Only the Song Remains

Hutch is feeling out of sorts.

Hutch was feeling out of sorts. Maybe it was because of the unsettling dream he’d had that had made him wake up feeling groggy and had left a lingering ache hovering around his heart. He’d been looking forward to his day off, expecting a day of productive puttering. There were plants that needed potting on, a song that needed finishing, a pile of laundry that needed tackling and a sunny day that needed enjoying. Instead, he sat on the sofa, nursing his lukewarm coffee and wondering why he couldn’t summon up the energy to do anything.

“This is no good,” he said to himself. “Do something.”

He stood up. Laundry. Laundry didn’t require creativity or a functioning brain. He would start with that.

He gathered up the dirty clothes from the hamper and the floor and sorted them into two piles then put the first load on. Now what? Maybe he should go for a jog while the first wash was doing? Yes, pounding the sidewalk might pound out his melancholy mood.

Very soon, he was tying up his laces and heading out of the apartment. He set off at a gentle lope and tried to concentrate on the rhythm of his feet, emptying his mind. Sorrowful thoughts hovered at the edges of his consciousness but he resolutely pushed them back.

“Stupid dream. Brain? Why do you dwell on things I’d rather forget?”

His brain gave no answer.

He continued on for another mile then turned in the direction of home. He felt better for the movement, for the rhythmic drumming of his sneakers on the sidewalk, for the sunshine on his face. His mind felt a little clearer. Now he might be able to be creative and work on his song.

As he neared home, he spotted Starsky’s car and didn’t know whether to be pleased or irritated. Now that he felt like composing, he wanted to get on with it. He climbed up the stairs and smelled a fresh pot of coffee brewing before he even opened the door. He steeled himself for the presence of his boisterous friend but all was quiet.

He kicked off his sneakers and looked around. He knew, without seeing, that Starsky was in the greenhouse. His presence a tangible thing that reached out and soothed Hutch in a way he hadn’t known he needed but was grateful for. How did Starsky always know?

The washer juddered to a finish and Hutch emptied it and then filled it up again. He draped wet garments over his clothes dryer and then went to pour himself a fresh coffee. Mildly interested, he opened the bag of pastries Starsky had left on the counter. The sweet smell made him hungry and he picked out a bearclaw.

Then he went through to the greenhouse. Starsky looked up from his paper and nodded.

“Hey.”

Starsky returned to his reading, letting Hutch know he was there as support but he didn’t need entertaining. Hutch smiled his first smile of the day and then went and sat at the piano. He was soon engrossed in finding a melody to fit the words he had penned a couple of weeks ago. He didn’t notice when the washer finished, or when Starsky hung the washing on the drying frame in the greenhouse, or when the sandwich appeared at his right hand.

He didn’t notice anything until a voice softly said, “Eat your sandwich, Blondie.”

Shaking himself out of his creative haze, Hutch stretched out his back and then ate the sandwich.

“Is it finished?” Starsky asked.

Hutch hesitated. “Just about.”

“Play it to me,” Starsky said: not a demand, just a suggestion that Hutch might like to share his work.

“All right.”

Hutch turned his attention to the pages on the piano and looked them through before starting to play a sweet melody that would pull at anyone’s heart strings. As he played the song through a second time, Hutch softly sang the lyrics. When he finished, tears hovered at the edge of his eyes and he took his handkerchief out and blew his nose.

He felt a fleeting, comforting touch on his neck as Starsky said, “That was beautiful.”

“Thanks.”

“She would have loved it.”

Hutch blew his nose again.

Starsky cleared his throat slightly and suggested, “Chess?”

Hutch nodded.

As the two of them went through to the greenhouse to set up the board, Hutch said, “Thanks.”

“‘Welcome.”

And while there was no need for more words, words came in the form of light-hearted banter as the mood shifted and the hovering sorrow was pushed a little further away.

On the piano, the sheet music for Gillian’s Song sat until it was carefully put away a few days later alongside other compositions linked to memories, some sweet, some bittersweet, but all filled with love.