, fluttery cadence. “Terri,” he said miserably, unable to finish the thought.
“I’m
gonna see her again, Hutch. She’s
waitin’ for me. I wish I could change
that too, but Terri didn’t suffer. You
did. More than any person should have
to endure. Even now, you’re still
affected by the whole shitty ordeal.
Like tonight, and the way you hesitated taking those pills.”
Hutch
tensed, knowing he couldn’t deny the observation. In the end, it was simply too hard thinking. His head throbbed
mercilessly, swelling the blood vessels behind his eyes. He rubbed his chest
hoping to slow the fast-forward thump of his heart, fully aware Starsky could
feel his trembling. “I give you Terri
back,” he said emphatically. “If I could change something, I’d take out
Prudholm before he had a chance to hurt her. Do you know how many times I’ve
second-guessed when we had him at the zoo?
I talked you out of - -” He
shook his head, unable to finish the thought.
“I shouldn’t have been so quick to put him through the system,” he
finished miserably. I didn’t want you to kill him. Ultimately that would’ve destroyed you, but
- -
“That
was my call, Hutch, not yours.”
Somehow
the words didn’t help. Hutch had
secretly carried hidden guilt over Terri’s death ever since the tragedy
occurred. He knew he couldn’t have stood
by and watched Starsky kill Prudholm, yet if they’d ended it at the zoo, Terri
would still be alive.
But Starsky would be
different,
he realized. All his enthusiasm and innocence destroyed with a single pull of the
trigger.
He’d
done the right thing, he knew that, but it didn’t make the reality any easier
to bear. They’d never talked about it,
but he guessed Starsky carried the same doubts, secretly torn up inside for
allowing Prudholm to live. Hutch often
wondered how different their lives might have been if Terri had survived. She and Starsky would probably be married by
now, possibly expecting their first child.
Hutch had no doubt his friend would make an exceptional husband and
father. He still hoped to see the
realization of that vision in Starsky’s future as well as his own.
“Starsk
- -”
“Forget
it.” Starsky cut him off with a
dismissive wave of his hand. He grinned
as if realizing the conversation grew entirely too somber. “Let’s lighten this up, huh? Your dad ain’t answered yet.” Unobtrusively, Starsky rubbed his hand over
Hutch’s knee, soothing his reactionary trembling. “How about it, Doc? What
one thing would you change about your life?”
Engrossed
by what he’d been hearing, Grant blinked as if only then realizing he’d been
addressed. He cleared his throat and
shoved the question onto the coffee table.
“That one’s a bit too philosophical for me. I think we should try something lighter.” Reaching into the box, he drew another
question, hastily reading it aloud: “Name the teacher who had the most impact on
your life and explain why. That’s
an easy one.” Grinning, he tossed the
slip of paper beside the box. “The
teacher who had the most impact on my life is my son, and I think the reason is
obvious.”
Hutch
stared openly, too tired to be subtle.
Still reeling from his discussion with Starsky, he was unprepared for
Grant’s startling announcement. “Um . .
.” Hutch wet his lips. “I think it means a teacher from school or
college.”
Starsky
snorted. “I don’t think so, Blondie. Take the compliment and be glad. Your old man’s come a long way in the last
year. Besides - - ” He grinned toothily. “Anyone who agrees with me that you need to
ditch that hunk-a-junk heap you call a car and buy something halfway
respectable can’t be all that bad.”
Grant
favored him with an amused glance.
“Thank you, David.”
“Always
a pleasure, Doc. As for me, I’d have to
go with Miss Bailey - - my eighth grade English teacher.”
Sensing
the game was returning to a more even keel, Hutch turned his shoulder into the
corner of the couch, getting comfortable.
Yawning, he rested his head on the back. “I’m afraid to ask,” he
mumbled, taking the bait.
Starsky
waggled his eyebrows. “She always wore
tight skirts and heels with flowered bras under light-colored blouses. That was heady stuff for a thirteen-year-old
kid. Me and Stu Gaither were always the
first in class and the last to leave.
She couldn’t understand how we eked by on a C average when we were glued
to her every word.”
Hutch
parted with a lazy smile. “You haven’t
changed much, partner. Didn’t I see you
eyeing up the new clerk in Records? The
one who looks like a librarian?”
“That’s
only ‘cuz I heard she’s far from stuffy when she clocks out. The hair comes down and the glasses come
off, if you know what I mean.”
Hutch
chuckled. It was growing increasingly
hard keeping his eyes open. As Grant
picked up the thread of conversation, he gave into the pressing desire to
sleep. Unconsciously, he scrunched
deeper into the corner, trying to tuck his long body into the cramped
space. Within seconds he felt a light
pressure on his arm, guiding him to lie down. “Come on, babe. You’ve only got forty more minutes. Lie down here, but don’t go to sleep, okay?”
“Okay.” He would have said anything at that point
simply because it felt so good to be able to recline. Starsky moved to the far corner of the sofa and Hutch stretched
across the length, pillowing his head in his friend’s lap. He gave an appreciate groan at the familiar
contact and felt Starsky’s fingers feather lightly through his hair. The touch was blissfully soothing, bringing
a rapid infusion of warmth.
“How’s
your head?” his partner asked.
He
grunted something inarticulate, hoping it passed for an answer. The fingertips in his hair moved to the rear
of his scalp, maintaining a slow massage.
Already drowsy, he felt himself slipping under the radar of sleep.
“Hey,
Hutch,” he heard his partner call. “You
ain’t answered the question. Who was
your favorite teacher?”
“Mmm
. . .gotta think ‘bout that one,” he slurred, too tired to crack his
eyelids. “Give me some time . . .” He
yawned widely. “ . . .‘bout forty
minutes.”
It
was the last thing he remembered saying until Grant woke him a short time later
and helped him shuffle sleepily back to bed.
+++++
Hutch
had absolutely no sense of time when he woke.
He stretched lazily in bed, only vaguely concerned if it was morning or
evening. His head still ached, but the
pain had withered to a low-level murmur floating in the background. Rolling onto his side, he blinked groggily
at the bedside clock, noting the hour was just past 5PM. He was still fully dressed, having crashed
in his clothing last night, something he barely remembered.
Dragging himself from bed, he headed to the bathroom to freshen up. Neither his father nor Starsky were anywhere in sight, but Grant’s suitcase was still in the li