Act of Faith

125

A year after Starsky’s recovery from Gunther’s hit, Starsky and Hutch celebrate in their own way.

 

Author’s Note: Special thanks to Donna for help with transcribing.

Originally published in the Starsky and Hutch zine, “Nighlight 2.”

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Groundhog Day had come and gone but the late-March evening was wet and cold and windy. The unspring-like weather matched the mood and the job. The past weeks had been crowded with more than a fair quota of harassing days, the pile of paperwork more mountainous than usual, difficult and delicate interrogations with their daily sharp reminders of the never-ending evils. No fun. No sort of light relief.

Wasn’t there a time when we handled all this without it being heavy, the way it is now? Maybe it was time to think again about some things: maybe police work wasn’t the best choice now.

Starsky held back from voicing the question. He could foresee the doubts and reservations, already strong in some quarters, focused on him again. Back at work too soon? Back at work at all? Questions he didn’t want asked—or answered—yet.

He drove into the garage and saw the other car already parked. That, at least, made a good start to the evening. Home. And Hutch.

I’m here, going into this house we bought together… I could have lost all this…

After the Gunther affair, deciding on that move could have been shattered before it got off the ground. Conscientiously, he reminded himself once more of the positive, central fact that they’d won. What did any of the rest matter? Especially with a couple of days off, scheduled from tomorrow.

He entered through the kitchen door and paused on the threshold, absorbing all the scents of an impressive dinner. The big kitchen had been one of the immediate attractions of this place. The room had a welcoming quality; there were times when mere domestic routine seemed to embody a sort of longed-for stability.

Blinds shut out the evening darkness and the long table beneath the window was already partly set. How long had Hutch been home? The dishes from the previous evening and from breakfast had disappeared and the place was warm in the lamplight. Warm, quiet, and empty.

He headed for the stairs, shrugging out of his jacket as he went, and then, within seconds, realized the mistake of attempting the movement. Taking too much for granted again. With deliberation, he drew off one sleeve the way they’d taught him, and then let the rest drop from the other shoulder. He didn’t think he’d ever become resigned to some things… it seemed you couldn’t get away with even a little dodging of their rules. The short cuts never worked. He’d been finding that out for a while now.

He was unsnapping his holster as he reached the top of the stairs and encountered Hutch, showered, shaved, and refreshed, emerging from the bathroom.

“Hi,” he greeted his resplendent partner. “You escaped early, huh?”

“We earned it for once. Do you know what day it is?”

Starsky nodded. “It’s been a year…”

Hutch was at his side, taking the jacket and the harness, tossing them onto the rocking chair. Freed of their burden, Starsky’s arms came out to hug. Just to stay for a minute within the circle of Hutch’s responding clasp was enough right now, enough to send into retreat the memories of the shooting, which had haunted him all day. His hands stroked slow circles over Hutch’s shoulders as he let himself learn again this sure sanctuary, holding onto fragile certainty. He kissed Hutch slowly, satisfactorily.

“Right… a year ago today.” Soft murmur of Hutch’s voice against his temple, picking up on what they had no need to put into words… and again, the sense of benediction, proof against the destructive memories.

Learn not to ask too many questions. Instead, be glad just to be. The living and the loving are now.

Hutch’s hands smoothed back the dark, curled tangle from his forehead and he felt Hutch’s lips on the tensions that had gathered there during the drive home. Their lives might be littered with complexities but a fundamental simplicity was also there in the recognition of all they now had, of all that had been saved from Gunther. It was a dynamic serenity, translated daily into mutual help and comfort.

In moments like this, the fears were reduced to their proper perspective, and it was possible to drive away the alien horrors of the past year, to focus on the true priorities.

“I gotta go,” Hutch told him. “Got a few things to do.”

“Did ya make dinner tonight? It’s your turn.”

“I know, I know.” Hutch’s voice came to him from the hallway.

“It’s not going to be something healthy, is it?” Starsky called back. “I don’t think I’m ready for anything healthy tonight.” He went out to look down on Hutch below. “That’s suspicious,” he continued broodingly. “You’re not usually as eager as this when it’s your turn to cook.”

Hutch waved a reassuring hand, disappearing in the direction of the kitchen. “You’ll like it—you’ll see.”

He volunteered no more and Starsky retreated, shedding the working day as he went, thankful for the benison of the hot shower. It was good to be without the gun.

There was a time when I never noticed its weight.

That was just one more problem the shooting had caused, a problem not yet confided to Hutch. He seemed to discover more of those every day. So many routine things, once taken for granted, now needed to be considered, worked out in advance. Patience was their favorite word, featured in every hospital check-up. And more patience. It was strange that patience should use up so much energy.

He’d picked the dark blue cotton before he realized the shirt was one of Hutch’s. So…? He had three buttons fastened and wasn’t about to let that achievement go to waste. He suddenly thought back to the old days of the on-going red sweater controversy; it had ended only with that garment’s virtual disintegration. He’d hung onto it for the longest time. Maybe it was time to start in again… it could work just as well with blue.

Not bothering with shoes or socks, he looked around for last night’s paperback. The books always ended up on the floor and he’d read the first page of this one at least three times. He was suddenly still, as guitar chords sounded from the living room. Forgetting the book, he went part way down the stairs, nearer the music, and settled on the window seat to listen again. Wintry sky, frosty stars and his lover’s music… remember this time… remember… Could it still be less than a year since they’d moved in here? It was a gamble they might have lost, and an act of faith, which they’d maybe won.

Last year, commitment voiced, accepted, their house-hunting had taken them up onto the canyon roads. The prices could have been far above their realistic level, but “no harm in looking,” Hutch had suggested, and they had found this place—the chalet-style house, its yard screened by trees, the location giving a magical night-time view of the city.

Their days off had found them decorating, renovating.

“Those magazines are lying, you know,” Starsky had complained after the first exciting day spent precariously near the ceiling, balancing brush and paint-can. “Will you look at that creep?” he had invited wearily. He pointed to the cheerful cover of The Happy Home Improver that had shown a smiling improver, poised like Starsky at the top of a ladder. The resemblance ended there. The creep’s expression was self-congratulatory, his clothing unsullied by paint, while his brush covered the wall in huge and easy sweeps, no drips anywhere. Without pausing from his work, he was reaching out for the beer can passed to him by an admiring girl. “Just a con,” Starsky had muttered bitterly.

There had been little in common between him and the character on the cover as he clung with one hand and a kind of desperate tenacity to ladder, brush, and can, paint splashes lending him a curious all-over speckled effect, while he learned the hard way just how much meticulous care was involved in dealing with one small area of woodwork.

“Anyway, I don’t like heights,” he had continued, looking enviously at the paint-roller in Hutch’s hand. “What you’re doin’ looks like a lot more fun.”

“Don’t give up on us, babe,” Hutch had encouraged. “Think of the fun we can have later, getting all that paint off you.”

“Promises, promises.” But the prospect had been cheering. Those had been good times. Recuperation hadn’t seemed just a word.

Soundlessly, Starsky went on down the stairs, watching now from the open door. The wood fire was alight on the wide hearth. Hutch occupied the wing chair, blond head resting against the muted suppleness of blond leather, still playing the melody of the old Shaker song they both liked.

Starsky went closer, leaning on the high chair back, hands lightly on Hutch’s shoulders. The playing didn’t stop but the fair head turned to lean against his hand.

Starsky moved around to the hearthrug, collecting en route the wine already poured and waiting, offered a glass to Hutch and subsided at his feet, leaning against his knee as they sipped the mellow muscadet.

“I like that song,” Starsky said as he did every time.

They sat in silence, watching the flames. It was easier now to let go of problems and pressures in ten quiet minutes, each one a step closer to normality.

Hutch finally set down his empty glass and stood up, laid the guitar down on the sofa.

“Going to the kitchen?” Starsky observed. “You don’t need any help, do you? It’s nice here.”

“You’ve got five minutes,” Hutch informed him. “Make the most of them.”

Starsky sat listening to the kitchen sounds and watched the fire… Best evening we’ve had in a while. Maybe all that patience is paying off. Been a helluva time for him…

He let the new confidence take charge. It was suddenly necessary to be where Hutch was, to share this gift of the lifting of a cloud, the new vitality that seemed to be suffusing this time.

He wandered into the kitchen and halted abruptly as he took in the crisp linen, the silver and the crystal, the dark red roses. A lot of planning had obviously gone into this. He took a step nearer, enthralled, intrigued, and turned to where Hutch stood watching him.

“Is this a celebration or something?”

“You could say that. How about last year… and this year?”

They surveyed the candle-lit table prepared with care and love. Then, in an upsurge of joy recaptured, a happiness which owed something to the prospect of tonight’s dinner, but much more to less tangible sources, Starsky laughed aloud and held his lover tight. Hutch answered the mood, sharing, and not asking where this old sureness was coming from, welcoming back feelings too long elusive. It was as if darkness ebbed, terrors retreating.

Hutch’s hands around him were suddenly still. “Damn… is this okay?”

“It’s the most okay thing in a long time. And you know it.”

“I need to hold you like this… tight… close…”

“I know.”

“You always know, don’t you? I’m afraid of hurting you.”

“It doesn’t hurt. And if it did…”

“We have to be careful. You think I don’t see that? There’s days when even your gun hurts you.”

“Guns can weigh. This is something else.” Starsky nodded toward the table. “And all this….”

“It’s a celebration dinner,” Hutch explained briefly. His glance took in all the gleaming elegance. “It should be about ready. Let’s check it out.”

“You know what this makes me think of?” Starsky asked, following along, hovering, as dishes were brought forth from oven and hot plate.

“Mmm?”

“That time—that first time you made a dinner like this. You made me the Paul Muni Special. And you lit candles—like now.”

“Seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“Right.”

“The bottle’s over there.” Hutch gestured.

Starsky poured the red wine and remembered another evening when, in spite of perceptions blunted by painkillers, he’d known he was going to make it. Wine had been poured then and he’d proposed the toast. But you didn’t fly as high as that forever and there had been the slow journey back to earth and, at times, the speculation of whether he’d ever again get very far from its surface.

But this, tonight, was different. He met Hutch’s look across the table. Hutch—partner, friend, lover. Tonight’s sense of well-being was like the reopening of a door, leading them back in time to the vitality of the way they were. We got it back.

Fleetingly, Starsky recalled the shadow of all those empty days… “and desire shall fail” …No. It never had—overstatement there. But the winged magic, the enjoying quality, had somehow been clouded. They had both known it and both had felt bereft.

Could rediscovery be part of the long rehabilitation process? Starsky had tried to rationalize, but he knew it had hit them both.

Buying the house had been, on his part, a very personal response to the events, to the endless weeks of hospital captivity. It was also a kind of pledge to a future; Hutch’s own mixed emotions after the shooting had been one more unremitting source of his tensions, too. There had been the euphoria of survival, but there was its corollary—

Is this the last time? Will our chances run out after this?

There had been all the adjustments to different work styles and schedules—no problem, once upon a time, just part of the job. But this time, harder to handle. Yet they’d worked through it all to arrive at this point. Was that why he’d come to like Hutch’s song so much?

“Turning, turning, we come ’round right.” Maybe we did just that.

How long had it been since they’d enjoyed a dinner together the way they were enjoying this one? He smiled brilliantly at Hutch’s inquiry: “Okay for you?”

“It’s terrific.”

They gave the special meal the respectful attention it deserved—a little talk, a lot of communication.

“I see you made my favorite again,” Starsky observed.

“What else? Can’t waste a good cookbook.”

The cookbook was a recent acquisition. “If you can read, you can cook,” Starsky had pronounced a few weeks back, after scrambled eggs had made yet another appearance. “Branch out, why don’t you?”

To Hutch, the statement had suggested possibilities. “Prove it.”

“Okay—I’ll show you. You choose—I’ll make it.”

Hutch had given the matter thought. “Let’s have—uh—Chateaubriand-en- terrine.”

“What?”

Hutch had repeated the name, imperfectly remembered from a newspaper article.

“You made that up.”

“No.”

“Spell it.”

Starsky had been in no position to argue with his partner’s version of an exotic dinner. Finally, he’d bought the cookbook and had produced a credible attempt at haute cuisine, and then had waited with a nonchalance that deceived neither of them for the compliments that followed, prompting with transparent cues the congratulations the occasion demanded.

“You sure can read, Starsk,” Hutch had admitted at last. “I’ll let you do that again.”

“It’s your turn next,” Starsky had reminded him.

Dinner over now, he showed every sign of approval. “You’ve been studying the book again, huh?”

The dishwasher stacked, it took no time to have coffee ready beside the hearth. Before they left the kitchen, Starsky stood facing his lover and took both of Hutch’s hands in his own.

“Thank you.” The kiss was light, yet totally serious, thanks and affirmation in one. He saw genuine relaxation in Hutch’s expression. Tonight’s emotions were real, spontaneous, uncontrived. Nothing spurious here. His heart soared with that knowledge.

Starsky disengaged one hand to pick up the crimson rose that had lain at his place during dinner, shared its fragrance with Hutch and led the way back to the fireside. Coffee mug in hand, he sat enjoying the scene: the pale brickwork of the walls reflecting the flames’ movement and blending with the polished wood of floor and ceiling. The wing chair was an acquisition bought especially for this room. Leaving the hospital had seemed to trigger a need to spend money and the house was a worthwhile cause. He liked to see Hutch installed in its comfortable depth. He’d picked out its pale gold picturing just what he saw now.

Firelight, lamplight, wine, and later the same song again: “Tis the gift to be simple, Tis the gift to be free…”

Gifts… Tonight he felt richer than he’d ever felt in his entire life. The feeling went with being in the right place, the way the song said.

“And when we are come to the place just right, We will be in the valley of love and delight.”

He smiled across at Hutch. They could go along with that for sure.

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The song referred to in the story is “Simple Gifts.” You can hear one version of it here.