Author: Daydreamer
Posted: 5 January 2003
Alice and Gillian
"Whatcha got there, blondie?"
I look up quickly at my partner, shake my head, and return to my reading.
"Hutch?"
I look up again, the note of real concern in Starsky's voice forcing my attention.
" 'zat something for a case?" His voice is mild, but I know he's not going to drop it till I answer. I've been quiet all day, avoiding him, avoiding everyone, and he's worried.
"Just something I need to review," I mumble, hoping he'll let it go. But, of course, he doesn't.
"Can I see?"
I shake my head again, and the movement hurts. I haven't been sleeping. I haven't been eating. My head hurts all the time. Part of me wonders if I'm getting sick, and the other part knows if I am, it's my own doing.
"Why?"
He's like a goddamned dog with a bone. It drives me nuts sometimes, this hovering of his. I know he cares, I know he's worried, but ... He just doesn't understand what I need this time.
"Let me see, buddy," he asks in a tight voice. I sigh, defeated as I hand over the Cleveland police report on one Sharon Ann Thompson.
I watch as he scans the page. A couple of juvenile pickups that shouldn't even be there, several counts of solicitation. The date of one is branded in my mind. April 12, 1964. She was only seventeen. I just can't wrap my head around why this girl, this ordinary girl from an ordinary town like Cleveland, would sell her body. What makes someone do that?
"Who is this?" Starsky asks.
I shrug. "Just someone I didn't know." I look up and see the worry in his eyes. He hurts for me. He wants me to get better, to be well, to be the man I was before. He cocks an eyebrow in question and I sigh. "Someone I wish I had known."
"You're not making a lotta sense here, babe," he says, and his voice has gone tight again.
What can I say? Nothing makes a lot of sense right now.
He flips to the back of the file, where the picture is, and I can see when he figures it out. "Oh," he says quietly, and his hand comes out and rests on my shoulder.
"Oh," I agree.
"How'd you get this?"
I shrug again. "Called Cleveland." I really don't want to go into how I spent a few minutes with Al down in the holding cell, with the guard conveniently taking a leak. I glance down at the still-broken skin on my knuckles and think, 'It's still not enough. Nothing will ever be enough.'
I look up again. Starksy's talking but I missed most of it and there's real fear in his eyes now. He's scared for me. I don't want to scare him, but I just can't seem to think right now. It's like the most important parts of me are lying six feet under in a cemetery over off Highland Avenue. And what's left isn't functioning too well.
I just keep thinking that if I could just understand, if somehow I could know what made her the way she was, what it was she had to run from. Maybe then I could sleep without the dreams. Maybe then I could eat without getting sick. Maybe then I could be me again, and not this fragmented stranger who reads old files from the early sixties and scares his partner. My eyes fill and I watch in amazement as wet splotches form on the papers on my desk.
Starsky's tugging on my arm now, still talking and I begin to make sense of the words. I rise at his quiet urging, and when I stumble, he catches me. He always catches me. I clutch at his arm and he lets me cling to him, oblivious to the looks we're getting. His voice is soft, gentle words flowing over me like soothing rain.
"Gettin' you home, buddy. The Cap'n understands. You just came back too soon. Need a few more days. It'll be all right."
I stumble again, and he's there, supporting me, the words never stopping. They cover me like a blanket, protecting me from prying eyes and well-meaning friends. "Easy does it, partner. One step at a time."
We're down the stairs now, and he's sliding me into his car, then jogging around to slip behind the steering wheel. I'm leaning against the window, my eyes closed, when he touches me again. He's strong, this partner of mine, and I am always surprised by how gentle his touch can be.
"Geez, Hutch, when's the last time you slept?"
"I ..." My voice is suddenly hoarse, as my throat closes up. I was doing okay until the file came. As long as I stayed angry, I was okay. But I couldn't stay angry. And I can't deal with Starsky -- his concern, his gentleness. It threatens to break me into a million tiny pieces. I ache and I feel as lost as Sharon Ann.
The car stops and we're at my place and once again, my partner is pulling me up, holding me erect, dragging my ass upstairs and into my apartment. Once inside, I feel stronger and I wriggle from his grasp. He lets me go, reluctant to break our connection, but still respecting my need for space.
"Bed, blintz," he says with a smile, and I smile back, a weak cousin to my usual grin, but a smile, nonetheless.
I head for the bathroom first, empty my bladder, wash my face and hands, and strip down to my shorts. My clothes I leave in a pile on the floor.
He's still hovering by the bathroom door when I come out, but he lets me slide by and then follows me back to my bedroom. I start to lay down on the spread, but he makes a guttural sound and I step away while he pulls the covers back. I slip between the cotton sheets, and he covers me tenderly, his hand touching my hair so gently, with so much care, I'm afraid I'm going to start crying again.
"I'm gonna stay," he says as I close my eyes, and again I hear the fear in his voice.
I can't deal with his fear. I'm not strong enough for that. I shake my head. "No."
"Hutch ..." he pleads.
"No," I say again. "Starsk ... please." I open my eyes and stare up at him. "I'm ... I need to be alone."
He stands up straight, hurt at my rebuff, and assesses me coolly. I try to look normal, sane. Try to pass inspection.
Finally, he nods and I relax fractionally. "I'm coming by in the morning, though," he says firmly. "I'll bring breakfast, and I want you to eat." His hand comes out and he pats my belly through the layers of covers. "Don't think I haven't noticed you're not eating."
I nod agreeably. Anything to get him to go. God, I love him, but his presence is suffocating me right now. I close my eyes again, sigh softly, and force my breathing into a regular rhythm. I roll on my side, my back to him. Despite his agreement to go, I know he'll wait until I'm asleep. I breathe slowly, evenly, and force myself to be still. I can feel his eyes on me as the minutes drag, and then, at last, he turns and I hear his steps in the hall, then the bathroom. I smile again; I knew he'd pick up my clothes. He's in the living room now, the door opens then closes and at last, I can breathe again.
I am alone.
I did manage to sleep, but woke up screaming. Sweat- soaked body, sheets damp, hair clinging wetly to my scalp, I pulled myself from my bed. I stumbled blindly to the bathroom, turned on the shower, stripped, and climbed in.
I could cry in the shower. I didn't have to pretend. No one could hear me, and if I worked really hard at it, I could imagine that the water scorching my face was just the shower. Who would know the difference?
I stood quietly, water sluicing over my still painful head, and it came to me. A sudden revelation, somewhere between remembering Gillian and the pain of lost possibilities, that I might be able to understand. That maybe there was someone would could tell me *why* my lady love had chosen to sell herself. Someone who could make me see, help me know what happened, and then, maybe, I could begin to let go.
It's late when I get here, and I'm still tired. Gillian's funeral was four days ago, and she'd died two days before that. I don't think I've slept more than 10 hours since she left me.
But I'm focused now -- I have a plan. I always work better when I have a plan. You'd think Starsky would be the mission-oriented one, what with being in the Army and all. But it's me. I'm the planner. My parents would never have accepted anything less. I always have to have a plan.
So despite my exhaustion, and despite the hour, I'm pulling up in front of an older apartment building in a questionable part of town. Good thing I drive the old clunker; Starsky's Torino would never be safe down here.
I'm already in the building, have already knocked on the door when it occurs to me: what if she has a client in there? Can I handle that? I scrub at my face with both hands. This isn't Gillian; I'm here for answers, not to judge. I can do this, even if some asshole dick comes to the door. I'll be pleasant, wait my turn. Hell, I'll even pay if I have to, but I don't think it'll come to that.
I can hear someone at the door, and then it opens slightly, the chain still in place.
"Hutch?" she says softly. "What's wrong?"
What's wrong? I scrub my face again. I fell in love. I found out she was a hooker. My lady died. My life is pretty much down the crapper at this point. I can't eat. I can't sleep. I hurt all the time. There's a hole in my soul and nothing I do will make it better.
"Nothing," I say. "You got company?"
She nods, then studies me, her head at an angle, and seems to come to a decision. "I can get him to leave."
I shrug. I don't want to think about what that will entail. Will she give him a refund? A raincheck? How exactly does it work when you can't come through on your promise of sexual favors because a sorry ass cop shows up on your doorstep at two in the morning and you feel you have to let him in?
Alice always has had a soft spot for me.
The door closes again and I lean back against the wall, waiting. It doesn't take too long, and then this guy is stepping out, shirt still not tucked in, jacket over his arm, and Alice is apologizing in that soft, southern drawl of hers, promising him another night, whatever he wants.
Oh, fuck! Whatever he wants? What if he wants to hurt her? What if he wants something weird or kinky? What have I done?
The guy stares at me, not exactly hostile, but not real pleased either, and then he's gone, but I still can't move. The door is open, and Alice is waiting. I am consumed by one thought: whatever he wants. What have I done? I'm rooted to the floor, planted in one spot and nothing can make me move.
Then her hand is on my arm. Tugging gently. Soft words wrap around me and again I am reminded of how words can protect you, can make you feel safe, if they come from the right person. Even if you can't understand them.
And that reminds me. I am here to understand. I'm in her living room now, and she stands before me wrapped in some sort of diaphanous robe over an almost see-through gown, and I am embarrassed to be looking at her. She sees where my eyes have landed, quirks her lips and makes a small sound that might be a laugh, then settles me on the couch. "Stay here a minute, Handsome," she murmurs, and I nod, closing my eyes so I won't look at her.
I hear sounds in the kitchen, cabinets open and close, water runs, and then I smell coffee. She's making coffee. I finally force myself to look towards the kitchen, but she's not there. I search the rest of the apartment, what I can see, but she is gone. I sigh. Maybe she won't talk to me.
But then she's back, wearing jeans and a t-shirt, and again I'm embarrassed, because maybe I made her uncomfortable. Maybe I made her ashamed, and that wasn't what I wanted to do.
"I'm not here to judge. I just want to understand."
"Understand?" she says, her head tilted again as she looks down at me. "Understand what?"
It takes me a minute to realize I've spoken out loud. I flush, my cheeks so hot I can feel the heat emanating from them. Dropping my gaze, I stare at my hands in my lap.
"Understand what?" she repeats softly.
"Why?"
"Why I do this?" Her hand waves in the air, as if this were just the apartment, as if this were rearranging the furniture, or interior decorating, or maybe painting a picture if one looked at the art on the walls. As if this were a normal thing for any young woman to do.
I nod, still shamed by my actions, shamed that my need to know may upset her.
"Why?" She turns my question around on me, and for a moment I am lost. Then I realize -- she means why do I want to understand.
So I tell her.
I tell her about Gillian, and about finding happiness, and having hope, and touching joy, and then about loss, and confusion, and doubt, and the sick sense of betrayal that hides in my gut and kills my appetite and drags me screaming from my dreams. I tell her I can't let go, I can't let Gillian go, because I don't understand it. I don't understand any of it at all.
"I didn't even know her name," I say, and I can hear the tremor in my voice. "I didn't know who she was at all."
She stares at me for a long time, her arms crossed against her chest and I wonder if she realizes how scared that position makes her look. How young and vulnerable -- like a child afraid of a beating, hugging herself because no one else will. My throat closes and I want to hug her, to tell her that it's okay, but she shifts before I can bring myself to move, reaching out to me, taking my hand to lead me to her kitchen.
The coffee is done.
I sit at the table and she serves me, just like any of the dozens of women I've dated would do. How do you take your coffee, Hutch? Would you like milk or cream? Can I get you anything else? I have some cookies, crackers?
I grit my teeth against the ordinariness of it all, and smile and say thank you. She sells her body to whoever can pay, and then she offers me coffee. Gillian, who was not Gillian, sold her body, and offered me love.
Why do they do it?
She pulls a chair over to the stove, then stands on it, reaching into a high cabinet and digging out a dusty bottle of bourbon. She closes the door and hops down, then shrugs apologetically at my confused look. "If I'm goin' to talk about this, I need a little something to fortify myself." She pours a healthy slug into her cup, then passes me the bottle and I do the same.
"I drink scotch in the bars and bourbon at home," she says in a non sequitur, and I nod, not knowing if a reply is required of me. "Scotch is harsher, it mellows you with just a sip." Her voice is soft, the words falling slow and smooth from lips still kiss-swollen. "Bourbon soothes slowly, it wraps around your insides and warms you with a gentle embrace."
We sit in silence, sipping, and the bourbon is liquid fire in the warmth of the coffee. It slips down my throat and warms me in places that I didn't realize were cold. What do I do now? Do I ask? Do I wait? Do I get up and leave and pretend this never happened? What right do I have to demand this woman reveal her soul to me? Especially since I have nothing to offer her in return.
I've just about decided to go when she sighs and says, "I was a straight A student. Bet you never would have known that, would you?" Her eyes are pleading as she looks at me. I can almost hear the words: I used to be respectable. Please, respect me.
"I'm not surprised," I say honestly, and I'm not. She's well-spoken, seems to be well-read. She has a good vocabulary. I tell her this.
She nods. "I still read a lot. You can learn a lot if you take the time to read."
Should I ask about her reading tastes? What's the last book you read, Sweet Alice? Do you read between tricks? Or only on your night off? And do you have a night off, or are you putting out every day? The ugliness of my own thoughts disgusts me, and I lift my cup and take a big gulp of the hot bourbon-coffee.
"You finish high school?" I ask instead, and she shakes her head.
"I grew up in a little town in Georgia," she continues, only she pronounces it Jaw-jah. "One of those places where everyone knows everyone." She pauses now, takes a sip from her own mug, then looks at me. "My parents were ..."
"Abusive?" I supply helpfully. Of course they were. That explains it. She ran away from the abuse, and ended up like this. But she's shaking her head, and looking at me oddly, so I say, "Oh. Sorry," and force myself to be quiet.
"Successful, I was going to say. Very successful." She drinks again and tilts her head. I'm beginning to learn that that head tilt means she is considering her words. "And they wanted me to be successful."
I nod now. I can understand this. My parents were the same way. Make good grades, work hard, make something of yourself. That was the Hutchinson motto. It was a motto that nearly killed me. Stifled who I was. Success was everything, and there was no room to be me -- not the way I grew up. When I went to college and finally got away, even then the pressure didn't let up. Nothing I did was right, not the classes I took, the major I chose, and certainly not my career. Oh yeah, I can understand pressure to succeed.
"I was doing all right, too. Good grades, Honor Society, several other prestigious affiliations -- prestigious affiliations were important to my parents. As long as I was successful, everything was all right."
"Did they love you?" I ask, the words sounding harsh after the lazy liquid sound of her voice.
"In their fashion," she says with a slight smile, and then she adds, "as long as I was successful."
"So what happened?"
She laughs, but it's a painful sound and it hurts to listen to it.
"I was a little too successful in one of my ventures."
I shake my head, not understanding.
"When I was fifteen, I fell in love."
Again, I shake my head, still not certain of what she means. Kids fall in love all the time. Hell, it's what teenagers are supposed to do, isn't it?
"I acted on that love."
I narrow my eyes. O-kaaaay. So she lost her virginity at fifteen. That's a little young by anyone's standards, but she wasn't the first to be that young, and she certainly wouldn't be the last. How did that lead to prostitution?
"I got pregnant."
Light beginning to come on. Understanding dawning. I wait.
"My parents were not impressed with that particular success."
I nod. "Oh."
She rises and refills our cups with coffee, then adds bourbon to both. I nod my thanks this time, and look at her face when she sits. There's pain in her face, and tiny lines around her eyes. Her mouth is tight, and even her body seems rigid. I reach out and take her hand. "You don't have to do this, Sweet Alice," I say softly. "You don't have to tell me."
"Handsome Hutch," she whispers. "You're almost enough to make me get out. If I thought there was a chance ..."
I hold her hand gently, but I can't meet her eyes. What am I supposed to say to that? Sorry, one hooker per decade is my limit? Or do I give her false hope? Sure, baby, you get out and it'll be you and me forever. I shake my head. Sometimes, I hate myself.
She pats my hand and nods, then says, "It's okay, Hutch. I'm not expectin' anything here. It's okay, really."
I look up in time to see her shrug and somehow, that hurts more than any words she could have said. I suspect she's trained herself to never expect anything. Never to even let herself hope. Less pain that way. Yet this time, I see it. I see the hope in her eyes. And I'm the one who took that hope away. I'm a prick to even be here but I can't bring myself to get up and leave. It all seems so goddamned unfair.
"What happened to the baby?" I whisper, pulling my hand back and clutching my cup.
She sighs. "Well, once my folks found out I was pregnant, Daddy wouldn't speak to me. And Mama -- well, Mama put me out. It was -- ugly."
I nod, trying to imagine. Pregnant. Fifteen. Fifteen, for Christ's sake! I wasn't even shaving when I was fifteen. Couldn't drive yet. Didn't have a job. Hell, I still watched cartoons on Saturday mornings when I was fifteen. That's just a kid. And put out. What kind of people were her parents? What the hell did she do when they 'put her out?'
Oh. Dumb question. I know exactly what she did. That's why I'm here.
"The boy I was in love with, well, he was in the Army. Only eighteen himself, but still ... So I went to him."
Makes sense. After all, the boy was responsible. So how the hell did she end up on the street?
"I found out pretty quick that he wasn't who I thought he was. He -- drank. And he was -- violent."
I wince, closing my eyes against the pain. There are so many layers to her words -- words chosen carefully for their neutrality, but words that nonetheless paint an all too vivid picture.
It was -- ugly.
He -- drank.
He was -- violent.
I've never known anyone to say so much with the silent pauses in their speech.
I gulp at the coffee, scalding liquid burning the roof of my mouth, my tongue, my throat, and then choke out, "How bad was it?"
She gives that bitter little laugh again, the one that flays my skin and leaves me open to her pain and says, "Bad."
"Can you tell me?" I don't understand why I need to hear this. I can imagine it well enough. Why do I need her to spell it out? Why do I want her to give it to me blow by blow, step by step?
And then I realize.
I don't.
But maybe, she needs to tell me. And since I brought it up, since I dragged it out, dredged it up from whatever corner of her heart she kept it hidden, maybe I owe it to her to listen, to hear her, and to acknowledge her pain.
"I was about five months along. He beat me unconscious. I don't know how long. I don't know why I didn't lose the baby then. I bled. I bled a lot. But I didn't lose the baby."
"Couldn't you go home? Couldn't you call your parents?" I think of my own parents, hard and cold and distant, but still, they would never have left me alone to deal with something like this.
"I did," she says, "and my mother ..." She draws in a deep breath, then drinks deeply, blowing first to cool the coffee so it doesn't burn her as it had me. "My mother reminded me ..." Her voice breaks and I wait while she struggles with herself. "She reminded me that I had made my bed, it was time to lie in it."
Saying it, getting it out, seems some sort of release, and she sits back in the chair, sips the coffee again, and stares at something only she could see.
I want to touch her, to comfort her, but I have nothing to offer.
"He didn't touch me for a while. I think it scared him."
"Wasn't there anyone else you could go to?"
"Probably," she answers nonchalantly. "But I was fifteen, and the Army had transferred him to a new post, and I didn't know anyone. Hell, I didn't know anything." She barks that bitter laugh again and it rakes my skin painfully. "It was so bad that time, I thought about just getting on a bus, going home, no matter what my mother had said."
"Why didn't you?"
Her eyes are bruised circles of blue, bleeding pain when she looks at me. "Right after they found out I was pregnant, my father accepted a new job." She shrugs. "They left the country."
I ache for her.
She is staring at the wall, her head angled slightly up, her jaw stiff. "He did it again a month later. I can't remember what set him off that time. But it was worse. And when I came to, I was in the closet and he'd nailed it shut. I was in there for four days." She shifts her gaze and looks at me. "I think it was the odor that made him let me out."
I stare at her, my tear-filled eyes meeting her dry ones. Had she already cried all her tears? Or had she simply lived with this for so long, there was nothing left?
"It was a girl," she says dully, still looking at me. "I had her on the second day, and it was a girl."
I close my eyes as the tears fall. My hands come up to cover my face and I am rocking in the chair. From somewhere, I hear a low moaning, an undulating keening that rises and falls in rhythm with my back and forth movement. Her hand is on my back, rubbing in little circles and before I know it, I have draped my arms around her waist and buried my face against her belly.
I weep.
I weep for fifteen-year-old children who were abandoned by their parents.
I weep for young women who were abused by the men who should have protected them.
I weep for babies who were lost before they ever had a chance to live.
I weep for Alice -- who has suffered more than anyone should, and yet she opened her door and her soul to me and expects nothing in return.
And I weep for myself. Because knowing Alice's story doesn't tell me anything about Gillian. It doesn't answer my questions or ease my mind or make me understand. I realize that nothing can make me understand, but knowing what shaped Alice's choices, and what might have shaped Gillian's, does at least make me more understanding, even if I can never understand.
She lets me cry myself out, then pulls me to my feet. I'm swaying from exhaustion, and bourbon, and tears. She leads me to her couch and pushes me down, and I can feel her taking off my shoes. I want to stop her, tell her it's my turn to take care of her, but my limbs are heavy and I can't open my eyes, and none of my muscles will follow orders. I vaguely feel a pillow slide under my head and a soft blanket is tucked around me, and then she brushes back my hair, and kisses my forehead, then my swollen eyes. One soft kiss on each lid. Her hand rests on my head and it's nice, comforting to know I'm not alone as I give myself up to sleep.
It had taken me a while to get organized today. First I'd slipped out of Alice's, ducking out quietly before she woke. I'd hustled home to be there for Starsky's early drop by, and I'd eaten the egg biscuits he'd brought and drank the orange juice and told him I appreciated it.
He told me to stay home a few more days, and I nodded. I was better, I told him, but I still needed to rest. He studied me then agreed, and said he'd be back that night.
Once he was gone, I went to the bookstore. Didn't take long to find what I was looking for, then a quick trip to the local high school, and I lightened my wallet by another fifty bucks. But it was worth it.
I wrote a quick note, then headed back to Alice's. I left the GED study guide and the pre-paid admittance to the test in the hall by her door. My note said, "If you're not ready to get all the way out, Sweet Alice, at least take the first step. I know you can do it." I signed it 'Handsome,' and I knew she'd know it was me.
One more quick stop, where I wrote out what I wanted and was told I could pick it up that afternoon. I put that one on the credit card, then headed back to my place, ate lunch and took a nap. And there were no nightmares for a change. When I woke, rested for the first time in days, I went out again to pick up my order.
And now I stand here in the quiet afternoon. It's late October and despite the many years I've lived here, I am still surprised when leaves don't change and the winds don't chill. I stand here on the green grass, under palm trees and blue skies, and I miss the bright colors of autumn in the Midwest.
I kneel and touch the smooth granite, my fingers tracing the letters slowly.
I touch the letters, read the words and slowly, I let go and say good-bye.
And then, because it's not just Gillian who rests here, I take the metal plate and push it into the ground, tight against the stone, the sharp stakes biting through the hard soil and settling firmly.
It's not just Gillian here. Here too rests a young girl whose soul was killed, even if her body lived on. Who somehow lost her way and was never able to completely find her way back. A child really, who never had a chance because there wasn't anyone to care when she needed it most.
I look at the little plate, then kiss my fingers and trace these letters, too.
"I'm sorry, Sharon Ann," I whisper. "I would like to have known you."
Disclaimer:
Starsky and Hutch and all related concepts, characters, etc,
belong to Spelling/Goldberg Productions, Inc.