My Hair Like Jesus Wore It Part Four
Hutch had no clear recollection of how he’d arrived at Memorial without a drop of Starsky’s blood on him. When reality had shifted, he’d been standing on the fault line. Like any survivor, he’d found himself stumbling out of the rubble with fragmented memories like snapshots in a shoebox, jumbled and out of order.
He remembered the tail lights of a cop car, Dobey in the middle of the parking lot, mouth open, arms flung wide. He recalled uniforms mobbing the Torino and Minnie on her knees, glasses sliding to the tip of her nose. Sweet Lou Legette charged by, buffeting Hutch with his wake. Then someone was talking in his ear and pressing on his hands. Minnie had flecks of blood on her glasses and she wanted Hutch to lower his gun.
He then found himself in a cubicle, wrapped in a blanket. Images swam out of the back of his mind like small fish out of dark water. He looked over an oxygen mask at a feminine hand holding his, feminine fingers pressed to his wrist. The hand disappeared. When he removed the mask and slid from the gurney, no one stopped him. He left the cubicle and found a hallway. As he walked, he felt like he was pushing aside layers and layers of dirty scrim, surfacing from a murky dream. He recognized the halls of Memorial, saw himself reflected in glass windows and steel trolley legs, a tall slouching figure with a white face, a white shirt. The pristineness of his own whiteness appalled him. He looked like a bride when he should look like a butcher. Minnie, he remembered, had blood up to her elbows, like she’d dipped her arms in spaghetti sauce.
Sweet Lou’s soprano led him to another hallway. Hutch shouldered past the uniforms, waved off Dobey, found a chair and turned it backwards. He sat in front of a plate of glass. On the other side of the glass was Starsky.
Months later reality shifted under Hutch once again. This time he was expecting it, waiting for it. Even so, he was taken by surprise.
After Gunther’s arrest, Hutch had shrunk his world to two. Anything that wasn’t Starsky, Starsky’s recovery, had simply fallen away. In the hospital he’d helped Starsky eat, wash, relieve himself, shave, brush his teeth. He’d clipped Starsky’s toenails, scratched itchy places Starsky couldn’t reach. And after they returned to Starsky’s apartment, Hutch had been the one to answer the phone, pay the bills, cook the meals, wash the clothes. He’d driven Starsky to his doctor’s appointments, to PT, he’d helped him through his exercises, consoled him when they hurt too much. He’d filled prescriptions, dispensed painkillers and antibiotics, he’d kept water on hand to flush toxins. He’d comforted Starsky when despair hit like a locomotive, coaxed him out of bed on mornings when he couldn’t be bothered. He’d commiserated, calmed and distracted when he could, raiding the Hobby Shop for model ships and Lionel accessories, cooking pots of chicken soup and following Judith Starsky’s instructions to whisk an egg yolk into each hot bowl. He’d screamed, yelled and threatened when he had to, bullying Starsky into cooperating with his physical therapist, telling him to stop sulking and fucking blow in the spirometer before someone shoved it up his ass. He’d been the one to move, finally, lock stock and barrel into Starsky’s apartment, bringing his fussier plants over in groups of three and four, settling them in a sunny spot under the bedroom window, separate from Starsky’s plants as though his partner’s spindly philodendron, drooping spathiphyllum and water-logged African violet could be bad influences. He’d moved off the couch and into Starsky’s bed when it became clear that Starsk slept better with him there, he’d spooned up to Starsk in the night when he realized it was a relief for his partner to rest against him and take his own body weight off his tender, healing muscles. He’d raised his eyebrows over the copy of Couples Massage Starsky had never taken back to the City library and replaced it with Swedish Massage Therapy which he’d found in the Rainbow Grocery. He’d been the one to roll up his sleeves, grease up his hands and put in hours of massage, just like Starsky had when he’d been shot, hours of kneading hard hurt muscle, warming it until it could begin to stretch again.
“Didja do that all that 4H farm kid stuff?” Starsky asked one day when Hutch had him face down on his bed, working him over with oiled hands.
“Sure,” Hutch answered. “Raised a few cows, some pigs.”
“I feel like the prize pig,” Starsky said, flinching, gripping his pillow. “That you’re groomin’ for a show.”
“A show, huh?” said Hutch. He dug into the muscle under Starsky’s shoulder blade, into the latissimus dorsi, feeling the gnarled tissue restricting Starsky’s right arm movement, causing him hip pain at night.
Starsky’s breath caught. “Jeez…or for slaughter. Hutch, that hurts.”
“I know,” said Hutch. “I’m sorry. There’s a word for that, you know.” He hooked his thumbs into a knot, bore down. “Caring for livestock, I mean.”
“What?” Starsky stiffened. “Fuck, that really hurts.”
“Deep breath, babe,” said Hutch. He put both hands on Starsky’s back, on the long muscle that fanned like an inverted wing from the armpit to the tailbone. He used gliding strokes to warm the cross-hatched flesh, the wounded train-track scars. “Husbandry. It’s called husbandry.”
“No kiddin’?” Starsky panted. He tipped his head, looked back at Hutch. “You’re my husband? T’rrfic.”
Hutch laughed, worked the muscle, building heat. “Well,” he said. “Husbandry usually includes breeding.”
“You’ve got my clothes off, you’ve got oil, you’ve got me face down on the bed,” Starsky said, relaxing a bit. “How much closer can we get?”
Hutch laughed again. He tapped an adhesion, imagined the rigid tissue breaking up, washing away in the blood stream. How much closer? They’d already moved from colleagues to friends, from friends to partners, from partners to best friends, from best friends to co-custodians of Starsky’s healing body. And now? Hutch dripped more oil on Starsky’s back, wondering what would finally trip his heart, send it flying over the last flimsy barriers between them.
In early September, almost a perfect four months after the hit, Starsky managed a trip to the beach, a walk along the shore. He was laughing, walking hip to hip again with Hutch. He wasn’t galloping, he wasn’t leaping, he wasn’t even close to his old confident arm-swinging swagger. But he was walking, laughing, nudging Hutch with his shoulder, gesturing just as widely as he used to. Hutch was laughing too, nearly giddy with delight. He could hardly believe how far they’d come. Starsk, who had taken four bullets, Starsk who had died on the table was up and at ‘em again, on his feet, out of bed, out of doors, reveling in the warm sun, the chilly wind and the sand under his bare feet.
Starsky stopped, watched the ocean go in, go out. “Wanna get my dogs wet,” he said. He looked down at his feet as though they were a thousand miles away.
Hutch leapt to help him. “Let me just roll up your jeans a bit.” He knelt at Starsky’s feet.
“Hey, I can get down there,” protested Starsky. He started to bend awkwardly.
“Stand up, dummy,” said Hutch, slapping Starsky’s thigh. “Just let me do this for you. Actually, it’s for me,” he glanced up at Starsky. “Don’t wanna kill my back hauling you back up.” He turned Starsky’s jeans up quickly.
“T’rffic,” said Starsky, hands on his hips. “Now I feel like Ma.”
“Okay, you lost me, buddy,” said Hutch. He looked up at Starsky again, waiting to hear what weird association his partner had made this time.
“When she was pregnant with Nick,” said Starsky, “she used to make me put on her shoes for her. I still remember her toes…like little sausages about to bust their skins.”
Hutch laughed. “So you’re saying you’re like my pregnant wife?” he said.
“Hey!” Starsky was indignant. “Kish mir en toches.”
“What does that mean?” asked Hutch. He continued to kneel at Starsky’s feet, gazing up at him with amusement.
“Wanna know?” said Starsky. “Learn to speak Yiddish, nudnik.”
“Oh, I know a bit of Yiddish,” said Hutch. “Putz.”
“Yutz,” countered Starsky.
“Shmuck.”
“Shlub.”
“Shleeze.”
“Shleeze is not a word,” said Starsky.
“Okay, shmoe, then.” said Hutch.
“Shmendrik,” said Starsky, looking at the ocean. “Gayn cacken ofn yam.”
“All right, all right, matzel tov,” said Hutch. “You win.” He started to rise.
“Of course, I win, baby blue,” said Starsky. “I’m a born winner.” He put a hand out to help Hutch up. “Hutch?”
“Yeah, what now?” asked Hutch. He took Starsky’s hand.
Starsky looked down at him, his smile brilliant. “Ich libe dich,” he said.
“What?” Hutch froze, his heart somersaulting.
“Ich libe dich,” Starsky repeated.
“My grandmother used to say that to me.” Hutch sank back down into the sand. He felt the world shift, tilt him gently.
“You had a Yiddish grandmother?” Starsky asked. He was still holding Hutch’s hand.
“German,” Hutch whispered. He leaned against Starsky’s thigh to steady himself. “She used to say ‘Ich liebe dich, kleiner’.”
“Ah,” said Starsky. He ran his free hand through Hutch’s hair. “Ich liebe dich, Hutch.”
“Ich liebe dich auch, Starsk,” said Hutch. He pressed his face into Starsky’s thigh. “Ich werde dich fur immer lieben.”
Hutch rubbed his cheek on Starsky’s thigh, closed his eyes. He felt Starsky stroking his hair, the wind pulling at the sleeves of his flannel shirt. The wind blew and ocean rolled in and out, hissing on the sand. Hutch rubbed his chest. Deep in his core, things were moving, almost as though his body were changing. Something popped and splintered in his chest, something else snapped into place. Ouch, he thought, touching his heart. Hurts.
“Hutch?” Starsky was still stroking his hair, holding his hand.
“Yeah?”
“You okay, babe?”
“Sure, Starsk.”
“Then why is your nose bleedin’?” Starsky stooped stiffly to look at his face.
“Is it?” Hutch touched his face. “Oh, hell.” He laughed. “Figures. Must have been the adrenaline.” He clambered to his feet.
“Did you get a rush?” asked Starsky with a shaky laugh. “I did too. Look.” He held out his hands. “Tremblin’ and everythin’,” he said.
“Christ,” said Hutch, laughing weakly. “What a pair of maroons.” He wiped his face with his shirt, examined the blood on the flannel fabric. “It’s not too bad, is it, Starsk? Is it stopped? Get it out of my moustache, will you?”
“Ya big blond goof,” Starsky said. He stood close, laughing as he licked his fingers, scrubbed at Hutch’s moustache. “There ya go, clean as a whistle.” He patted Hutch’s cheek. “Sure you’re okay?”
“Sure, Starsk. Good.” Hutch laughed. “Well, a little dizzy, actually.” His heart floated in his chest, giddy, trembling.
Starsky snorted. “Dizzy blond. I coulda told ya that.”
“I’m okay, Starsk.” Hutch took both of Starsky’s hands, held them in his. He felt himself grinning. “I’m about as good as it gets, okay?”
“Okay.” Starsky’s smile was tender, fond. He gripped Hutch’s hands.
Hutch felt his grin fading. He heard the ocean hiss, go in and out, a couple walked by chatting. This, he thought, there is only one word for this. They had said it, now they needed to cement it. Hutch moved slowly, reaching for Starsky’s hip. He gave a gentle tug.
Starsky came readily. He fit his body into Hutch’s.
They stood like slow dancers for a moment, chest to chest, groin to groin, thigh pressing thigh. Then Hutch pulled back slightly. He tilted his head in an unmistakable way, leaned in slowly. “Okay?” he whispered just before his lips touched Starsky’s.
Starsky's lips moved under his. "Okay,” he whispered back.
They kissed very gently on the sand.
The ocean went in and out, hissing while they kissed. Hutch dipped his head slightly, Starsky lifted his face. They leaned against each other, locked together, swaying gently. Starsky’s lips were soft and warm, wet when he pressed in deeper.
After a long time, Hutch raised his head. “Is this weird?” he asked. He had to know.
“Hmmm?” said Starsky. “What?” His lips were swollen, his face flushed.
“Kissing me,” said Hutch. “Is it weird?”
Starsky looked surprised. “What’s so weird about kissin’ a gorgeous blond?”
Hutch laughed. “What about a blond with one of these?” He touched his moustache.
“A misplaced eyebrow?” Starsky touched it too.
“Lip spinach,” said Hutch, his heart soaring.
“Yuck.” Starsky made a face. “Are you tryin’ to talk me out of this, Blintz?”
“Not at all,” said Hutch. “I’m just saying I’ll shave if you want me to. Don’t want you to think of Aunt Malka when I kiss you.”
“Aunt Sylvia,” said Starsky. “Aunt Malka was as bald as a baby’s butt.”
Hutch laughed again, folded his arms around Starsky, pulled him in tighter. “Oh, Starsk,” he said. “I’m a guy. Don’t you mind?”
Starsky shook his head against Hutch’s shoulder. “Nah,” he said. “Okay, maybe I minded a long time ago, back when I first figured out we might be headin’ this way.”
“A long time ago?” asked Hutch, surprised.
“Yeah,” said Starsky. “Back when all that stuff happened with Johnny Blaine, I had to do a lot a thinkin’…about love and sex, about you and me, about… you know, honesty.” He shrugged. “I figured out we might be headed this way and I minded some, yeah. But time went on, a lot of shit happened and I kinda got it through my thick head that some things just don’t matter, you know?” He gazed at Hutch in that direct way of his. “How ‘bout you? Do you mind?”
“No.” Hutch shook his head, thinking. “I always knew we had something special,” he said, “but I didn’t have a name for it. Then when I did, I…well, I just sorta waited it out.”
“Waited it out?” asked Starsky, puzzled.
“Yeah,” said Hutch. “Waited for it to happen naturally.”
Starsky’s brow creased. “Happen naturally?” he said, disbelief in his voice. “You mean you were waitin’ for me to make the first move!”
“Was I?” Hutch asked. He felt himself smirking.
Starsky looked comically annoyed. “You dirtbag!” he said, stepping back. “You always make me go first. So when there’s a fuck up, I look like a dumbass and you come off smellin’ like a rose!”
Hutch caught Starsky’s left wrist as he slid out of his arms. “Okay, okay, I’m a dirtbag,” he said, laughing. “I’m a chicken shit. But you have to admit there was a lot at stake.” He raised Starsky’s wrist, kissed the pulse point.
“Was there?” Starsky asked. He watched Hutch kiss his wrist, his forearm. “How so?”
“Well,” said Hutch, now kissing the tender bend of Starsky’s elbow. “What if I had kissed you and you hadn’t wanted it? I could have screwed us up.”
Starsky looked at him like he was crazy. “There ain’t no way to screw us up, Blintz, or we’d have done it by now. Sure, it might have been rocky for a while, but we’da got it together. We’da gone on bein’ us no matter what. We’re always gonna be us.”
“And now?” asked Hutch. He tugged Starsky gently back into his arms.
“And now, this is us,” said Starsky. He slid one hand up the back of Hutch’s shirt, his thigh between Hutch’s legs.
“This?” asked Hutch. He lowered his head, desperate to kiss again.
Starsky lifted his chin, his lips brushing Hutch’s. “This,” he said, “is us.”
“Me and thee,” whispered Hutch. He couldn’t wait any longer. He held Starsky’s head, kissed him hard. He felt his heart go then, fly out of his chest like a kite jerked up into the sky by a strong wind. And when Starsky laughed into his mouth, he knew Starsk had felt it too.
Chapter Five http://your-woman-now.livejournal.com/2797.html#cutid1