A Little Knowledge

An older Hutch uncovers a draft of a letter his lover, Starsky, had been writing. But who was he writing it to? A secret lover? A woman? Another man?

*A major character that died in the past is mentioned.

Originally published in the slash zine, Dangerous Lives, Dangerous Visions 3.

I opened the front door of our house, sat the suit carrier and the suitcase aside, and leaned my back against the door from inside, pushing it closed. I exhaled slowly, eyes closed.

Home at last.

After four weeks of anonymous hotel rooms and lecture halls at police academies, after wearing suits and ties every day, I had craved to come home and have a break. It still felt weird to walk around in three-piece suits and give lectures to the recruits of police academies all over America. This time it had been a trip to the other side of the continent covering academies in Maryland, New York, New Jersey, and Massachusetts. New faces, old lectures.

I was tired after the flight from Boston, and the temperature shift from a comparatively cool 74 degrees F to 92 degrees F, and the typical humidity of a late August day in Bay City, did its best to further undo me. I was bathed in sweat and big wet spots were spreading on my shirt.

A shower. A long cool shower and a beer on the back porch, looking over the ocean. Waiting for my lover to come home. Yeah, sounds good.

I undressed on my way to the bathroom, relieved to get rid of the damp, smelly clothes, anticipating the smooth feel of water streaming down my body.

I didn’t fail to notice that Starsky had done a good job tidying the place. Everything looked summery and cozy. He had drawn the pale blinds against the piercing sun and what little sunlight was left bathed the room in dimness. A beautiful white Phalaenopsis orchid sat on the coffee table, slowly nodding in the light breeze.

Even after all the years we’ve lived here, I was still amazed that this place was actually ours. The compensation Starsky had received from the Gunther case, plus the money my father had left me, had enabled us to enjoy a lifestyle we’d never even dreamed of. The small cottage was beautiful, overlooking the ocean, with private access to the beach and a tiny front garden. A dream come true. The neighborhood was nice and quiet and the people around us did mind their own businesses and didn’t mind ours. We had lived openly as a couple for more than 17 years now.

I sighed.

I wish he were here right now. We could have had this shower together and made love while still wet. Later we’d sit outside and I’d tell him about the lectures I gave in Boston and New York, and he’d tell me about the runaway kids he’d hopefully brought back to their parents.

A quiet night in.

I sighed again, stripped down completely and stepped into the huge tub.

Stepping out of the tub a quarter of an hour later, toweling my hair, I felt as good as new.

I had no idea when Starsky would return from Santa Monica. He’d been disappointed on the phone when I’d told him I’d missed my flight. It meant he couldn’t be at the airport to meet me. “Got an appointment I can’t cancel,” he’d said.

Well, more time to look forward to him.

My mind wandered back through the years; images of him when he was younger, eating donuts and knocking back beer, polishing the striped tomato in his extremely cut-off jeans, faded to an almost white-blue, threadbare and snug, displaying his plush rear. I loved to watch him, even before we became lovers.

Lovers. The thought of being allowed to love this man with all my heart and finally with all my body made me smile. I—WE—were blessed.

The evening breeze, drifting in through the open windows and the backdoor made me shiver and I got dressed in sand-colored slacks and a white t-shirt. No socks, no shoes. I was home.

I wandered aimlessly through the house and ended up in the second bedroom Starsky used as his office. His Nikon dangled from a coat rack, next to the trench coat and hat Huggy had given him as a present when Starsky had opened his PI agency.

“C’mon, clatter your false teeth like Bogey and say ‘shweetheart’,” Huggy had teased, grinning.

Three weeks later he’d been killed in a robbery. A nervous kid had pulled the trigger on him and stolen the small change from the cash register. The paramedics came too late—he’d bled to death on the floor of the Pits at 10:30 AM on a sunny spring day.

I sighed and ran my hand over the coat. I missed Huggy and his smile, his humor, and even his stupid rhymes. I missed him as much as Starsky did.

Starsky’s desk was a mess—as usual. Bills, notes, parking tickets, photos of missing or runaway kids scattered across the dark wood. I picked up the telephone bill for last month, received and paid last Tuesday.

Good boy, Starsk. Usually they have to send at least two reminders before you pay.

Putting down the bill, my gaze fell upon another sheet of paper filled with Starsky’s usual scrawl. I smiled; it had taken me years to decipher what he called his handwriting.

My eyes skimmed over the lines and my breath caught.

My love, I read.

Huh?

I love you more than my life and the last three weeks…

No, no. This can’t be true. It’s the mess he calls his handwriting, I assured myself, it’s just one of his careless scribbles.

I sat down, trying to calm my racing heart.

…have been the best time in all my life. I can’t believe it took us so long to figure out what we could be to each other, but I’m truly glad we eventually did. But it eats away at me that it has to remain a secret. I can’t tell anyone how happy I am with you, because of you. I want to tell everybody. I want to shout it from the rooftops. I know it isn’t possible, and that makes me sad. So I’m writing this letter so at least you know how much I love you. I truly do.

No names, no signature.

Maybe he wasn’t finished writing.

I felt like somebody had kicked me in the gut.

Starsky had found someone else. Where? When?

Why?

A woman. Starsky wouldn’t go for another man.

Would he?

Was she blond? Brunette? One of those pretty chicks that still gave him the eye, not caring that he was old enough to be her father. Some of them were downright frank when they met him, not wasting time on playing shy, but blatantly offering their services.

Was she the “…appointment that can’t be cancelled”?

My hands went cold. My mouth was dry and I couldn’t stand being in this room that was so much Starsky.

I went outside. I sat down on the sand, the letter still in my hands.

This couldn’t be true.

Had there been signs? Signs that I’d missed?

After all those years… a woman. Where did they meet? Did he use his patented looks and lines on her, flashing his irresistible smile? How long did he wait to ask her out?

Does she know how to rub his tense muscles on a chilly day when his scars stand out in stark contrast to his skin? How his leg aches sometimes when the weather changes? Where to put the hot-water bottle to ease the discomfort?

But maybe he doesn’t want that anymore. No hot-water bottles, no sandalwood soap. No reminders of his past. No reminders of getting old. Just a fresh start with a fresh lover.

A lover who hasn’t put on weight over the last decade, ridiculing his former passion for health food and physical exercise. Replacing one who hasn’t enough hair left to cover up the bald spot that will soon look like an island drifting in straws.

Starsky loves me for what I am, not for what I look like.

And what had I been over the last months? A grouchy old man most of the time. Too tired to go out for dinner or pool and beer, too lazy to go out to the movies. It’s been years since we went the last time to the park to shoot some hoops—well, we weren’t twenty anymore. Not even forty. Three days until my birthday. Fifty-seven and no use denying it—I did look my age, maybe even older.

Starsky was in great shape. He hadn’t regained his old stamina after Gunther’s hit, but he looked healthy. His body was still firm, his skin still had that bronze glow, his hair was still thick and predominantly dark—he was still beautiful.

I looked down at my body—the additional weight was like a lifebelt resting on the waistband of my slacks. A thick, blue vein, tightly curled like a snake, stuck out from my pant leg—an old man’s varicose vein.

Maybe Starsky was tired of living with a tired old man. Maybe he was afraid to see what was lying ahead of him, to acknowledge that we weren’t the young turks we had been, careless about so many things. About the choice of bedmates, which sometimes had been as simple as drawing straws. About our future. It was okay just to keep going, not to think of tomorrow, let alone next week or next year.

Gunther’s hit had put an abrupt hold to that. Facing the fact that maybe we didn’t have a future together on the force, we started to think and talk about our future. Started making plans.

I felt sick.

One of the plans had been to stay together; even if we couldn’t be partners on the force anymore, we would be partners for the rest of our lives.

We loved each other and it hadn’t been too difficult to admit it, even if there suddenly was a new ring to it.

The night I admitted it aloud for the first time, we’d played Monopoly at his place, sprawled on the floor, had some beer and he’d been flirting with me. Touched me every time I reached for the dice, pretending coincidence. I had been more than half-hard all night, and when I couldn’t stand it anymore I went to the john to take care of the problem.

Jerk off then go back and pretend nothing has happened.

I just had taken hold of myself, delivering the first tentative strokes to my raging erection, when I heard his voice behind me right next to my ear.

“You shouldn’t be doing this for yourself, Hutch.”

I jumped and tried to tuck the embarrassing piece of evidence back into its cotton prison.

He slowly, gently, peeled my fingers away from my fly, freed my cock again and touched me. Left hand on my shaft, pumping slowly, confident—and man, he really had a wonderful grip on me—while his right hand moved lower to fondle my balls.

He was staring at my reflection in the mirror. I stared back until I had to close my eyes; I couldn’t stand the onslaught of sensations, his hands on me, his eyes on my face, his breath on my neck, his lips on the taut skin of my jaw as he was taking care of my desperate need. I leaned back, leaned against him, trusting him to hold me and finally gave in to his touch completely.

“I love you.” A whispered invitation to confess.

“I love you, too,” I whispered back and came all over his hands, faster and harder than I had ever come from my own touch.

I sagged against him, shoving him against the tiled wall and heard his muffled “Whooff” when the air left his lungs at the impact.

After I got my legs back under me, we talked all night. Talked and made love and talked more.

Feels like yesterday…

…and what makes me think of it just now?

“Hey, honey, I’m home…”

I heard his voice from our cottage and his hasty steps on the cotto floor. I wiped a stray tear away and decided not to be whiny or openly jealous, but calm and collected. Take it like a man.

His arms closed around my upper body and he kissed my neck. Then he toppled me over back into the warm sand and kissed me thoroughly, deeply, hungrily.

Doesn’t feel like he dislikes kissing me…

“Boy, I missed you…” he sighed and stretched out next to me.

I didn’t answer; I was still working on calm and collected.

He sat up again, and looked down at me. “Hey, how long have you been outside?” he asked, examining my balding head. “You’re getting sunburned. C’mon, let’s go inside, there’s something I wanna show you…” he said cheerily, then leapt to his feet and was on his way back inside. When I didn’t follow, he came back, a suspicious expression on his face. “What is it, babe? Bad news?”

He was obviously referring to the sheet of paper I was still clutching.

“I’m not sure if it’s bad news,” I replied, purposely vague.

He sat down again and took the letter from my hand.

“You nosed in my stuff,” he stated.

He wasn’t angry, I could tell. I searched his face for any sign of being caught or bad conscience or—something. But there was nothing. He was staring down at the paper, not reading, just looking at it.

“I wasn’t nosing, just looking to see whether you remembered to pay the telephone bill in time. You did.”

He didn’t answer. His gaze wandered from the letter to the horizon, where the sun had started its descent with spectacular colors.

“What are we going to do?” I asked, my voice a little unsteady, hoping he wouldn’t notice.

“What do you want to do?” he said after a long silence. His voice was hoarse and he didn’t try to hide that.

“I don’t know. —Are you serious about…” I let the sentence remain unfinished.

“Yeah. It’s serious.”

My heart sank. “Been going on for a while, I guess…”

“Yeah,” he said, not looking at me. I was getting really worried since he still wasn’t showing any sign of remorse. But I decided not to try and talk him into staying with me if he wanted to live with her. I wouldn’t whine, wouldn’t beg. I wouldn’t…

“Did you read it?” he asked, his voice so low that I almost didn’t catch it over the steady noise of the surf.

I nodded. I wasn’t sure I could say something around that huge lump in my throat.

“Did you look at the date?”

“No,” I shouted, threat transformed into reality, dread into fury. “What difference does it make whether you’d written it yesterday or a couple of weeks ago…?”

He held the paper up and insisted, “Read the date.”

“August 25^th…” I read.

Oh sweet Jesus, today, he wrote that letter today, knowing I would be back soon. Getting things straight with her before he’d be getting things straight with me.

“Which year?” His voice was steady now.

I forced my eyes back to the paper, softly swaying in the evening breeze.

“1981.—1981???”

“The 25^th of August, 1981, was our first…”

“…anniversary,” I completed, suddenly breathless. Stunned breathless.

“It’s the letter I wrote to you on our first anniversary, three weeks after we’d made up our minds to live together. I found it when I was tidying up the place. Thought, we could read it again tonight, matching the occasion.”

“Today…”

“…is our twentieth anniversary,” he said and looked at me. He smiled.

This unbelievable man had me sweat and even shed a tear and hadn’t said a word.

“Oh, Starsk. I’m sorry. I had so many things on my mind. I forgot…”

“Shhh,” he said, putting a finger on my lips. “You really believed I’d cheat on you while you were gone? Cheat on you at all?”

“I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t want to think you’d finally responded to one of those girls…”

“…or one of those smart Latino guys who seem to fancy my good looks so much.” He chuckled. Then he dropped back into the sand, laughing out loud and it was the most beautiful sound I’d ever heard. “You’re jealous, Blintz. After all these years…. I love you, ya fool, I love you for proving to me you love me so much.”

I couldn’t stand him getting me soapy and so I closed his mouth with mine, kissing him madly, relieved beyond measure and blindly happy to love and be loved by this man.

I’d make him pay tonight, all night, until he’d beg to get some sleep. But first—he’d read that letter out loud for me again. And again. And again.

The End