Twisting toward the firelight, Hutch bent forward to read the face of his pocket watch. Brit had been gone about an hour, but the inactivity made it seem longer. Reaching down, Hutch grabbed one of the logs he’d brought in earlier and placed it on the fire. He watched the flames leap into the air, filling the room with its orange glow. “Gotta keep ya warm, Starsk,” he commented, more to himself than his restless partner.
Hutch laid his hand on Starsky’s flushed, right cheek, his brow furrowing at the heat he once again felt there. Sliding Starsky’s legs over, Hutch sat on the couch next to him. Reaching for the washcloth soaking in the cold water, Hutch rung it out and wiped Starsky’s forehead, then he moved it down Starsky’s right cheek, over the left and, finally, Starsky’s neck. As Starsky pulled away from the contact, Hutch brushed his index finger slowly across Starsky’s cheek. “Sh-h-h, help will be here soon.”
Hutch stood up and stiffly limped to the window, eyes straining to see any movement. Watching the moon light up the sky, casting dark shadows in every corner, Hutch wondered who was out there. Who was after them? Was it Bartoldi’s men? Or some other crazy intent on revenge? His mind wandered back to the crash—the lights glaring in his rearview mirror, the push on the back bumper, the curtain of snow, the blackness of the night extending forever beyond it, the uncontrollable sliding toward the edge.
It was his fault. He hadn’t been able to control the car and keep it on the road, and because of that they were stuck in a cabin, in the middle of the woods, in the middle of the night, with Starsky sick. Sick and hurt because he’d been thrown from the car. His car.
“Hutch?”
“Hey, buddy?” Hearing his name broke Hutch’s reverie. Leaving the windows and the moonlit silhouettes, he moved over to the couch. As Starsky struggled to sit up, Hutch placed his hand on Starsky’s left shoulder to stop him. “Take it easy. Just rest.”
“Been restin’,” Starsky managed to get out before the coughing started. As it stopped, Starsky leaned forward, wrapping his arms tightly against his chest.
Starsky would never admit it, Hutch knew, but he could tell his partner was hurting. “Where does it hurt?”
Starsky, running his left hand through his damp, matted curls, leaned to his right using the back of the couch for support and said wryly, “Hurt? What makes ya think I hurt?”
Hutch smiled weakly. “Oh, I don’t know. Getting’ thrown out of a car hurling down a mountainside might hurt a little.”
“Not when there’s some of that white, fluffy stuff to break your fall.” Starsky, seeing the guilt on Hutch’s face, started to smile. Suddenly, he wrapped his arms back around his chest. “Oh-h–h, I shouldn’t do that,” he whispered.
“What’s that?”
“Breathe.”
“Just sit still and don’t move around too much. You might have some broken ribs or something.”
Watching until Starsky relaxed a little, Hutch offered, “I’ll make some soup. Just stay there.”
“Where am I gonna go? Ain’t this the North Pole?”
Hutch chuckled as he headed to the kitchen, relieved to hear Starsky attempting a joke. “Told you you’d like snow.”
Starsky snorted. “Right.”
Watching Hutch favor his leg as he slowly limped toward the fireplace, Starsky noticed blood seeping through Hutch’s pant leg. “You’re bleedin’.”
Hutch looked down and, studying the blood as though seeing it for the first time, painfully bent down to place the small saucepan on the grate, face paling at the exertion. “It doesn’t hurt. ”
You’re lyin’, Blondie, Starsky thought. Watching his partner stoke the fire, Starsky pulled the quilt tighter around himself. Fighting off the chills and aching all over made it difficult for him to concentrate. He wanted to convince Hutch that he was okay, so that the frown would disappear off of Hutch’s face. It had become a permanent fixture. Studying Hutch’s back, Starsky sighed and closed his eyes.
š ›
“Soup’s ready.” Hutch carefully pushed Starsky’s legs to the back of the couch and sat down, bowl and spoon in hand. “It isn’t your Aunt Rosie’s but it’s hot.” He watched Starsky groggily open his eyes and sit up little straighter.
After a couple of spoonfuls, Starsky found the strength to protest. “I can do it myself.”
“Just stay under the covers and open up.” Seeing Starsky’s willing compliance, despite his verbal protest, Hutch continued feeding him spoonfuls.
“Lousy way to spend Christmas,” Starsky observed, frowning.
“Christmas isn’t until tomorrow.”
“We gonna get outta here?”
“Of course. Brit went for help.”
“How long ago?” Starsky asked, suddenly curious. He remembered little of what had transpired, though there was a fuzzy memory of Hutch carrying him through the snow.
“She’ll be back soon. Here, finish up.”
“Aren’t you eating?” Starsky asked hoarsely, knowing that his partner would be so concerned about taking care of him that he’d forget about himself.
“Had some while you were snoozin’.” Hutch stood up to put the bowl away. “Go back to sleep.”
“Nah, you sleep…you look beat.”
Hutch smiled weakly at the suggestion. Not a bad idea, he thought, but there was more that he had to do. “I’m going for wood. You stay under the covers, and I’ll be back in a couple minutes.” Hutch grabbed his coat, once again warm and dry from sitting near the fire, and limped out the door.
After making several trips, his arms loaded with wood, Hutch stopped to grab a small saw from the kitchen drawer.
Intrigued, Starsky watched through half-open eyelids. “Whatcha doin’ now?”
“Just wait. It’s a surprise for you.”
Starsky watched the door expectantly. Hearing Hutch stomping his feet on the porch to shake off the snow, he pulled himself up, wondering what his partner was doing.
Hutch appeared in the doorway, his upper body hidden by a three-foot pine tree.
“A tree? Hate ta disappoint you, but aren’t you
supposed to chop it first? It won’t fit
in the fireplace like that. Or didn’t
they teach ya anything in the Sea Scouts?”
“A Christmas tree,” said Hutch, shaking off the outside chill and setting the tree on the kitchen table. When Starsky’s pale, drawn face brightened, Hutch was glad that he’d noticed the little tree, pleased to once again receive a small smile. His concern was starting to grow about Brit and the amount of time she’d been gone, and he didn’t want Starsky to sense it. Maybe the tree would distract them both for a while. “There’s a bucket in the cupboard I’ll stick it in that.”
Curious, Starsky watched Hutch retrieve the bucket, take it outside and return with it full of tightly, packed snow. “I piled some rocks in the bottom for weight and the snow on top.” Seeing Starsky’s dubious expression, Hutch explained, “The snow will help balance it and provide some moisture.” He set it down to the right of the fireplace, far enough away so that flying embers wouldn’t be a problem, but still in Starsky’s line of vision.
Seeing Starsky stare at it, Hutch, exasperated, asked, “What’s wrong? Don’t you like Christmas trees now?”
“Doesn’t look like one. There aren’t any ornaments.”
Sighing at Starsky’s little boy impatience, Hutch said, “I know. I know. Gimme a minute.” Heading over to the counter, Hutch, whistling, scrounged through several drawers. Curious, Starsky tried to sit up straighter and look over his shoulder to see what Hutch was doing.
Hearing Starsky’s movement, Hutch called out, “Sit still. I’ll be there in a sec.”
Opening and shutting several drawers, Hutch finally called out, “Got it.”
Gathering his collected items, Hutch approached the couch and sank gratefully to the floor in front of Starsky. Looking at the items Hutch laid out on the floor, Starsky placed his hand on Hutch’s forehead. “You okay?”
“I should be asking you that.” Hutch looked at the aluminum foil, Dixie cups, string, and scissors on the floor. “You wanted decorations.”
“But aluminum foil?”
“Watch. We’ll cut up the foil into stars and string ’em up on the tree.”
“And the Dixie cups?”
“We just have to poke a couple holes in the top with the scissors, run some string through and tie it in a knot. They’ll be the bells.”
Looking at Hutch dubiously, Starsky said, “I’m beginnin’ to worry about ya, Blondie.”
For a moment, Hutch stared off into space remembering a winter long ago. “The Christmas I was ten, I stayed at my grandfather’s. My dad had to be gone on business, and he insisted my mom go with him. ‘Lots of important people,’ you know,” Hutch mimicked his father before continuing. “They weren’t planning on coming home in time to celebrate Christmas with us. I was sitting outside in the barn taking care of two puppies. Their mother had died. She’d given birth to the puppies about a week earlier, but she’d had a really difficult time. I figured they were feeling pretty lonesome, without their mom and all.” Hutch’s voice became wistful and he paused a moment. Shaking himself out of his reverie, Hutch smiled briefly. “My grandfather came to the barn and I guess he figured out how I was feeling, being alone on Christmas an’ all, ’cause he suggested that we get a tree and decorate it for the puppies. We set it up in the barn and decorated it with foil ornaments, pine cones and even hung dog treats on it.” Hutch smiled, remembering. “I fell asleep that night with the puppies in the barn, and when I work up on Christmas morning, I found all my presents under that tree.”
“Sounds like a pretty special Christmas to me,” Starsky whispered, picturing his friend lying in the hay, curled up with the puppies, his arms protectively around them. Three lonely children together on Christmas.
Hutch looked at Starsky, his eyes smiling. “Yeah, it was. I even took those puppies home. Grandfather gave ’em to me as a Christmas present. Dad wasn’t happy, but even he didn’t dare say no.”
Watching the firelight reflecting off Hutch’s face, Starsky offered encouragement. “Well, let’s get goin’.”
“You sure you’re up to this, buddy? You don’t look so good.”
“Don’t let that fool ya,” Starsky managed to get out before he leaned forward, wincing as he coughed.
Seeing Starsky straightening up on the couch, Hutch warned, “Just stay there.” He reached down and picked up the paper cups. Poking holes in the top of the cups, he handed them to Starsky with the string. “Slip the string through and tie the knots. I’ll cut out some stars.”
They worked companionably for several minutes. Then, Hutch slid his lanky body the few feet across the floor and began hanging the ornaments on the tiny tree.
“I’m sorry, Starsk.” Quietly breaking the silence, Hutch looked intently at the tree.
Confused, Starsky said, “The tree’ll look great. A little weird but…”
“No. I’m sorry about ignoring you about the car door. If it didn’t have a bad latch, you wouldn’t a been thrown out. You wouldn’t—”
“It’s not your fault, Hutch.”
“Sure it was. If I’d—”
“Now, ya sound like me with the what if’s,” Starsky protested hoarsely.
“Starsk…”
“What if we never had the accident? Then, we wouldn’t be here cuttin’ stars out of foil and hangin’ Dixie cups on a silly tree.” Starsky stared at Hutch’s back, waiting for him to sense it and turn away from the tree. “Right?”
Hutch finally met Starsky’s eyes, seeing only friendship and love contained there, no blame. Never any blame, thought Hutch.
“Right,” Hutch said relieved, and, turning back to the tree, he finished hanging their homemade ornaments.
Starsky smiled as Hutch carefully, almost lovingly, placed the ornaments on the tree branches. It was clear that he was somewhere else—in a barn many Christmases ago. When Hutch stepped back allowing Starsky to inspect, he said apologetically, “Well, it’s not exactly what I hoped for but…”
Seeing the Dixie cup ornaments and the foil stars hanging on the tree, Starsky was touched, particularly when he saw several Stars of David hanging between them. Leave it to Hutch to remember, Starsky thought.
“Looks terrific,” Starsky observed as he yawned, his eyelids beginning to droop.
Seeing Starsky’s tired, flushed face, Hutch moved to his side. Concerned at the heat he still felt coming from Starsky’s forehead, Hutch pulled up the cover as Starsky began dozing off, and whispered, “Merry Christmas, buddy.”
After putting away the foil, scissors, and string, Hutch gratefully sank back down on the woven rug on the floor in front of the couch. Studying the waning fire, he was suddenly too exhausted to get up and stir it. His leg and ankle were throbbing. His head ached, and he felt like he’d pushed his body to its limits. Before he knew it, his head was bobbing forward on his chest. After several startled jerks, he slid down and leaned his head back against the cushions. Feeling Starsky’s hand gently ruffle through his hair, Hutch relaxed into sleep as the firelight glistened off the foil ornaments twisting gently on the tree.