Adorned in Light

My apologies to Charles Dickens.

Written as a gift for Hutchynstarsk in the 2012 Secret Santa 911.

Social gatherings are my least favorite type of celebration. Christmas is especially terrible. This season of supposed goodwill is always full of greed gone wild, useless spending on unnecessary “things” that no one needs, family dinners that always end in a fight, crying babies and screaming children, crowded stores full of irritated shoppers, office parties where everyone gets drunk and embarrasses themselves. The list could go on and on and usually does. One of my most dreaded events for the Christmas season is happening in an hour or so–the precinct Christmas Party.

This is my first Christmas at Metro–totally unknown people for the most part, even worse than usual. Starsky, who’s been here from uniform days, says it’s a laid back group that’s easy to get along with–of course, Starsky finds almost everyone easy to get along with. Besides, Starsky loves Christmas, Jewish boy that he is–go figure. He doesn’t understand my total aversion to this holiday, not having grown up in a Bible thumping home of a fundamentalist Lutheran preacher, who found fault with every aspect of the celebration by anyone other than himself. The original Christmas gifts were for Christ, and no one was as pure as Christ, of course, therefore no one deserved presents, period. No one received presents. Not little kids, not adults, no one.

I guess that would be seen as the high road about gift giving, but it was really just meanness of spirit and an excuse to judge his fellow men. I left home for college and never went back, never, not for vacations–I told my father I was working and couldn’t get off for the time it would take to get to Duluth and back and have any time at home–or summers or any special occasion. My senior year I met and married Vanessa. She was beautiful and ambitious and quite willing to exchange Minnesota for sunny California.

As everyone knows by now, my marriage ended with a very loud bang at Christmas, the first after I decided that police work was what I wanted to do, which was another reason for hating the holiday and all its cheer. She could do better than me, someone who understood the needs of a woman–needs like jewelry, designer clothes, luxury vacations–nothing she was gonna get from someone on a cop’s salary. She should have waited–my grandmother left me a tidy sum and the farm she and grandfather had worked successfully for their entire lives. Half of nothing was just that–nothing. Two years later she’d have been set. It didn’t help my liking for Christmas that Mormor died two days before the holiday. The only part of Christmases I’d enjoyed as a child had been the time spent with my mother’s parents, who still kept the old Swedish traditions, of which my father heartily disapproved, of course. I’ll have to share those traditions with Starsky someday–he’d like the desserts and the carols. He’d make a great star-boy or maybe a tomte gnome.

Speaking of whom, Santa hat perched on curls, whistling (Jingle Bells), practically dancing down the row separating the desks, Starsky burst into the squad room. He probably can’t wait for the party to start.

“Hey, blondie, let’s go–celebration begins in Records. Come on!”

“Oh, yeah, I can hardly wait,” I answered, trying to hide my sarcasm, but I don’t think I did a very good job. Starsky looked at me a bit suspiciously, though he didn’t say anything. We’d been friends since the Academy, but it had never occurred to me that he liked Christmas. We’d always shared drinks at this time of year, but I guess I thought he was celebrating Hanukkah or something. But this year, spending the entire season with him, and becoming much closer, I found out that it was his love of Christmas that he was sharing. I’d sort of hinted that I wasn’t too fond of Christmas, but so far I wasn’t believed–no one could seriously not like this holiday. Starsky just tended to gloss over my missteps and assume I didn’t mean what I said. I was trying to suppress my feelings, but I didn’t know how successful I could be. Like now–what was I supposed to do? My enthusiasm had already been less than it should have.

“I went up and scouted it out. Good things to eat and mistletoe hung in all the doorways and some on the lights, too.” A sly grin lit his face. “Better get ready, I bet there’s lots of clerks lyin’ in wait for you.” His hand landed on my neck and gave me a good natured shake, as he literally bounced with anticipation. “This is gonna be fun!”

“Yeah,” I agreed, hoping I sounded more excited than I felt. That was all I needed, a bunch of drunk records clerks fawning all over me while I tried politely to slip out of their grasp. Maybe I’d just get drunk, too.

^^^***^^^

“Well…was fun. Huh? Did you…Santos? Wanna…my place…yours? I guess…my…closer…. Good thing…weekend off. …come on to you, or what?”

Something was wrong with my ears, or something, ’cause I was only hearing some of what Starsky was saying. “Shut up,” I muttered, climbing awkwardly into Starsky’s orange Toyota. When was he gonna get a grown-up car, anyway? I leaned back against the ratty headrest and tried to stop the world from spinning around. Every time it got part way round, a loud buzzing cut off Starsky’s voice, and made nonsense of what he was saying.

Guess he must’ve got in the car, too, since the engine turned over and I could feel the tires moving across the parking lot. ‘Course, maybe that went along with the spinning. I couldn’t open my eyes to check, ’cause I thought for a minute I was gonna throw up. Luckily I didn’t, but it was a close thing. I also missed anything else Starsky said, since he didn’t follow my advice to shut up–he never does.

We somehow ended up at Starsky’s apartment after a while. I knew it was his place, because I had to climb a mountain of stairs when we arrived–my cottage doesn’t have any stairs so I probably wouldn’t have tripped myself. In the living room I sort of collapsed on his sofa and hoped he would just leave me there, watching the ceiling spin round and round and round….

I made it to the bathroom in time–I’m not quite sure how–and proceeded to rid my stomach of the remaining alcohol and Christmas ‘things’ I’d eaten. Oh, God! Why did I drink and eat at the same time? Why did I drink anything? I hate Christmas. Did I tell you that?

“Hutch, you okay?” Starsky was standing in the doorway to the bathroom, looking at me intently. “Do you need some help?”

“Not unless you can throw up for me.” I tried to stand up, sort of grateful for Starsky’s hand on my arm, since I don’t think I would have made it otherwise. I leaned back against the sink for support, judging how steady my stomach was–not good, but I figured I’d make it if I didn’t think about what I’d eaten or drunk. So, I carefully returned–with Starsky’s help–to the sofa and lay down facing the back.

“Don’t you want a blanket or somethin’?”

“No. Go ‘way,” I muttered. Oh, God! I felt like I was dying, wishing I would. Everything was still spinning, but if I kept my eyes closed, I thought I could keep the couch from launching itself and me into space.

^^^***^^^

I awoke to darkness–still, silent, oppressive darkness, the kind of darkness that has no shadows or faintly lit spots, nothing. And I could hardly breathe, choking on the dryness of my mouth and the heavy weight holding down my head. I fought the weight, flinging my arms up, only to feel them impact an unyielding surface. Buried alive! Was I buried alive? I sat up, unimpeded, and felt the weight fall from my face.

A blanket–a blanket had been over my head. It was still dark, but I could see shadows of things around me, could see the street light shining through the windows. The relief that I wasn’t being held down by something or someone was wonderful. I breathed deep and noted that the air seemed scented with the smells of pine and cinnamon and ginger–all the scents that used to fill my grandparents’ house at Christmas. I struggled to my feet, aware that my shoes were missing–another little gift from Starsky, along with the heavy blanket.

Making my way to the bathroom for a little relief, I looked in the bedroom to check on Starsky–he was sleeping, a soft snore coming from his open mouth. How cute! That wasn’t sarcasm, I swear. I was kind of touched by the innocence I saw there. I wanted to protect him, from everything. I shook my head in wonder, unable to understand his continued ability to see life as essentially positive. I’d lost that rosy view my first six months on the streets.

When I returned to the living room, I was a bit disconcerted to see a huge Christmas tree that took up half the space. Twinkling lights were wrapped around windows; presents were piled under the tree; mistletoe hung from the doorways and light fixture; red and green candles, surrounded by pinecones and greenery, burned at various places around the living room and kitchen. The whole place looked like an outpost of Santa’s village. Starsky must have done stuff while I was in the bathroom, but why had he lighted everything up in the middle of the night, with burning candles and all?

I walked back to the bedroom to tell the idiot he hadn’t needed to go to all that trouble, but I closed my mouth without saying anything–Starsky was still snoring away, and he didn’t look as though he’d moved a muscle since the last time I’d looked. Turning to look at the living room again, I noticed that the light there seemed to be coming from everywhere–sort of a glow. I wondered how Starsky had got that effect; it was beautiful. In fact, this whole display of Christmas was a bit over the top, even for an enthusiast like Starsky.

I suddenly noticed the faint sound of music playing in the background–Christmas, sort of, majestic and rather ethereal. Where was the sound coming from? I looked around, but the room wasn’t that large, and besides the stereo and radio–both turned off–there was nothing else that could produce music. It sure as hell wasn’t Starsky humming.

This whole thing was getting a bit unsettling. Unless I was careful, I was going to find myself thinking some kind of Christmas magic was happening here, and I knew for a fact that there was no such thing. Hadn’t I spent Christmas upon Christmas waiting for something like this to happen? Hadn’t most of my Christmases, until I was old enough to stop expecting, been a quest to see a little magic, a little hint of beauty and kindness? It hadn’t happened then, and it wasn’t happening now. There was another explanation, somewhere, somehow. Wasn’t I still drunk? Of course. That was it–all this was merely a drunken hallucination.

“Are you sure, Kenneth?”

I spun around to confront whoever had spoken, ready to take them on. This was Starsky’s place and no one besides me had been invited. But, like before, I closed my mouth without speaking, because standing by the tree in flowing robes of sparkling white was a…uh…character off an old Christmas card–the beard and long white hair cemented the impression. How had he gotten in here? And what did he want?

“I’m here to help you, Kenneth, or do you prefer Hutch?” His bright eyes were alight and sparkling with the spirit of excitement, much like Starsky’s frequently were.

“Help me?” I asked, wondering how this obvious figment of my imagination or dream or something proposed to help me. With what?

“Your belief, of course. Or maybe that should be non-belief,” he answered, seemingly reading my mind. Well, of course, a figment of my imagination would know what I was thinking.

“Belief? In what?”

He tilted his head to one side and looked a bit sorrowful–for me?

“Yes, Kenneth, for you. It’s been many years since you celebrated the joy of giving. Don’t you want to feel that again? Give that to your friend? Make this a happy time for him?”

Oh, no fair bringing Starsky into this! Of course, I wanted to make his Christmas as good as I could, but what did that have to do with my own feelings? I didn’t have to burden him with my lack of the real spirit of Christmas, whatever that was.

“Look, I don’t know who you are or how you got in here, but….”

“You don’t have to be your police persona with me, Kenneth; I mean you no harm. On the contrary, I intend to make you less suspicious, more forgiving, and much happier. Wouldn’t you like that? If only for a day?”

“I…I….”

“No. You needn’t answer now. I want to show you something you haven’t thought about in many years. Something that used to bring you great joy. Come, the hour is late.”

“Hutch? Who you talkin’ to?” Starsky stumbled into the living room, looking a bit blurry. He had on a pair of sweat pants and a ratty t-shirt, his hair looking even more disheveled than usual, and, oh, was I glad to see him. Now, I’d be able to tell if this guy was real or just my drunken imagination.

I grabbed him and shoved him in front of my figment. “Do you see this guy?”

“Why?” He looked at me a little strangely, and then added sotto voce, “Who is he? What’s he doing here?”

Well, if Starsky saw him too, I guess figment of my imagination was not going to be the right answer, but I didn’t know the truth. So, I did the only thing I could in the circumstance, I shrugged. Maybe Starsk and I were having a shared hallucination–was that possible? Why not? We managed to get drunk together….

“Hello, David, I’m glad you could join us. We were about to embark on an early morning excursion.” He held out his hand, beckoning us closer.

A film of sparkling mist swirled around us, and we were suddenly standing in a field of pristine snow. It was truly beautiful–one of the magical things of a Minnesota winter that I realized I had missed–virgin white vistas as far as the eye could see, broken here and there by wooden fences and snow laden stands of evergreens. Wait a minute! How did we get from Starsky’s apartment in the early hours of morning to a winter scene in the middle of the day, far away from Los Angeles?

“It’s magic, of course,” said my mind reading guide.

Starsky leaned in and whispered, “How did he know what I was thinking?”

I shrugged again and muttered back, “He does that all the time.”

“Is he real? Magic?” Starsky sounded a bit taken with that idea.

Magic…right. That made as much sense as the rest of this hallucination, or dream, or whatever this was. Something about this set of occurrences was familiar, however, something I half-remembered, a feeling I kept trying to place. Coming to the tip of my tongue again and again, and then slipping away, it was maddening.

“Who are you?” I asked again.

“Who do you think I am?”

Great! Just what I needed–twenty questions. “How the hell am I supposed to know that?” I snapped, fed up with this character, figment of my own mind or not. Starsky took hold of my arm, trying to keep my temper in check.

“Do you got a name we can call you?” Starsky asked, sounding calm.

“How about Leon?”

Leon! Was he serious? What kind of name was that for some Christmas character that had just taken us who knew where by mist? I had to still be drunk, asleep, or both. Maybe this would be funny when I woke up, but right now it was just crazy. I turned toward Starsky and rolled my eyes. “Can you believe this guy?”

Starsky was looking around, kicking his feet in the snow. “Where are we?”

Before I could share my ignorance, another swirl of silvery mist swept over us and we were transported to a small house out in the middle of what looked like a woods. There were snow drifts half-way up some tree trunks, and the wobbly looking chimney only sent a thin stream of smoke skyward. The house looked ready to fall down–unpainted, loose boards, broken windows, all the signs of disrepair and poverty. I knew I’d seen this place before, but I couldn’t remember exactly–a long time ago, when I was still a child….

“Don’t you know who grew up here, Kenneth? Think back….”

“Who?” Starsky whispered in my ear. He still had hold of my arm, rather comforting, actually.

“My father, I think.”

He’d grown up here, out here in the woods of Minnesota, in abject poverty, just him and his father. While Grandfather Hutchinson had also been Swedish, he’d been a lot different from my mom’s parents, who had both been loving and caring, even though they’d never interfered in their daughter’s marriage or in the lives of their grandchildren. The one time my father had brought me to this house, I was about five and the old man there had been scary and strange. He’d spoken broken English in a gruff voice and seemed to have no time for my father or me. I mostly remember being dragged in front of him and made to shake hands and wanting desperately to leave this awful place.

“Oh, yeah? How’d Leon know that?”

I just shook my head and turned to Leon–really?–ready to ask why we were here, only to see him beckoning to me from the one window that still had glass. How had he got inside–wait, what was I saying? Magic figment said it all. I reversed the grip on Starsky so I could pull him through the deep snow, realizing I didn’t feel the cold at all on my bare feet–but then why would I–around to the rough hewn door, which was pulled open for us. The bleak interior was much the same as I remembered, faded and dingy and full of dark corners. I found it just as depressing as it had been twenty-five years ago. Evidently, Starsky found it to be the same, since he stayed close and clamped a hand on my arm again.

“Spooky,” Starsky whispered. I was going to have bruises where his fingers dug into my arm, but that was okay–he made me feel a bit safer.

No one seemed to notice us in the room, which was strange, as it was not all that large and didn’t have that much furniture. A man sat before a fireplace in an Adirondack chair with cushions of some faded canvas, reading from what appeared to be a very old and well thumbed Bible. A small boy sat on a stool pulled up to a rough plank table and struggled to copy something from a much used work book into a funny little notebook.

“Not a very hospitable place, is it?”

Leon’s voice startled me–it’s normal tone seeming out of place. Starsky jumped, latching onto my arm with his other hand, too.

“Don’t worry, they can’t hear or see us.”

“What are you?” Starsky asked, eyeing Leon with a bit of distrust. “Wait, I know,” he said, his face lighting up. “You’re like one of those spirits from A Christmas Carol, huh? Like…like Past–you’re the Ghost of Christmas Past. I think you’re supposed to have a light on your head, sort of a candle.”

I tried to shush him, but Leon just smiled a bit and nodded. What was that supposed to mean? Was Starsky right? I looked at my partner, trying to remember A Christmas Carol, but all I could think of was Ebenezer Scrooge and bah humbug. What the hell? Was Leon not only a figment of my imagination, but a figment of a someone else’s imagination, too? Had I just included Starsky to make it seem real?

“Why do you doubt your senses, Kenneth? Your friend will tell you that I’m real.”

Starsky, who was now bending over the boy at the table, looked up at me. “What? I think he’s pretty real, blondie.”

I wanted to ask him how he’d know that, if I’d made him up, too, but I didn’t. If he was another made up character in my dream, he wouldn’t know that. Instead, I asked, “What’s he writing?” nodding at the boy.

“Looks like he’s copying a poem.'”

I walked over to take a look–ah! a Swedish carol Mormor had taught me when I was very young. “It’s a Christmas carol about lighting the candles on Saint Lucia’s Day.”

“That’s about Christmas?” Starsky asked a bit incredulous.

“It’s a really important celebration in Sweden,” I offered as an explanation.

“He looks like you when you’re all solemn, kind of unhappy.” Starsky remarked in one of his lightning fast changes of subject, and returned to my side. “He already has that little line between the eyebrows.” He reached out and rubbed the crease between my brows. “Just like now.”

I pulled my head away, not exactly happy about any similarity between me and my father. “Lots of people have that.”

“Yeah, probably, but that’s the only little blond, skinny kid that’s supposed to be your father. You think he gets enough to eat?”

“Well, he grew up big and healthy, so I’m guessing yes, but he does look a little on the underfed side, doesn’t he?” I turned toward Leon, and repeated my earlier question. “Why did we come here? What’s the point?” I could hear the impatience increasing in my voice, but I couldn’t seem to help it. If all this was real, I admit this guy’s little dog and pony show was impressive. Transported thousands of miles in the blink of an eye, going back in time–impossible, right? But here we were.

“Pojke, kom hit.”

The child stood up immediately and walked to stand at attention in front of his father.

“Lukas 2, hur langt har du?” The man’s voice was as gruff as I remembered.

“What did he say?” Starsky asked.

“Shush,” I whispered, concentrating on what was going on.

“Vers 10,” the boy answered.

“Recitera.”

“1Vid den tiden beslutade den romerske kejsaren Augustus att alla innevånare i landet skulle registreras, så man kunde beskatta dem.”

“Huuuutch,” Starsky whined, pulling at my sleeve.

“He’s reciting the first ten verses of Luke 2–you know, the New Testament Christmas story.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. It’s like he’s been memorizing these verses, and his father’s making him recite what he’s learned so far.”

Starsky watched the boy, obviously rooting for him, his eyes trained on him with unwavering concentration. The recitation went on for a while, until the boy stumbled to a stop. Starsky let out a shouted “All right!!” clapped madly, sporting a huge grin on his face. “Wasn’t that great? He did a super job!”

I couldn’t help but smile at my partner’s unreserved enthusiasm. He was always like that–one of the reasons I loved him so much–about any amateur performance, even if he had no idea what was being said. I looked back at father and grandfather, and instantly knew something was wrong. The little thin face had paled to a sickly gray and a look of displeasure turned the solemn expression of my grandfather to one of severe disapproval. The boy kept his head down, staring at the rough floor, until he was seized by one arm and marched back to the table where he was roughly shoved over the stool that sat there. The man reached for a long switch on the wall, tore it down and proceeded to whip the poor child with hard strokes of the switch.

“What…what’s he doing? Stop that!” Starsky shouted and ran across the room and tried to pry the stick from my grandfather.

“You can’t affect the timeline here, or alter the events of this place, I’m afraid,” pronounced Leon, in what I had tended to think of as his teaching voice.

I startled again; I’d forgotten he was there. “Starsky,” I admonished, “you can’t change his behavior.”

Starsky looked at me as if I were the one wielding the switch, but he caught on fast and stopped trying to make sense of what was happening. “Well, you do something then,” he said to Leon in his bad cop voice.

Another negative shake of the head and a murmured, “I can’t.” was all he received as an answer.

“Then what good are you?” Starsky asked, that belligerent forward tilt to his head.

“You needn’t be angry with me–these events happened many years ago; we are merely witnessing what they were.”

The boy who had been my father made no sound during his punishment, but when it was over and he stood at the table to finish his copy book, I could see the tracks of tears down his face. I felt sorry for this child, even though as an adult he had demanded seemingly impossible tasks of his own son. Was this where he’d learned his harsh ways?

Suddenly the sparkling mist swept over us, and when it lifted we stood on the steps of a Lutheran church, with people filing past us. After a few stragglers hurried in, a white limo pulled up, unloading a bride in her finery and her two parents, dressed in somber navy blue. There was no snow now, although the air was rather chilly–a sure sign of autumn.

“What’s this?” Starsky whispered.

“I think it’s my parents’ wedding. That’s her when she was young, and that’s Morfar and Mormor Lagerspetz.” Which meant my father was inside the church, waiting. God! What a thought. The boy in the cabin had been one thing; but as a grown man?

“They don’t look too happy, Hutch.”

Starsky was right–they looked sad, as though they’d like to take their daughter and go home. Well, maybe they knew my father. Funny how I could feel sympathy for the boy, but thought of the grown man made me angry. I encountered Leon’s disappointed expression and looked away, blushing with embarrassment. Well, he didn’t have to grow up with the man as his father.

The party of three stopped near us while they carried on a quiet argument. “I’m not calling off the wedding, no matter what you say.”

“But, Inger, he is so…cement, you know–how do you say–serious. He never laughs or has the good time. Your life will be in shadow for all your days.”

Mormor put in her concerns. “And your children–think what a hard man he will be with the little ones.”

“Is that all? Can I get married now? And you’re wrong about Richard; he will love our children.” She swept on into the church. Her parents followed more slowly, looking even sadder than before.

Leon gestured to me and Starsky to follow. I really didn’t want to witness this wedding, but Leon looked very insistent. We could hear the organ music when we stepped inside, just beginning the thunderous tones of Mendelssohn’s Wedding March. Mother proceeded down the aisle on her father’s arm, her head high, a smile on her face. Maybe she really had been in love with my father; I didn’t understand how, but she had always supported all of his decisions, never argued with him concerning his discipline of me and my sister. I didn’t understand her absolute loyalty. As a young child I’d learned very quickly it was no use appealing to my mother for intercession–she never went against him.

Surprisingly enough, he looked sort of regular in his wedding tuxedo, even a bit vulnerable, looking around as though searching for someone. I didn’t like feeling that way about my dad. To me he would always be the monster of my dreams; well, at least the symbol of my powerlessness. I wondered what kind of things his own father represented–harsh and unloving sternness? Did he feel he never pleased his father, like I did?

I looked around for my grandfather Hutchinson, but I could see him nowhere. Had he refused to attend his son’s wedding? That wouldn’t surprise me. I glanced at Leon, who was watching me, as if waiting for me to say something. Not a chance. I leaned over and tapped Starsky’s shoulder, pointing toward the door when I had his attention. When we were outside again, I turned to Leon, who had followed us. “I’ve seen enough. I know what you want me to do or learn or whatever. I want to go home.”

“I think you would do well to see one more–”

“No, nothing else,” I snapped. “Just take us back.” I walked off down the gravel drive, not feeling the little rocks under my feet. In a minute I felt Starsky walking beside me, and was glad when he didn’t say anything. All this was too much, too intense for my feelings. He threw an arm around my shoulders, hugged me gently, and left his arm there–a comforting, solid presence. He made up for a lot of lack in my life–family, love, caring. Who needed a cold and frigid family when I had a friend who cared about every breath I took and was never slack in the area of support for whatever I decided to do. Home, I just wanted to go home, or back to Starsky’s–that was also home.

The familiar mist surrounded us and I found myself fading away, losing consciousness. I had no idea how long before I woke up on the floor of Starsky’s living room, confused and slightly disoriented, with Starsky squatting beside me, shaking me by the arm.

“Hutch! Hey, Hutch, wake up, huh? What you doin’ down here? Did you fall off the couch? You okay?”

I sat up slowly, holding my head, which hurt like a son-of-a-bitch. I groaned loudly and waited for my stomach to settle down again. “Wha….” I stopped, my gaze locked on the little bare tree sitting on a table by the front window. Looking around the living room, there weren’t any decorations–no lights, no candles, no mistletoe, nothing. “Starsk, wasn’t….” I stopped again, really confused now. Had everything we’d just experienced been a dream? “Starsk, did you just have a weird dream?”

He looked at me solemnly. “Yeah. I dreamed we went to church, in Minnesota.”

“Anything else?” I waited, holding my breath.

“We went walking in the snow, barefoot, and there was a strange dude with white hair wearing a robe or something whose name was Leon. And there was a strange little house and a little boy that looked like you. Why? Was I making noise?”

He stood and offered me a hand up. I flopped back on the couch, trying to make sense of what had happened. “No…nothing like that. It’s just…I don’t know…I think we had the same dream or versions of the same dream. That little boy was my father…and….” I fell silent again, realizing I had no way of talking about how this whole experience had made me feel. Somehow, someway, my feelings about my father had changed. Oh, his actions were still just as reprehensible, and I still had no desire to be where he was, but I guess I understood what had made him that way. His childhood had been shit–worse than mine, if that were possible–and he had been warped by it. I sort of felt sorry for him now, instead of just mindlessly angry at him. There had been no light in his world, no one to tell him he was just fine the way he was, no friend to take his side and make him see the world in a positive way.

I smiled at Starsky and squeezed his shoulder briefly. Starsky smiled back and punched my arm lightly. “How about that? We’re such good friends we even have the same dreams. So what are you giving this good friend for Christmas, huh? I could give you a few suggestions, unless you already have it, then I can tell you if its something I want. Since we have to work over Christmas this year, I thought we could get deli for tonight and a ham or something for Christmas. You can come over early tomorrow morning, or stay here again so we can open presents. It’s….”

I watched the blue eyes twinkle and thought of the perfect gift–a cobalt blue robe I’d seen in a shop window down on Melrose last week. I’d go over lunch today and get it. Maybe I’d pick up a few ornaments for Starsky’s tree, too. He’d like that, and that would make me happy. Maybe Christmas didn’t have to be the disaster that I’d always thought. Maybe….