Searching for the Dawn

On the night Hutch returned from San Francisco and arresting Gunther, Dobey was waiting for him at the airport. Still riding the wave of righteous anger and giddiness at knowing Starsky had woken from his coma, he didn’t allow himself to think anything could be wrong until Captain Dobey called him “son.”

He walked through the halls to a quiet room and sat down beside his partner’s bed and held a cooling hand. He apologized for not being there when Starsky took his last breath, he told him he loved him and would always love him, and he kissed Starsky’s lips and vowed he would never allow himself to hope or dream or give his heart away again.

On the day of Starsky’s funeral, Detective Sergeant Kenneth R. Hutchinson stood up in front of friends and family members and the media (oh God, he thought, Starsky would hate this) and gave an eloquent eulogy without once stuttering or even allowing tears to fall from his eyes. He was still on the job and it was his duty, his privilege, his honor to tell the people assembled what a wonderful man David Michael Starsky had been.

At the gravesite he handed the folded American flag to Starsky’s grieving mother and told her how sorry he was that he’d failed her son. She did nothing to reassure him that it hadn’t been his fault. When the first shovels of dirt were thrown in on top of the casket, Detective Sergeant Kenneth R. Hutchinson wished that Jewish tradition allowed for cremation so that he would have had a bit of Starsky to carry with him. He settled for taking a handful of earth and placing it in an envelope he found in his pocket.

He excused himself from the gathering at Huggy Bear’s and went to Starsky’s apartment. He found that white Mexican sweater of Starsky’s and held it to his nose. It didn’t smell of Starsky—nothing did except when he went into the bathroom and opened Starsky’s aftershave. He took the sweater with him, locked the door behind him, and went to his own apartment where he threw most of his clothes in trash bags, grabbed his guitar, the cash he’d withdrawn from the bank the day before, and left without looking back. He checked into a motel that offered rates for businessmen on long trips and paid for one month.

On the next day—nine days since Starsky had been shot in the goddamn parking garage of the station and five days since he’d died—Ken Hutchinson walked into Metro, told Dobey he’d stay until Gunther was convicted of his crimes, and then went to Starsky’s desk and began working as if nothing had happened. He didn’t take a break to eat and he only spoke if spoken to.

On the forty fifth day since Starsky died, Dobey called him into his office along with the rest of the task force and informed them that James Marshall Gunther had been beaten and succumbed to his wounds earlier that morning. Ken Hutchinson thought he would feel something, but he felt nothing other than the need to leave. He went to Starsky’s desk—the one he’d been using since he came back—and typed a letter of resignation. He handed it to Dobey, placed his gun, and his badge on the desk and walked out without looking back.

That evening, he went to Huggy’s and gave him the keys to Starsky’s and his apartments. He said that Huggy could take whatever he wanted, that he would pay for whatever cleaning was necessary, and that he would call when he got to wherever he was going.

On the forty seventh day, Ken woke up in the motel room at three am, gathered his belongings, threw them in the back of his car, and headed east towards the rising sun.

On the fifty second day, he was in Minnesota headed towards Duluth when he realized Duluth wasn’t home any longer either and that the sun wasn’t in his eyes but at his shoulder. So he turned east again and told himself that when the morning sun hit his eyes the next day, the tears were from the brightness of the dawn.

On the sixty third day, his car broke down in a little town in Vermont called Bexter. There was a main street with lots of artsy shops, two ski resorts within a ten minute drive, and a few help wanted signs. Ken Hutchinson asked if there were any houses offering boarding at the visitor center, the location of the nearest bank, the post office, and a place he could get a meal.

He went to the post office and opened a post office box. He went to the bank, called his parents in Duluth, and was assured that within a few days, his trust fund, the one he’d never used, the one he was going to use to buy a house for Starsky and him when Starsky got out of the hospital and they were free to be lovers in the open, would be transferred to him. He forgot to go to eat.

On the seventieth day since Starsky had died, Ken got a job at one of the ski resorts even though the ski season was months away. People still came from Boston and Albany and New York City to spend time in the mountains and the clean air. He worked at the registration desk and when he wasn’t at work, he practiced smiling in the mirror in the bathroom at the boarding house because he wasn’t sure he remembered how. He spoke to Huggy, gave him his phone number, and the post office box and sat at the window and waited for dawn to come again.

On the one hundred first day, his co-workers gave him a birthday cake and he forced a smile. He went to the house he’d bought with the trust fund money—halfway between Bexter and the resort—and shaved off his mustache and cut his hair with scissors. He looked both younger and older and he didn’t know how that had happened. He took out Starsky’s sweater, put it on, and sat on the back porch on the swing that had come with the house, and listened to the evening songs of birds.

“Give me a sign. Tell me what to do,” he whispered. But there was no answer.

He went back inside and took off the sweater. Something bounced on the floor and he picked it up. A roll of film in a black canister. He didn’t know where it came from. He didn’t own a camera.

On the one hundred third day since Starsky had died, he picked up the developed film from the drugstore and sat in his car looking at the pictures. Starsky had taken all but one. They were pictures of the day they’d spent on the beach before—before everything had been taken from them. All of the pictures were of Hutch—smiling, laughing, walking along the water’s edge. Had he ever been that happy? He couldn’t remember. And there was one—the only one Hutch had taken—of Starsky. Hutch traced a finger over a face so familiar and so alien. Starsky was smiling—the smile that lit his face and turned his eyes darkest blue. And there was so much love in the gaze that Hutch had turn the picture over because it hurt too bad to remember.

On the two hundred twentieth day after Starsky died, Ken worked at the resort on Christmas day so others could spend time with their families. He had none, not really, and he now held people at a distance so he didn’t have to risk the fear of losing them. He held a beginning ski class for four and five year old’s on the bunny slope while their parents skied the other runs and told himself the tears in his eyes were only from the biting air.

On the two hundred seventy eighth day, he and his co-workers gathered around a TV along with others at the resort and watched the US Olympic hockey team—a bunch of college kids who were surprising everyone—play the Soviet Union in the first game of the medal round.

“Do you believe in miracles?” Al Michaels yelled in the final seconds of the stunning upset and all Ken could think was ‘There are no miracles.’

On the three hundred eleventh day, Ken called Starsky’s mom because he knew of all days that missing her son on his birthday would be hard. She was polite but distant and he knew she had never forgiven him. It didn’t matter—he had never forgiven himself.

On the three hundred sixty first day, he woke screaming from a nightmare of screeching metal and gunshots. He got up and watched the sunrise and wondered if he’d ever feel its warmth.

On the five hundred thirty seventh day, his co-worker Alicia asked him to drive her to the local animal shelter. Her husband and daughter were meeting her there to adopt a kitten. He did so gladly and she asked him to come inside to meet her family.

He wandered through the small facility and stopped at the final kennel. A brown dog with hair going every which way lay on a blanket in the back corner. When he stopped the dog looked up at him, gave a half hearted thump of its tail, and then looked away as if it was too afraid to hope.

“Hey there,” Ken said. “You lonely too?” It was the first time he’d admitted how he felt most days—a deep aching longing to connect but unable to quite manage it other than on the most superficial of levels.

The dog came over and looked at him while its tail wagged a little more excitedly. The woman in charge found Ken still standing there after Alicia and her family left.

“Do you want to adopt her?” she asked.

“I haven’t had a dog since I was a kid,” Ken said. “And I work.”

“She’s been here a few months,” the woman said. “I’m Tilly, by the way,”

‘Ken Hutchinson,” he said and shook her hand.

“No one wants to adopt an older dog. She’s ten. Her owner passed away and the kids all live in the city and aren’t allowed dogs in their apartments.”

“What’s her name?” he asked. He really really didn’t want a dog but the thought of maybe, just maybe having some living soul to care about him, to love him, to need him took root.

“Sky,” Tilly said and smiled. “Silly name I guess but she really is a sweetheart.”

He left the shelter an hour later laden with dog bowls, a bag of dog food, and an ecstatic Sky who acted far younger than ten.

On the seven hundred thirty second day it was two years since Starsky died. Ken spent the day at Alicia’s house with her family and some other folks he recognized from around town but didn’t really know. Sky came along and delighted in all the petting and adoration.

He still had trouble making small talk and being social although he was better than he’d been before Sky had come into his life. But he smiled and even laughed at the antics of some of the kids and for the first time it didn’t feel as if his skin would break and his soul seep out from within.

“I miss you,” he said later that night back home on the back porch swing. “It still hurts. I’m still waiting for that sign from you.” And then Sky jumped up on his lap and gave him kisses.

He fell asleep wearing Starsky’s sweater, holding Starsky’s picture, and curled up around Sky. He dreamed of the first and last and only time they’d made love and Starsky was smiling and telling him it was all gonna be okay.

On the eight hundred seventy eighth day, Ken took his guitar to the local café at the urging of Ben and Katie, a couple he’d become friends with after Alicia’s party, and sang in the talent show they held every month. There was no prize, just bragging rights. He sang Jim Croce’s Time in a Bottle and every word was meant for Starsky and if he stumbled over a few of the lines about boxes for wishes and dreams never coming true and eternity passing away, it was only because he hadn’t practiced enough and not because the words hurt.

On the one thousand four hundred thirtieth day, Sky couldn’t lift herself from the pillow she lay on in the kitchen. He’d known the day was coming because Doctor Barrow the vet had told him Sky’s heart was failing.

He called the vet’s office and they told him Doctor Ford would come to the house. He’d never met Doctor Ford—the younger man who had gone into practice with Barrow a few months back, but he’d heard good things about him around town. One thing about living in Bexter—everyone knew everything going on.

It was raining when Doctor Bailey Ford came to the house. He was a few years younger than Ken with red hair and brown eyes the color of freshly tilled soil. His head came to Ken’s shoulder and he was stocky and solid. His voice was calm and quiet and he sat on the floor beside Ken and petted Sky while they talked.

“I know it’s a hard decision,” Doctor Ford said. “Especially when you love…”

Ken held up a hand. He didn’t want to hear about love. He’d gambled with it once again even if it had only been a dog no one wanted to adopt. It hurt. Love hurt and caring hurt and being lonely hurt and missing Starsky hurt and…

“Mr. Hutchinson?”

Ken looked down to see Doctor Ford’s hand on his forearm. He nodded.

“Do what you have to do.”

“It won’t hurt her,” Doctor Ford said as he prepared a syringe.

Ken nodded again. It never did. Didn’t hurt the ones leaving, only the ones left behind.

“Do you want to stay with her while…?” The vet looked at him with those compassionate brown eyes.

Ken nodded. He was afraid to open his mouth for fear that all the grief, all the pain would be the only sound he could make.

He petted her, whispered to her and told her she was the best of all dogs that ever had been and ever would be and she looked at him as though he was the center of her universe and gave one last lick to his hand.

He stared at his hand, at the drops of rain that were falling on it, and wondered when his roof had started leaking. And then he realized they were tears—tears he hadn’t been able to shed when he hadn’t been by his best friend, his lover, his partner while Starsky took his last breath, tears he’d denied and forced down for nearly four years.

He tried holding them back, tried forcing them back down inside where he could hold them close and not let anyone see the pain of loss. But once escaped, they couldn’t be controlled.

What did it say about him that he was crying over a dog instead of his dead lover/partner/friend?

His head was on someone’s shoulder, damp wool under his cheek, and a broad hand rubbed his neck while someone told him it was okay to cry, it was okay to grieve, it was okay to mourn.

When he thought the tears would never stop and that he would drown in them, they did. Just like his brain but not his heart knew they would.

“Sorry,” he said and pushed away.

Doctor Ford had tears in his own eyes. “Nothing to be sorry for. You loved her. And loved Starsky, too.”

Ken wiped his face with his hand, wiped his hand on his sweatshirt. “How do you know about Starsky?”

“You said his, I’m guessing a him, name a few times, asked him to forgive you,” Doctor Ford said.

Ken reached back to pull a kitchen chair closer. His back was not going to thank him for sitting on a cold floor and crying his eyes out. Doctor Ford got to his feet with an enviable grace and reached out a hand.

Ken took it, felt strong fingers grasp his wrist, the other hand coming to support him as he got to shaky feet.

“Thank you.”

Doctor Ford smiled. One of his front teeth had a small chip in it. It made him look even younger. “You’re welcome.” He hesitated a moment. “I can help you bury her if you want. Or I can take her to have her cremated.”

Ken took a few deep breaths. “There’s a tree out back,” he heard himself say and his voice sounded as if it were coming from far away. “I’d like to…”

“Okay then.”

“I just need…” It was suddenly very important that he find the envelope from the funeral. He walked to the desk in the hallway, dug through accumulated letters from Bay City and Duluth, and found it.

Doctor Ford dug the hole while Ken held Sky close to his heart wrapped in her favorite blanket. He put in her favorite toy and when the last shovelful covered the site, he threw in the dirt from Starsky’s grave.

They went back inside and Ken turned up the heat and put on a kettle to make some herbal tea.

“Thank you, Doctor Ford,” he said. “I…” He busied himself with pouring water.

“Bailey,” the vet said.

“Doctor Bailey?” Ken handed him the mug.

“No. It’s my first name. Bailey. You can call me that. Or Bay.”

“Bay?”

Bailey nodded. “My nickname—Bay.”

Ken felt a jolt go through him. “Bay.” He looked down at his tea. “I’m Ken. Or Kenneth.”

They said nothing else. That night, alone in the house and hearing phantom dog nails clicking along the hardwood floors, he whispered into the darkness, “Are these my signs, Starsk? Are you telling me something?”

On the one thousand four hundred eighty third day since Starsky’s death, Ken ran into Bay at the farmer’s market on the village green.

“How have you been?”

Ken took in a deep breath and found a bit of ease in his heart. “I’m getting there.”

“Good. I’m glad.” Bay nodded and then wiped one hand down his jeans. He looked around and then took Ken’s elbow and guided them a short distance away. “Uh, um. Okay.” He wiped his hand again and then smiled, nervous energy radiating from him. “I was wondering if you’d like to have dinner with me tonight.”

Say yes. Say yes. Ken wasn’t sure where the voice he was hearing was coming from but he found himself smiling and nodding and agreeing to Bay picking him up at his house at six thirty.

They ate at a restaurant set by a lake—one Ken had never been to. They wore sweaters as they sat on the patio and watched the clouds’ reflections race across the water.

“Tell me about him,” Bay said. “About Starsky.”

Ken hesitated. “I’m not sure you…”

“I want to get to know you, Ken. And he was a huge part of your life wasn’t he?” Bay leaned forward, took Ken’s hand in his. “You don’t have to if you don’t want. If it’s too painful or…” He shook his head. “I’m really no good at this. I haven’t been on a date since I broke up with Edward two years ago.”

“I tell you about Starsky, you tell me about Edward?”

“That’ll work,” Bay said and grinned.

Ken turned his hand in Bay’s and smiled. “I met Starsky at the police academy…”

He talked all through dinner and all through the drive to the Evans’ farm when Bay got a call as their dessert was being served.

He stood in the barn with Rog Evans and the two youngest Evans children and watched as Bay helped a cow give birth to her first calf.

“Go on then,” Rog said as Ken wiped his eyes. “You never saw it before, it’s pretty amazing. Help him.”

Ken knelt in the straw, grabbed hay and rubbed the calf with it while the new mama nuzzled her baby. He sat back on his heels as the calf got up on rubbery legs and found the udder.

Bay grinned. “Some date, huh?”

Ken didn’t know where the feelings were coming from but he laughed and grabbed Bay up in a hug heedless of the muck on both their clothes.

Bay came in Ken’s house and Ken shared the pictures from that day on the beach.

“He loved you,” Bay said as he looked at Starsky’s picture. “How lucky you were to have had him in your life.”

“I let him down,” Ken said then although for the first time looking at the picture didn’t hurt. And then he told Bay about May 15, 1979 and everything after.

“Ken,” Bay said. He moved closer to Ken on the porch swing. “He loved you. He was protecting you. Just as you would have done for him.”

“I wasn’t there when he…when he…” He couldn’t say it. One thousand four hundred and eighty three days and he still held the guilt.

“You were,” Bay said. “Of course you were. He loved you. People still love those that are separated from them by time or distance. Forgive yourself. He wouldn’t want you to do this to yourself.”

“How do you know that?” Ken asked, and his throat hurt as if it had only happened yesterday. “You didn’t know him.”

“I know love. And I know you. And every time I look into your eyes, I see him there. He’s still a part of you.”

“I kept asking for him to send me some sort of sign.”

Bay smiled and touched his hand to Ken’s cheek, rubbed his thumb on Ken’s lips. “You don’t think he has?”

Ken said nothing. Oh God, what am I doing? I can’t hurt again.

“Sky. And Star.”

“Star?” Ken asked. He didn’t know of any star that had been sent his way.

“The calf born tonight. The Evans kids named her Star.”

Ken felt a laugh bubble up, deep inside, one that he’d shared with Starsky over the years of their friendship. And then his hands were on Bay’s shoulders and Bay’s hands were on his and their lips met and Hutch heard a far off voice say triumphantly, “yes!”

On the one thousand seven hundred seventy second day after Starsky died, it was five years since Starsky had a birthday. It was the day that Bay finally moved into the house with Hutch. It was the day that he realized how blessed he was. It snowed the night before and Hutch and Bay made snow angels and played throw the snowball with their two dogs who were perplexed by the balls mysteriously disappearing into the whiteness. It was the day that Hutch stopped counting back and began counting forward. He started with day one.

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