Here Be Monsters

Hutch stood at the kitchen counter—carrot, celery, onion, knife at the ready. He heard Starsky in the other room, pacing, talking to his mom on the phone.

Mothers—Starsky’s short, curly haired never stop moving, never stop talking one. His mother—tall, blonde, ice queen. Guy’s mother loomed up in Hutch’s vision, Guy with his arms wrapped around her, calling her. Mommy, Mommy, Mommy. Still loving her despite all her cruelty.

He brought the knife down, blade against the wooden cutting board, and Guy’s face looked up at him from the depths of a garbage can.

Hutch closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and then another deeper one. He forced his eyes open when all he could see was Guy’s back and his sister’s eyes—way too old for a child so young.

Chop. Chop. Chop. He let the rhythm sink into his soul. If he could do just this one thing, think only of that, he could forget about kids who thought being beaten was normal. He could forget that for some, love meant pain and hurt and anger.

Starsky hadn’t understood—Starsky had raged and slammed his hand into his steering wheel.

“How could she? How could anyone want to hurt a little kid?” Starsky’s eyes had blazed blue, filled with righteous tears.

Hutch didn’t have an answer—he wished he had. It would have explained so much. He just shook his head, shrugged his shoulders. He knew the unspoken question behind Starsky’s outburst. How could you stand it, Hutch? How could you not let it get to you? How could you look and not feel?

He’d schooled his face not to show emotion—not to let Guy or anyone know how his stomach twisted when he saw the marks on Guy’s back. His voice had been calm, gentle—the same way it would have been if he was trying to lure a scared stray dog close enough to catch, the way it was when they had to tell a mother, a father, a wife, a husband, their loved one wasn’t coming home.

He wondered what Starsky thought of that. There’d been moments on this case where he imagined Starsky thought him cold and callous.

Put it in the chest, throw away the key, don’t let them see how you feel. It had been his haven before—it was his haven now.

Chop. Chop. Chop. The orange, green, and white stood out against the fine grain of the wood. He lifted the board, pushed the vegetables into a kettle where oil sizzled on the bottom, gave them a stir, turned down the heat.

Starsky’s voice rose and fell, and there was a bark of laughter. Hutch washed off the knife, wiped down the board. And then there was nothing. Nothing to do, no way to escape the overwhelming sorrow, anger, fear.

“Hutch?”

Starsky’s voice was right by his ear and he startled, nearly putting his hand on the side of the hot kettle.

“What?” He grabbed the spoon, stirred the vegetables again, pleased to see them caramelized. He added the chicken sitting on the plate on the counter, poured in some water and sweet and sour sauce, put on the lid.

“You okay?” Starsky looked at him in that way that made Hutch feel as if Starsky could see straight into his soul, as if Starsky knew every thought, every feeling.

“Why would you ask that?” Hutch retreated from the question. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Starsky shrugged. He opened the fridge, looked in, and pulled out a root beer, handed one to Hutch.

“You forget to buy real beer?” Starsky asked.

It was Hutch’s turn to shrug. He didn’t know why he had bought none—only that the thought of drowning himself in an alcoholic haze after this case felt wrong—and way too easy. Hutch opened the root beer, took a swig, and made a face. He didn’t even like root beer—only kept it because Starsky wanted it, liked it.

“You think Guy and Vikki are gonna be okay?” Starsky asked. His voice cracked just a little, and Hutch risked a glance. Starsky’s eyes were shiny-the way they got when he didn’t want to cry but wasn’t quite able to keep his emotions tamped down.

“Their dad and step-mom love them,” Hutch said. He put the bottle down on the counter, surprised when it shattered.

“Fuck, Hutch!” Starsky grabbed his hand, turned on the tap, and held it under the water.

“What? I just put the…”

“You slammed it down,” Starsky said. His voice was even, steady, although Hutch could feel Starsky’s fingers trembling as they held Hutch’s hand.

Hutch kept silent, let Starsky minister to him. He thought he’d just set the bottle down, didn’t remember using any force.

How much force did it take to leave a bruise on a child’s body? One where every adult finger was outlined in black, blue, yellow, green? How much force to wield a belt and open that child’s skin?

Stop it. Stop it. Stop it.

Hutch pulled his hand away.

“It’s okay. Not even bleeding,” he said.

“No. No, it’s not.”

“Don’t sound like that.” Hutch snapped the words—meant to drive away Starsky, meant to drive out the demons.

“What? Like I might care that my best friend, my buddy, might have cut himself by slamming a glass bottle on his counter?” Starsky pushed up against him, crowded him until Hutch felt like he might not be able to breathe. “C’mon. What’s going on?”

“Nothing.” Hutch stepped out of Starsky’s orbit, surprised when Starsky moved the safe distance of the dining room table.

He clenched his jaw as he cleaned up the mess of broken glass and spilled root beer. He kept waiting for a comment from Starsky, but there was only silence and the bubbling of the pot on the stove.

How many times had Guy been struck because he spilled a glass of milk? How many times had he been told he was bad and worthless? How many times had Vikki been forced to witness or hide away in her room to pretend she didn’t hear her brother’s cries? How much could one small child, two small children, take? How much did they believe they deserved everything that happened to them?

Hutch deposited the shattered glass, the sopping paper towels in his garbage can. Maybe he should check his plants, water them, make sure they were okay. It was only in the silence, in the waiting, that there was memory and aching.

“How’d you do it?” Starsky asked from his place at the table.

Hutch whirled to face him so fast, his feet tangled. He caught himself before he planted his face on the floor.

“Do what?” He was proud of how reasonable his voice sounded, even though he was sure he knew what Starsky meant.

“How’d you keep from showing Guy how upset you were?” Starsky shook his head. “When I saw those marks the first time… I don’t understand it. How…” Starsky tapped a fork on the table. “Well. We said it all before, except… didn’t it bother you?”

“What the hell kind of question is that? You think because I didn’t run out crying or pissed off, I didn’t care?” Hutch felt his hands curl into fists. He wanted to punch something, anything to get out the fear, get out the helplessness he’d felt seeing those marks, and knowing in his belly what they meant and how they felt.

“I didn’t say that and you know it.” Starsky sounded weary, his voice soft and gentle. “Hutch.”

Hutch couldn’t look at him-couldn’t bear to meet the questions and acceptance he knew would be in Starsky’s eyes.

He turned back to the stove, poured quick cooking rice in the pan of boiling water.

Talk to me, Starsky. Please.

But Starsky wasn’t a psychic, and Hutch couldn’t bring himself to ask.

The rice stuck together, gummy and unappetizing, but he put it into a bowl anyway, ladled the sweet and sour chicken into another and carried both to the table.

“Looks good,” Starsky said and filled his plate.

Hutch followed, looked at the blob of rice on his plate, at the chicken in its orange-y sauce and felt his stomach lurch.

Stop babying him, Katherine. He’ll eat what’s put before him. Stop your crying. You’ll sit until you finish.

How cold did Guy’s food get? Did he have enough to eat? Did he have days where he didn’t get fed? Were there nights Vikki snuck into the kitchen when everyone else in bed and stole a piece of bread and brought it to Guy’s room so he could eat under his blanket?

“Hutch.” Starsky sounded sad.

Hutch put a forkful of food into his mouth, chewed mechanically. He couldn’t taste a thing.

And then Starsky was beside him, and Starsky’s left hand was on his right, and Starsky’s right hand was cupping his nape.

“Please. Please don’t cry,” Starsky pleaded.

Was he crying? He didn’t know he was until he came back to himself and felt the sting of salt in his nose.

“Does it matter?” Hutch asked. He needed to know. “Does anything we matter? Do we make a difference? How many kids can’t we help?”

“How many people have we helped?” Starsky countered. He pulled on Hutch’s hand, and Hutch stood.

He let Starsky guide him to the sofa, drank the glass of water Starsky brought him, stretched out at Starsky’s urging. He felt a soft blanket cover him, and he drifted to the sounds of Starsky cleaning up, doing the dishes.

Starsky’s vehement words echoed again and again. How many people have we helped? How many?

No matter how many, Hutch knew the flood was never-ending. There would always be more—and they could never help them all.

He and Starsky were two very small men in a very large world.

He felt his head lifted and then lowered onto Starsky’s denim clad thigh. Starsky’s fingers rested on his hair, his thumb rubbing a slow, soothing circle on Hutch’s temple.

“We made a difference to Guy and Vikki,” Starsky said into the now silent room. Hutch felt Starsky take a deeper breath as his thumb stilled.

“And I’m sorry no one was there to make a difference for you.”

Hutch’s throat went tight, and for a moment, he couldn’t breathe. But Starsky moved a hand to Hutch’s belly, rested it there, grounded him, reminded him.

Hutch blinked back the tears that threatened again. He covered Starsky’s hand with his. “But now I have you.”

He didn’t need to open his eyes to see the smile, to see the love. It was all in Starsky’s voice.

“Now you have me. As long as you need me.”

I’ll always need you, Starsk, he wanted to say, but he was so weary, and Starsky was with him, and it was safe to go to sleep while Starsky was there to keep away the monsters that hid in deep dark closets of little boys.

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