Happily Ever After

251

Starsky & Hutch are attending the funeral for Hutch’s father. Their life changes when they attend a reading of Hutch’s father’s will.

 

Originally published in the zine Dance With the Devil in 2003 by Lucy and Elaine. Art by Ruth Kurz.

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Monday, May 20, 2002

 As they entered the sanctuary, Bennie and Silvia made a point of stepping in front of Hutch to walk down the aisle first. Without rancor, Hutch allowed them. He hung back, tall and almost forbidding in his black suit.

“Sure you’re gonna be okay?” he asked, leaning his head down slightly to speak directly in Starsky’s ear. His voice was tender, pitched low enough that only his partner could hear him.

Starsky nodded, the barest hint of a smile on his face. “I’m sure. What’re they gonna do to me? I don’t think they bite.”

Hutch sighed and nodded. He brushed his hand against the back of Starsky’s briefly before striding quickly down the maroon carpet of the church to catch up with his sister and brother-in-law.

Starsky waited a good minute before he passed through the heavy oak interior doors, mixing in with the crowd of mourners coming in behind him. He sidled almost immediately into a pew about half-way up on the right. The retired cop had the seating all to himself, at least temporarily, but it looked like the place was going to be packed. He looked up at the cross and then down to the altar.

Smoothing his black pants out, he waited, his body there in the pew but his heart up front with Hutch. It was just like Hutch to be this way—as usual, Hutch was far more concerned about Starsky than he was about himself. However, Starsky knew that this day was going to be harder on Hutch than it ever would be on him, harder than Hutch could even guess at yet.

His gaze flitted forward to where his lover was seated, next to his sister’s family. Hang on, buddy, he thought compassionately. Starsky knew the worst was yet to come. His eyes rested on the polished wood of the coffin, set up in front of the altar.

Hutch had been so worried about him from the moment they’d gotten the news, but Starsky was okay. This death had hardly been unexpected, after all. Moreover, Starsky was finally at peace with his past. Although he’d never cease to mourn his father, the stark fact was that he’d lived the vast majority of his life without him. And since his dad hadn’t lived to Starsky’s teenage years, Starsky had no memories of disappointing his father, angering him, or enduring any of the typical clashes that teenagers and parents battled through.

But those were the only memories Hutch had retained of his father, and neither man had ever bent enough to offer any understanding to the other. Starsky had always known that Richard’s death was going to be rough for Hutch. He also knew that Hutch had no idea …

* * * *

Hutch shut the hymnal softly and schooled his expression to one of dead calm as he listened to his brother-in-law offer the eulogy.

By all rights, it should have been him up there speaking. This was a town, an area, and a religion where tradition was extolled. No matter what happened: happy or sad, good or bad, right or wrong, his culture had an approved, unemotional method of dealing with it. For Bennie to be giving the eulogy and not him, Richard’s only son, would serve as fodder for gossip in the town for years to come.

Hutch imagined he’d been the subject of plenty of gossip already. Before his father’s stroke last year, he hadn’t been home in 20 years. Now he’d shown up twice with his very male partner in tow, a man whose distinctive New York accent and unmistakable Jewish features stood out like a neon sign in the Scandinavian backwater of Northern Minnesota.

He didn’t care about the town gossips, but decided he’d better tune in and try paying attention to what Bennie was saying.

“He was a kind man, a gentle giant who loved God.”

Hutch fought down his disgust. No one was going to guess what he was thinking. So he allowed honesty to reign. Loved God? No, he loved money. God was just window-dressing.

“He cherished his wife and his family.”

As long as they weren1t gay and living in California.

“He was so proud of this community.”

Sure he was! He was top dog. Who wouldn’t love that?

“And speaking for both the Hutchinson and Anderson families, I can say he’ll be sorely missed.”

Right, Ben, you and Silvia’ll be crying all the way to the bank.

“I always considered him a second father and I hope he thought of me as his son.”

Since his real son was such a disappointment, after all. Why don’t you just come right out and say it?

“He battled bravely against the limitations of his illness,”

Attended hand and foot by the best medical care money could buy.

“… and was brave right up until the end.”

Planning on God being another lackey he could buy off.

Hutch forced himself to stop listening and eventually Bennie wound down. Hutch glared at him as Bennie descended from the altar area. Hutch had gotten older, balder, and darker as he’d aged but his eyes were as icy blue and clear as ever. Anyone could read from his stare that there was no love lost between Hutch and his brother-in-law.

Firmly, Hutch clamped down on his rage: at his father, for all the things Hutch had never forgiven him for; at his sister and her husband, for continuing to live their lives in a manner Hutch had so long ago rejected; and at himself, for not being brave enough to refuse to attend the funeral.

But on the latter count, it was really Starsky’s fault. Once Richard had taken ill, Starsky had never stopped goading him to be the proper son and see to his father in his final illness.

Damn it all to hell, Hutch thought rebelliously. Unwillingly he dragged himself to his feet with the rest of the congregation as the pastor started the benediction. He steadfastly refused to join in with the expected responses and stood there mute, defiant in the midst of all the good Lutherans around him.

As the coffin was wheeled out, Hutch fell into step behind it, with Bennie and Silvia just in front of him. Resolutely, he told himself that he didn’t care about any of this malarkey. He only cared about his partner. Hutch looked for him as he walked down the aisle, not allowing anyone else to meet his gaze.

And there he was. Good. “Come on,” Hutch murmured, reaching for Starsky’s arm as he passed by the pew.

Starsky folded his arms, pulling back barely enough to avoid Hutch’s touch. “I’ll be there, Hutch,” he answered. “G’head.”

Hutch looked at him beseechingly and Starsky forced himself to stay firm. He nodded towards the back of the church. “There’ll be people wantin’ to see you.” There were several other mourners nearby in the various pews but they politely ignored the hushed conversation. “I’ll see ya back there.”

Hutch frowned at him. “Starsk … ” His voice trailed off and he stood mutely in the aisle.

They were holding up the recessional and as much as he felt he shouldn’t walk with Hutch behind the coffin, Starsky felt himself wavering.

“Come with me?” The voice was soft and the emotion deep. Starsky hesitated a moment, then nodded. “Okay.”

By this time, many of the other churchgoers had discreetly moved around them. Starsky stepped out of the pew and, with one final glance at the front of the sanctuary, he headed down the aisle at Hutch’s side.

Wherever you are now, Richard,  Starsky thought as they walked slowly out, I hope you’re at peace.

Nearing the doors, Starsky caught sight of Bennie and Sylvie’s blonde heads in the foyer by the entrance. He could only hope that Hutch would be at least minimally polite to everyone.

And that the peace he wished for Richard Hutchinson could, somehow, in some way, also be visited upon his son.

* * * *

“I’m sorry you had to go through that,” Hutch apologized, as they drove to Silvia’s house. They were heading down yet another narrow, country road bravely labeled a “State Highway.”

To Starsky’s way of thinking, all these roads were rural lanes masquerading as highways. Starsky was glad it was summertime. Hate to see these roads in the winter.

“It’s okay. It was a long time ago for me.”

Hutch glanced over at him briefly. “No, babe. I meant the funeral, the Christian service.”

Starsky chuckled a little. “That didn’t bother me, Hutch. You know that. I even recognized that song, ‘Morning Has Broken.’ I went to mass sometimes with Aunt Rosie, remember? When I was living with her and Uncle Al?”

“She shouldn’t have made you do that. It wasn’t right.”

“She didn’t make me,” Starsky stated, stressing the word ‘make.’ “I wanted to. It was fine. I liked it. I liked her. It was no big deal. She wasn’t trying to convert me.”

Starsky tapped Hutch on the am, then. “Anyway, I seem to remember you making it through the cantor’s service for Mom just fine. It’s no different now, for me.”

Hutch shrugged. -Whatever.” They were quiet for a moment.

“Hey,” Starsky mentioned, almost off-handedly and hoped that he wasn’t inadvertently starting a fight. “Isn’t your sister’s house that way?”

Starsky gestured at a road snaking off into the distance, as Hutch drove past the tum. “I’m not going over there,” Hutch declared.

“Okay,” Starsky agreed. Silvia had asked Hutch over to her house after the funeral, but Starsky knew there was no point in protesting his partner’s decision not to go. It seemed like all they’d done since Richard had the stroke was argue. One thing Starsky had swiftly learned was to pick his battles and he didn’t want to pick this one. “Where are we going, then?”

He had had his suspicions they weren’t going to end up at Silvia’s house. And he hadn’t much wanted to go to her house, anyway, even though Hutch’s nephew Billy was going to be there. He was quite fond of Billy, who was now—it was unbelievable how time flew—finishing up his freshman year at West Point.

Hutch, his profile stem and determined, didn’t answer.

With not too much difficulty, Starsky held onto his patience and after a few minutes his guess was confirmed.

“Okay,” Starsky said, as Hutch signaled to pull into the long, tree lined driveway, which ran a complete half circle from the road to the house, back to the road. “Why are we here? Nobody’s gonna be here.”

“I know,” Hutch admitted as he parked the car and stepped out. He looked at his partner and confessed, “I just wanted to see it one more time.”

Starsky nodded to himself as he followed Hutch, lightly moving up the long stone steps to the double doors of the mansion. They wouldn’t be able to get in; everyone was at Silvia’s and Hutch hadn’t had a key to his boyhood home for decades now. But Hutch could look in the windows, maybe walk around back.

He recognized the need. Starsky had gone through this himself as Hutch and some of Starsky’s few remaining New York relatives had packed up his mom’s apartment after her death. Even when one hadn’t been home in years, home was still home, in a way. That last time he’d locked the apartment door, closing within the empty walls their discolored wallpaper, threadbare carpeting, and all the memories of his life before California, he’d felt physically empty.

Thank God for Hutch. Hutch had been his anchor that week, and Starsky was trying to return the favor now.

“That’s odd,” Hutch was saying, peering through the windows on either side of the double front doors. “There’s a light on in there.”

Starsky’s senses went on alert, and he slipped effortlessly back into being a cop. They were retired now several months, but neither man would ever lose the years of training and experience the streets of L.A. had beaten into them.

He came up behind. his partner to confirm his observation. “Maybe someone just left it on?”

“And maybe someone’s in there that shouldn’t be. The house should be closed.”

Starsky shook his head. “It’s only been three days, Hutch. That’s awfully fast to expect the place to be empty. What about that gardener, what was his name?”

“Leo was at the church. Which means he’s at Silvia’s right now, sampling the Scotch and whatever fancy dishes she had catered in.”

Starsky rolled his eyes. Hutch would never be at a loss for a sarcastic comment to describe his family. To hear Hutch voice the bitterness, over and over and over, was wearing on his nerves.

“Okay, the butler didn’t do it, then,” he quipped.

Hutch didn’t get the joke. “Gardener,” he corrected his partner.

No duh, Starsky thought. He was acquainted with the cast of characters. “Yeah, I know.”

Hutch didn’t seem to hear him and he wasn’t making any move to do something constructive: stay, go, try to get inside, check the back, or whatever. Starsky was fairly certain it wasn’t a burglar in there—no burglar would ever be able to find this remote place without a GPS, in his humble opinion—so he chose the direct approach.

He rang the doorbell.

“What are you doing?” Hutch asked, astonished.

“Puttin’ a face to the light,” Starsky stated.

The door opened promptly, revealing a tall, elderly woman with white hair braided into a bun. She was wearing a faded cotton dress; neat and clean but clearly many years old.

“Anna!” Hutch exclaimed.

The old woman smiled at him. “Kenneth. I was hoping I’d see you again before you left for California.”

Hutch looked a bit abashed as he explained.  “Just wanted to see the place one more time.”

Anna smiled again. “Very nice. That’s wonderful.”

Hutch fell silent, standing there awkwardly.  After a few moments, Anna turned expectantly towards Starsky but Hutch didn’t make the connection, so both of them stuck out their hands to introduce themselves to each other.

“Dave Starsky,” Starsky said, cordially. “You must be the Anna Hutch has talked about all these years. I’ve heard a lot of good things about you. And your cooking.”

Passing quickly over the compliment, Anna protested. “I’m not that good, really, but I kept them fed.”

“That’s not what I heard,” Starsky rejoined, flirting a bit. She was older than his mother would have been, but it was his nature to be courtly and engaging with the ladies, no matter their age.

“I’m so glad to finally meet you,” Anna said, her voice sincere.

For her part, she couldn’t have heard good things about him from anyone up here in Richard’s fiefdom. That didn’t bother Starsky; never had bothered him. He wasn’t living his life for the Hutchinson family seal of approval. He had his hands full keeping one Hutchinson happy, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

“You’re going to come in, right?” Anna invited them. “I’m all alone here.”

Hutch nodded, and they trailed the old woman into the house. Automatically, she headed for the kitchen. Hutch motioned instead to the parlor.

“Oh no, Kenneth,” she protested. “Not after all these years.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Hutch stated flatly, his egalitarian nature roaring forth in full force.

“No,” Anna stated, softly. “It’s not right.”

Hutch exploded a breath out and glared at Starsky. Starsky patted his lover on the shoulder with a consoling touch. He knew Hutch hated these types of class distinctions, and had lived through so much of it growing up. Certain things “just weren’t done.”

As Hutch had painfully learned, moving to California, dropping out of med school, becoming a cop, being divorced by the perfect Society wife, dating prostitutes, and ending up lovers with one’s male partner all ranked extremely high on the list of things that “just weren’t done.”

“Show me where you concocted all the delicious dishes Hutch is always raving about,” Starsky asked grandly, smoothing over the moment as they headed to the back of the house.

“He has a good memory if he can remember back that far,” Anna responded wryly, waving them to comfortable chairs arranged around a spacious, tiled kitchen table. The kitchen itself was clean and orderly, with a hint of coffee aroma in the quiet air. “Before Mr. Hutchinson’s illness, Kenneth hadn’t been home to see us in years.”

Starsky winced. Anna seemed to have absorbed the Hutchinson talent for blunt talk. Another uncomfortable pause filled the large kitchen.

“Coffee, tea?” she asked after a moment.

“You don’t need to wait on us,” Hutch countered, a bit tartly. “You’re not our servant.”

Deep down, Anna had to be a very understanding woman, Starsky decided. She took whatever Hutch dished out and handled it with a certain kind of grace.

“It’s not that, Kenneth,” she assured him. “I just don’t want you making a mess of my kitchen.”

“Gotta give her that,” Starsky teased. He looked up at Anna. “Coffee would be great.”

“With sugar?” Anna asked.

“How’d you know?” Starsky pursued the question in the hopes of distracting Hutch with some well-crafted banalities.

“I can tell,” Anna informed him, tapping her temple with her forefinger. “It’s a gift.” She indicated Hutch, then. “He’s no cream, no sugar.”

“You must remember that,” Hutch challenged her. “It hasn’t been that long, now.”

“No,” Anna informed him. “You must remember, no? When you lived here, you used cream. But I don’t think you do, now.”

Hutch’s mouth fell open slightly. “That’s right! I’d forgotten that.” He turned towards Starsky. “I did use cream, before.”

Starsky nodded, patting Hutch’s sleeve as soon as Anna’s back was turned. As he watched the woman he decided not much got past her. Despite her age, Anna moved quickly. In no time, she’d prepared and served three cups of coffee and they sipped at them quietly for a moment.

“Before you leave, Kenneth,” Anna started, scooting her chair a bit closer to Hutch. “I want to show you something.” She seemed to sense they wouldn’t be there long, and Starsky knew on that score she was absolutely right.

Hutch exchanged a puzzled glance with his partner.

“Okay,” Hutch agreed, uncertainly. Always polite with the ladies he would never argue with her, Starsky knew, even though he had no idea what she had in mind, and probably ultimately might not want to know. “What’s that?”

“Let’s finish our coffee,” Anna suggested, in a firm tone that was more like a command. “Then we’ll go upstairs.”

Upstairs? Yeah, I’m lost too, kiddo. A few minutes ago, Anna had refused to set foot in the parlor. And now she wants to show Hutch and me around?

Hutch glanced again at Starsky as both men obeyed, sipping the coffee at a fairly brisk pace.

Once they were mostly done, Anna got up, setting their cups in the large stainless steel sink. She led them out of the kitchen, back to the main entranceway, and up a wide, spiral wood staircase. She proceeded down the dark, oak-paneled hall of the second floor. The house was inadequately lit and quiet as a tomb. No one spoke.

“I kept it just as it was,” Anna announced, casually, opening a door off to the left near the end of the hallway, poorly illuminated despite the sunny day. “I dusted it, of course, but it’s exactly how Mr. Hutchinson had it arranged.”

Starsky had been a cop for literally decades and reading people was something he did as a matter of course, without conscious thought or deliberation. Anna, he sensed, was up to something. He guessed it wasn’t anything malevolent or harmful, but she had an agenda she was running here. He’d bet a month’s pension on it.

Hesitantly, Hutch moved through the doorway. He undoubtedly didn’t want to be there but he was too much of a gentleman to deny Anna when she had practically forced them here.

Starsky was right behind him. He’d never been in this house before, but he was sure that this had been Hutch’s dad’s bedroom.

It was a fairly large room, for a bedroom, and had the heavy, masculine decor he’d expect Richard to favor. It was coupled with the scent of a closed-in sickroom Starsky could still—yes, even after over 20 years—recall from the Shooting. The smell of an invalid and his sickness was ever a distinctive smell.  It would take a while for that odor to dissipate; far longer than three days and one slight nod at cleaning.

Anna came into the gloomy bedroom just behind the two partners.

Starsky saw it before Hutch. He turned a quizzical look at Anna, standing by the door with her arms folded.

“I just thought Kenneth should see that,” Anna explained simply. To her credit, she didn’t belabor it, dwell on it, or even hint at condemnation. As Starsky turned back towards Hutch, Anna slipped out the door.

“Starsky,” Hutch breathed, walking to the far side of the mahogany bed. He picked up the framed newspaper photo resting on the side table.

Starsky looked around first, ignoring Hutch.

Not surprisingly for the age of its late inhabitant, it was a fairly dated room, but what was there was first class. The bed looked to be an expensive antique, and the curtains hung on the window were heavy and well made in a deep green shade of expensive-looking brocade.

A large, polished dresser faced the end of the bed and on it, Starsky saw prominently displayed pictures of Silvia and Bennie, and their kids: Billy, dressed in the ubiquitous gray of the United States Military Academy, and Victoria, wearing a red and black uniform from what Starsky recognized was the same private high school Hutch had attended.

The side table, however, was closer to the bed and that was the center of Hutch’s attention at the moment.

“This is the picture. The p-p-picture. You know? It was the one they ran. Right afterwards. Oh my God.”

Starsky easily followed Hutch’s confused explanation. “The one in the Times.”

“Yes!”

Starsky walked over to that side of the bed and took the frame from his partner’s trembling hands. He looked down at the photo and saw an impossibly young pair of men. It was nothing but the truth to call both of them quite handsome, even though that assessment wouldn’t win him any points for modesty.

It was Hutch and Starsky, in a picture that the Department photographer had taken when they’d gotten their badges returned in 1979. It was a photo that the L.A. Times had run twice. The first time was after the ceremony with the mayor at City Hall.

The second time had been the morning after the Shooting. Of course he’d not seen it that day—something about fighting for his life had thwarted his ability to read that morning’s paper—but Edith had saved a copy of it for him and when he’d gotten a little better, she’d given it to him.

Starsky hadn’t seen this photo in decades and he regarded it now anew, with the eye of an artist that all good photographers were blessed with.

He saw Hutch as he had been back then, smiling a smile that was partially hidden by the mustache, a smile that never quite reached his eyes.

Starsky looked at his image next, scarcely recognizing himself. He felt as if he were looking at a photo of a much younger man to whom he bore some slight resemblance. Starsky didn’t glean much from his own expression, but he’d always been better than Hutch at hiding the real truths of his life behind an artificial smile.

He remembered that time all too clearly, though: it belonged to a time and place Starsky silently captioned “Before the Shooting.” Hutch had been on the verge of a breakdown that spring no matter what spin one placed on it. He’d been a lost soul, lost even at Starsky’s side.

Starsky had been so worried about him he’d practically tailed him around town. He told himself it was to ensure his partner’s safety but it also fed an obsession with the man that Starsky had stubbornly refused to recognize as even slightly sexual in nature.

It had been a desperate time. Only by preserving Hutch’s life and happiness had he had any hope of preserving his own. Only by waging an ultimately unsuccessful battle to force Hutch to be the same constant, unchanging force he’d always been, had Starsky hoped to maintain any semblance of normality in his own life.

Thank God, those days were gone for good. Thank God they were full partners in every sense of the word now; lovers and friends for so many years that the mere weight of time together signified the only reality of their lives.

“He had a framed picture of you and me in here.” Starsky had to spell it out for both their benefits. It was so damn surprising.

“Yes,” Hutch said, and his voice sounded decidedly strange. He looked at Starsky. “I thought he hated us. Me.”

Starsky took a deep breath. He’d thoroughly disliked Richard, and he had no illusions that the sentiments had been returned by the older Hutchinson, in spades, but he’d never thought Richard hated Hutch. Their relationship had been forged by decades of misunderstandings and angry words, never repented. But he’d never felt the man had hated his son.

But what could he say now? Richard was dead.

Hutch had taken the picture back from Starsky and was staring at it. The yellowed memory from the past, overlaid as it were on Richard’s death and funeral, was more than Starsky felt equipped to handle right now.

Hutch sank down to sit on the edge of the neatly made bed, and Starsky let him reflect in silence, unable to offer any comfort.

He thought about the last time they’d been out to Duluth. It had been the first time Hutch’d been back home since his mother had died unexpectedly, two decades before.

 

Seven and a half months earlier

 Sticking her head through the automatic double doors and searching him out with her eyes, the nurse nodded once at Hutch.

“Come on,” he demanded immediately, grabbing at Starsky’s forearm as he headed for the ICU, the doors closing behind the nurse who’d disappeared back inside.

Starsky evaded the touch, remaining where he was; rooted to the floor and leaning against the whitewashed wall.

Hutch looked back, his eyes questioning.

No, babe, Starsky stared intently at him. I know you need me in there, but your dad can’t stand me. If he’s with it at all and sees me ...

Hutch was forlorn. “Please…”

Starsky shook his head sorrowfully, Hutch’s pain reflected in his dark blue eyes. Hutch looked completely defeated.

Ya’ can do it, Starsky silently encouraged him. Only five minutes. Make ’em count. I‘ll be here when you’re done.

Slowly, Hutch turned back around and activated the step pad to open the swinging doors. They bumped closed behind him quietly.

Starsky expelled a long sigh, resting his head back against the wall. This was a nightmare. An absolute nightmare. At least with his own dad, it’d been quick. Starsky was rapidly learning that this waiting and watching was awful. It was doubly difficult for Hutch, with all that now would never be resolved between his father and him.

He closed his eyes to half slits and tried to think positive thoughts for Hutch, wishing helplessly that the stroke hadn’t robbed the elderly man of the ability to talk or process spoken conversation. If that were the case, the peace he so deeply desired for his partner with regards to his childhood was never going to happen. Marge was dead since ’80, and Richard was now well on his way to joining his wife.

Starsky stared straight ahead, his eyes fixated unseeingly on walls decorated with cheap pastel paintings of generic beach and garden scenes. The indifferent, tacky art did nothing to improve the atmosphere of the hospital.

Only a few moments later, he saw a tall, blond man striding down the hall towards the ICU. He was dressed in the long white coat that most of the doctors there still wore as the symbols of their exalted office. Starsky recognized him instantly.

The doctor recognized Starsky, too. “Dave!”

“Hi, Bennie,” Starsky greeted him, grabbing the man’s hand in a firm handshake. Hutch didn’t like his brother-in-law at all, but Starsky didn’t have a problem with him and, so far, hadn’t seen Bennie treat Hutch with anything but courtesy. Bennie and Starsky got along much better than did Bennie and Hutch.

Starsky suspected that it was only because Bennie was living the life that Richard and Marge had desperately wanted Hutch to lead, that Hutch resented his sister’s husband so intensely. But there was no use trying to point that out. Some things Hutch would never be able to see.

“Is Ken in there now?”

That was another reason Starsky liked Bennie. He didn’t insist on calling Hutch ‘Kenneth’ when Hutch had made it clear years ago that he preferred to be called Hutch, or failing that, Ken.

”Yeah.” Starsky looked Bennie in the eye. “What’s going to happen now?”

Bennie nodded, as if he’d been expecting Starsky’s question. “He’s going to make it. At least through this incident,” Bennie stated unequivocally. “But he’ll never recover.”

‘What’s that mean?”

Bennie crossed his arms and dropped his voice down a little. He moved closer to Starsky, sharing a section of the wall with him. ‘Well, Dave, remember I’m an orthopedic surgeon. This isn’t my area.”

Starsky just stared at him, trusting that his expression was conveying to Bennie that he was wasting their time with any legalistic medical double talk. He’d heard it all before after his mom’s heart attack.

Doctors and lawyers. Always so damn busy covering their ass. “Just give it to me straight, Ben.”

“He’ll probably never regain the ability to speak,” Bennie admitted, “although I’m sure Silvia will get him a speech therapist, and the impairment on the afflicted side of the body will probably also be permanent. Ya gotta remember, he’s 85 years old, and he’s never been quite the same since he lost his wife . . .”

“What’s he got to live for?” Starsky translated.

Bennie shrugged. “Well … ”

Abandoning life like that seemed so alien to Starsky. “But he has Silvia, and you and the kids. How could he just give up?”

Bennie sighed. “He hasn’t. Not yet anyway. I’ve seen this before, though, and the fact that he’s my father-in-law doesn’t make it any easier.”

“So, what’s that mean? He’s gonna stay here ’til he dies? Whenever that is?”

Bennie shook his head. “Of course not. He’ll be released from ICU, probably tomorrow, and moved to a regular room until we can stabilize his blood pressure and adjust his meds again. Then—under normal circumstances—he’d have to go to an assisted living facility or nursing home.”

“Normal?”

“Well, Richard’s fairly well-to-do … ”

Starsky rolled his eyes. That was an understatement.

“And he can easily afford private duty nurses. I imagine that we’ll be able to maintain him in the home.”

Starsky nodded. “But he’ll never be the man he was, before the stroke? He really won’t be able to talk again?”

Bennie grimaced as he reiterated his verdict. “No, probably not.”

“That’s a shame,” Starsky stated, sincerely. “A damn shame.”

Bennie looked uncomfortable, as he straightened up and made to head into the ICU. “I know he never really liked you, Dave,” Bennie offered, tentatively.

“No, he doesn’t.” Starsky was straightforward. “He can’t stand me. But he is Hutch’s dad, and I gotta give him that much. If he hadn’t been around, I wouldn’t have Hutch. So I can’t hate him and I’m sorry this happened to him.”

“Yeah.” Bennie looked uncomfortable. He nodded briefly, and hastened off through the ICU’s doors.

All in all, Starsky thought, watching the doors close again, this time behind his lover’s brother-in-law. This is one lousy way to die.

 

Present day

“I thought he hated us,” Hutch repeated, dumbly. “And all this time, he had our picture by his bed.”

Starsky didn’t say anything. He was sad, of course. But he was angry, as well. How many times had he begged Hutch to make the first move? How many times had he explained to the man that no one lived forever, that each day he didn’t pick up the phone was one more day that was gone forever? How many times had he tried to make Hutch understand that he’d lost so much when he’d lost his own father, and that he didn’t want Hutch to ever regret the missed opportunities to say he loved his own dad?

For God’s sake, the last thing Starsky had said to his father had been some self-centered, whining complaint about a new bicycle he’d wanted, but should’ve known they couldn’t afford. He would never forgive himself. But once those nameless, faceless men had emptied their weapons that July day, his dad was bleeding to death on the sidewalk and Starsky was robbed forever of the chance to apologize. Robbed forever of a chance to tell his dad he loved him.

“Looks like you read him wrong,” Starsky finally stated, neutrally.

Hutch wasn’t paying attention to him. He had opened the lower nightstand drawer and pulled out a thin, cheap-looking notebook. Flipping through it, he groaned, a heartfelt, low sound wrung from the pit of his soul.

Starsky came over and looked at the book. It was a scrapbook of sorts; a collection of neatly pasted newspaper and Internet articles that stretched back many, many years. The final entry was the brief announcement posted to the L.A.P.D. website, listing officers who’d retired recently. Starsky didn’t need to run his finger down the names to the H’s to see if Hutch’s name was there. He recognized some of the other names and knew if he looked at the S’s, there he would be as well.

“Seems like he followed your career pretty carefully,” Starsky offered, biting down on the dual emotions of rage and amazement.

But the rage was winning out. Shit, Hutch, how could you do this? Let all this flush down the john because you’re so damn stubborn?

“God,” Hutch breathed. “I never …” His voice trailed off.

Too late now. Starsky felt overwhelmingly tired and the stuffiness of the room was really starting to get to him. It’s too damn late now.

Hutch looked up at his partner, bleakly. “What have I done?”

Nothing. That1s the problem. Starsky shrugged. “It’s just a shame, Hutch.”

Hutch was sitting motionless on the bed, clutching the book while his eyes slipped back to the photo he’d replaced on the table. “I never knew.”

You never listened. Starsky took a deep breath and pulled the album out of his partner’s hands. This was getting too deep. He had to get out of here, get his head straight about it. Then he’d be able to help Hutch deal with it. “Maybe we’d better put in an appearance at Silvia’s after all.”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll drive. Come on.”

“Yeah.” But Hutch didn’t move.

“Come on, Hutch.” Starsky fought down his frustration. “It’s been a long day. Let’s go, and things will look better in the morning.” They can’t look much worse. Why couldn’t one of you have made the first step? Why the hell not?

* * * *

It was 22 miles from Hutch’s old home to Silvia’s. In both the city of Starsky’s youth and the one of his adulthood, the drive would have taken an hour plus, easily. Twenty-two miles in New York or Los Angeles was basically the other side of the world.

In and around the fields of St. Louis County, Minnesota, it took about 22 minutes. Starsky had barely settled in for the scenic tour of the cornstalks when they were there.

Hutch had insisted on driving. He carelessly parked the rental car, blocking in several other vehicles, and headed up the front steps. As with Hutch’s childhood home, Starsky also had never visited Silvia’s house. He hurried after his partner, realizing this place was even larger than Richard’s mansion.

What is it with big houses and this family? he thought, sarcastically. Hutch stabbed the doorbell, hard.

Apparently Silvia and Bennie had the large house but didn’t have the butler that went with it, because it was Bennie himself who opened the door. He’d changed out of the suit he’d worn at the funeral into casual khakis and a black polo shirt.

“Ken!” he exclaimed, surprised. He glanced over his shoulder at his wife, coming up behind him with wineglass firmly in hand. The hubbub of conversation behind them was pretty loud. “Dave.” He paused a moment. “Come in. We’re in the Great Room.”

We weren’t expected, Starsky divined, easily. Well, no shocker there, but what in the hell was a Great Room?

“Come in,” Bennie repeated, in a firmer voice. He seemed to be getting used to the idea that his brother-in-law had come over, voluntarily. “Good to see you. Glad you came.”

Hutch briefly shook the hand Bennie extended before excusing himself and heading for someplace back in the bowels of the immense house. Starsky grabbed Bennie’s hand just as the doctor was about to withdraw it. “Hiya, Ben, Silvia.”

Ben smiled at him feebly, but Silvia had already turned her back and followed her brother down the entranceway hall. Starsky sighed. He and Bennie got along well but Hutch just wouldn’t warm up to his brother-in-law, despite Bennie’s consistent good nature and even disposition. Starsky didn’t know why. Perhaps it was one more thing he could blame on Silvia.

During the trip out to see Richard after his stroke last year, Starsky had learned that the politeness with which Bennie treated him was in no way endorsed by his wife. Starsky couldn’t care less. He’d been snubbed by better people than Silvia (Mrs. Benjamin) Anderson before. He managed to deal with it just fine.

“Good to see you, Dave. Thanks for coming.”

Starsky shrugged a little. “No problem, Bennie.”

Bennie took a deep breath. “And thanks for bringing him out here, you know, this whole trip. It meant a lot to Silvia, to have him at the funeral.”

So far Starsky hadn’t seen any evidence of any overwhelming gratitude on Silvia’s part, but he didn’t argue. Starsky’s only task now was to finish this visit without Silvia and Hutch, or Bennie and Hutch, or anyone else up here and Hutch, at one another’s throats.

“We wanted to be here,” Starsky assured him, as he came in the house and Bennie shut the door behind him. It was only one half a lie. He’d known they needed to come. Hutch had been pushed, metaphorically kicking and screaming, onto the plane.

“Would you like a drink?”

No, Starsky didn’t. But he knew that’s where Hutch would be—at the bar. The best way to keep an eye on him would be to have a beer while simultaneously ensuring Hutch ate enough of the hors d’oeuvres to soak up some of the booze. “That’d be great, thanks.”

Bennie smiled at him, genuinely this time, and started to lead the way through the crowd of people, politely excusing both of them as he cleared a path for Starsky.

Starsky followed him doggedly, trying to ignore the sidelong glances most of the rest of the crush of people were giving him. He felt out of place and conspicuously different: a gay Jewish duckling in a flock of perfectly coiffed, expensively attired, WASP swans.

He searched for his partner with tense eyes.

* * * *

By the time they got back to their hotel room that evening, Hutch had sunk into complete silence. He walked through the door and headed straight for one of the two uncomfortable-looking chairs in the back of the small room.

It wasn’t an overly nice hotel. The plane tickets, purchased at the last minute, had set them back considerably. They were retired now and their income was what the CPAs would term as “fixed,” so for lodging they were enjoying all the comforts of the local EconoLodge.

Starsky didn’t say a word as he locked the door behind them. He’d made understanding Hutch his lifetime’s project. One thing he’d learned early on about Hutch was that sometimes the man simply needed to be left alone. One of the next things he’d learned was that leaving Hutch alone to dwell on his inner demons was usually the worst thing to do.

Starsky stripped off his tie and toed off the leather dress shoes, instantly feeling better. He unbuttoned the top buttons of his dress shirt as he headed to his suitcase. He popped it open and retrieved the flask he’d packed there.

Detouring into the bathroom to get one of the plastic-covered disposable cups furnished by the hotel, Starsky walked back to Hutch’s side. He’d ripped off the covering and was pouring the brandy before Hutch even looked up.

“What’s this?” Hutch asked in surprise.

“Brandy.” Starsky was succinct. It was Hutch’s number one comfort food. Hutch had had a few rolls with his salad when they’d stopped at the Denny’s up on the highway after fleeing Silvia’s. Starsky gambled Hutch could handle the alcohol.

“From where?” Hutch still sounded amazed.

“It’s yours,” Starsky explained. “From home.” He pressed the cup into his lovers hands. “Drink it.”

Hutch smiled a little. “Thanks,” he said, earnestly. “Just what I need.”

It’s part of what ya need, Starsky thought. You need me, too. As he’d been getting the brandy, he’d decided that he wasn’t going to let Hutch sink into one of his moods, at least not right away. And he had the perfect way to prevent that.

But Starsky had to get his partner more relaxed before he took him to bed. It wasn’t sex Hutch needed as much as the closeness, Starsky felt, but it would go better if he could get Hutch unwound some first.  He intended to take Hutch tonight, plunging into him until the wound in Hutch’ soul was filled, at least temporarily, with the tangible evidence of Starsky’s love.

Hutch was making short work of the drink and Starsky snagged the cup from his hand, adding just a bit more of the amber liquid.

“Trying to get me drunk?” Hutch’s smile was genuine and Starsky relaxed a little. He sat down at the end of the bed with a smile of his own in return. So far, so good.

Amazingly, it hadn’t gone badly at Silvia’s. After a few minutes spent casing the place, Starsky realized that all the rest of the guests had already helped themselves to the open bar a few times. Maybe even several times. The overall mood was accordingly quite congenial. It confirmed the one thing Starsky’d learned about Hutch’s family early on: they didn’t have any trouble finding the time and the reason to drink.

To his credit, Hutch had shown great restraint in that department, nursing one glass of white wine for the entire 45 minutes they’d been there.  Starsky had been quite proud of him.

Hutch had actually smiled at his sister when they left, and she had smiled back. That was one for the record books, as the two siblings got along like oil and water. Starsky could only hope that now, with both Marge and Richard dead, Hutch and Silvia would work on getting along better.

The atmosphere had been … bearable. It was lots different from sitting Shiva but Starsky had long ago become adept at “going with the flow” when thrust into Gentile customs and traditions. If a mini-party—with catered finger foods and an open bar—was how Hutch’s family was going to commemorate Richard’s death, far be it for him to cast judgment on it.  And, after all, the man had been 85. He’d lived a full life.

“I’m not trying to get you drunk,” Starsky countered. “Just relaxed.”

Hutch stretched a little, and Starsky rescued the glass from his hand.  It was almost empty.

“I think I’m there, buddy.”

“Good,” Starsky grinned. “Then you can do me a favor?”

Hutch nodded immediately, his glowing face open and full of love for his partner. “Sure thing. What?”

Starsky spoke softly. “Can you stand up, take all your clothes off, get up on the bed, put that lovely ass of yours up in the air, and let me fuck you?”

Hutch smiled, suddenly, shyly, with a flush of red rushing through his cheeks. “I think I can handle that.”

He stood up, swaying a little from too much drink and not quite enough food. Starsky was on his feet, steadying him at once.

“Thanks,” Hutch breathed to his partner and it could have been just an acknowledgement of Starsky’s hand on his elbow, but somehow sounded like so much more.

“No problem, babe.” A lot of feeling was in that statement as well. He patted Hutch on the side of his hip. “Go get ready for me now.”

Hutch nodded, reaching up to loosen his tie. His movements were a trifle slower than usual, and Starsky was there, reaching to help him. They worked together getting the tie off and Hutch’s shirt unbuttoned. Then Starsky gracefully dropped to one knee as he worked open Hutch’s belt and fly.

The dark grey pants pooled about Hutch’s ankles and he stood there in his briefs. Starsky regained his feet and let his hands drop to his sides. Hutch shuffled closer, freeing each button from its buttonhole on Starsky’s shirt and undoing his pants as well.

In a matter of moments, they’d efficiently stripped themselves of their clothes and Hutch was getting up on the bed. Just before he’d climbed in, Starsky pulled down the covers to reveal stiff white sheets that at least smelled clean.

Hutch’s motions were still hesitant and slow, and Starsky held onto his waist, steadying Hutch on his knees.

“You want me on my hands and knees?” Hutch asked. “Right away?”

“Is that okay?” Starsky got on the bed now, too, and drew close to his partner. They were on their knees, face to face. Starsky began rubbing his lover’s back. “I love you, Hutch.”

Hutch nodded, eager in his inebriation to please his lover. “Okay, just let me—”

“Wait a minute,” Starsky interrupted, urging Hutch back onto the pillows and helping him straighten his long legs in front of him.

“What?”

“Gonna get ya going a bit.” Starsky lowered his mouth to Hutch’s groin, taking the softness in.

“Oh,” Hutch breathed softly. “Okay.”

Starsky used his mouth and tongue to elicit a response from Hutch, then tried his hands. “It’s all right, Starsk,” Hutch said after a few moments. He was merely semi-hard.

“That’s good.” He ran his fingers through Starsky’s graying curls. “Thanks.”

Starsky lifted up, a hint of regret in his eyes, but before he could say anything, Hutch impulsively leaned forward and kissed his partner. “I never thanked you—”

Starsky had to nip this in the bud. If Hutch got to talking or thinking too much, he was going to crash, emotionally. Starsky wanted to love him first. It would make the depression hit a little less hard, when it did finally force its appearance.

He clamped down hard on his disappointment for his inability to get Hutch harder, and mirrored Hutch’s caress by running his hand through Hutch’s hair. “That’s why we’re doin’ this, Blintz. So you can thank me.”

Hutch laughed a little, proving that the alcohol from the brandies was winning the battle with the salad. “You have to come, to be thanked?”

Starsky was running his hands over his partner’s bare, pale torso now, warmed as Hutch was from the booze but still holding a hint of smooth coolness. “Can you think of a better way to thank a guy?”

“For you?” Hutch teased, grinning. “Nope.”

Starsky cuffed him lightly on the shoulder. “Hey. You don’t mind getting off either, remember.” As he spoke, he frowned. Not now. This wasn’t the time to bring that up. He brushed his lips lightly over Hutch’s, tasting the brandy. “Bend over. Let me fill you up.”

As Hutch scampered to obey, bracing himself against the cheap, pressed wood headboard, Starsky realized he’d forgotten to get the KY out of their toiletries kit.

Brilliant, Starsky, he chided himself.  Remembering the brandy but not the lube.

“Be right back.” He kissed Hutch’s back lightly.

He dashed into the bathroom, dug through their toiletries kit, and found the lubricant. “Eureka!”

“I have found it,” Hutch translated, easily, smugly, from the other room. “Okay, college boy. Let’s see who’s the one left talking when we’re done.”

“It won’t be me,” Hutch remarked candidly, as Starsky got back in bed and squeezed the gel onto his left hand. “You take my breath away.”

Starsky felt a wave of love rush through him. His heart felt full and his erection, which hadn’t been much to talk about as he’d rummaged through their stuff, stiffened noticeably. He clenched his jaw for a brief moment, getting himself under control so he could keep bantering with his partner.

“That’s the idea.” Starsky positioned his hand along the opening between Hutch’s legs, clenching his fist a few times to warm the gel. “Might be a bit cold.” He touched his lover gently.

“No, it’s fine.”

“So are you.” Starsky coated Hutch and then himself. They weren’t going at this with much foreplay and he wanted plenty of lubricant in all the right places.

He positioned himself, his excitement building, his darker hands anchoring him to the pale skin of Hutch’s hips. “I’m going to do it, babe.”

Starsky saw, and felt, Hutch’s nod. “I know. It’s okay.”

“I’ll take it slow.”

Hutch craned his head back. “No, you don’t need to. I’m ready, I’m all right.”

Sure you are, Hutch, Starsky thought, glumly.  After my bang-up blow job. “Yep. Gonna keep you that way.” He started to push in.

“Starsk, we’ve been doing this for what, over twenty years? I think I’m used to you by now.”

“Right. And I know what I’m doing, so stop arguing with me.”

“I’m not—”

Starsky slid the rest of the way in, a smooth, controlled move. It had been several weeks, with all that was going on in their lives at home and the situation out here, since they’d made time to go this far. Hutch was pretty tight. His comment to Starsky was cut off by a soft moan he whispered as Starsky came to rest fully inside him.

“You sure you’re all right?”

“Yeah.” Hutch was still breathing out his words as if he were short of air.

“Been a while.”

“Yes.” Hutch was eloquent in his brevity.

Starsky moved, somewhat tentatively. He started the actual business of fucking his long time partner. His rhythm was slow, each movement excessively gentle. He felt Hutch finally relax, finally let go. Hutch’s grip on the headboard slipped a bit.

“Feeling good now?”

“Umm … yeah.”

Starsky thrust in and pulled out, almost leisurely. “Just gonna do this for a while. Want to feel ya again.” Want to be part of you.

“I feel you.”

“That’s good.” Starsky smiled. “I feel you, too.”

Starsky reached under his partner but the erection he was hoping for still wasn’t really there.

Again, he had to swallow his disappointment, ensuring Hutch wouldn’t be able to read him by his tone of voice. “You’re not hard, baby.”

Hutch shook his head, his longish hair blond in the glow of the overhead light. Starsky hadn’t thought to douse it beforehand.

“You want me to work on you some, or … ”

Hutch shook his head again, still not saying anything.

“Okay. But I owe you.”

Hutch sighed, a deep release Starsky could feel all the way down to where the two men were joined. He knew that it would require a good night’s sleep until Hutch was going to be able to achieve anything.

As for tonight … Shoulda expected it, Einstein, he berated himself. With the stress of the day and the doses of liquid relaxation, there wasn’t going to be an orgasm for Hutch tonight. Well, isn’t the end of the world. The goal of this was only incidentally for either of them to come. The real goal was to remind Hutch how much he was loved.

“Gonna pick the pace up a little, babe.” Starsky felt the familiar gathering of pressure deep within him.

“You’re getting close.”

“You know it.”

“Good. That’s great,” Hutch responded, his voice a bit unsteady. Whether it was from the motion of the intercourse or something else, Starsky didn’t know yet.

“You feel me in you, Hutch? You know how much I love you?” It wasn’t idle chit-chat, not in the least.

“Yeah.” Hutch’s knuckles whitened a bit as he tightened his grip on the bed’s headboard.

“I’m filling you up. I’m about to fill you up.”

“Good.” Hutch’s voice was definitely unsteady, and it wasn’t just the sex, the rocking motion.

“I’m gonna come.” Still controlled, Starsky’s thrusts were hard, fast, and deliberate now. He gripped Hutch’s hips harder with both hands, securing them together, steadying his lover for the final drive.

Holding back on coming right away had been a challenge for Starsky but he’d purposely done it. He had to break through to Hutch, and he could tell that he’d succeeded. Even if Hutch ended up being the slightest bit sore tomorrow, it would be an ache that he would relish. Starsky knew that. And Hutch knew that he knew it.

It hit him then. Not all that hard, not alt that intense, but great, nonetheless. “Oh, Hutch!” he ground out. Then, softer: “Hutch, Hutch, Hutch.”

“I love you,” Hutch spoke quietly and his entire body was shaking from the loving assault. But Starsky heard him clear1y, through the haze of his orgasm.

“David,” Hutch murmured, his voice even quieter and fluid now. “Oh, my precious David.”

Starsky was spent, and Hutch was urging himself free of his partner. “Here,” he urged Starsky. “Lie down.”

Starsky collapsed on the bed, weakly burrowing underneath the covers. All of a sudden, he was utterly wiped. Felt like he didn’t have the energy to do more than breathe. Maybe not even that, he thought.

“Hold on, partner,” Hutch warned, coming back from the bathroom with some damp washcloths. “Stay with me. Let me clean you up.”

“Yeah,” Starsky murmured. “Thanks.”

Hutch smiled to himself as he cared for Starsky, cleaning him up and tucking him in. “Thank you,” he whispered, kissing Starsky’s temple as he finished. The man was already asleep.

Hutch looked at the chair he’d been sitting in, and the empty plastic cup of brandy next to the flask. Then he looked back at the bed. It was an easy decision. It’d been a long day and he didn’t really need any more booze.

He headed for a quick shower before crawling into bed with his partner.

 

The next morning

Edna was on the far side of forty, a faded blonde carefully dressed in clothing that had been out of style since the early ’80s. She was stationed at her desk in the small law office as a sentinel between all the outside world and her boss. Starsky had seen women like her in the past: women more married to their employers than they’d ever be to anyone else, all for the annual $50 Christmas bonus and flowers on Secretary’s Day.

Edna didn’t appear pleased to see them. “May I help you?” Her demeanor broadcast that she didn,t think so.

Starsky smiled at her, waving a hand to indicate first himself and then his partner. “Dave Starsky, Ken Hutchinson. Jack asked us to drop by today.”

She looked at them evenly.

“At my father’s funeral yesterday,” Hutch informed her. “He mentioned he needed to see me.” He didn’t waste a smile on her. “Mr. Wills was his attorney.”

Edna did have to concede that, rising from her narrow stenographer’s chair. “I’ll see if he’s available.” She stood there for a moment, not moving, and Starsky took the cue.

“Let’s sit down for a moment, Hutch.” He tugged Hutch over to the small, homey waiting area.

Despite Edna’s reluctance, Jack would indeed see them. Starsky’d barely noted the date on the Readers Digest he’d picked up when Jack himself burst into the anteroom.

“Come in, come in,” Jack boomed, jovially, welcoming them. “Would you like something to drink?”

He was already turning towards Edna but Hutch and Starsky shook their heads. They trailed Jack into his office, exchanging resigned looks with one another.

“Sit down, sit down.”

Okay, okay, Starsky thought mischievously. Jack seemed fond of repeating himself.

“Thanks so much for dropping by.”

Hutch glanced at Starsky before shrugging. “No problem. We’re not flying out until tomorrow morning.”

“Oh good, good. What’s on the plate for today?’

Hutch shrugged again. “No plans, really.” That was a lie, but their itinerary wasn’t any of Jack’s business. Starsky had asked his partner to show him around the area: the schools Hutch had attended, the places where he’d spent time as a boy. Their first stop was going to be a park near the elementary school, where Hutch had played his first games of baseball when he was nine. Starsky suspected Hutch wasn’t looking forward to the walk down memory lane much, but Starsky was anticipating it enough for both of them. He also knew it’d be his only chance to see Hutch’s comer of Duluth. They’d never be back here.

“Wonderful, wonderful. Glad I didn’t interrupt anything important for you two.” Starsky looked at him sharply, but Jack’s face was guileless. It didn’t really matter, anyway. Starsky didn’t give a damn about anything this Midwestern hick could say, or think, about their relationship.

“What did you need?” Hutch asked, his voice holding the slightest hint of impatience.

Jack nodded. Starsky sensed him becoming more serious, dropping into his professional bearing. “Yes. Of course.” He shuffled through some papers on his desk. “I do appreciate you taking the time coming by. I like to deal with heirs face to face, especially when there are family issues involved.”

The choice of words put Starsky on alert as Hutch spoke. “Heirs?” He sounded almost bored. “Not a problem with us.”

Jack met their gazes. “Not for both of you, I agree. But it is for you, Kenneth.”

“What?” What! Starsky echoed to himself.

“Your father’s will.” Jack gestured with a sheaf of papers. “You’re an heir in his will.”

Hutch glanced at Starsky, pure amazement in his expression, then dismissed the idea.

“Probably left me enough to fly home after the funeral.”

Starsky wasn’t quite so sure. He watched Jack carefully. “Not unless it’s a very expensive trip.”

Hutch’s voice was cold. “What’re you saying, Wills?”

Jack smiled. “You’re a ‘cut to the chase’ kind of guy. You’d never make it as a politician.” He glanced down and then met Hutch’s eyes again. “Your father left a significant charitable bequest to St. Erik’s: $200,000. But the bulk of his estate he divided equally between you and your sister, Mrs. Anderson.”

“You’re serious!” Hutch was shocked.

Starsky was shocked, too. He’d expected an inheritance but … Half the estate! He hadn’t expected that.

“Yes.” Jack looked uncomfortable for a moment. “It’s my understanding that you were told that you were disinherited. Uh … Mrs. Anderson mentioned that. But I have the latest iteration of the will and you and she are equal beneficiaries. After St. Erik’s and the estate taxes, of course.”                                                                     .

Hutch shook his head. “There’s got to be a mistake. You must not have the right will.”

“That would be difficult.” Jack was tolerant but unyielding. “I’ve been your father’s lawyer since my own father retired. There’s no reason, and scant possibility, that there would be another will.”

“But, but … Silvia told me. She told me. I’m not, not in the will. She told me!” Hutch swallowed.

Take it easy, Starsky thought, restraining himself from reaching over and touching Hutch’s ann. We’ll figure this out.

Hutch looked over at him then, and Starsky silently encouraged him with his eyes.

“I’ve spoken to Mrs. Anderson,” Jack stated. “And I know what she believes. But until Mr. Hutchinson did pass, I couldn’t disabuse her of that notion.” He paused. “And I’m not sure why she believes that. The first will my father prepared for Mr. Hutchinson was dated September of 1943 and … ”

Jack was still talking but Starsky had tuned him out. That year Hutch, who was five years older than his sister, had been born, and it was obvious from the timing that as soon as practical after Hutch’s August birth, Richard had made out his first will. Again, the waste of time and emotion, squandered over years and years of Hutch’s and his father’s estrangement, hit him anew. He pushed down the anger. This was not the place.

“None of the wills ever eliminated you. None of them ever treated you and your sister differently at all. Of course, after your mother passed on, he changed the provisions of the will substantially, especially in regards to St. Erik’s. But you and Mrs. Anderson have always been equal heirs. Completely equal.”

“What about another statement?” Starsky asked.

“Excuse me?”

“Could there be another statement, another amendment or something like that? Something he wrote out on his own, that disinherits Hutch?”

“It probably wouldn’t be legal,” Jack stated at once. “And there would have been no reason to do that, and leave this will extant.”

“Yes,” Hutch said, slowly.

“Don’t forget, Starsk, he was a lawyer by training.”

“I thought—”

“Real estate was how he made his money, yes,” and Jack was nodding in agreement. “But he would’ve never done something out of the ordinary like that. He would have done a new will by the book.”

“Just as he did every time he had reason to execute a codicil, or the few times he redid the entire will,” Jack chimed in.

He stood up, an abrupt move. “It’s legitimate, gentlemen. It might not be what you expected, but it’s what Richard wanted. I assure you, his body may have failed him after the stroke, but not his mind. This is exactly how Richard wanted his assets distributed.”

The lawyer started pacing behind his desk, moving around restlessly. There were a few moments of silence.

“Well, what can I do, Wills? I don’t want the money.”

“What?”

What? Starsky repeated to himself.

“I said, I don’t want the money,” Hutch repeated, looking over at Starsky. “What happens if I don’t take it?”

“Hutch,” Starsky warned softly. He didn’t want Hutch to do anything rash. At least see how much we’re talkin‘ about here.

Jack re-seated himself. “Well, you can execute a qualified disclaimer.”

“Which is?”

“You sign a statement saying you disclaim a specific provision of the will. And then you don’t receive the bequest. .I’m not sure—”

“Then who gets it?”

“I’d have to verify this,” Jack answered, speaking precisely. “But I would feel confident for the purposes of this informal discussion to inform you that Mrs. Anderson would become the sole beneficiary. After, of course—”

“St. Erik’s and the taxes,” Starsky finished for him.

“I don’t want her to get the money!” Hutch burst out. “Can’t I—”                                                                          ”

“No.” Jack was firm. “You disclaim this, then the provisions of the will take over that dealt with you and your heirs pre-deceasing your father.”

“I can’t—”

“No.”

Hutch looked over at Starsky. Let’s slow down, Hutch.

“Well—”

Jack interrupted Hutch smoothly. “You’re not leaving until tomorrow, correct?”

Hutch was nodding.

“Then I recommend taking a few hours to think this over. Before you make a decision.”

Starsky posed the obvious question in his mind. He hadn’t quite worked up the chutzpah to ask it aloud. How much—?

“How much are we talking about?” Hutch asked.

“Well, I’m not a CPA.  So this is just an estimate, but based on …”

Get on with it, Starsky thought, disgustedly. There it was yet again, one thing he’d been heartily sick of by the time he retired: the doubletalk all lawyers felt obligated to lace their speech with.

“Four and a quarter, give or take.”

“Four and a quarter what?” Hutch’s voice was sharp. Starsky was floored. As in dollars?

“Million. Four and a quarter million dollars.” A crashing silence descended as Jack looked over at them calmly.

 

Saturday, June 8, 2002

“Here you go.” Starsky had his head stuck in the refrigerator and, blindly, he handed back a wrapped deli package.

“What’s this?”

“Open it up and you’ll see.”

Hutch walked over to the dining room table, a white tiled affair set up in the small room adjacent to their kitchen. They didn’t realty have a dining room, just this small alcove where they had a small table and a couple of chairs. He dropped the package on the table and was opening it up as Starsky joined him, his hands full with other sandwich fixings.

“It’s that Norwegian cheese you like,” Starsky explained, as Hutch revealed the contents.

“Yeah, I can see that. Why?”

“Can’t I get you your favorite kind of cheese without having an ulterior motive?”

“No,” Hutch said, shaking his head. “Not you. Not when this stuff is $6.95 a pound.”

Starsky tried to look affronted as he set out the rest of their meal on the table, but failed miserably. Even after they’d gotten the first—sizeable—distribution from Richard’s estate, Starsky was still exceptionally careful with their money, as he always had been. Hutch had even been known to call him ‘cheap’ on occasion. Cheap or not, Starsky handled all the finances and by the time they’d retired from the force, they had had no debt. Not even the mortgage.

“Go get a knife,” he told Hutch.

Hutch did, coming back with it and handing it, handle first, to his partner. “Here. And the story with the cheese is?”

“Do I hafta explain it?”

“No, I’ve already figured it out. But you can try an explanation, if you think there are extenuating circumstances.”

“There are.” Starsky sat down and grabbed the mayonnaise. “I want to go.”

“And I don’t.”

“You do,” Starsky insisted. “You just don’t know it.”

“How don’t I know it?” Hutch was still standing, obviously ready for an argument.

“Sit down and eat.” He gestured at Hutch’s chair. “We’ll argue about this after lunch.”

“We don’t need to argue. We aren’t going.”

Starsky put the knife down.  He was tired of going round and round on this with Hutch. Especially since he knew he was right. “Hutch, I want to. I want to see where your family came from.”

“My family?  The less you know about them, the happier you’ll be. Trust me on this one.”

“We’re not gonna move in with them,” Starsky retorted. “I just want to see the country. See what it’s like.”

“And Poland.”

Starsky shook his head. “No, I’ve been givin’ that some thought. I’d rather go to Munich.”

“Munich?” Hutch clearly didn’t know what to make of that.

“Yeah, Munich. Something I want to see there.”

“What?” Hutch finally did sit down and Starsky shoved the package of rolls towards him.

“I’ll tell you after you agree to go to Norway.”

“That’s blackmail,” Hutch commented, looking around for the lettuce. It wasn’t there.

“Go get some, if you want,” Starsky told him, correctly divining what the blond was looking for. “And if you think that’s blackmail, you haven’t seen anything yet.”

Hutch stopped in his tracks. He looked back at his lover. “You wouldn’t.”

“You don’t want to know. Better you do things my way.”

Hutch stared at him. A hint of a smile danced on Starsky’s face.

“Yeah, go ahead and smile. You think you’ve won?”

Starsky nodded, satisfied. Just before he took the first, huge bite of his sandwich, he grinned. “I have won. Just go ahead and give up, while you still have some dignity left.”

Hutch retrieved the lettuce and sat back down. He tore some off, reached over and took the sandwich out of Starsky’s hands, added the bits of lettuce to it, closed the top of the roll over the contents again, and handed it back to Starsky.

Starsky frowned.

“You need your vegetables.”

“On my sandwich?”

“Yeah.”

Starsky took another bite. He chewed for a few moments. He’d barely swallowed when he said: “If I eat my vegetables, can we go on this trip?”

Hutch added some turkey to the sandwich he was making for himself. With a wry grin, he cut off some of the Norwegian cheese as well. Starsky was looking eminently pleased with himself again.

“I just started at the gym again.”

Starsky shrugged. “I’ll kick you out of bed every morning and make you go for a run. And, you can carry all our bags.”

“And I’m teaching the literary program at the library this summer.”

“LeAnn can fill in for you. It’s only Tuesday nights, and we’re only going to be gone ten days.”

“What about the primaries? I want to vote in them.”

“And you can’t do this by absentee ballot? You already know who you’re gonna vote for, don’t you?”

“I don’t like to fly.”

“Since when? A few years ago, you were talking about getting your pilot’s license!”

“Not to fly to Europe! Do you know how many hours we’ll be in the air? From L.A. to Europe? It’ll be—”

“So, load up on the wine and watch the movie. You’ll survive.”

Hutch fell silent and took the first bite of his meal. “You really want to do this, don’t you?”

“Gee, Hutch,” Starsky replied, taking a drink of his milk. “What was your first clue?”

Hutch shrugged unhappily. “I guess if you do all the work to get ready—”

“‘Course I will. Already started.”

“Then l guess… I guess we can go.”

Starsky smiled, a genuine, loving smile. “You’ll enjoy it, Hutch. I promise.” He fully intended to make this the best trip his partner had ever undertaken.

Hutch painstakingly cut his sandwich into quarters. “You know I don’t know a thing about where my grandparents came from,” he complained. “I don’t know how you’re going to find out.”

Starsky nodded, chewing away. He realized Hutch would have to bitch about this for a few minutes, simply to save face. He didn’t need to pay attention and didn’t plan to. He was already mentally sketching out the afternoon’s tasks.

OK, Davey, first things first. Gotta get the tickets . . . He’d already checked their passports and, thankfully, both were still valid.

* * * *

Later that afternoon, Starsky sat at the wooden bar in the kitchen. He stared at the phone, sitting there innocuously. Starsky dreaded making this call, but he’d put it off as long as he could.  Oh well, faster you do it, faster it’ll be over.

He flipped through their address book until he found the right entry. Checking the time difference, dialing the phone, and listening to it ring took only a few moments. He tapped his foot impatiently.

“Hi, Silvia,” he said, feigning a friendliness he did not feel. If only Bennie had answered the phone … “It’s Dave. Dave Starsky. How’re you?”

There was a decided pause before the response came, warily. “Dave. What can I do for you? Kenneth’s not—”

“Oh, he’s fine. Nothing’s wrong. Just need some family information, if you have a minute.”

Another pause, longer this time. The voice was more than faintly incredulous. “Our family?”

Starsky took a deep breath and explained the upcoming trip to Hutch’s sister. He concluded, “And that’s why I need to know. I want to plan everything around places your family is from. You know?”

Silvia laughed, overlaid with a hint of sadness. “How interesting. Wish Kenneth had thought to do this when Mom was still alive. She would have been more help than I can be.”

“Well, he’s tryin’ to do better.” Starsky’s tone was flat.

“Yes, indeed, now that she and Father are both dead.”

Starsky didn’t respond to that. He didn’t want this to develop into an argument. Silvia and he had a firm unspoken agreement to avoid angering each other and no purpose would be served by launching into a verbal battle. Plus, she’d probably win.

After another brief silence, Silvia blinked first. “I guess I can send you my genealogy charts. I have them on the computer.”

“E-mail them to me? Please?”

“Yes, I can do that.”

Starsky waited a moment but she didn’t elaborate. “Can you maybe give me a general idea of where they’re from, now, so I can start to plan the trip?”

“Oh, all right.” The tone wasn’t exactly cordial. “Well, our grandfather was from a small town near Bergen, on the Atlantic Coast. I have the exact name in my charts. And his wife, our grandmother—who died before Kenneth was born, as I imagine you know—was from Oslo. The city itself.”

“And they met in Norway but got married here?”

He’d asked Hutch about this but he hadn’t known. All Hutch had ever been aware of was that his grandfather had missed his wife very, very much, and had always had a hard time talking about her or their past. Peter (anglicized from Peder by the helpful immigration folks at Ellis Island) had died when Hutch was only 12, so he and Hutch hadn’t had that many years to spend together.

“No, of course not.” Silvia was just this side of condescending. “A man from the country, from a fisherman’s family, would never have interacted with anyone from the capitol. Too far away, and backgrounds that were too different. No, they met here and married here. In our classless society, as the civics teachers put it. I imagine the farm Poppa had here in Minnesota was quite the step down for Viktoria.”

Starsky smiled sardonically. His own forebears, Jews in pre-war Poland, had probably had classes, too. The bottom one and the one just below the bottom. But Starsky understood what Silvia was saying.

“If you could e-mail those charts, I’d really appreciate it.”

“Very well. I’ll do it tonight. Is that all?”

“Yeah. Thanks a lot.”

“You’re welcome.” She hesitated a moment. “Please convey my best wishes to Kenneth.”

Starsky nodded, eager to get off the phone but accepting her peace offering for what it was. “I sure will. Thanks again.”

 

Sunday-Wednesday, July 14 -17, 2002

Idyllic. There was no other word for it. Norway was idyllic.

Restlessly, Starsky shifted from foot to foot, staring at the back of Hutch’s neck, then farther ahead at other passengers packing the aisle in front of them. He was impatient to get off the plane and clear customs so they could start their actual vacation.

As they trooped down the passageway from the SAS aircraft, Starsky offered his first commentary. “This is a beautiful country.”

Hutch shook his head, looking back over his shoulder at his partner.  “Starsk, you haven’t even been out of the airport yet.”

“I know that. But it’s a—”

“Beautiful country. I know. That’s all you’ve been saying since you bought that damn guidebook.”

Starsky frowned and shut up.

They retrieved their baggage and breezed through passport control with surprising ease. Starsky burst out of the glass doors of the airport and stood on the curb, feeling the fresh breeze on his face. He looked accusingly at Hutch. “See! It is beautiful.”

Hutch had to agree as he looked around at the green grass, tall pines, and sparkling clear sky, a pristine landscape that abutted right up to edges of the Oslo Airport. He took a deep breath of the pure air, cool even in the height of summer, craning his neck as he stood next to their luggage.

Starsky watched him, smiling.

After a brief bus trip to their hotel, located on the main thoroughfare of Karl Johans Gate, and an even briefer nap, the two men set out together to do the tourist routine.  They’d have plenty of time, for as Starsky had discovered while regaling Hutch with tidbits from his well-thumbed Michelin, the sun never really set in Scandinavia during the summer.

One of their first stops was a museum designed to house three fossilized relics of ancient Viking long ships. Once inside, Starsky looked up in wonder. The Norse Folkesmuseum was unlike any museum he’d ever been in, with high vaulted ceilings and plenty of room for the huge Viking vessels that, heretofore, Starsky had only seen in the movies. “Hutch!” he tugged at his partner’s arm.  “I can see you, I can see you, your ancestors, living like this!”

Hutch smiled patiently. “Not much of a life. And can you imagine the winters?” The boats were long, low and very exposed.

“But they did it!  And they survived. You prosper today, because of what they did. Their groundwork.”

Hutch had to agree. “Yeah. Hardy stock, I guess.” He then craned his head up to look, really look, at the nearest ship. He took a deep breath and had to agree: Starsky’s right. These vessels are amazing. The men who’d designed, built and crewed these had to have been something special, indeed.

“Yeah!” Starsky rushed off to another alcove of the huge building to see another of the primitive vessels.

Staying put, Hutch watched Starsky, shaking his head indulgently. They were both having a good time—he had to admit that. But Starsky was always so much more outgoing in his enthusiasm. It was one of the many things Hutch loved about the man.

* * * *

The next morning featured an ample Scandinavian breakfast at the hotel. The wide variety of breads and cereals delighted Starsky. There was an even greater array of different preparations of herring, which Hutch secretly enjoyed. He hadn’t eaten herring in literally decades. The two men sat across from one another at a small table by the coffee machines. Starsky looked uncomfortable.

“What?”

“Nothin’.”

Hutch speared another of the small, pickled fish and ate it, thoughtfully.

“Well, something’s bothering you. Don’t tell me that you couldn’t find anything you liked from all this.” Hutch gestured with his glass of milk towards his partner’s meal. There were about eight varieties of rolls, breads, crackers and muffins on Starsky’s plate.

“It’s not the bread,” Starsky muttered. “It’s the fish.”

“You aren’t eating any of the fish,” Hutch pointed out.

“I know that.” Starsky’s tone was truculent.

“But?”

“But you are! And it’s turning my stomach!”

Hutch grinned at him. Moving with deliberate speed, he loaded his fork up with three of the herring, each preserved in a different sauce.

“Don’t! At least don’t make me watch!”

Hutch thrust them into his mouth and chewed them with great relish.

“That’s it!” Starsky’s voice was low. “I’m never kissin’ you again in my whole, entire life.”

Hutch swallowed. He grinned again. “Yeah, sure.”

Starsky grimaced. “I can smell your breath from here.”

That prompted a laugh from Hutch.

“Just like your burritos, Starsk,” Hutch offered, unrepentantly. “This is good stuff. Good for you.”

“Not for me.” Starsky’s expression was a pure pout.

“Drink your coffee,” Hutch advised, looking over at the buffet. “I’m going to get a few more herring.”

“Hutch!”

The rest of the meal was completed in silence, and Starsky didn’t let them out of the hotel until Hutch had brushed his teeth. And flossed. The blond drew the line at the breath mints, however.

Their first stop of the morning was the grand Lutheran cathedral in downtown Oslo, the famous “Domkirke.” Again Starsky was all movement, while Hutch was a solitary, stationary figure taking everything in.

Starsky wandered through the aisles, looking up in amazement at the stained glass and baroque design. Herring was the last thing on his mind now as he walked back to Hutch. “This is magnificent.”

“Yeah. I guess.”

“Hutch, your ancestors—your grandmother!—could have gone to church here. Walked down this very aisle, where you are now, dozens or hundreds of years ago.”

“Well, not just like me. I’m merely a tourist.”

“You’re a native son!” Starsky kept his voice low in deference to the religious setting but his passion was unmistakable. “Come back to honor where you came from.”

Momentarily Hutch reflected on the fact that Starsky was honoring where he came from far more than Hutch himself ever would. “Yeah,” he finally allowed, capitulating to his partner’s enthusiasm. “It’s good.” He looked at Starsky, a bit intently. “Thanks. Thanks for suggesting this.” He was referring to the entire trip, not just the day’s itinerary.

Starsky seemed to realize that. “Insisting on it, you mean.”

“Yeah,” Hutch agreed. “Insisting on it.”

Starsky sidled a bit closer to his partner, but not inappropriately so. “Well, you’re more than welcome.”

* * * *

The next day they did what most tourists to Norway did: took the train from Oslo to Bergen on the Bergen Line. It was a long trip over the “roof’ of Norway, as Starsky’s guidebook informed them.

It was also one of the most beautiful trips Hutch had ever taken. The longer they were on the train, the more beautiful the scenery became. After they’d traveled for about four hours, Hutch nudged his seatmate.

Wordlessly, he pointed out two streams of clear water, running separately down the rocky face of a mountain they were passing, which then merged into one rivulet of water for several more yards until it emptied into the greenish-gray of the mountaintop lake.

“That’s us, babe,” Starsky confirmed, quietly, blessedly understanding what Hutch was focusing on.

“Yeah. Until we get to the lake. Then …”

“Then it’s me and thee forever,” Starsky countered. “Up there or down in the lake. Forever.”

Hutch was quiet. “Hope so.”

“Count on it.”

Hutch needed to distract himself, so he looked across the aisle and out the window on the other side of the train car. The scenery was breathtaking—only word for it—no matter which side of the train car one was on.

For his part, Starsky was learning something about his lover on this trip. “It’s understandable, you and the outdoors,” Starsky remarked, after a moment.

Hutch turned to him, a question in his eyes but Starsky continued to look out the window. “Your love of nature.” Starsky answered the question he sensed, then turned to meet Hutch’s gaze, gesturing slightly out the window next to him. “How can you help it?”

Hutch smiled a little, his expression slightly embarrassed. “I guess you’re right,” he conceded. “Thanks for putting up with me.”

Starsky shook his head. “To see stuff like this,” and he gestured again towards the window, “you can drag me into nature any time you want.”

* * * *

Bergen turned out to be just as beautiful as the trip there had been. They toured Bergen’s tourist area the next morning, chuckling at the overpriced tourist items for sale at the waterfront stores and markets. Hutch steadfastly refused to buy the obligatory Norwegian sweater, despite Starsky’s urging.

After they’d endured the dark, cramped quarters of the Hanseatic Museum at Bryggen, Hutch was ready for a break. He’d had to stoop and bend several times in the old, small building and his back was really starting to act up.

Starsky must have guessed that. “How about some beer, or te,”—Starsky pronounced the Norwegian word for ‘tea’ correctly—”and a chance to sit down and stretch out your back muscles for a while?”

Hutch didn’t answer him immediately, and Starsky tapped him on the shoulder.

“Okay, okay. I’m coming, already.”

“I’ve reached a conclusion about the Hanseatic League,” Starsky confided, keeping his voice hushed as they headed for the exit.

“What’s that?”

“It’s—” Starsky looked back but Hutch was no longer with him.

Hutch had stopped and was engrossed in a painting where a foundering, doomed vessel with tom sails and desperate, drowning, sailors, was overarched by a depiction of the crucified Christ. Angels attended Jesus in his agony as he watched over the naval disaster. Hutch found it disturbing to see such a vivid depiction of so many men destined to perish. Yet he couldn’t seem to pull his attention from it.

At last, Starsky urged Hutch forward and away from the picture. “This League deal? It’s boring.”

Hutch nodded, looking down yet another dark, narrow hallway. “Yeah, I guess it is.” He turned to his partner then, making an effort to shake off the effect the painting had had on him. “Good idea, Starsk. Let’s get something to drink.”

* * * *

The next day, the fantastic good luck they’d been having with the weather ended. Their boat trip to see the fjords featured a lot of rain falling on a lot of cliffs into a lot of water. It also rained, a lot, on the open, upper level of the ship cruising the fjords. And the rain was very cold.

“Come on, let’s go downstairs,” Starsky urged Hutch, as the taller man stood alone in the chilly, misty drizzle, wrapped in a blanket over his rain jacket. His blond hairs were plastered to his head and he looked miserable.

“Go below, you mean?”

“Inside, downstairs, below,” Starsky shot back. “I don’t give a shit what you call it. You need to get warm. Your lips are blue.”

Hutch didn’t argue.. He couldn’t recall ever being this cold, especially in July, so he allowed himself to be led down the narrow spiral staircase to the enclosed, heated interior. “I wish we could have seen—”

“I saw enough. I don’t want you catching your death up there.”

Hutch had to agree. “Yeah.”

Starsky pointed at a chair. “Sit here. I’m going to go get you somethin’ hot to drink.”

Hutch looked up gratefully. “Thanks.”

Later that day, after Starsky had dragged them back to their hotel for a hot shower, they headed to the Vikingshiphuset. Starsky continued Hutch’s belated education on his familial land. “Look here.” Starsky pointed at the sign. “Says here that Norway’s Vikings went west, to North America, the British Isles. It was the Swedish ones who went to Russia and the Baltic States.”

Hutch didn’t get it. “So what?”

“So, to have your Viking ancestors meet my normal, boring, Polish ancestors, you should’ve been a Swede, not a Norwegian.”

Hutch smiled slightly. “I’m not, as you put it, a Norwegian. My grandparents came from here, that’s all. And who knows if their ancestors were even Vikings? They were probably poor farmers, like we saw in Oslo.”

They’d spent a morning while still in the capitol at a well-designed park. It had featured farms from all over the oountry, moved to the outdoor Oslo museum when modern civilization had threatened their destruction.

Hutch continued. “Now, your ancestors, they were probably princes.”

“In Poland? A bunch of Jews? Not too likely.” Starsky grinned and moved in for the riposte, dropping his voice. “Anyway, I know your family were Vikings.” He stepped closer. “Trust me, I know. I’ve had first hand experience with those famous Viking raping and plundering genes.”

Hutch blushed immediately. The press of people was ignoring them totally, as bored teenagers and crying children were herded through the vast expanse of the museum.

“Uh, yeah.” He swallowed hard, feeling the warmth on his cheeks. “I guess you have.”

“I have,” Starsky confirmed, his gaze soft even as his words teased. “Extensive, hands-on, and detailed.”

Hutch opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

Starsky grinned at him in victory. “Let’s hit the gift shop.”

Once there, Starsky expertly surveyed the offerings. “Hey!” he blurted out, seeing something he wanted.

“What are you going to do with that thing?” Hutch asked. Starsky had kept his wallet tightly shut the entire trip, so it was rather surprising that he was now trolling the gift shop. A glance at the object in his hand revealed the price to be steep: over 500 kroner, or about $70.

“I’m going to buy it,” Starsky answered. “What does it look like?”

“What do we need a replica of a Viking ship for? In glass?”

“Scandinavia is known for glass,” Starsky informed him, accurately.

Hutch rolled his eyes. “The guidebook strikes again.”

“So what? I like it. It makes me think of you.”

“Where are you—”

“On the dining room table. As a centerpiece.”

“That’s great. I’m gonna be eating with you and trying to have a conver—”

“I’ll move it, when we’re eating. And I’ll dust it and keep it clean. Now shut up, okay?”

Hutch was a little abashed. “Okay.”

Starsky was already talking to the shop attendant, rattling off a shipping query in rapid- fire, Brooklyn-flavored English.

Hutch rolled his eyes, hoping the young Norwegian woman who was patiently nodding her head was fluent, not merely conversant, in English.

Thursday, July 18, 2002

“What are you doin’ with my guide book, Blondie?”

Finally, Hutch had gotten interested in their trip. Finally. Norway had been great: the country beautiful, the attractions spotless and considerately labeled in Norwegian and English, the people friendly, and the exchange rate favorable. Now back on a plane, this time heading south, he was deep into the other guidebook Starsky had packed, the one on Germany.

“I’m reading about Munchen,” Hutch said, using the proper German name for Munich. His voice was happy, his posture relaxed. “You know, now that we’ve seen where Granddad was from, we should go to England next time. You know, to see where my father’s family came from?”

Starsky nodded, not really paying attention. He stretched his legs out in the meager space allowed by Lufthansa. “Let me see that.”

Reluctantly, Hutch surrendered the paperback.

Starsky flipped a few more pages further into the section on Bavaria, pausing at a very small blurb with no pictures. Wordlessly he handed the book back to Hutch, pointing out that item.

Hutch read it quickly and silently, with growing apprehension. When he was done, he closed the book, his smile gone and his face grave. “This is what you wanted to see? All this time, and you wouldn’t tell me?”

Starsky nodded.

Hutch shook his head.

“You don’t want to?” Starsky’s voice was deceptively casual.

Hutch paused a minute, sensing the deeper significance of the question and wanting to say the right thing, something that would convey how he honestly felt about the idea. “No,” Hutch said, quietly. “I don’t. No one would, really—”

“I do.”

“I do, too,” Hutch amended. “It’s just—”

“It’ll be tough.”

“Yes.” That was the understatement of the year, in Hutch’s opinion. “It will be.”

Starsky turned to stare out the small window.

With that brief exchange, Hutch had lost all enthusiasm for the trip, the day, and the damn guidebook. He shoved the green booklet into his carryon and rested his head back against his seat. He closed his eyes, depressed.

Later that day

The two men had separated, almost instinctively, after they’d toured the small museum near the entrance to the camp. Hutch wandered for a while, fighting back a sense of doom growing and flourishing in his soul.

He walked the perimeter first, ducking into some of the silent, dusty barracks with their crude wooden sleeping platforms. Then, for several long minutes he stood near the center of the camp in the open courtyard. He allowed himself to be transfixed by the huge monument erected in memory of the Jews who had perished at Dachau, staring up at the stark menorah at its zenith.

However, as he walked towards the edge of the camp, he happened across what really did him in. He stepped into the crematorium. Actually, as Hutch had learned at the museum, “incinerator” was the proper word. No effort had been made to preserve the ashes of each murdered inmate for his or her loved ones, as a crematorium was designed to do.

It was located next to the gas chamber, camouflaged as a shower facility.

Quitting that area of the concentration camp as quickly as he could, he stood again in the open center of the camp, with neat, whitewashed barracks on one side and the far edge of the camp on the other.

It was unnaturally quiet. As he closed his eyes, cold inside despite the warmth of the pleasant summer day, he could almost see the men, women and children who had perished here. He could hear their voices, hollow with despair and weak from hunger. He could smell the rotting of the food they were given to eat, the filth of their unwashed bodies, the unmistakable stench of the smoke of the furnace consuming their corpses. He could see them, each one, so clearly.

So clearly. The thin cheeks, the emaciated frames, the matchstick limbs, the …

Dear God, he thought, swallowing hard. He felt ill. Dearest God.

All the prisoners he was envisioning in his mind, no matter their sex, age, or ethnicity, now had brunet curly hair, dark blue eyes, and facial features that were swiftly transmuting into Starsky’s treasured appearance: his nose, his eyes, his mouth, his hands, his very being.

He stayed as still as possible, fighting the nausea, the raging anger, the vivid mental images, and the fear. Especially the fear, which was washing over and over him in waves.

Hutch was physically shaking by the time he’d found the small gate and tiny, circular stone enclosure just beyond it. He noted the sign and went directly inside. There were benches in the center of the area, for visitors to rest and look at the displays. He sank down on one of them.

He didn’t move for at least two minutes, but the shaking didn’t stop. Overwhelmed with everything, he tried his best to regain control.

What were you expecting, Hutchinson? he asked himself. Get a grip. It’s all over now. Starsky is fine. His parents were lucky. They got out. They managed to beat Roosevelt’s quota and get to the States. That’s all that matters now.

One of the monuments he’d seen had been inscribed: “Never Again.” But Hutch knew that “never” was a very short time in human history. This kind of evil would happen again. Had happened again. Was happening again.

He was completely unable to calm himself down.

His elbows on his knees, he looked up at the nearest exhibit. Rudely constructed, small crosses were featured in the narrow display cases. Tiny chalices crafted from scrap material were next to carefully designed, homemade table coverings that were only one step up from rags. He stared at the innocuous religious articles, preserved from the ’40s when desperate men imprisoned there had looked inward for faith and upward for salvation.

It was only about 20 minutes before Starsky found him. The other man hesitated in the stone archway, looking into the foyer and beyond to a gate on the far side. “Are you all right?”

Twenty minutes was a very short time for Starsky to have scoured the expansive grounds and realized his partner was AWOL. Hutch felt his heart swell with love even as the cold hand of absolute horror still caressed him. “Starsk,” he exclaimed gratefully. He gestured him closer, forcing himself not to gather his partner into his arms.

“What’s this?”

“A convent,” Hutch explained, succinctly. “Carmelite, I think.”

“Nuns?”

Hutch shrugged. “I don’t know, exactly.”

Starsky walked to the displays, reading the explanations there written in five languages.

English was just below German and just above the French.

“Wow.”

Hutch stood by him then. “Yeah. Hard to believe they risked death for this.”

The handmade artifacts had been secretly made and used by imprisoned Catholic priests at Dachau. Forbidden to say mass, their crucifixes, chalices, and plates had been confiscated. But nothing had stopped their devotion and these crude replicas served them as they celebrated the Eucharist in utmost secrecy, praying for rescue to a God strangely silent in this place, at that time.

Starsky continued reading, silently pointing out another passage to his partner. The nuns were Carmelites, an order that was strictly contemplative. All they did was pray, and all these nuns did was pray for the souls of all those murdered here at Dachau.

Hutch looked over at Starsky when he’d read that. “I can’t go back out there,” he confessed. His knees felt weak again and he sat back down.

Starsky was right there, standing next to him as Hutch sank down on the bench. He rested his hand on Hutch’s shoulder. “It’s okay.”

Hutch shook his head. “Nothing about this is okay.”

Starsky was silent. “Yeah,” he finally agreed. “You know, it wasn’t just Jews they killed.”

Hutch had learned that as well today, but he’d only been able to focus on the Jews murdered at Dachau, for the obvious reason. “Yeah. Catholics, gypsies, Jews … how can one group of people justify doing that to another group? How? Why?”

“That’s the age-old question,” Starsky stated, matter-of-factly, sitting down next to Hutch.

Another pause, then Starsky continued. “They killed queers, too, you know.”

Hutch turned haunted eyes to his lover. He’d seen that as well. Right along with the information that Polish Jews had at one time numbered over 20,000 at the camp.

Starsky’s voice was resigned. “They could have taken their pick with me. Jew, gay.”

Hutch had to shut his eyes. “No,” he breathed. “Don’t say that.”

“It’s true,” Starsky stated. His voice was brutally calm. “Not saying it doesn’t make it not true.”

A shaft of panic, pure and intense, rocketed through Hutch’s entire being. Gracelessly attaining his feet again, he yanked Starsky up, next to him.

“I gotta get out of here,” Hutch blurted out. He felt like his heart and his lungs were working too fast. All his fear was back, with doubled vengeance. He couldn’t quite catch his breath. “Now.”

Starsky looked a bit nonplussed.

“Now!”

Starsky bobbed his head, once, but Hutch was beyond seeing that. He rushed for the entrance back into the concentration camp proper. He wasn’t running but he was moving very, very fast, and Starsky, with his slightly shorter legs, had to work at keeping up with him while not letting it appear that they were fleeing.

But, of course, they were.

Even as he made for the exit, Hutch suspected they weren’t the first visitors who’d been unable to handle the unemotional recitation of horror painstakingly laid out in the museum and the immaculate, whitewashed walls of the crematorium/incinerator.

He was just this side of running by the time they reached the neat, clean streets of the city of Dachau that lay right outside the camp.

Even though Starsky had been doing all the driving so far, Hutch didn’t have time to slow down now. Despite that he was depriving Starsky of yet another opportunity to marvel at the wonders of German civil engineering, Hutch got behind the wheel.

The drive back to the hotel was made in utter silence. Hutch was feeling markedly better, just to be gone from that place.

In contrast, Starsky seemed to be feeling worse. He was staring bleakly out the window of the small Audi. As Hutch maneuvered the small vehicle into an even smaller parking space at the quaint German motel where they were lodging, Starsky turned to him. “I can’t stay in this country another day.”

They were scheduled to leave Saturday, the day after tomorrow. “Okay.” Hutch understood.

“I can’t, Hutch.”

“I know.” Hutch paused a moment, thinking. “Let’s go in, and I’ll try to get our reservations changed.”

Starsky nodded, his face long and serious.

* * * *

Once they were inside the hotel, Hutch detoured by the reception desk. He nodded back at Starsky who continued down the short hallway to their room.

It was several minutes before Hutch was able to rejoin him. The airline’s reservations line was fully staffed with multi-lingual customer service agents, but the motel desk was manned by a courtly older man who seemed to speak only German. It’d taken Hutch a while to convey his need to use the motel’s phone, and to make the proper payment for the time.

“What’s the story?” Starsky asked, the moment Hutch appeared in the doorway of their room. He was staring blankly out the window, seated in the chair between to the two narrow twin beds.

“Not bad. Two hundred dollars and I got the tickets changed from Saturday to tomorrow. We leave Munich at 10:40 tomorrow morning.”

“We’ll have to be out of here by 7:30 or so.” Starsky stated, looking up at his partner for confirmation.

“Yeah. I think that would be fine.”

“Thank God.”

A few minutes of silence ensued. The two men looked at each other, Starsky from his chair, Hutch standing at the end of one of the beds. Then Starsky made an odd noise, a small, quiet sob, suppressed as fast as it had bubbled out. He got quickly to his feet.

“Love me, Hutch,” he demanded. As the words were leaving his lips, he was crossing the few feet between them and was in his lover’s arms. “Love me, now.”

Hutch was a little startled by the emotion in Starsky’s voice. But he reacted as he always did to Starsky, instinctively operating from the endless well of love and respect he had for someone he’d always regarded as the finest man ever, living or dead. He wrapped his arms around him, dropping his head so that his face was buried in Starsky’s hair. He nuzzled the curls, kissing him and comforting him. “I love you, Starsk. Always have, always will”

“Love me,” Starsky repeated. He didn’t seem to be listening.

“I do, babe,” Hutch protested, gently. “You know I do.”

Then what Starsky might be asking occurred to Hutch. “Love you? You want to make love, Starsk?” He spoke carefully, feeling himself on the edge of stuttering. They’d had sex a few times in the past week, but not like this. No way, not feeling like this.

There was no response, and Hutch was forced to consider what was happening; what was about to happen. It’s just like when we were in Duluth, he reasoned. It was just like this. I was upset, and he took charge and loved me. Made me feel better. Helped ... heal me?

Maybe that was what Starsky needed now.

“I can …  I can do that. If you want.” Hutch kissed his partner’s head again, his arms still tight around him. He was a little off balance emotionally with Starsky’s actions. It was unusual to be asked for sex. Usually they just fell into it. They were still blessed, as they approached sixty years of age, with the healthy drives and desires of any healthy men no matter what their orientation.

“Do you want me to do that, Starsky? Do you want me to, to take you? I can. I will. Whatever you want.”

Starsky pulled out of Hutch’s embrace. Wordlessly he started pulling at Hutch’s shirt and belt. His movements were jerky and irregular.

“I can undress,” Hutch assured him, and he started stripping. “But talk to me, babe. I don’t want to do a solo act here.” Hutch had worked it out in his mind what Starsky needed, and he knew what he wanted to do, but he still preferred Starsky to talk to him, to help him call the shots.

Still not talking, Starsky began pulling his own clothes off rapidly. Shortly they were both naked with their clothes tossed carelessly on the other twin bed. And Hutch still wasn’t positive he was getting the cues from his lover he thought he was. But just in case, he hurried into the compact bathroom and dug the lube out of the toiletries kit.

“I have the stuff,” he announced as he came back to the main room. He questioned Starsky with his eyes.

“Come here,” Starsky motioned. He was naked on the bed, flat on his back. His erection was mostly full.

Hutch obeyed. “Am I … ”

Starsky nodded. “Yes.”

“Of course.” Whatever Starsky needed, Starsky would get. The blond nodded hastily.

He clambered up on the bed, straddling Starsky’s legs. He moved around to get comfortable on the small mattress. One thing he’d had more than his fill of in Europe were the damn twin beds they’d been blessed with in every hotel room from Oslo on. When we get home ... we’re never sleeping in a twin bed again. It was just too small for the two men.

Hutch knew he was right. He’d sensed that this, tonight, was not just about sex. Maybe it wasn’t sex at all. Starsky needed him and his love, and this was going to be the way Hutch convinced him.

Hutch flipped open the top of the tube and awkwardly squeezed some gel on his fingers. He came forward on his knees.

“I’m going to do you,” Hutch informed his lover. He thrust the tube at him. “You do me.”

Starsky nodded, almost a curt movement. As Hutch was gently coating Starsky’s opening with the KY jelly, Starsky was spreading it around Hutch’s growing erection. It was difficult to manage to keep his balance on the soft mattress, perched there on his knees, but the blond managed. Starsky was gentle but firm, coaxing a reaction from Hutch even though just a few minutes ago, sex had been the last thing on Hutch’s mind.

The taller man arched his back slightly, Starsky’s hands working their usual magic on him despite the sorrow and dreadfulness of the day. Starsky was healing him and exciting him, simultaneously.

“I’m ready,” Hutch stated after a moment. “And I love you.” He positioned himself at Starsky’s opening, while simultaneously taking a moment or two to stroke Starsky’s erection. It became impressively full and hard while Hutch attended to it.  He started to push himself in.

Starsky held his eyes.

Hutch felt the usual combination of excitement and trepidation as he entered his partner. He felt a little disconnected from Starsky—couldn’t quite read him so maybe it was good that he was the one topping tonight. He was able to direct things better when he was the top man, although this wasn’t their customary arrangement. Usually their intercourse featured Hutch on the bottom, face up or face down, with Starsky doing his level best to nail him to whatever surface they were on. It was a humbling experience to give up so much control to someone else. Gay or straight, Hutch would have never let any other person ever come that close to possessing him. Only Starsky.

“Look for it, babe,” Starsky whispered.

Hutch nodded. He tried a few experimental thrusts, to try to hit his lover’s prostate. His own pleasure didn’t matter.to him very much right now, but he wanted Starsky to feel good, to feel as good as he possibly could.

Just then, Hutch hit it perfectly. Starsky arched back. Then he reached up and ineffectually rubbed his hands over Hutch’s stomach and hips.  That touch, far more than the intercourse, sent the first real pulse of desire into Hutch he’d felt since starting. It rushed through him from the gentle touch of his partner’s hands.

“Starsky,” he gasped. “Oh, oh.”

Instantly Starsky’s right hand was shifted and reaching towards his mouth, “Shush, babe,” he ordered. “I don’t want you making any noise.”

It wasn’t a suggestion, and as it happened, Hutch wasn’t usually all that quiet during sex. So even though he didn’t really understand it, Hutch obeyed. Clamping his jaw, he gritted his teeth and deliberately stifled his normal vocalization.

Starsky seemed to be enjoying it, in an odd way, and as Hutch stared down at him, he felt his lover began to orgasm, as Hutch’s actions really couldn’t fail to have that result on his partner.

Intensely, silently, Starsky came. He came hard and long. Hutch watched the milky seed rush from him, landing in opaque drops back on Starsky’s furry chest. Matching his lover’s intensity and silence, Hutch shot his semen deep into Starsky, filling him with everything he could, everything he had.

Starsky looked almost angry as Hutch eased his tired body from him. “You okay?”

Starsky nodded, exhibiting a grim smile. “Yeah, I am.” His curls were dark on the white pillowcase. “I’m a Jew, and I’m gay, and this entire country can go straight to hell.”

Hutch nodded, uncertainly. He’d never seen Starsky like this before and he didn’t know what to say. He settled the physical contact of his partner, clasping Starsky’s hand in his. I love you, David. All you are and everything you are.

Hutch came back into the bedroom after a cursory wash-up in the bathroom. He got back on the bed, sitting at the foot, near Starsky’s feet. He watched his partner, still naked and sweaty from their lovemaking, stare up at the ceiling.

He handed the other washcloth to his partner, and Starsky methodically began cleaning himself, still lying there on the narrow bed with its blindingly white sheets. “Just a few more hours,” Hutch finally offered, taking the used washrag back and getting back up. “Just a few more hours.”

“Yeah.”

Hutch dropped the two washcloths into the sink, came back into the main room, threw on some boxers, and hopped into bed. He hadn’t even pulled the covers all the way up when he felt Starsky pull him into his arms, the other man’s arms strong and sure around him.

“I love you,” Hutch said, tentatively. “I always have, I always will.” The grip on him tightened.

“Try to get some sleep, baby,” Hutch counseled. “Things will look better in the morning.”

That was a classic Starsky line; one Hutch had had to listen to innumerable times over the years. Hutch could only hope his partner would be able to take one of his own truisms to heart tonight.

 

The next morning

 Another airline, another destination. But this time, they were heading home.

As soon as Starsky and Hutch managed to maneuver their way through first class, arrange their luggage under the seats in front of them, and tuck long legs into leg space area just a bit too small for two men that measured in at either side of six feet tall, Hutch ripped open the plastic sheeting on one of the blankets.

Starsky helped him arrange it on their laps, the long way across them. They did this every time they flew on long trips together, had done so for years. The blanket—no matter how hot the cabin—was essential for them when flying great distances. The socially acceptable, heterosexual couples could hold hands and exchange touches of varying levels of intimacy during long flights. Gays couldn’t. It was that simple and it was that unfair.

The blanket was cover, in more ways than one. American Airlines featured long dark blue blankets and once this particular one was spread out, Hutch snaked his left hand under the fabric.

He rested his hand on Starsky’s leg, slightly shy of his partner’s crotch. The placement was representative of the unique combination of sexual desire, sincere respect and admiration, and pure brotherly love that was the base of their relationship. Starsky covered Hutch’s hand with his own.

“Glad to be going home?” It was probably the most unnecessary question Hutch had ever asked Starsky in the 30 plus years he’d known him.

Starsky didn’t bother to answer him, staring instead out the window. “I’ll never understand.”

Hutch nodded, watching the movement in the reflection on the airplane’s oval Plexiglas window. “I’m not sure anyone ever will.”

Starsky gripped Hutch’s hand at that, the touch a combination of comfort and need. Hutch turned his hand over to hold Starsky’s in turn. A few more minutes passed and the flight attendants droned out the emergency procedures. When the plane taxied down the runway and gained the sky, the two men were still holding hands.

Hutch glanced out the window over Starsky’s shoulder as they climbed into the air. The city and the neat squares of Bavarian farmland lay below the tiny window, growing ever smaller as the plane gained its blessed altitude. We’re never coming back here, Hutch determined silently.

For his part, he’d never forgive this country and its dark heritage, even though intellectually he realized that most Germans alive today hadn’t had one thing to do with Nazism. They hadn’t been born yet, or at least hadn’t been old enough to do anything.

Still, it was so hard. So hard to forget all that had happened. So hard to forgive. Hutch knew he never would.

 

Friday, July 19, 2002

Hutch was lounging on the couch trying to catch up with all that had gone on with the world while they were gone. He was utilizing the NBC Nightly News for this purpose when Starsky came into the living room. He presented himself in front of his lover.

Snapping off the TV with the remote, Hutch asked, seriously, “Do you want me to go with you?”

“You want to?”

Hutch nodded slowly. He did. “Yeah. If it’s okay.”

“It is.”

“Let me get changed.”

“Hurry up,” Starsky called after him. “I don’t want to be late.”

In short order, Hutch had pulled on a sweater over his shirt and switched his slippers for loafers. He ran a comb through his thinning blond hair and met Starsky back in the living room. “Ready?”

“I am, if you have a spare one of those,” Hutch said, pointing at the top of Starsky’s closely shorn brunet curls where his yarmulke rested.

“Yeah,” Starsky confessed. He pulled another circle of black cloth from his pocket. The two men exchanged understanding grins. “You knew I was gonna go with you.”

“Yeah. Just like you know I’m going to go with you on Sunday.”

Hutch hadn’t consciously entertained the idea of trying to find a church after all these years, but as Starsky spoke, he realized that he did indeed want to go to church. Hutch had some things to say to God—if there really were a god who existed in some sort of incarnation of reality. What better place to look for Him again than the faith of his childhood? After all, once he’d been a True Believer. He used to wholeheartedly believe Jesus was his savior; that all the saints were his intercessors. Long ago, he’d believed all the lines he’d been fed.

* * * *

One thing Starsky had pointed out to him, as they crossed the Atlantic to head back to the U.S., was that in some small way, Richard had been there as they toured the concentration camp.

“What in the world are you talking about?” Hutch asked, crossly, as he grudgingly looked up from his magazine.

“What I said.” Starsky’s voice was serious.

Hutch dropped his attitude in a hurry. “Which was?” He closed the glossy pages and looked full at Starsky.

“You told me that your dad was in the Anny, during World War II.”

Hutch nodded. “‘Yeah, he was. He was—”

“He was in the European theater. I saw that much in the obit, Hutch. He was over here. Over there.”

“Yes,” Hutch nodded. “He never would talk about it, but I know he won some awards. Some medals.”

Hutch never knew exactly what his dad had done in the Army. He‘d never really cared. He didn‘t think much of using military force to solve problems. He‘d marched in several anti-war protests in college, to his father’s utter infuriation, and worked, albeit unsuccessfully, to get the ROTC program banned from his campus.

“He could‘ve been one of the soldiers that liberated the camps,” Starsky opined. “He could‘ve liberated Dachau, even, maybe…”

Hutch laughed shortly, but the sound died in his throat at Starsky‘s expression. “That’s ridiculous ... ”

“Is it? If you don‘t know what he did, how do you know he didn‘t do that?”

Hutch took a deep breath. “He would‘ve—”

“Would‘ve what? Talked about it? To you? I doubt it.” Starsky held up his hand. “I doubt he could talk about it, whatever he did, to anyone that wasn‘t there. I bet your mom didn‘t even know.”

“Starsk—“

“I couldn‘t talk about it. Never could,” Starsky reminded him. “Not even to you. And I never liberated any concentration camps in Viet Nam.”

“He probably didn’t either! He was probably safely in the rear, far away from anything important, or dangerous.”

Starsky shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not. In any case, he was there, he was ready, he was willing, he was doing what he could do to rid the world of that Evil. He was working against Hitler, which means he was working for me: for my family, for my people, so that we could live.”

Hutch stared at Starsky with wide eyes. He shook his head. “I don‘t know. I really don‘t know…”

“We’ll find out,” Starsky said. “He made it possible for us to take this trip, with his money. We‘ll find out what he did so we can know. So we can honor him. So we can remember him with thanksgiving.“

Hutch nodded, slowly. “Yeah, okay. We will.”

As Hutch remembered that conversation, he softened a bit. Maybe it was time to go back to church. Maybe it was time to honor the faith his father had believed in so devoutly.

Starsky turned to head out the door, but paused as Hutch made no move to follow him. “What’s wrong?”

Hutch looked over again at the skullcap his partner wore. “Do you have to wear that, on the way there? Can’t you just put it on when we get there? Okay?”

Starsky was shocked by the comment, almost taking a step back in his surprise. “What?”

“I wish you’d put that on, later, when we get there. Not now. Not in the streets.”

“Why not?” Starsky forced himself to be calm. He was astounded at Hutch’s attitude but he also knew him, every bit as well as he knew himself. He knew that Hutch wasn’t in the least bit prejudiced. There has to be another reason… He was concerned about getting to temple on time—although it was Reform so he was counting on it being fairly relaxed—but he waited patiently for Hutch to form his thoughts into words.

“I just don’t want you, you know, to display this. You know? To be at … t … target,” Hutch finally forced out. “I’m … I’m … sc..scared of it.” Hutch’s stammer was pronounced, worse than it’d been in years.

Starsky followed it easily, however. He’d had practice. And he understood. He smiled a little and reached for the front door. He patted Hutch on the shoulder with his other hand.

“Don’t be scared, babe. Wearing it or not, the fact that I’m Jewish, and proud of it … it’s pretty obvious. Just have to look at me. I’ve never tried to hide it. And I’m not gonna start now.”

Hutch was silent, but he looked somber and perhaps a little frightened.

“Hutch, don’t let ’em win. Don’t let them change what you are-who you are—just because you don’t fit their pattern.”

Hutch sucked in a breath. Starsky was communicating on two different levels. He sensed they weren’t just talking about Judaism here.

“Religion, beliefs, politics …whatever.”

“Or sex. Sexual orientation.” Hutch spelled it out.

“Yeah. Or sexual orientation. Bein’ gay, bein’ proud of it. Being so in love with your partner, you can’t imagine a life without him. You know, stuff like that.” Starsky let his arm drop back to his side as he headed out the door.

He still wore a slight smile, and didn’t bother to look back. He didn’t need to. Hutch was with him, as he had been, steadily, since that fall day in 1968 when two quite dissimilar 25 year-olds had first reported for training at the L.A.P.D.’s academy. One had been an idealistic med school drop out with a rapidly disintegrating marriage, who “wanted to make a difference.” The other, a manchild who’d watched his father die on a Brooklyn street, been kicked from one coast to the other, and then been shipped off to war. Now a combat weary veteran, he’d seen it all and still believed in the innate goodness of man.

Both men out to save the world.

Now, 34 years later, the world’s salvation was still in doubt. But together, they’d each saved someone. They’d saved each other.

Hutch hurried to catch up with his partner, balancing the yarmulke on his head with his left hand as he slammed their front door behind him with the other.

THE END

 

Als die Nazis die Kommunisten holten,
habe ich geschwiegen; ich war ja kein Kommunist.
Als sie die Sozialdemokraten einsperrten,
habe ich geschwiegen; ich war ja kein Sozialdemokrat.
Als sie die Gewerkschafter holten,
habe ich geschwiegen; ich war ja kein Gewerkschafter.
Als sie die Juden holten,
habe ich geschwiegen; ich war ja kein Jude.
Als sie mich holten, gab es keinen mehr,
der protestieren konnte.
—“Der Weg ins Freie,” Martin Niemoller (F.M. Hellbach, Stuttgart, 1946)

 

When the Nazis arrested the Communists,
I said nothing; after all, I was not a Communist.
When they locked up the Social Democrats,
I said nothing; after all, I was not a Social Democrat.
When they arrested the trade unionists,
I said nothing; after all, I was not a trade unionist.
When they arrested the Jews,
I said nothing; after all, I was not a Jew.
When they arrested me, there was no longer anyone who could protest.
— translated by Bob Berkovitz