by Rae ⓒ
2006
There were
two things that scared Starsky, really scared him deep down. Not like snakes
and falling off buildings, nothing like that—those weren't things that
kept him awake at night, afraid to sleep, afraid to dream. He'd never told
Hutch about the worst fears. So when the day came that both of those things
cold-cocked him at the same time, he figured it was time to confess.
So he said,
"Hutch. Got something I should tell you."
"Now?"
Hutch said without opening his eyes.
He
tightened his grip on Starsky's wrists, both of them, and Starsky fought hard
not to whimper from the pain of it.
don't let
go don't let go
"I—"
He hesitated, and tried to get a full breath.
"Don't
have all day here, buddy. You got something to say, now's the time."
"Hutch."
He spit some gritty dirt out of his mouth. "Sometimes I have bad
dreams."
"That's
what you want to tell me? Now?" He opened his eyes, tried to shake his
hair off his face, and looked down at Starsky's face.
The
small movement rained more dirt into Starsky's eyes, and down into the front of
his shirt. It trickled down his belly, tickling his hairs as it moved. It felt
dry, until it stuck to his sweat.
don't
move don't move
"No.
I—"
"Just
put your right foot up a little more, I think there's a little ledge
there." Hutch closed his eyes again, so tight that his lashes disappeared.
"Come on, Starsky, just try to move your foot."
"Can't.
Hurts." He tried, though. If it could only be his left foot, maybe there'd
be a chance. "I'm sorry."
"Not
as sorry as you're going to be if you don't try. Please just try."
"I'm
scared."
"That
your big revelation?" Hutch tried to move backward. "I'm scared,
too."
It
was hard to talk with his mouth full of dust, his lungs all squashed against the
backs of his ribs, and his shoulders pressed tight against the sides of his
face.
"No.
It's— I don't want it to be your fault."
That was
Worst Fear Number Two. That Hutch would blame himself. He didn't know, even
now, if he could tell him the first one.
"Don't,"
Hutch said. "Just don't."
"I'm
serious." He tried to lift his right foot, just a little. All that
happened, aside from the tearing feeling that something was definitely loose
inside his leg, was that his sneaker fell off. He could hear it for a second or
two as it bounced off the rocks and the side of the cliff. He watched Hutch
watch it fall. He wondered if it would hit Dobson in the nose way down there
when it landed. "It's not your fault."
don't cry
out don't cry
"Shut
up. Shut the fuck up. I mean it." Hutch tried again to pull back a
fraction, jaw tight, skin red and blotchy, eyes dark and wild.
Starsky
thought his shoulders were going to dislocate, or his wrists were going to
break. This time he couldn't keep that awful noise from escaping his throat.
Even to him it sounded weak. A coward's wail.
I'm sorry Hutch I'm sorry
He didn't
dare say it out loud.
Something
dripped down the outside of his right leg.
Hutch
tried to take a deep breath, but it didn't look like he could, not in that
position, not with that rock pressing up into his chest. "If I move my
hands closer together you can grab hold of my wrist, and then I can get some
leverage with my free hand. Okay? Ready?"
no I
can't don't let go
"Okay."
His elbow
scraped dirt, scraped rock. His shoulders screamed.
"Open
your eyes. Starsky! Open your eyes."
He
tried but they wouldn't. Weird. He tried again.
"Never
mind, buddy. Just do what I tell you, okay? Can you do that? I'll tell you what
to do. You'll be okay."
say
something say something
"Not
your fault, Hutch. Tell me." He wanted to see his face, look at his eyes,
but he couldn't. There were too many other things he didn't want to see at all.
Hutch groaned like his belly
hurt him. "It's not my fault." But he said it fast like crossing your
fingers behind your back, same kind of thing. "Now you have to listen to
me. Listen. You have to put your left hand on my wrist. Can you feel it? It's
right there. If you can grab onto me, I can let go and pull us back. Can you
grab me? Come on, Starsk. Please."
"'kay."
He closed his fingers around the hard bones of Hutch's wrist. He could feel a
pulse under his middle finger. "I can feel your heart beating. Too fast.
You should try meditation."
Hutch was going to let go of his wrist. He felt
his stomach tighten and lift.
don't let go don't let go
Hutch let go.
Free fall wasn't so bad, not in itself. Kind of
nice, maybe, if you didn't have to think about landing. Maybe he'd land on
Dobson. Might make an interesting sound if he did. If he had time to hear it.
"Starsky! Stay with me, buddy, come
on." Hutch grunted. Pulled. Swore. "You have to help me. I can't do
it. Come on! Starsky!"
Dobson probably was wondering how come nobody'd
grabbed hold of his wrists. Or no, he definitely was not wondering anymore.
Maybe he had wondered, though, in the few moments he'd had to wonder, if trying
to ambush two cops had been worth it to him. Or maybe he'd wondered who would
take care of his family, or how sad his mom was going to be, and who would be
the one to tell her the news, and if they'd tell her what he'd been doing just
before he died, and that it was a bad thing, or maybe they'd try to make her
feel better and tell her he was trying to save lives and that the last thing
he'd said was "tell my mom . . ."
"Starsky!"
"Tell ma—"
"Oh, God. Please, Starsky."
"What?"
There
was a nice breeze coming up from the canyon. He tipped his head back. It felt good
on the back of his neck, and he liked the way it lifted the hair off Hutch's
forehead, and blew it back from his face. Hutch always did well with the
windblown look. It was an updraft, too, so maybe on the way down he'd get some
gliding in, get to sightsee a little, like an eagle, or one a those vultures
with the nine-foot wingspan.
Something
hurt. Not his wrist, not his leg. Something else, something worse.
"Starsk."
That
was it. That's what hurt.
don't
break your heart Hutch it hurts
"Starsk."
say
it I always loved you say it
"I
always loved you, Hutch. I'm sorry."
"Fuck
you, Starsky. Fuck you."
"Not
the response I was expecting, y'know."
"If
you don't help me now, I'm going to just let you go, and then I'm going to send
that fucking goddam tomato over the edge after you and the walk home will be
worth it, I swear."
"Forty-seven
miles?"
"Worth
it."
From
a vulture's-eye point of view, Starsky watched Hutch walking, fast and furious
at first, brushing off his hands, shaking out his shirt. And then brushing
something out of his eyes and slowing down. And then he saw him stop, right
there in the middle of the dusty track. What was he going to do? Start kicking
at rocks? Pick one up and throw it back toward the empty cliff's edge? Start
shouting obscenities at the circling vulture? Or maybe just curse Starsky out
for making him walk forty-seven miles alone, with no one to talk to, no one to
listen to.
okay
Hutch it's okay
He
took one more circling pass overhead, his vision clear and sharp. Dobson far
below, with odd angles in his limbs, the smell of blood rising on the updraft.
The odd blue speck, what was that? oh, his sneaker, have to buy new ones, green
maybe this time, and there, himself attached to the side of the cliff, like a
mountain goat. No, a goat wouldn't have let itself get head-butted off the
cliff by its opponent. A bat. No, then he'd be upside down and he wasn't. Okay,
then, one of those—hell he was out of ideas. Time to make landfall. Or
no, that was a bad analogy. Time to return to his earthly bonds. That was
better. Especially if he didn't want the Torino to end up a smashed and burning
hulk. It would probably land right on top of him and Dobson, entomb them
together forever like a double coffin . . .
Hutch's
grip on his right wrist slipped. Just a fraction.
Someone
yelled No! but Starsky was never sure who.
He began
to slip down, his shirt lifting, his belly tearing against the rocks on the
cliff face. His right leg caught fire, or that's how it felt, and he fought the
urge to look down at it to see if that's what had really happened.
Hutch
said something—there was no understanding what it was. But he was sliding
too, and then someone was shouting, yelling, hollering. Screaming.
not you
too not you just let go Hutch please let go
He kicked
in and down with his left leg, without thought—all instinct, all mad
fury.
fuck you
Dobson I ain't sleeping with you for eternity and neither is Hutch
He kicked
again and hit something solid. Toed it, shoved down on it.
come on
come on
Lifted up
a fraction. Scrabbled with his left hand—when had he let go of Hutch's
wrist? Found a root, had it been there before? Up an inch. Hutch moved back,
pulled hard.
come on
come on
He could
see over the edge now. Hutch was wriggling backward like a demented rattler. He
sounded like one, too. He dragged at Starsky's right wrist and pulled hard like
he was trying to yank a gopher out of its burrow.
Starsky
got his left elbow up onto the crumbling edge of the cliff and kicked some
more. Hutch seemed to be having trouble breathing.
"Grab
my shirt."
At least
that's what Starsky thought he said, so he did. Hutch lifted himself up onto
his knees, and dragged Starsky up with him, up and over and then Starsky was
lying on the flat ground, face in the dust, arms up beyond his head, like those
priests when they take their vows, what was the word anyway, oh ordained, and
maybe that's what he should be doing, too, taking some kind of vow like I will
never swat a fly again or I will let Hutch throw trash into the back seat and
just clean it up later without saying anything or I will adopt three starving
children in Botswana or . . .
Finally
finally Hutch let go of the deathlock on his wrist and flopped over backward.
He stared up at the sky like he'd never seen it before.
"Oh,
my leg," Starsky said. It was still sticking out into space, and while it
was no longer on fire, it was making sure no one had forgotten it was feeling
poorly. And, "Oh, my wrist," he threw in, too, because that was the
last thing he was going to say about either one.
He
listened to Hutch's ragged breathing, and to his own heart. Somebody had to say
something. Starsky decided it could be Hutch, because anything he said himself
was just going to come across as complaining, and he felt he really shouldn't
be complaining about anything. Not while he was lying face down on flat ground
with Hutch breathing hard right by his head. So he waited, and tried not to
moan.
"Starsk."
It came out in kind of a croak.
"I'm
sorry."
oh for
Godsakes he's going to take the blame anyway
"What
for?"
"You
said you loved me, and I didn't say it back."
An unseemly
urge to laugh began somewhere down deep, just above the spot where the stick
was digging into his lower left rib. He tried to move one of his arms down to
get rid of the stick, but neither of his shoulders would unlock. The sun beat
down on his back, but he could feel himself start to shiver.
say it
back then say it back now
"Well,
what?"
"Oh
my God."
If he
moved his head just a fraction it would be easier to see if Hutch was moving
yet.
just come
over here and move this stick would you please
Hutch
rolled himself over with a couple of grunts, turned himself around, and pushed
up onto his knees.
"No."
"Stay
right there. I'll get some help."
don't let
go don't let go
"Okay."
Hutch
dragged himself to his feet, and stumbled the forty feet or so to the Torino. A
few minutes later he came back, hands full of Starsky's new red and silver
emergency blanket from the trunk, and a styrofoam cup full of God knew what.
"Here,
drink this."
Starsky
couldn't lift his head, and his arms still weren't willing to bend yet. Just as
well. It had to be hours-old coffee, and Hutch's too, because he'd finished his
and Hutch drank his with milk and no sugar which was disgusting and—
"Starsk!"
He was going
to fall, there was nothing to be done.
don't be
sad don't be sad Hutch
"Starsky,
open your eyes. Come on. Try to move a little, can you do that?"
no I
can't it hurts
"Yeah."
He convinced his arms to move down a little, and the strain let up on his
shoulders.
"I
can't raise anyone on the radio. We're on our own."
He began
to feel around in Starsky's pockets.
"Need
the key. I'll move the car over here and you won't have to walk a step. Just
wait here, okay?"
no don't
go don't go
Now that
he wasn't going to die, his leg decided to take the focus back onto itself.
What the hell had happened? He tried to remember. Shot? Busted? Why couldn't he
think straight?
"Stay
with me, Starsky. You're in shock, I think. Talk to me, come on."
"Saw
you flying."
"I
was flying?"
"No."
He wanted
to tell him but things were starting to go yellow. He felt something light
settle over him, something gentle.
"That
better? Starsk? Blanket'll keep the sun off you. I'm going to find something
for your leg, stop the bleeding, keep it steady."
"Uh."
There
were fingers in his hair. There was something warm falling on his ear.
"Starsky.
I love you, too. Always have."
So that
took care of Worst Fear Number One.
"Hey,
Blondie." He tried to swallow. "You knew you wouldn't have to
walk."
"What
are you talking about?"
"Forty-seven
miles."
"What?"
"Dobson's
car. It's right over there.
Hutch's laugh
was the last thing he heard.
Hutch's
laugh was the first thing he heard. Which meant nobody was teetering on the
edge, nobody was about to fall into the abyss. He did a quick inventory: no
missing limbs, no tubes sticking into or coming out of his body, no casts, no
traction. No beeping monitors, no susurrations from breathing machines. Not
even all that much pain. He decided to open his eyes.
Hutch
stopped talking in midword and stepped to his side.
"Hey,
buddy." He smiled, and the skin around his eyes crinkled. "Welcome
back."
"Never
left." Starsky's mouth felt sticky. His lids felt heavy. He let them
droop.
"No."
Someone
away to the left said something that Starsky didn't try to hear. Whoever it was
wasn't Hutch, and therefore was of no particular interest. He yawned. The back
of his throat felt raw. He heard footsteps fading, and a door closing.
"Surgery?"
he said, though he knew from the way he felt that it was a given.
"Yeah.
Bullet nicked a big vein in the back of your leg. That's why you went into
shock."
Something
poked Starsky's lips and he opened his mouth. He felt the straw and began to
suck greedily, like he'd never had anything to drink before in his life. He
wanted to stop, but he couldn't, even when he'd emptied the glass. Hutch poured
more, and he drank that, too.
"Thanks,"
he said, finally. "God, I hate this. Aren't you sick of this?"
"Of
what? Of you not being dead when I was pretty sure you would be? No. I'm not
sick of that."
He put
the empty glass down and took hold of Starsky's right hand, gently, carefully.
Starsky saw that he was staring at the bruises on his wrist, the cuts and
scrapes up the inside of his arm. He looked at the ones on Hutch's.
"They'll
heal," Starsky said.
Hutch's
hand began to shake. He dropped his head and Starsky reached across himself,
ignoring his protesting shoulder, and tugged on some of his hair. He felt
Hutch's hand tighten around his.
"Get
me out of here, huh?"
Hutch
looked up. "Tomorrow."
"Really?"
"You
have to stay off the leg for a few days but we can do that at home."
"Really?"
"Yes.
Go to sleep. Tomorrow will get here faster."
His
eyelids dragged themselves down again. He had no real wish to argue.
"Don't let go."
"I
won't."
Hutch's
smile was the last thing he saw.
By the
time Starsky made it to his couch he was exhausted.
"Next
move, no stairs," was all he managed.
He
watched Hutch do all the stuff they always did. Move phone near couch. Put TV on
coffee table in easy reach. Stack up magazines on side table, get current
paperback from beside bed. Water glass full. Bowl of chips, plate of cheese and
crackers. Pillows for head—and arm, feet, or legs if necessary. Blanket
in winter, light sheet in spring and fall, wet facecloth and dry towel in
summer. Bent hanger for scratching hard-to-reach locations. Two sixpacks on ice
in cooler on floor unless on pain medications or too immobile to get to john
easily, in which case, substitute root beers or mineral water. Crutches, if
present, leaning against arm rest. Bag full of bandages and tape shoved under
couch, out of sight, but available. Gun under seat cushion.
Starsky
hated being the one on the couch, but it was much better than Hutch hurting.
That was always worse. Much worse. Though there was something to be said for
the way Hutch kept looking at him. Sneaking peeks when he thought Starsky
wouldn't notice. Over his shoulder. From behind the fridge door. Under his arm
when he fussed with the leg pillows.
"It's
okay to let go now," Starsky said.
Hutch
froze where he stood, hands in the air, halfway to the pillows.
"I
don't think I can." He pulled his hands into fists, as if they were still
latched onto Starsky's wrists.
Starsky grunted
his way into sitting up, and grabbed hold of one fist. It felt solid, heavy,
like a chunk of granite. He pulled on it, just a little at first, then harder,
trying to make Hutch unlock, relax, let go.
"My
turn, then," he said. "I'll hold onto you."
Hutch
made a sound in his throat, and turned to Starsky, dropping onto his knees like
Starsky'd done himself by his bed as a child when he wanted something really
bad, something he was sure he couldn't live without.
"What
if I never want to let go again?" Hutch's voice sounded tight, the way it
had on the cliff, when he'd thought he couldn't hold on. "What if I never
let you go?"
Starsky
felt like he was falling off the cliff after all, the ground rushing to meet
him, the dirt and pebbles falling with him stinging his skin, his eyes. He
blinked and looked up, straight into Hutch's.
"What
if . . . ?"
Hutch
plunged over what Starsky'd been going to say, like he couldn't stop himself.
Starsky watched his eyes, his mouth.
"Last
night I came back here," Hutch said, his voice low now, unsteady. "I
couldn't go home alone. I sat here, right here where you are now, and I
thought, what would it be like right now if you'd fallen? If I'd let you
fall?"
"Hutch
. . ."
"The
thing is, I could imagine it. The unimaginable. I knew exactly what it would be
like."
Starsky
let go of Hutch's fists so he could put his hand on the side of his face
instead, and Hutch leaned into it, just a little.
"I
meant it," Starsky said. "What I said, about loving you. Wasn't just
because I thought I was going to die."
"I
meant it, too. Last night, here alone, the thought of letting you go, ever
again . . ."
"Don't."
Hutch's
face changed, like he'd just lost everything he'd ever cared about. He started
to stand up, muttering something Starsky couldn't hear, didn't listen to.
"Moron."
Starsky smiled. "I meant, don't let go ever again."
"I .
. ."
"Did
I scare you?" Starsky felt the laugh come over him—a lifting
feeling, like flying.
Hutch
nodded, and grinned. The laughter descended on him too, like first sunlight on
a mountaintop.
"You
did."
"You
wanna jump, then?"
"Nope."
Hutch's voice turned light as a feather, and the late morning sun danced in his
hair.
Starsky
swallowed hard, but if Hutch needed to keep it light, he wasn't about to
protest.
"What's
the matter with you?" He played along, pretending to be shocked.
"I
can't swim."
"Are
you crazy?" Starsky said. "The fall 'll prob'ly kill ya."
Hutch
laughed. "Worth it."
Starsky
thought anything was worth it to hear that laugh.
"Do
you see any other options?"
"I
don't."
Starsky reached again for
Hutch's wrist, grabbed it tight, then pulled on it gently, like a breeze
tugging at an oak branch.
Hutch
yielded, and returned to his spot near Starsky's face. "I think I'm
falling." His voice had changed again—it had gone raspy and
tentative.
Starsky
leaned back on his pillows and grinned. "You're gonna kiss me now, aren't
you?"
"I
think so."
"What's
stopping you, then?"
"Someone
has to keep us from falling off the cliff."
"Why?"
"Good
question," Hutch said, and jumped.
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