Sweet Dreams

622

Another in the “Hutch’s Ladies” series:  Sweet Alice.

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He stood silently in the newly completed greenhouse, sipping a slightly-too-sweet red Bordeaux that the old Italian liquor store owner had pressed him into trying, listening to an odd jazz fusion album recorded by some new group called “Spyro Gyra,” admiring the last dusty-tinted rays of the setting sun on his handiwork. What he had expected would take only a weekend to set up, or perhaps two at the most, had ended up taking months to complete. A loan-out here, a few murders there, several bloody holidays he’d barely had time to notice, and a couple of distracting women had managed to keep his attentions from this room he was slowly coming to see as an oasis. No conflict here, he vowed. No hate, no hurt, no death. Only friends would be allowed in here. Only very special friends, who could share the silence and the calm, the life-affirming properties of green and growing things. He gently fingered a waxy, forest-green leaf that stretched out toward him, making slow circles with his thumb, taking pleasure in the smooth and glossy texture. Another sip of wine, a deep breath, the low tones of bass and sax. He tentatively tested the muscles in his shoulders, and, amazingly, found them loose and pain-free. No tightness, no tenseness, no eternal ache. Damn, he felt clean and easy. Damn.

Damn.

He nearly choked on the wine, his throat closing involuntarily as the phone jolted him out of his peace. He sputtered burgundy droplets on the seedlings in front of him, missing his new wool sweater but hitting the toes of his leather boots. His body said “cough,” his mind said “breathe,” and the two warred as he gasped for air and stumbled toward the phone. He finally pulled enough air into his lungs to swallow a spasm-calming mouthful of wine. Steadied, he set the glass down and put his hand on the receiver. Thumb and forefinger dried his lips, a deep breath cleansed his lungs. The receiver vibrated under his hand. Not his partner.

He answered the phone.

“Yes?”

“Hi.” A cool, silvery voice trickled over the line. A cool, silvery voice that could spin a shawl of mountain stream iciness to draw off the heat of the day’s anger. A cool, silvery voice that could raise gooseflesh and ignite a heat that had nothing to do with anger. A cool, silvery voice that could turn to black ice in an instant. “Hi. You there?”

“Yeah.” He gathered a couple of loops of the cord and picked up the phone, took a few aimless steps toward nowhere. “Hi.”

“Hi.” Her voice held a note of relief. Three seconds into the conversation and she was relieved he hadn’t hung up on her. Three seconds into the conversation and he was surprised he hadn’t. “Merry Christmas. Happy new year.”

“Not quite,” he responded. “New year’s still a couple of days off.”

“Nit picker,” she tried to tease. It was wasted. “How was your holiday?”

He paced over to the couch. “Not much of a holiday. A little snow, a little ice,” he chuckled at the joke. “How was your Christmas?” he added. It was polite afterthought, not interest.

“Nice,” she answered. “It was good. All my brothers came home, with their families. We had a really full house. Have, I guess I should say. Most everybody’s still here. We all, well, I mean–“

“So you’re home,” he interrupted.

The line was silent. “Yes,” she finally said, definitely surprised. “Well, yes. I came home. Didn’t–didn’t he tell you?”

“No.”

Impatience filled her tone. “I asked him to tell you,” she sounded vexed. “I told him to tell you I was going home, that I had to get away. That I just couldn’t take–terrific. What did he tell you?”

He wandered over to the window. “Nothing. That he knew you were going. That’s all.” It was a lie. That wasn’t all. He had told him a little more. Had told him she’d been unable to admit her intentions straight out. Had told him she’d said she’d still loved him. No more than that, though. But he didn’t want her to know that. He wanted her to feel some responsibility, some guilt. And he was suddenly intensely curious as to what had been left out.

He knew she was chewing on her lower lip. “Damn. I thought he’d tell you. I really thought he’d tell you. I didn’t mean for you not to know where I was or why I’d left. I’m sorry, really.”

“Yeah.”

Silence.

“I had to leave!” She broke first. It was almost a plea. Nothing like a little silence to get a woman to talk. “Dammit, after that maniac went after you and then came after me I couldn’t stay there! I couldn’t!”

He watched the valet in front of the restaurant downstairs. “It’s okay. I understand that.” He closed his eyes. “You could have told me that,” he added softly.

“Would you have listened?”

His eyes snapped opened. “What?”

“Would you have listened?” she repeated, clearly upset.

“What do you mean, would I have listened?” His eyes narrowed. “Of course I would have listened! Sweetheart, anytime you needed to talk I would have been there. God, after what you’d been through, of course I would have listened!” He carried the phone back to the table and sat down angrily.

“Okay, sure,” she agreed sarcastically. “You would have listened. Then you would have listened.”

“What do you mean, then?” He wrapped the cord around his index finger, watched the tip turn purple.

“I mean,” she shot back, “you’re always willing to play the understanding cop. The sensitive male. The gallant white knight to the damsel in distress.”

“What?” He released the cord and dropped it, no longer interested in his finger.

“I mean,” she continued, the words coming faster, “you’re great to have around when someone’s sick or hurt. You’re a great comforter. You’re very tender and caring when someone’s in trouble.”

“But,” he prodded stonily.

“But that’s it! That’s all!” She stopped. Searching for some control, he supposed. “I mean, it’s like someone’s hurting and your antenna goes out and says ‘over there, over there!’ Only it’s not like your antenna is finding people who need help, it’s like you’re looking for someone that can make you feel big and strong and helpful and good! It’s like you’re doing it for you and not for them!”

His head snapped up. “What?”

“Hutch,” she moaned. There were only two ways she moaned his name.   One moan was deep and throaty, hot and lusty. The other was pitiful and pouty. Both meant the same thing. Give me your attention. Now. “I know you would’ve given me whatever I needed after the–after–you did take care of me.”

“But?” Hutch’s vocabulary had deteriorated into two words.

“But it wasn’t enough!” Finally, the tears entered her voice. “It wasn’t what I wanted! Don’t you remember?”

Hutch slumped back into the chair. He closed his eyes, ran a thumb across his forehead. “Remember what?”

He thought maybe she’d dropped the phone, but perhaps she’d merely put it down. When she came back, she was much more in control. “I thought when I called–I hoped–I thought we could talk a little and I could finally–explain.”

Hutch continued to rub his forehead. Silence became his strategy.

“I didn’t want you to think I’d run away just because of that man. I told Starsky–he was supposed to tell you–“

“Stop telling Starsky!” Hutch suddenly demanded. “Tell me!”

“I tried to tell you!” she burst out again. “You never listened!”

Circles, circles, circles. Hutch rubbed a circle on his temple. She rubbed a circle inside his head. “Tell me now,” he rasped.

“Do you remember,” she sounded tired, “all those dates we had, all those dinners, before–it–happened?”

He started to apologize, stopped, sat forward.

“All those dates, every time we got together, I tried to tell you how I felt about us. But you wouldn’t let me. I wanted to talk about our future, about our commitment to each other, but you wouldn’t listen.”

Hutch was suddenly thirsty. He got up to retrieve his wine. “Abby, I would’ve listened if you’d wanted to talk. I don’t remember ever shutting you out. When did I shut you out?”

She sighed. “What about the time I told you I wanted kids, about wanting a family? I tried to get you to talk about a family, and all you could do was make jokes about how much fun it was to make babies.”

Hutch sipped his wine. It was fun to make babies. Or pretend to make babies. He swallowed that thought with the wine. “Sweetheart, taking about wanting babies and talking about a commitment are two different things.” He began to pace. “How was I supposed to know you were trying to talk about a commitment?” Belligerence went well with the Bordeaux.

“God, Hutch,” she sulked. “What did you think I meant? What do you think it means when a woman tells a man she’d like to have kids?”

“That she’d like to have kids, someday.” Hutch acted the innocent.

Again, the phone seemed to fall away.

She sounded mournful when she returned. “We never had a future together, did we?”

“I don’t know.” Again, innocent. “Not if you’re out there and I’m out here.” He lifted his glass to his lips, hesitated, and instead set it down on the counter.

“Would we have one if I came back out?” she asked.

He started to walk toward the greenhouse, stopped, sat down on the bed instead. Hutch looked out at his–sanctuary. He took a deep breath, then slid ’round ’til he was facing the kitchen. “We were good together,” his voice softened, warm and low.

He could hear the smile in her voice. “God, yes.”

God, yes. They were a perfect fit. From the early morning runs on the beach to their late lunches of tofu and sprouts to their midnight couplings, they were a fair-haired match. Especially the midnight couplings. She would do anything, try anything, anywhere, anytime. Van had been passionate, could be teased into something a little different now and then. But she’d balked at “the big nasty,” turned away in disgust when he hinted, refused him completely if he tried to sneak up past her breasts. Gillian–well. She’d known it all, done it all, and he’d never even suspected because she’d fulfilled his simple requests and he’d never thought to ask for more. Hadn’t needed more. But Abby. Abby, with a million ways to make his flesh explode. Abby, a surprising combination of the obscene and the erotic. She’d done “the big nasty.” She’d done “the bigger nasty.” Abby had built a better mousetrap.

“Hutch?”

“I’m right here, sweetheart.”

“I could–” she hesitated. “I could come back for a while. If you wanted me to.”

Wanted. Wanted. What did he want? Silence became not only his strategy but his shield.

She sounded small and child-like as the words began to rush out. “I know we’re good together and we have the same tastes and we like to do the same things but you never listened to me. There was no time for me except when you wanted to make time and I always felt squeezed between your work and your partner. And I know you love your work and you–and your partner–but you never seemed to love us and–“

“Shh,” he shut his eyes and put a finger to his lips. “Shh.”

“Hutch.” It was a moan, a plea, a call for help, a siren’s call.

“Abby, I can’t–promise–anything.” No promises, no choices, no decisions. “We weren’t–I wasn’t–if you want to come back out–“

“You’ll be there,” she finished. “Did your antenna just go up?”

“What do you want, Abby?” He rose, walked over to the glass separating the bedroom from the greenhouse, rested his forehead against the cool, smooth glass. “Why did you call?”

“You’re not listening to me!” she cried. Her voice pierced his ear, pierced his brain; he was sure it had pierced the glass and flown straight into his paradise. “Do you see, you haven’t heard a word I’ve said!”

“You haven’t said anything!” he protested. Protest away, protest to your heart’s content. It was obvious what she was saying, even if she hadn’t said it; had been obvious in the weeks before “it” had happened. Protest, profess innocence, pretend to be oblivious. Just make sure she plays the final card.

Muffled voices filtered down the line; a hand over the mouthpiece, he surmised. He used the time to wander back into the kitchen, retrieve his glass, and seat himself on the couch.

“Hutch?”

“Right here, Abby.”

“That was my mom. I guess–I’ve got to be going.” Calm, now. “I’m sorry it turned out this way. I really–when I called I just wanted to talk to you, I thought you might want to talk to me.” She stumbled over the words. “The way I left and all, I just couldn’t–“

“It’s okay.” He finished the last of his wine. “I understand why you felt you had to go.”

“And–you’re not–upset?”

“Upset?” He examined the empty glass, twirled it, watched the last few drops of wine coat the crystal sides. “Of course not. After what you’d been through? After what you’d had to face? Abby,” the glass dipped, swirled, hung upside down. “Very few women can handle the life of a cop’s wife. Particularly the special circumstances involved in living with an undercover cop.” A translucent, rose droplet formed on the rim, swelled, was swept back into the glass. “It’s not your fault, Abby. It takes a very–strong, very special, woman.   I don’t blame you for not being able to face that kind of life with me.”

She laughed. Bitterly, bewilderedly, painfully. “Did that help?” she asked quietly. “Did that make you feel better?”

The glass stilled. “You walked out on me. You left me. And you didn’t even give me a chance to ask you to stay.”

“Ask me now.”

Hutch held his breath. Hold it long enough, and he wouldn’t have to say anything. Ever. He shut his eyes.

“Yes,” she said. “Maybe that’s what I was afraid of.” There was a moment of silence, shared held breaths. “Well, if I’m a weak and ordinary woman, then you’re a spineless, impotent coward.” She hung up the phone.

He lowered the receiver, let his arm fall to the cushions. Phone in one hand, glass in the other. The blood in his ears began to pound and he remembered to breathe.

He sat that way for a few moments, eyes unfocused, limbs limp, thoughts on hold. Then he rose, replaced the receiver in its cradle, held the glass under a warm stream of water to rinse it.

He walked back into the bedroom, returned to his garden, his haven, his hiding place. It was dark now. No moon, never any stars, just barely differentiated shades of black. The light from the apartment cast fuzzy plant shadows on the floor. Trembling hands found their way to his neck and shoulders, tried to massage away the monotonous ache, gentle away the knots of pain. But concentrating on that pain only forced it up into his head and behind his eyes. He massaged his temples, rubbed slow circles with his fingers, but that pushed the pain into a sickening drop into his stomach. And a hand on his abdomen only sent it scurrying into the hollow of his back. He gave up, finally, let the pain go where it wanted, accepted it as penance. But he didn’t have to let it infect his spirit as well as his body. He left the greenhouse, and went to bed.