Christmas Snow

981

Hutch is kept awake by a series of dreams that won’t let him rest. A sort of twisted version of the classic Charles Dickens ‘Christmas Carol.’

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In the early morning hours of Christmas day, the brightly lit evergreen stood silent and alone. Wondrous neatly wrapped presents spilled out every which way. But there were no sounds of joyous laughter. No shining faces of eager children. Only the smell of pine and the blazing crackle of the fireplace filled the large festively decorated room of the Hutchinson family.

Outside the home, Ken and his little sister sat straight in their saddles, admiring the winter-white frost. Over night it had sealed all the tree branches in glass, leaving them gleaming like crystal chandeliers. The howling wind blew through them and the sweet sound of music tinkled all around. Ken had grown up loving the woods. He spent a lot of his free time sprawled in a grassy meadow, watching the clouds sail by or the children would build forts of logs and using branches of leaves. This Christmas was his fifteenth and his sister’s tenth, and Ken wanted to share with his little sister the quiet gift he used to share every Christmas day with his Grandfather.

Every Christmas, Kent Hutchinson would wake his grandson early in the morning and take him to the edge of the property. There, bordered between a wooden fence and small mountain peaks, was a tiny pond. To some, it may have been nothing more than a gaping hole, full of algae-covered water, snakes and pesky bugs. But to the two of them, it was a peaceful world they had all to themselves. Last year, Ken had held his Grandfather’s hand as the elderly man had passed from this life to the next. But even at such a tender, young age, the boy knew. He knew that even death could not break the bond that was shared by souls and he could still hear his Grandfather’s laughter in his ears.

A snowy Christmas was Ken’s favorite and on this very first holiday without his grandfather by his side and with his parents still warm in their bed, he had saddled the horses. He’d made up his mind to pass the tradition on to his sister and urged her to ride up to the pond with him, before opening their presents. The eyes as cool blue as the winter frost itself scanned the frozen wonderland. It was beautiful. Freezing sleet had blasted everything the night before and studded the landscape with a coat of soft white.

“It’s magical.” Ken smiled at his sister. “Grandpa took me riding every Christmas morning,” he said with sadness and adolescent pride.

“I miss Grandpa. Why’d he have to die?” His sister asked in a tiny voice.

“I don’t know.” The youngster shrugged, not wanting to be burdened with the hard questions on this particular morning.

“I think he missed Grandma.”

Ken nodded his agreement. “I know how he felt,” he whispered to himself.

Now in near silence, their horses trotted along side by side, the sound of snow crunching beneath their hooves. They stopped near the frozen pond on the edge of the acreage. The ice glistened in the glow of the pink morning sun. Ken glanced at the old beech tree where he and his grandfather had carved their names ages ago and sighed. Even as the years passed and the tree grew and changed shape, the initials remained clear.

“Do you think Santa came?” His sister asked him in a shivery, excited voice.

Ken turned to her. “I’m sure he did,” he said softly, his warm, moisture-laden breath visible as it escaped from his mouth in a parody of the smoke from the pipe his grandfather had smoked. He tipped back his head and laughed, glad he’d come. Sensing his sister was cold, he suggested, “We should head back.”

Reining his horse to the left, with a kick of his boot, Ken started off. He had only trotted his horse a few feet, when he heard his sister’s shrill screams. He pulled back on the reins and twisted in the saddle to look over his shoulder. At first glance, he thought she was playing games with him. But when her horse pounded by, Ken, horror-stricken, realized that his sister was thrashing around in the icy water. Watching a rabbit scurry away, it was evident to him that the horse had been spooked and thrown her off and now she was struggling to get to the edge of the freezing water.

In a moment, he was off his horse and running across the slippery ice.

“I’ll be right there. Hold on!” he yelled.

“I don’t think I can.”

“Yes you can!” Ken took two huge steps and jumped, landing near where his sister had broken through the ice.

One leg plunged in, but he kept his balance, as he reached to grab hold of her streaming red scarf and tug her close enough to draw her to him. He grasped her under the arms and pulled until he had her free of the water and onto the bank. Slipping out of his coat he wrapped it around her shivering shoulders and pushed her up onto his horse. “It’s okay. Okay.” Ken chanted as he jumped up behind her, kicking the horse with a boot once more to head them quickly toward home.

By the time they reached home, they were both shivering hard, from fear and frost.

His parents were unraveled. “How could you let this happen?” His father bellowed, as his mother wrapped a blanket around the little girl and rushed her into the bathroom. Richard Hutchinson paced back and forth in a heated rage in front of his young blond son. “She could have been killed! What the hell were you thinking?”

“I–I just–I think–” Ken’s voice trailed off, not knowing what he could say to fix this. He shivered, chilled more by fear then the icy water that still soaked him to the skin.

“Just….nothing! It doesn’t matter what you think. You don’t think. Ever!” His father had come to a quick decision. “This just proves me right. You can’t be trusted. You’re totally irresponsible.” His father looked him directly in the eye. “There’ll be no Christmas for you this year! Maybe never! Go!” Ken stood still, pinned to the spot by his father’s wrath, his stomach turning over and over. He hadn’t meant for this to happen. Why must he always stand toe-to-toe against his father, who never had one good thing to say about him? Yet, Ken felt the guilt, dry as a desert canyon, creep up into his throat. He should have been watching her more closely. She could have drowned. All because he wanted to enjoy the Christmas snow the way he and his grandfather used to. “Go, I said!” His father pointed a stiff, angry finger toward the staircase. Ken shifted his gaze to the seemingly endless flight of stairs. His father had once again won the standoff, and he moved to grip the handrail. Pulling himself slowly up, he could feel his father’s breath hot on his neck, following close behind and he knew what was coming would not be pleasant.

Later, he sat on the floor of his room bracing himself against the wall under his window. The stinging welts of his father’s belt stung and his accusing voice still rang in his ears.

“Wasn’t my fault. I’m telling you, it wasn’t my fault,” he mumbled, tears filling his eyes. “I hate Christmas! I hate you!”

************************************************************************************

Hutch suddenly pitched forward as the words erupted from him, kicking wildly as he woke in his own bed. “Dreaming,” he muttered. He hated that dream. It was one that would crop up now and then. ‘How many years ago had that happened?” he asked himself. And yet it always left him feeling miserable and alone.

Raking a hand through his hair, Hutch gathered his blankets, punched his pillow, and rolled over. He stared at the wall for a few minutes. ‘Every person on earth dreams,’ he thought to himself. ‘Even animals.’ Dreams were filled with myths and fairy tales, as far as Hutch was concerned. Usually he didn’t pay attention to them or even care to remember. But this was a long-standing dream of something real from his past. It always came to him around this time of year. And this Christmas Eve was no different. The dream was still very lucid, painful, and always left him drained. He knew he couldn’t keep falling down the old drain pipe of his past. It only succeeded in building walls around him so high that no one could ever get in again.

A shudder passed through his body and he closed his eyes, falling back into a restless sleep, hoping not to dream again of his father’s eyes, burning holes into his very soul.

*************************************************************************************

The bedroom window was open and a chill wind blew softly through the curtains. Hutch tossed and turned under a thin sheet. Wearing only pajama bottoms, he shivered, yet his bare chest glistened with perspiration. He grunted in his sleep, swatting at the air as if an irritating gnat were buzzing about him.

The cool breeze dried the sweat from his face, but the constant shivering woke him. He slowly opened his eyes and turned his head, watching the wind stir the curtains like a restless spirit. Then he thrust himself up, groggily swinging his legs off the bed and padded barefoot over to the window to shut it. Reaching up to grip the sill, Hutch paused to peer down at the street below. His heart began to pound and there was a change in his breathing, as it became erratic with fear. What was he afraid of? There was nothing out there. He looked left, then right. Everything was dull, colorless, black and white. The wind seemed to pick up and the curtains flapped wildly about him as he searched again in all directions. Nothing. There was nothing. Just the stony silence of the city street.

Just as Hutch was about to slam the window shut, a shadowy silhouette stepped out of the night. The sensuous shape glided up and down the sidewalk. A curvaceous ghostly figure, moving as if to music, yet there were no dancing notes to be heard. Hutch was mesmerized. He wanted this woman. There was something oddly familiar about her. He could feel her seductive force even from a distance. But a wave of fright escalated within him and he couldn’t understand why. Bile rose in his throat, but he kept it in check. His body was numb as if the cold California breeze had turned to snowflakes, something that happened only on the rarest of occasion.

The woman finally stopped; poised under the streetlight, with her right hip jutted out obscenely. At first, all Hutch noticed were her eyes. In those eyes he could see sophistication, intelligence, class. A familiar sweet smelling aroma floated to his nostrils. It slithered all around him. He was so in love and the desire nearly brought him to his knees. But then his eyes traveled over her body. She lit up the dark dreary street like a neon sign. The revealing red velvet teddy she wore was studded with sequins, the spiked red high heels and overly-done makeup didn’t match the caliber of those eyes, and Hutch suddenly realized she was a working girl.

His deep feelings of love came to a bittersweet end when an expensive black car pulled up to the curb. Hutch paid careful attention as he watched a disembodied hand appear out of the window waving a crisp one dollar bill. For a brief moment, the lady looked to the open window and their eyes met. She whispered something to him, something Hutch couldn’t hear. He tried to yell, but nothing came out. She whispered again, and this time he heard.

“You can’t bring your dead girlfriend back to life.” She hissed, a garish smile twisted the ruby-red lips.

She lingered a moment looking up at him as though she wished things could be different and Hutch held his breath for a moment. Then something drew her attention back to the car parked along the curb.

There was a deep stabbing pain in Hutch’s heart as he watched his lady sidle up to the passenger window. She grabbed the dollar bill from the nameless hand and stuffed it down the front of her dress. The door was opened for her and she slipped inside. A mushroom cloud of exhaust was all that was left in their wake as the car sped away, leaving everything black and white once more.

Hutch suddenly sat upright, his heart beating fast and his breathing heavy and labored.

“Gillian!” He cried out to the dark, empty room, his fingers curled around the sheets and clung to them like they were a life raft. “Gillian.” His voice trailed off into the emptiness, nothing more than a whisper.

Love so sweet, yet so bitter, had left a bad taste in his mouth. A quick breathless search of his surroundings let Hutch know he had been dreaming again. “I don’t believe this night,” he huffed. Somehow his dreams had taken over, gained access to the threshold of his consciousness.

Those lips had been his to taste, her warm beauty, his to hold, the story of their love, his to write. Hutch dropped his chin to his chest, limp and lifeless. “Gillian. Why?” The red balloon-filled room had been his responsibility to tend. He had kept his hand, his touch, his every word, delicate and tender, yet every single balloon had tragically burst despite the force of his own beating heart. Hutch lifted his head, shifted about on the bed….his eyes, wide and haunted.

“I wonder if–” he felt a twinge in his chest. “If we could have kept just one balloon from breaking, where would you and I be today?” He asked the darkness.

He felt as though he’d been deported for life to a lonely one palm-tree island. Would he ever love again? Hutch didn’t think there was much chance of that in his line of work. He rubbed at the stinging pain he still felt in his heart. There were plenty of women interested, but ships passing in the night, touching only once, just weren’t his style. What he failed to realize was that love came in more than one shape and size. Like the colors of a prism, its range was broad and diverse. The longing, bitterness, despair and loss he felt could be filled in many different ways.

Growing restless, Hutch looked to the window. The blowing wind only made him feel colder and more alone. Holding his breath until it steadied, Hutch steeled the agony in his heart. He swung his legs off the bed shakily, and padded barefoot to the window. He peered down at the street, his heart pounding. Clouds moving across the moon sent a spatter of shadows dancing about. Tree branches swayed. A frightened cat frantically ran under a parked car, and an old tin can rolled from one side of the road to the other. What was he afraid of? There was nothing out there.

Choking on a sob, Hutch shut the window and shuffled wearily back to his bed.

************************************************************************************

Hutch walked at a fast pace down the wet pavement of a dark alley. There was a burning desire deep inside him. He needed a score. After all these months of staying clean, the urge had hit him like the storm of the century. He was flawed, no question. He needed a fix. ‘Fix.’ At one time, he’d studied the thesaurus to find the deeper meaning of the word. ‘A joining, unchangeable, solidifying, immovable, like glue,’ it said. He would never again escape the desire, or despair. It would always awaken; like a sleeping giant coming to haunt him, without warning, and without provocation. This night he was going down again loosing his strength, unable to fight off the hunger.

“What’s up?” A man stepped out from the shadows.

“You know what’s up,” Hutch said, taking a look around, while trying to keep his feet steady as the world around him spun in a whirling web of matter.

“Come on. You know I can’t do this, man,” the man said, looking sorrowfully at Hutch, swallowing hard and biting his lip.

Hutch’s eyes became fierce and angry, and he felt himself being pulled under a sea of pain. He wrenched his gun from its leather holster and walked up to the thin black man placing the gun on the side of his head. “Give it to me!” He growled like an angry animal. “I need it now!”

“Don’t go getting your tail feathers in a ruffle, blondie. I got it right here.” Huggy danced about nervously. If soul and jazz had arms and legs and could walk and talk, Huggy would be that person. He pulled out a filled syringe, and handed it over to Hutch.

Hutch shoved his gun back in its holster and yanked the syringe away from Huggy with a shaky hand. His heart pounded; like a thousand bass drums thundering in his chest. He had backed himself up against a solid stone wall, literally as well as metaphorically. Staring at the needle, Hutch shook violently. He gave one last try not to go under, but it was feeble at best. He felt like a rag doll being tossed about on top of a massive bull. If he didn’t shoot up he’d be reduced to nothing more than bones and if he did take the hit—he figured he wouldn’t live long enough to realize his mistake.

“Hutch.” Starsky stepped from behind a dumpster and moved to stand in front of him. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Hutch’s head came up fast, his face red with rage as he looked over Starsky’s shoulder, focusing in on Huggy. “I told you not to tell him!”

“Man, Hutch, that’d be like asking a nun for directions to the porn shop instead of the church,” Huggy defended.

“He didn’t have to tell me,” Starsky said, “I already knew.” Starsky inched closer to Hutch. “Hand it over, partner.” He held out a flattened palm.

Hutch went rigid against the wall wrapping a fist around the syringe and pulling it to him protectively. “No!” Hutch yelled, a fiery force burning within him. “It’s not that easy, Starsky.”

Starsky quickly searched Hutch’s face. “Of course it is. Just give it to me, buddy.” He stuck out his hand further.

“Not in a giving mood.” Hutch glided a step away, all the while keeping his back against the wall.

Hutch’s eyes were wild as he looked around the alley. He wanted to run. To avoid the confrontation, but Starsky was there in his face again. He wouldn’t let him go. “Look into my eyes, Hutch, and just go ahead and put it in my hand. Come on, now.”

Hutch felt his confidence wane. The message Starsky was sending was clear. He wasn’t going to let it go. “Hutch.” Huggy intervened, stepping up behind Starsky. “I know you hurt like hell, man, but you don’t want to buy that ticket.”

“I’m going to be sick. I need it.” Hutch’s voice quavered and he held tighter to the syringe.

“Do you honestly think Huggy would give you the real deal, buddy?” Starsky raised his brows.

Hutch’s eyes came alive. “What!” His anger echoing down the alley. He wiped a dirty hand over his face, leaving black smudge marks. “Maybe not,” he calmed. “But if I don’t get something soon, I’m gonna die.”

“You’re not going to die. Hutch, I’m here. You’re not alone. We’ll start over. We’ll kick this again. Just you and me. Together.”

Hutch’s face turned dark with anger and the hurt he felt intensified, bringing watery tears to his eyes. He threw the needle to the ground, knowing the truth. He didn’t care how long they stood there in that alley. He was going to get his fix one way or another.

“Just need something to dull the pain. Just–you don’t understand!” Hutch spat out, suddenly finding his magnum in his hand and pointing at Starsky. “Get away. Get away from me!” Hutch raged, blind with hurt. “Move! Now!”

“Easy, easy, partner.” Starsky took a half step back, both hands held up in a calming manner.

“Just look the other way,” Hutch ordered.

“I can’t do that, Hutch. You know I can’t do that. Put the gun down,” Starsky pleaded.

“Starsky!” he yelled, getting madder by the minute. “I hurt like hell.” Hutch’s gun hand shook, but he took two steps away from the wall he’d been leaning against, and briefly looked at the needle on the ground. “Just help me. Catch one. Just one.”

The words had barely left his lips when Starsky took the opening, made a move, stepping forward and reaching out to grab Hutch’s hand. The next thing anyone knew there was a bright flash and a deafening bang!

Starsky closed the space between them. He shoved backward till he had Hutch pinned back up against the wall.

“Starsky, what do you think you’re doing? Leave me alone!”

“Do you want it? Do you really want it, Hutch?” Starsky gritted out between clenched teeth, his eyes fierce.

Hutch shrugged, confused. What he’d once thought he knew for certain now became fuzzy.

“You’re just asking for trouble.”

“I can take it.”

“Can you take this?” Starsky moved a step to the right. “Look. Look what you did. Just for a fix.”

There were no more words. Hutch stared past Starsky, eyes wide with horror, riveted to the ground. .Huggy lay dead in a heap. A bullet wound in his head brought blood gushing onto the pavement. “You’re a murderer, Hutch.” Starsky moved forward a step, striking the wall by Hutch’s head with a flat hand.

Hutch bit his lower lip, studying Huggy’s body in disbelief. Starsky pulled his handcuffs out, and Hutch felt the metal fit around his right wrist pressing shut. “No!” Hutch screamed. “No! I’m not!” He woke in a tangle of soaking wet sheets. Feeling sick, Hutch rolled over and off the bed, somehow managing to stagger to the bathroom.

He fumbled to turn on the faucet. His knees felt weak and he bent at the waist cupping his hands under the cold running water to splash it on his face. Leaving the water still gushing, Hutch raised his head to confront his reflection in the mirror. He swallowed loudly, a wave of exhaustion hitting him.

“You’re all right. Just another dream. Not real.” He continued to glare at himself in the mirror. What was it about dreams that defied reasonable explanation?

He studied the inside of his elbow. No needle marks. And there would never be again if he had a thing or two to say about it. He’d trained, pushed himself hard, learned ways to ignore the cravings when they appeared. Once in awhile, they would come and nudge him and he would feel, almost hear the deep need whispering, urging, in his ear. But he wouldn’t allow himself much time to think about it when it happened. He had plenty to lose if he did. And a swift phone call to his partner always seemed to be the quickest cure.

Looking defiantly back to the mirror, he smiled a little at himself. His gold hair looked windblown, his eyes baggy, his lip bled where he must have bit it in his sleep and his back hurt as though he’d been living on a bench for a week. He would have been amused if he didn’t feel so burnt out and scared inside.

“You got what it takes, Hutchinson.” He reached to shut the faucet off, still eying the man in the mirror. “Go back to sleep, dummy.”

Hutch found his way to a chair in the living room, and plopped down in it, restraining the impulse to call his partner he dropped back off to sleep.

***************************************************************

With unfaltering steps and happy voices, Hutch and his partner moved across the police parking lot to a flaming red car. Tranquil clouds rolled overhead and, even though the heat was merciless, Hutch felt light and cool. Starsky was babbling about something, bouncing about like a happy puppy. But a stab of fear flickered inside Hutch, disrupting the sunshine. His steps faltered. He looked up to see a black and white police car screech out of its parking slot, causing a discordant sound as it scraped the car next to it. He could only gaze open-mouthed at it.

Dobey’s going to have a field day with those two,’ he thought, as he waited for his partner to open the car door. Suddenly the rat-a-tat-tat of gunfire filled his ears and he ducked down instinctively. A heartbeat later, Hutch stood, wide eyed, dizzily watching the disorder around him.

“Starsky,” he croaked, not seeing his partner anywhere.

Drawing upon every ounce of courage he had, Hutch stumbled around the Torino. He stood unbelieving, trying to keep his balance. A whirlwind of motion flew around him, faces belonging to no one. Blood, dark red, was everywhere. He took several long steps, kneeling in it, staring down at his partner.

Starsky’s stare was vacant. Sweat glistened on his brow, and around his partially open lips. He appeared barely able to breath. Hutch laid a hand on his partner’s arm.

“Don’t give up on me, now, buddy!” Starsky coughed violently. Hutch gripped the dark-haired man’s arm harder. “You understand me?” There was no response. “Starsky!”

“Didn’t warn me.” Starsky mouthed with lips too weak to speak. Hutch looked down at Starsky in surprise; reached to pull him into his arms.

“Hutch.” A hand managed to close around Hutch’s jacket. “Hutch.” He took one last shuddering breath. “You killed me.” Starsky flinched. “You killed me,” he uttered again with a whisper. Then he went stone silent, his fingers lax, his hand falling to the ground.

Hutch looked to his own hands, painted in crimson and began to tremble, shaking his head. Dread and mourning swept over him in powerful waves. “No. No. No!” He screamed, as the tremors increased.

“Open your eyes. Open your eyes. Hutch, come on buddy, open your eyes.”

Hutch’s eyes flew open. “Starsky?” He gasped, face pale, breathing fast and hard.

“Who’d you think it’d be, blondie? Santa Claus?”

“I–I killed you.” Hutch’s brow creased heavily, staring at Starsky with watery blue eyes.

Starsky chuckled, glancing at the mirror on the wall. “Last time I checked I was very much alive.” He looked back into Hutch’s frightened eyes.

“You were dreaming.” Starsky rested a hand on Hutch’s shoulder.

“Y-yes.” Hutch tilted his head back to stare at the ceiling and blink away the fright.

“Bad one?”

“Y-yes.”

“Want to tell me about it?”

Hutch raised his head as he felt Starsky’s fingers tighten on his shoulder. “Not really,” he gulped.

“You look like Scrooge after he was visited by the ghosts of Christmas past, present and future.” Starsky gave him a light smile.

Hutch played into the lightness, wanting his nightmares to disappear from memory. “Think I’ll bring them up on kidnapping charges. I didn’t get a wink of sleep last night.” Hutch shuddered, pinching the bridge of his nose and frowning.

“Hey, buddy. You okay?”

Hutch slumped further in the chair he had fallen asleep in, and let out a breath. “Helluva’ night,” he said, dryly shaking his head.

“You look it,” Starsky patted the shoulder he’d been gripping, then moved to the kitchen. “How ’bout a cup of coffee.”

“Sure.” Hutch cast his gaze to the window. Curious about the gray he saw lingering there, he walked over to peer out. White flakes fell from the fog. “Christmas snow,” he whispered, bracing a hand against the wall.

A warm, bright glow visited his worn-out soul, and Hutch left behind the fear that had gripped his heart. He let the hard lines on his face disappear and stood in humble awe. Life was too precious to be swept away by fear and regret, anger or sorrow. The sound of his grandfather’s footfalls in the snow made him smile. There was a rhythm to life. It might not always make sense or feel worthy, but there was a mystical force behind it. In the tiniest of things could hide the greatest of powers. Like a hot cup of coffee offered by a friend or the everyday presence of a gentle touch on his shoulder, or like the quiet silence of falling snow. And in the presence of what Hutch thought to be utter sorrow and despair in his life. The loss of a beloved grandfather, the tragedy of a great love….gone in an instant, the ever-mindful presence of a chained beast, lurking in wait to escape its prison. They were all truly moments in his life that he would never part with, even though pain came with the memories. The mystery made life worth it all. For if he knew all the answers, there would be no cause for celebration.

“Christmas snow.” Hutch repeated, softer still.

“Huh?” Starsky asked, almost in disinterest.

“Starsky.” Hutch turned to him, eyes twinkling. “It’s snowing.” He pointed out the window. “Look.” Hutch studied the tiny symmetrical flakes with the eyes of a child.

“Won’t stick to the ground, never does.” Starsky walked over to the window and handed Hutch a cup of coffee.

“It’s Christmas day.” Hutch ignored the cup, a silly grin on his face.

“So? You hate Christmas,” Starsky said, completely prepared to spend the day listening to his partner bah humbugging.

Hutch began to bustle around, getting dressed. “We need a tree…..presents…..chestnuts….cookies…. eggnog.” Before Starsky knew it, Hutch already had gathered his shoes and coat and grabbing his keys, he headed for the front door. Opening it, his eyes urged Starsky impatiently to come along.

Starsky laughed, downing his coffee. “You really were visited by a few ghosts last night. “He set his mug down and moved through the door, a happy smile on his face at seeing his partner so excited over a holiday he normally tried to ignore.

“Come along, Cratchit,” Hutch said, following behind Starsky.

“Bah humbug,” Starsky laughed.

MERRY CHRISTMAS

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