My Hair Like Jesus Wore It Part Three
When Meredith realized they were going to keep calling her Joanie, she began calling them Davey and Kenny.
Starsky sat on the floor, leaning against her legs. She hunched over him, her fingers moving quickly. Beer in hand, arm flung over the back of the couch, Hutch watched, fascinated as she plaited his partner’s bubble of hair into neat corn rows that followed his skull. Hutch thought it all looked pretty violent. Meredith tugged, yanking Starsky’s head back while he yelped, “Ow, honey, not so hard. Ow, owie yee-owitch!”
Meredith slid into their lives easily, dropping by Hutch’s sometimes with Starsky, sometimes on her own. She brought him matzo ball soup from the Jewish delicatessen while he was healing, purple leaf salad, vegetarian lasagne and wholegrain bread from the Rainbow. She brought him a bag of frozen peas to lay over his aching shoulder, a trick she’d learned from her boxer brother. Hutch could see how good it could be, the three of them. Meredith brought out the best in Starsk, she could hardly argue with the crazy cop hours and she understood the Starsky/Hutch bond as well as anyone who wasn’t Starsky or Hutch. Still Hutch couldn’t make himself love her the way he’d loved Terry. That moment had passed.
When Meredith ended things, she talked to Hutch first.
“Think being a black cop is tough, Kenny?” They were in Hutch’s kitchen. She was washing, Hutch drying. Starsky had jogged down to the 7-11 for a six pack.
“Yeah.” Hutch knew it was.
“Think being a woman cop is hard?”
Hutch nodded. Hell, he’d made it hard for a woman or two, himself.
“How about being a black woman cop?”
Hutch nodded again, stacked plates. He waited to see where Meredith was going.
“How about a black woman cop married to a white man cop?”
“What?” The silverware clinked, slipping through Hutch’s fingers. He was suddenly off-balance, like the kitchen floor had tipped.
“Sorry,” said Meredith, gathering up the utensils. She cut her eyes at Hutch. “Guess I rattled ya.”
“I, uh, yeah, uh.” Hutch felt sweat in his armpits. For a moment he didn’t know what to say. “I, I, well it’s just that Starsk never mentioned anything.”
Meredith’s mouth turned down. “Oh, he didn’t, did he?”
“Oh, well, you know, he might have-”
“Don’t snow me, Kenny,” Meredith said flatly. “He never said pea-turkey. Thanks, that tells me just what I need to know.”
“Aw, Joanie-” Hutch started, his voice conciliatory.
“Huh uh,” Meredith held up one soapy hand. “Don’t make it pretty neither, just say it like it is. I thought we were going somewhere but he was just along for the ride.”
“C’mon, Joanie,” Hutch protested. “Starsk’s not like that.”
“Sure he is,” said Meredith. She plunged a coffee mug into the sink, thoroughly drowning it. “All you guys are.”
“Some guys are!” said Hutch, suddenly angry. “But not Starsky. Not with you. He’s not using you, for God’s sake!”
Meredith snorted, her mouth unhappy.
There was a moment of silence. Hutch watched Meredith scrub the mug hard enough to scrape off the “I Love NY.” He rubbed his sore shoulder, feeling foolish, like he’d been suckered into a hunt for a left-handed screwdriver.
Finally he said, “Joanie, you played me.”
She sighed, rinsed the mug, set it in the drain. “I’m sorry, Kenny,” she said. “I just needed to know.”
“Well, maybe you should have just asked,” snapped Hutch. “I feel like an ass for being so sincere.”
Meredith shook her head. “I know you, Kenny. You would have been a gentleman. This way, I got the truth.”
“Jesus,” said Hutch, wishing he’d asked Starsky to pick up smokes too. “Interrogated in my own kitchen.”
“I’m sorry,” Meredith said again, looking miserable. “I’m just in over my head, Kenny. I’m getting in deep here, deeper than a smart girl should.”
Hutch took a breath, struggled with his resentment. “Joanie,” he said. “Starsky’s crazy about you. If you really want him, give him time.”
Meredith shook her head sadly. “I know when to cut my losses, Kenny. I’m pushing thirty and I want a family. Think I have time to wait around for that fool?”
“Guess not,” said Hutch. He leaned back against the counter, massaged his shoulder. The ache in his chest made him feel mean.
Meredith picked dismally at the lasagne pan. “Do you want me to rub that?” she asked.
Hutch’s mouth twisted. “No, thanks,” he said. “I’ll wait for Starsk.”
Meredith exhaled sharply. “Kenny, do you want me to leave? I don’t want Davey to come back and find us glaring at each other.”
Hutch sighed, closed his eyes. “Don’t leave,” he said finally. “I was being a jerk.”
Meredith shot him a look, her fine-plucked eyebrows lifted. “No you weren’t,” she said. “And you’re still mad.”
Hutch didn’t deny it. “All that black and white stuff,” he said. “Was it just your set up?”
Meredith had the grace to look abashed. “No,” she said. “Not really. There’s been…stuff. My mama’s not happy and my sister asked me if I was trying to pass.” She sighed. “Nothing’s easy for mixed raced couples, Kenny. And mixed-race kids? They feel different right off the bat, like they got no people. But if Davey really loved me, I could deal with it. I could tell the world to go to hell. Now it’s just one more reason to give him up.”
Hutch put a hand on Meredith’s shoulder. He felt a pang of honest sympathy, but it wasn’t nearly as sharp as his relief. Her gain would have been his loss.
“Kenny?” Meredith looked up at him, her large eyes luminous. “I am sorry. You must think I’m the biggest bitch.”
Hutch chuckled. “I don’t know, Joanie,” he said. “I’ve known some bitches in my time.” He paused, let the last of his anger float away. “You don’t even make the top ten.”
Meredith stared at him a moment longer, her mouth trembling. Just when Hutch thought she might cry, she burst into laughter.
Hutch laughed too, feeling the tension break. “Joanie, honey,” he said, “If you need reasons to let Starsky go, I can give you plenty. He snores, he eats like a pig, he’s a mama’s boy, his feet stink and he’s never met a shower drain he couldn’t clog with all that hair.”
“Oh, Kenny,” said Meredith. She laughed again, put her arms around him. “You’re just a big ol’ blond softie.”
Hutch hugged her, curling his big frame over hers. As he held her, his heart opened like a flower. He could finally love her the way he’d wanted to all along.
*****
Starsky’s new nurse snapped three teeth on her comb trying to untangle his hair. She looked disgusted and tossed the comb into the trash, suggesting a shaved head. Hutch told her he was sorry Starsky was such a fucking inconvenience. His tone was so icy she left the room in a huff.
Starsky sighed, gave Hutch a wry glance. “Let’s call Joanie,” he said.
Meredith came with oil and a wide-toothed pick, working both through Starsky’s hair after Hutch had helped him with the complicated business of rolling to one side.
Hutch sat on the edge of Starsky’s bed, Starsky’s head in his lap. Meredith sat on the other side of the bed, leaning over Starsky. She separated tangles with the pick, sticking it in her own hair when she needed both hands. Her fingers were gentle this time, she wove loose fuzzy braids instead of tight rows.
“That’s nice, Joanie,” sighed Starsky. “How come it hurt last time?”
“Maybe, Davey,” said Meredith, smiling at Hutch, “I was a little mad at you last time.”
“Not mad anymore?” Starsky asked hopefully. He looked up at Hutch.
“How could I stay mad at you?” Meredith said lightly. “Besides, babe, I got a better offer.”
“Ow,” said Starsky. “Now, that hurts.” He closed his eyes, one hand curled on Hutch’s knee.
“You had your chance, baby,” said Meredith. “Check it out, Kenny. See how long his hair is when I pull it straight?”
Hutch leaned across Starsky. Meredith tugged a lock of Starsky’s hair, pulling it out to its full length. Coil by coil it unwound, shiny black and slippery with oil, until it reached nearly to Starsky’s shoulder blade. Hutch looked up to see Meredith watching him. Her large liquid eyes were guileless. Whatever had passed between them had passed. All was forgiven.
*****
After Starsky was released from the hospital, Meredith dropped by again, this time to take the braids out. She picked out Starsky’s hair, combed it until it fluffed from his head in a large dark halo. “Now you know how the soul brothers do it,” she said.
“Wow, Starsk,” said Hutch, impressed. “You should see yourself. You have a giant afro.”
“So take a picture,” said Starsky sourly.
Hutch wanted to. Starsky looked like Pam Grier with Groucho Marx eyebrows and no boobs. But there were shadows under his eyes and his mouth was tight. Two hours of PT and twenty minutes of Meredith pulling his hair had worn him out, he was hurting, pissed, probably teetering on the edge of a hissy fit.
“Someone needs lunch and a nap and maybe a hug,” Hutch said.
“Fuck off.” Starsky lifted a middle finger.
Meredith grinned at Hutch, waved and slipped out the door.
Hutch left Starsky scowling on the couch and cobbled together a comfort meal-scrambled eggs, buttered toast, sweet canned peaches. He brought Starsky a plate and plopped down beside him. He ate, ignoring Starsky’s foul temper, the slump of his shoulders, the towering afro that leaned and swayed when he shifted.
After lunch, Hutch gathered the dishes, watched with the eyes in the back of his head as Starsk eased off the couch and worked himself across the room, leaning on the back of a chair, against the wall, the bookcase. Hutch sighed over the sink, picked dried egg with his thumbnail. It’ll get better, he thought. It will get better.
By the time Hutch joined him in the bathroom, Starsky had managed to shuck his clothes by himself. He stood under the spray, bracing himself with his left arm, hand flat on the tiles. Hutch leaned against the doorjamb, heart clenching and unclenching.
“Find the shampoo?” Starsky asked, breathless under the spray. The afro was taking on water weight, collapsing slowly, falling to his shoulders and into his eyes.
“Sure.” Hutch wheeled about, looking for the shampoo, finding it in the cupboard under the sink. When he turned back, he saw Starsky easing himself down to the tile floor.
“Hey, hey,” said Hutch, alarmed. Without thinking, he stepped into the shower, catching Starsky by the arm.
“Hey yourself,” said Starsky, gasping. “I’m okay.” He sat on the tiles, pushing back the slumping afro. He winced, laid his head on his knees.
Hutch hunkered next to him. “Sure you are,” he said. “You always sit down in the shower.”
“Yeah, all right,” said Starsky. “I got a little light-headed, nothin’ I can’t handle.” He lifted his head, his eyes took in Hutch, flicking from his feet to the top of his head. “Idiot,” he said. “You’re in my shower with your shoes on… your shoes, your socks, your jeans, your t-shirt and a flannel shirt. This ain’t laundry day.”
“Idiot?” said Hutch. He shoved his wet hair back, felt his t-shirt sticking to his back, water running down his sides. Under his jeans, his underwear stuck to his ass. “I was worried about my dipshit of a partner.”
“You probably have your holster on,” said Starsky.
“No, but look at my Nikes,” said Hutch. His new nylon and suede Tailwinds were soaked, the waffle soles squelching as he shifted his weight. “This gonna hurt them?”
“Won’t do ‘em any favors,” Starsky said. He shifted, grimacing. “Hey, long as you’re here?”
“Make myself useful?” said Hutch. He squirted a healthy glop of Prell into Starsky’s hair, worked up a lather. The last of the afro wilted, twisted back into looping curls. Hutch’s arms were heavy in his wet sleeves, his legs clumsy in stiff, sodden jeans.
Starsky ducked his head under the spray. The suds poured down his chest, collected in his crotch. His naked back was a wreck, a patchwork of puckers, ridges and train track scars.
Hutch moved closer. He traced the longest train track, running from rib cage to hip. He sighed.
“Not a pretty picture,” said Starsky.
Hutch traced Starsky’s back with both hands, letting his fingers wander over the strange new ridges and hollows. “I think it is,” he said.
“You would,” Starsky said.
Hutch moved his hands across Starsky’s back, touching all the knots and gouges, the white lines and shiny new flesh. The scars on Starsky’s back were his. Starsky never saw them, they belonged to Hutch. Hutch leaned forward, pressed his lips to a finger-length weal, its stitch marks radiating like a centipede’s legs.
Starsky’s breath caught. He turned, slipped into Hutch’s arms.
“Ah, Starsk,” Hutch murmured. He caught Starsky, held him close. Water echoed in his ears, ran into his eyes, dripped from his moustache. He let his hands slide up and down Starsky’s sides, the skin naked, warm and soapy against his flannel shirt and jeans. “Hang in there, baby,” he said, kissing Starsky’s neck. “Hang in there, darlin’.”
Chapter Four http://your-woman-now.livejournal.com/2419.html#cutid1