Sweet Little Lies

Some lies hurt worse than others.

Scrutinized by Rae, Editor Extraordinaire, who cracked the whip and kicked out the pesky semicolons. Alas, the muse is hard-headed as well as hard-boiled, and will do what she damn well pleases. Any remaining errors, lay it at her feet, please.

If I could turn the page
In time then I’d rearrange just a day or two
Close my, close my, close my eyes

But I couldn’t find a way
So I’ll settle for one day to believe in you
Tell me, tell me, tell me lies

—Little Lies, Fleetwood Mac

When I was a kid, my pop used to tell me the story of George Washington and the cherry tree:

“I cannot tell a lie, Father; I chopped down your cherry tree with my little hatchet.”

Pop said it was a lesson in honesty; if I wanted to be president some day, I always had to tell the truth. Couldn’t lie.

Huh. Maybe someone shoulda told Nixon that.

Anyway, it’s not like Pop never lied himself. I remember hearing him call in sick a couple times when he really wasn’t. Saw him sneak smokes with our next-door neighbor Jerry after telling Ma he’d quit. Stuff like that.

And Ma—she’d do it all the time. Smile sweet at Aunt Beryl and lie straight to her face: “Oh, honey, your fruitcake was divine. I must have the recipe.” Granted, Aunt B was something of a fruitcake herself. But the point is, the cake and the recipe went right in the garbage.

Ma called ’em “little white lies,” and said they were harmless fibs meant to make people feel better. As I got older, I realized that the person who felt better was usually the one telling the fib, so long as they didn’t get caught. And since I wasn’t planning on being president anyway, I figured I could get away with a few of my own:

“I don’t know how that window got broken. Nicky must’ve done it.”

“Yeah, Coach, I ran all ten laps.”

“Aw, c’mon sweetheart, all the girls are doing it.”

Of course, in my line of work I get lied to all the time, and not what you’d call the little white variety, either:

“She got that black eye walking into a door, Officer.”

“I can’t imagine how my fingerprints got there.”

“That’s not my gun. Someone must’ve planted it on me.”

Well, it used to be my line of work.

Now, I hear other lies:

“You’re going to be just fine, Dave; as right as rain in no time.”

“Your range of motion will improve if you keep up with the exercises.”

“Looking good, Starsky. You’ll be back to normal before you know it.”

But the worst one, the one that hurts the most, is:

“You’re gonna be out on the streets with me again, partner. Soon.”

~o0O0o~

When I finished my umpteenth torture session with Lorraine, the therapist from hell, she smiled her sadistic little smile at me and Hutch, and said I was coming along quite nicely. It didn’t feel like I was coming along; it was more like I was coming apart, only held together by Elmer’s glue and baling wire, but I didn’t say so. I didn’t say much of anything, just got dressed while Hutch made nice-nice with Lady de Sade.

In the car on the way back to my place, Hutch started to yammer on about something Lorraine had said, so I closed my eyes and leaned back like I was tired, and he shut up real quick. I’d gotten good at that, lately.

When we got home, I took a shower while Hutch fixed sandwiches. The hot water washed away the sweat and the ache, and I was feeling almost human when I sat down at the table. Hutch was pretty quiet while we ate, which was just fine with me, but the glances he kept throwing my way told me it wasn’t going to last for long.

Hutch cleared the table when we were done, so I went to stretch out on the sofa. After he was finished, he came over and nudged my feet until I made room for him to sit. Then, sure enough, with the fakest grin on his face and a too-cheerful voice, he picked up yammering where he had left off before.

Usually, I manage to brush off most of his yadda yadda, and whatever I can’t tune out, I’ll pretend it bores the crap outta me until he gives up. This time, though, it wasn’t working. I grabbed an old Sports Illustrated magazine and made like I was fascinated by Kentucky Derby results that were three months old. It was the issue I’d bought right before…. But then he said something I couldn’t ignore, and it stopped me cold.

“I’ve been saving all the best paperwork for you, buddy, since we’ll be on desk duty for a while. Couldn’t keep all the fun stuff for myself, now could I? But when we get back on our beat, we’ll—”

And that was it.

“Damn it, stop lying to me!” I sat up and threw the magazine. Spectacular Bid and his jockey hit the wall with a thud and fell to the floor. “I’m sick and tired of the lies, the bullshit; all of it! I’m never gonna make it back to the streets, so you can just save all your fairy tales and happily ever afters for some other sucker, ’cause I ain’t buying it!” I couldn’t help it; some small part of me gloated over the stunned expression on his face. I leaned back to savor the silence, until—

“Is that what you think?” He was on his feet in front of me, his hands bunched in tight fists. “That I’m lying to you? Fuck you.” He leaned in and I stared at him. Really saw him, for the first time in… shit, I don’t know how long.

Damn, he was pissed. In my face, breathing-fire pissed. He hadn’t been this mad at me since… well, since before.

“You’d better get your head out of your ass, buddy, and listen good.” The infamous Hutchinson finger made its appearance, driving his words home with sharp little jabs. “You are gonna make it back, even if I have to drag you kicking and screaming every goddamned step of the way. You’re gonna stand in front of the Review Board, they’re gonna hand you back your badge, and you’re gonna spit in James Gunther’s eye, you hear me?”

It was Hutch’s eyes, glittering and fierce, that had my attention just then. I could tell he wasn’t seeing me. Not me, here and now. He was seeing a me I hadn’t dared hope for, not even in my dreams. He saw, and believed. A true believer.

God, I wanted to believe too. But—

“But what if I can’t cut it, out on the street?” My greatest fear. “What if I can’t back you up?” My worst nightmare.

His anger faded and left him looking sad and drained. He straightened up slowly and shook his head. “You really don’t see it, do you? Every day, you’re moving better, getting stronger. You’re an honest-to-God modern medical miracle, and you don’t see it.

“Look.” He pointed to the crumpled magazine. “You threw that all the way across the room. Hard. You could never have done that a month ago.”

Funny, now that he said it, I realized he was right. It hadn’t even hurt to do it.

And that’s when it hit me—son of a bitch, it was true. I actually was getting better. Oh, I wasn’t ready to leap tall buildings in a single bound. And I sure as hell wasn’t faster than a speeding bullet, or three. The glue and the wire were still there, but damned if it hadn’t gotten… bearable, somehow.

For a long time, it seemed like all I could do was struggle not to die. Now the struggle was to live. When did this happen?

I looked at Hutch for answers like always, and the lines on his face gave them to me. It had happened when I was too busy feeling sorry for myself, when I’d wrapped myself up in my pain and misery so I wouldn’t have to face the future. When I’d shut him out.

“Guess I’ve been having me a one-man pity party, huh?” I laughed, only, it didn’t sound like a laugh, it was all strangled and twisted up. Then suddenly I wasn’t laughing at all.

It wasn’t the first time I’d cried, but it’ll be the last time, I think. The last time for what’s been taken away, for what’s gone.

Hutch cried with me. I held on to him, or maybe he held on to me—makes no difference which, I guess. In that unbreakable grip, I knew that I’d find the strength to go forward, to move on with my life. Our lives.

I still didn’t know if I’d get healthy enough to go back to what we were doing, the way we were doing it. Or if I even really wanted to. But that was a decision for the future, and I wasn’t afraid of it anymore.

And that’s no lie.