Never Enough

75

The guys will always be at each other’s sides.

 

Part 7: Always Enough Series

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Starsky ran a hand through his gray curls, contemplating the task at hand. The cardboard box sat on the coffee table, beckoning him to open it and tackle its contents.

“It won’t be so bad,” Starsky said to the empty room. “Pick up each item, hold it for a moment, and pay attention to how your body responds. If it sparks joy, keep it.” He couldn’t remember where he heard that; probably on one of the Home and Garden programs Hutch used to watch. He chuckled to himself at the notion. If only Hutch was there to hear him now.

Starsky could feel the strain in his bones from the endless rounds of sorting and purging. Some old books found new homes with neighbors, while others were returned to the secondhand store from where they came. Old dishes, photos, souvenirs, and keepsakes had already been whittled down to a manageable level. Forty years of accumulation, he mused, reduced to more junk than treasure.

Starsky slumped heavily into the cushions, feeling uneasy; not about downsizing, not entirely. It was about memories, which could not be compartmentalized or labeled. For Starsky, memories were alive, rising to the surface easily and without effort, fully whole and intact. They were at his command, complete with joy and tingling at the thought of every golden touch, the welling of emotion at the veracity of love, the reliving of happiness to repel the heartbreak of loss. Memories were proof of a life lived, and could not be placed into storage.

He rose from the sofa and ambled to the patio doors, balancing his weight on his cane. The cane was an expensive one, the kind that had clawed feet to help with balance. It even had a light on the tip, providing much-needed illumination on the path to the bathroom at night. Not something he bragged about, but always appreciated.

He stopped in front of the glass, his reflection greeting him. “Old injuries, I’d like you to meet old age,” he mocked at his reflection. “Nice to meet you. Funny you don’t look a day over thirty-six.”

Starsky knew on the outside, he looked all of his eighty years of age, despite still feeling young. Unfortunately, how you feel or what you want doesn’t give the body everything it needs. A new home awaited. It was what his body needed, an apartment with no stairs.

Starsky glimpsed out the back window, admiring the lush garden that would soon be turned over to a new owner. His eyes shifted to the blossoming flowers that had been planted by Hutch the year before, already starting to sprout. Starsky thought he would miss how Hutch seemed to brighten along with his garden in springtime the most.

Starsky turned, shuffling back to the sofa where he rested the cane before he sat down. He reached for the box and pulled it forward as he perched on the edge of the cushion. It was surprisingly light. Starsky didn’t know why he thought it would be heavier.

His fingers traced the words in black marker on the side of the box. Nineteen seventy-five to nineteen seventy-nine, it read, in Hutch’s handwriting.

It seemed strange to Starsky to divide time in that way. To him, time was like a wave on the ocean. He could see the wave, catch it, swim through it,  jump over it, surf it, whatever he wanted.  He could experience its force, the splash, the thrust of its liquid coolness—all until the wave vanished, like a fleeting moment that would never come again, replaced by another but never again the same.

“Nineteen seventy-five to nineteen seventy-nine,” Starsky pondered the meaning. “Four little years in the ocean of life?” He couldn’t contain a chuckle. “Bet you never thought I would become the philosophical one.”

He opened the flaps and pushed them flat against the sides, a musty odor filling his nostrils as he peered inside. He expected to find a jumble of random things piled on top of each other but instead found a neat assortment of objects, some wrapped in brown paper, all carefully stored. Starsky smiled, knowing it was Hutch’s handiwork imprinted on the diligently packed box. His hand shook as he reached inside, the paper crinkling as he unwrapped each item that Hutch considered worth keeping.

There were several framed photos, some of him and Hutch, others of friends and colleagues they knew all those years ago. He smiled at a picture of Huggy, now retired in Florida with his wife and family. He lifted a picture of Dobey and nodded, wiping his eyes at the thought of their late captain.

Starsky pulled out a larger object, uncovering the white and red piggy bank that used to sit on their desk. He shook it for fun, the rattling of coins that were still inside making him smile. Underneath, he found Ollie, the stuffed bear that Terry had given to Hutch. It was vacuum sealed in plastic for safekeeping. His Hutch, never breaking his promise to look after either one of them.

Underneath Ollie were five velvet boxes; Starsky recognized the medals of valor immediately. Starsky’s name was on two of them; one for their arrest of C.J Woodfield, the powerful man who tried to orchestrate the murder of Captain Dobey. The other was for his undercover work, exposing the vigilante cops on the police force. Hutch received the same two medals, and one more—for the “Outstanding act of courage in the arrest of James Gunther.”  Hutch told Starsky he was the one who should have received it, not him. Starsky didn’t agree; he thought Hutch deserved every bit of honor for what he went through.

“You deserved a medal for putting up with me when I left the hospital too,” Starsky whispered to himself. “But that’s what our lives have always been—taking care of each other. Till death do we part.”

Starsky craned his neck to take another look in the box. He spotted a manilla envelope at the bottom  marked ‘newspaper clippings.’ He tugged at the contents, pulling out a stack of articles. So many cases, so many times they were mentioned in the newspaper. Hutch had kept them all.

He chuckled at the memory of C.D. Phelps, the newspaper journalist who rode along with them, and her piece portraying them as comic strip characters, to be either laughed at or pitied.  “What did she know?” Starsky asked aloud. “People found Mutt and Jeff funny because they were a pair of mismatched men. Not only did the lovely C.D. Phelps peg us as the wrong kind of cops, she completely overlooked just how matched Hutch and I were.” He threw the clipping onto the table. “We knew it though.”

Starsky pulled out the final article from the envelope. “James Gunther Under Arrest.” The headline didn’t bother him like it once did. Time can heal everything; it can even flip something bad into something good.

He remembered the day that article was published like it was yesterday. He was still in the hospital and Hutch had made him a platter of veal. Starsky said it warmed his heart, and it did. The coldness of Gunther’s act was canceled out by the warmth of the veal-filled tureen. No, not just by the veal; by the warmth of Hutch’s body next to him in the hospital bed. Starsky loved reliving that moment. It was the day he and Hutch decided to get honest about their love and give up the façade. They never looked back.

Four years later they were both Lieutenants. No longer partners on the force, but fully life partners. It was the year they bought the house together. “To heck with what people say,” Hutch said. “I love you and I want to wake up next to you every day in our own home.”

Nothing else ever did matter as much.

Starsky pulled out the final article. “Hayme’s Daughter Found Alive.”

Starsky tried to calm the unwanted shivering in his body that began to erupt. The kind that stems from dread and fear; the same tremor that flowed through him that day when he thought Hutch was dead by the kidnapper’s bullet. Then, the thrill of what followed; the passion of their lovemaking in its early days. They were both so ready to show their love to each other and at the same time, not ready at all, allowing time to go by as they continued to hide it from the world. At the time, Starsky thought that would be enough, all he ever needed, more than enough. Time changed that, too.

Starsky sat back and gazed at the inventory of items, lost in thought.

“What are you thinking about?” Starsky jumped at the sound of Hutch’s voice from behind the sofa. He smiled with relief.

“What took you so long?” Starsky asked. “You know I hate it when you’re gone. Just because they didn’t take your driver’s license away like they did mine, doesn’t mean I don’t worry.”

Starsky felt strong arms around him and he pulled them tight around his neck. He leaned into Hutch’s touch, turning his head to kiss the fingertips that stroked his cheek. He felt the cherished mouth on the top of his head, a kiss from the lips that Starsky never wanted to live without.

“Don’t worry, I officially drive like an old man now,” Hutch said softly.

“So what’s changed?” Starsky laughed.

Hutch sat next to him and pulled Starsky onto his shoulder. “Very funny, mushbrain. Sorry that I took so long. I dropped off the last bags of clothing for donation. I stopped by Kiko’s afterward and confirmed he’ll be here tomorrow to help with the rest of the packing.”

“That’s good. Just because you’re not limping with a cane like me doesn’t mean you can do it all by yourself. You’re no spring chicken, Hutchinson.”

“So why do I still feel like I’m thirty-six?”

Starsky nestled in Hutch’s shoulder. It was home. Hutch was home. “Because you are still and will always be the hottest blond in Bay City.”

Hutch kissed Starsky’s nose. “You never were a good liar. But I’ll take it. I love you back, you big lug.”

Starsky eased further into the crook of Hutch’s shoulder and pointed to the coffee table with his foot. “Do we have room for this stuff at the new place? Or is now the time to let it all go?”

“I packed that box two weeks ago,” Hutch replied. “I’m sorry, I should have waited and done it with you. If you want to get rid of some things…..”

“There’s nothing I want to throw away. If there’s room for it.”

“There’s plenty of room. The master bedroom has a large walk-in closet, we can put it in there. You are going to love the new place Starsk, I promise. There’s even an Italian restaurant down the street we can walk to—like the one your grandmother used to live over.”

Starsky sighed. He wanted to remind Hutch there would be no more grilling on the patio, or just sitting on the terrace enjoying the sunshine. No more cheering on the basketball games that took place in the driveway when Kiko or Molly came over with their families. No more lazy Sundays drinking coffee and reading the newspaper on the deck.

“We’ll be together so of course I’ll love the new place,” is how Starsky answered. “But walking any more than a few blocks might be a problem.”

Hutch touched his shoulder, squeezing it. “We’ll figure it out. I love you just the way you are. Who knew we’d make it to eighty years old?”

“Who knew we’d make it to eighty? I’ll tell you who. You did, Hutch.”

Hutch reached out and picked up the Gunther article, then tossed it back down on the table. “I’m afraid I lost faith once or twice.”

“Temporarily,” Starsky reassured. “I did too a couple of times for that matter. Wouldn’t be honest if I said otherwise, but I don’t regret a minute of my life.”

Hutch relaxed back onto the sofa. He reintroduced the comforting arm around Starsky’s shoulder. The comfort never changed as they got older, only the reasons for it.

“Me either. I expect we both might just live to one hundred and forty-eight,” Hutch declared.

Starsky snorted and settled his head onto Hutch’s lap. He basked in the feel of Hutch’s fingers running through his hair. He rubbed his finger, the ring on his left hand that never came off since the day Hutch put it on his hand.

“I’m just glad I still get to see your smiling face every day.”

Hutch placed a kiss on Starsky’s lips and smiled as he drew back. “I’ll never stop as long as I’m with you. Have I been wrong so far?”

Starsky felt the familiar sense of peace wash over him, the feeling he got every time he fell into Hutch’s arms.

“No, I guess you haven’t. Maybe you’re psychic after all.”

He tilted his head to see Hutch’s wide smile as his reward. No one can know the future, but there was one thing Starsky knew for certain. Even if they both lived to be one-hundred and forty-eight, he would always want to catch more waves in the ocean with Hutch. In whatever form they came, in whatever house they lived, he didn’t care. It was everything he could ever ask for in life.  And it could never be enough.