Time to Go

This is a short story about Starsky, who is waiting for Hutch to come and get him.

The theme of this story might disturb some readers. It’s about the end of a long and well-lived life.

Sometimes, in the middle of the night when the corridors were dark and the staff’s voices were hushed, Starsky talked to his mother. She liked to knit in the chair in the corner and gossip about people gone forty years or more. But to the sound of her voice he could sleep, like he had when she’d lie close beside him on his narrow bed and tell him about the stars in the sky that he was named for.

Or he’d listen to her talk, and think of those bedtimes when she’d read to him, first bunnies and kittens, later wizards and tornados. Eventually, she’d always open his door and tell him to turn out the light, dear, knowing he wouldn’t.

In the long nights now, he waited for Hutch, wondering what street he patrolled, what cover there was if he might need it, and who was watching his back. When the shapes in his room would start to emerge into the early light, he’d look for Hutch beside him in his narrow bed, or for his mother, no longer there in her chair.

One night he found himself sitting in the chair in the corner, reading to his mother as she lay in her bed. One of the romance books she liked, and that he secretly kind of did, too. He looked up and saw that she slept, so he kissed her forehead and tiptoed out, not knowing it was the last time he’d ever do that.

He opened his eyes. Dream? Memory? It didn’t really matter. When he turned to ask her, the shadows had faded and her chair was empty.

Maybe, if he waited long enough, Hutch would finally show up and get him the hell out of there.

Some days, when he knew that would never happen again, he could manage a little flirtation with one of the young nurses. Until he found out she was about to have her first grandchild. That shook him, but his little winks seemed to make her smile, so he kept it up. When he thought of it.

Most of the time now he just listened to the footsteps in the hall, hoping they would pass his door and not come in, because if they did, his mother would pick up her knitting and melt into the shadows, and he might not ever hear the rest of whatever tragedy or comedy she’d been regaling him with.

Until the night he heard the footsteps he’d been waiting for, the ones he knew instantly even after a decade or more of their absence. He looked over at his mother’s chair.

“It’s time to turn out the light, dear,” she said, and melted into the shadows. He blinked, and turned his head to the door.

“Hey, buddy,” Hutch said. “Ready to go?”

Starsky closed his eyes.