December 23rd- Detective Dobey by m. butterfly

I’ve always considered myself to be an observant person. My husband is a captain with the Bay City Police Department and, bless his heart, he often tells me I’d make a good detective.

But not as good, apparently, as someone else in my family…

It was early December 1975, and I was getting ready to take my six-year-old daughter to the mall to see Santa.

“Do you know what you’re going to ask for this year, Rosie?”

Usually a chatterbox, she’d never been able to squeak out a single word once she came face to face with the man she’d started including in her prayers as soon as Halloween was over. Perhaps this time would be different.

“Yes, Momma,” she said, pulling a thick wad of colorful, shiny paper from the pocket of her best sweater.

“You’re not supposed to rip pages out of the Sears Wish Book,” her brother said before I had a chance to ask Rosie what she was holding.

She unfolded the sheet of paper and waved it like a flag. “It’s not a page for boys, Cal. Unless you want a Budding Beauty Banity, too.”

Cal scoffed. “Yeah, as if I’d want that stupid girlie thing. And it’s a vanity—not a banity. Dummy.”

“Calvin! Don’t call your sister names.” Trying to scold someone while biting the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing isn’t easy. “You’re fifteen years old. You should know better by now.”

Rosie puffed out her chest. “Yeah, Cal. You should know better by now.”

“What I know,” Cal said, “is what you really want for Christmas.”

“Yeah. I said already. A Budding Beauty—” Rosie screwed up her little face in deep concentration—“Vanity.”

“Nope.” He shook his head. “You want Hutch to be your boyfriend.”

Rosie scowled.

“You love Hutch,” Cal pressed. “You want to marry him when you grow up.”

Rosie faced her brother, staring at him like he’d just grown another nose. “I can’t marry Hutch. Dummy. He’s already married to Starsky.”

“Rosie!”

“Guys can’t marry other guys,” Cal said. “Just like girls can’t marry other girls.”

“Why not?”

“Because they can’t. Everyone who’s not an idiot knows that.”

“Calvin,” I cautioned. “That’s strike number two.”

Rosie turned to me, sad and confused. “Momma? Why can’t Hutch and Starsky be married?”

Cal rolled his eyes and loped off toward the living room, laughing all the way.

“It’s just the way it is, honey,” I said, unable to come up with a better explanation for a First Grader. “The law says that only men and women can marry each other.”

“But that’s not fair.”

“I know, sweetheart. Some things just aren’t.” I picked up her coat and beckoned her closer. “Now, if you want to see Santa today, you need to put this on so we can get to the mall before he has to go home for dinner.”

From that point on, Rosie’s words concerning Dave and Ken’s relationship—spoken without hesitation and with such certainty—wouldn’t get out of my head.

These two fine young men were the best detectives Harold says he’d ever worked with. We’ve known them for years. They’ve been to our house to celebrate holidays and other special occasions. They’ve always treated me and the kids with infinite kindness.

They’ve even saved our lives.

I’ve been around police officers my whole adult life and know how close partners can be. But was Rosie right? After all, they took most of their vacations together, just the two of them. Girlfriends never lasted long. They were constantly touching each other beyond playful slaps on the back. And there were times when they exchanged the kind of looks that never failed to produce an inexplicable lump in my throat.

But did that make them a couple?

Even if I somehow knew for sure that they were, what difference would it make? It’s not like I could’ve said anything to my husband—their boss back then—about it. But I did start watching them with a different eye.

Then tonight happened.

It’s five years later on the Saturday before Christmas, and all four of us just got home after having dinner at their house. Yes, I said their house. They bought the place last year, after Dave was released from the hospital. We’d come terribly close to losing him. He suffered three potentially deadly gunshot wounds during an ambush in the precinct garage, for heaven’s sake! Everyone said it was a miracle he survived, let alone recovered so nicely. With no disrespect to our Lord, I think what actually happened is that Hutch willed him to live. And Dave just wasn’t ready to leave Hutch.

It didn’t surprise me in the least when they moved in together. If they hadn’t, that would’ve been a shock. Dave needed so much care, and no one was more capable of providing heaps of TLC than his partner. Well, former partner, now. They’re both working again for the BCPD again but in much safer—albeit much less exciting—positions. Harold hated to lose them, of course, but fully supported their decision.

We’ve made many visits since they bought the modest ranch-style house, but tonight’s felt different, somehow. Special. Almost magical—and not just because of the season.

The stairs to the second floor were too much for Dave in the beginning, so he slept in the dining room, which Hutch furnished with a hospital bed and a massage table. As Dave’s health improved, the bed was replaced by all sorts of machines and equipment for rehab purposes. A treadmill. An exercise bike. Free weights. That sort of thing.

I blinked back a few tears to see that it was now being used for its original purpose, with a beautiful table set for the six of us.

“The hall closet is a bit, uh, full,” Hutch admitted with a grin that was becoming a permanent feature of that handsome face. “I’ll take everybody’s coats upstairs.”

“Can I help?” Rosie asked, gazing up at him with her head slightly bowed. And tilted to one side. If she flirts this much at the tender age of eleven, she’s going to be—pardon my language—Hell on wheels once she’s a teenager and starts high school.

Hutch blushes easily and, as if on cue, he began turning a festive shade of red. “Uh, of course. Thanks!” Arms full of our jackets, he nudged Dave with his elbow. “Hey, Gordo. Go make our guests comfortable. And stay out of trouble.”

Dave huffed. “I live with you. How much more trouble can I get into?”

When Rosie came back downstairs with Hutch a few minutes later, she was finally able to notice something other than her long-time crush.

“I love your Christmas tree!” she gushed, pointing to the big blue spruce in the far corner of the living room. “Who did it?”

“You mean the decorating?” Dave asked. “Both of us.”

“Oh, please,” Hutch sighed. “I went out and bought it and hauled it home and put it in the stand. After that, it was all you, you tree-trimming hog.”

“What? You put up some of the ornaments.”

“‘Some?’ Since when is two ‘some?’”

“You’re such a—”

Hutch put his hand over Dave’s mouth. “Did you get everyone’s drink orders yet? And don’t you dare lick me.”

Dave grunted something unintelligible, then pried Hutch’s hand off his face. “Everyone but Rosie’s.”

“I’d like a Coke, please,” Rosie chimed in. “If that’s okay with my folks, I mean.”

It was. This was a special night, after all. And she did say please.

“What about me, Starsk? Aren’t you going to ask me what I’d like?”

“As if I need to. One prune-juice-with-wheat-grass cocktail coming up.”

Still bickering affectionately, our hosts excused themselves and headed for the kitchen.

“Rosie?” Harold addressed his fidgety child with more bark than bite. “Get over here and sit down.”

“Just a minute, Daddy.” She moved closer to the tree. “I want to look at the ornaments first.”

“Well, okay,” I said. “But be careful. And no touching! I don’t want you breaking anything.”

That girl could win awards for her withering glares. “Oh, Momma! I’m not a baby anymore.”

My son may be old enough in the eyes of the law to drink alcohol, but he’s still young enough to enjoy teasing his sister. “Could’ve fooled me, squirt.”

Without taking her gaze from the tree, she dismissed Cal’s jibe with a fluttery wave of her hand. “Oh! C’mere, Momma! Come see this one!”

The source of her fascination was a large red glass heart with sparkly blue and white lettering: KH & DS, 1980.

“Isn’t it pretty? And so sweet!”

I wrapped my arm around her and squeezed gently. “It sure is, honey.”

We were still admiring the heart ornament when Hutch and Dave came back, each carrying a tray of glasses.

“Hey! You found my favorite,” said Dave as he placed beverages for Rosie and me on the coffee table.

Hutch handed Harold and Cal their beers and pressed another into Dave’s hand before taking his own. “I gave it to him as an early Christmas-slash-Hanukah present,” he said proudly.

“So smart, this guy of mine.” Dave beamed at Hutch. “Red for Christmas, blue and white for Hanukah.”

“I know everything about Christmas,” Rosie said, earning an eyeroll from Cal, “but I don’t know very much about Hanukah. Could you tell me about it, Hutch?”

Hutch cleared his throat. “Uh, well, that’s Starsky’s area of expertise. Right, Starsk?”

So, the Dobey Family learned a lot about Judaism and the Festival of Lights—and in a most entertaining way. And the Starsky-Hutchinsons made the effort to learn a lot about the kids: how they’re doing in school, what sports they’re playing, what their hobbies are, what books they’re reading, what movies and TV shows they like…Their genuine interest in my children is something I’ve long admired about them.

After enjoying a wonderful meal prepared by Hutch, Rosie (who else?) helped him clear the table while the rest of us went back to the living room with refilled cups of coffee. Mere minutes later, the two kitchen elves appeared bearing more edible gifts: plates filled with colorful Christmas cookies.

“You baking now, too, Hutch?” Harold asked.

“A bit, but none of this.” He gently slapped Starsky’s hand as he tried to grab a rum ball off the plate Hutch was trying to set down on the coffee table. “It’s from our favorite bakery. I just hope my greedy little pig here leaves some for the rest of you.”

“Hey!” Dave is really quite adorable when he pouts. “Nice way to treat an invalid.”

“Invalid?” Hutch sputtered. “The only part of you that still qualifies for invalid status is—” He tapped his temple— “right here, mushbrain.”

Dave had come a long way since the shooting. But although it wasn’t late, and I’m sure we weren’t boring him that much, the poor man was soon struggling to keep his eyes open. Eventually, he stopped fighting it and fell asleep, his head resting on Hutch’s shoulder, with an arm thrown across Hutch’s middle.

“Shouldn’t we be whispering or something?” Rosie asked.

Hutch smiled sweetly and drew Dave even closer to him. “It’s okay, honey. You could set off firecrackers at the end of this sofa and he wouldn’t budge.”

Even so, we kept our voices down for a while longer, until I felt we should make our exit.

“Starsk,” Hutch said, squeezing Dave gently. “Babe, wake up. Our company’s leaving.”

“’Morning already?”

Hutch chuckled softly. “Nope. Almost bedtime.”

Dave shook his head, as if to clear cobwebs, and stared at Hutch with dismay. “Jeez! I wasn’t sleeping, was I?”

“Just a bit.” Hutch ruffled the dark curls. “But it’s good that you’re awake now. The Dobeys need to get going.”

“It’s getting late,” I said. “And we have to be up early for church tomorrow.”

“Oh.” Dave rubbed his hand over his face, sat up straight, and turned to us. “I didn’t mean to be rude.”

For what seemed like forever, no one said a word. I was so grateful when Harold spoke up.

“You’re fine, Starsky. We all get pretty tired this time of year. Right?”

“I guess.”

I found my voice at last. “Oh, sweetheart! You’re never rude.”

Hutch helped Dave to his feet and left him in my care before going upstairs, with Rosie in tow, to fetch our coats.

“It’s crazy,” Dave said, “that I get so tired so early. It’s been more than a year…”

“It takes time to heal,” I told him. “Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

He shrugged. “That’s what Hutch always tells me.”

“Well, he’s right.”

“About some things,” he sniggered.

“About most things, you mean,” Hutch said, arriving with our coats and my doting daughter.

“You keep thinking that, pal.”

When we said our goodbyes, I hugged Hutch first, then Dave. I was delighted to feel some lean muscle on those dear bones again.

“Let the man go already, Edith,” Harold said. “It’s not like you won’t be seeing him again soon.”

“It’s fine, Cap’n. I’d never complain about getting a good long hug—”

“I should hope not,” Hutch mumbled.

“—from a beautiful woman,” Dave finished, then pecked me on the cheek. “We’re really looking forward to spending Christmas Eve at your place. You sure we can’t bring anything?”

Hutch put his hands on his hips. “‘We,’ huh? What would you bring? Your laundry?”

I grinned and shook my head at them. “You two wouldn’t let me bring anything tonight, so I’m just returning the favor. Anyway, thanks again for a lovely evening. But I’d better get this one—” I nodded at Rosie, who was stifling a yawn—“home or she might topple over.”

As we drove away, Dave and Ken stood in the front doorway, arms around each other’s waists and waving like a couple of kids.

Rosie, Cal, and I waved back just a enthusiastically until we couldn’t see them anymore.

We hadn’t been on the road for very long before Rosie nodded off. Cal didn’t look terribly alert, himself.

The radio was tuned to a station that plays mostly Christmas music. Harold and Cal like to rib Rosie and me for enjoying it, but I’m certain they don’t hate as much as they claim to. Harold turned up the volume a notch.

“So,” he said quietly. “I think they’re, uh, well… Do you?”

“‘They?’”

It’s fun to give my husband a hard time every now and then.

He took his eyes off the road just long enough to deliver one of his trademark stern looks. “Starsky and Hutch. Who else?”

“Yes, dear. They are. Do you have a problem with that?”

“No. Of course not.” He cleared his throat. “How long have you known?”

“I’ve suspected for a while, but I wasn’t sure until tonight. Rosie, however, had it figured out when she six, if not sooner.”

“Rosie? When she was six?”

“That’s right.”

“Hmm.” He was grinning. “Well, how about that? I guess she’s her father’s daughter after all.”

“Whatever you say, dear.”

“I’m happy for them, Edith. Starsky and Hutchi’son. They’re good men.”

I reached over and patted his arm. “So are you, Harold.”

And I don’t need to be a good detective to know that.