Harlan's Race

forgotten Billy. His life, and his death, and what he stood for, had drawn them here. Vince was beside me. Scowling, he looked at the people
    too.
    “Beautiful sight, huh?” he said. “Outrageous.”
    “Screw you, Vince.”
    He wasn’t leaving it alone.
    “You’d rather be shot in the head in the closet,” he blazed at me, “than get up in public and say two gutsy words! Our strong but oh-so-silent Marine.”
    “Cool it, time to go,” said Harry, coming up.

    ith Harry flanking him, my angry egret turned on
    his heel and went off to warm up. A local TV news crew homed in on him, and he talked into the mike as he walked, with many eyes following him.
    “Watch your butts, guys,” somebody sang out. “Matti is back.”
    “Oooo ... watch Matti’s butt,” somebody else added.
    Everybody laughed.
    “Go, Vince, go!” a bunch of gay guys were chanting.
    “Joe, Joe, he’s our man,” chanted Park’s young Korean fans.
    “. . . This is a training run for me . . .” Vince was frowning at the TV reporter. It was his hint that he wasn’t going to showboat in his own race.
    Just then, Michael and Astarte found me. Their eyes were filled with anxiety at Maiy Ellen’s presence, and I tried to calm them down. “Harry and Chino are on top of things. You kids just run.”
    Hadn’t I said that to Billy in Montreal?
    Michael enveloped me in one of his emotional kid hugs. He, too, was looking more grown-up — 28 now, more hardened, eager for his future. I held him hard, then hugged my unofficial daughter-in-law. “Kill 'em, girl.”
    “Yeah!” Astarte made a fist.
    Chino looked at his watch, then me. It was 7:10. I did my warm-up stretching there behind the tent.
    “What’s with you and Vince?” he asked.
    “The usual piss-off about the podium.”
    “It’ll make you both run better,” Chino said heartlessly.
    At 7:25, Chino, Marian and I eased down to the start. Runners were racing up from last flying visits to the toilets. Vince and I were seeded in the first row at the starting line. Joe Park was there too, a short wiry guy in a white headband, trying to psych Vince by looking fearless. Behind us, the street was a solid mass of humanity forming up — slower runners seeded into their divisions, wheelchairs and pet people to the rear. Poker-faced Griffith Park rangers stood by to help direct traffic. The LAPD men looked like they wished they were elsewhere. Squad cars and the ambulance were parked, ready.
    “Everything’s set,” the cormorant said into my ear. “If anything moves out there, we’re going to know it.”
    At 7:28, Chino’s hand squeezed my arm, and he left.
    Vince and I exchanged an angry look.
    For a moment, that dream invaded my thoughts. This morning Chris was a million miles from here, helping his wife get the kids ready to go back to school. Here, Vince and I were off to a bad start. It was my job to lead, to be the example.
    At 7:29, our Front Runners president, Mason McMeel, stood by the start with a bull-horn.
    “Ladies and gentlemen,” Mason said, “welcome to the third edition of the Billy Sive Memorial 5-K!”
    The roaring cheer that went up from that mob of runners made chills run up and down my back. Whistles were blowing and tambourines beating wildly like we were in some big outdoor disco. I wrestled with my loneliness and rage.
    “Okay ... attention everybody,” Mason said.
    The mass of runners quieted.
    “For the newcomers to the sport,” Mason said, “we have people along the course with Gatorade and juice. We have first aid available. We have everything you need today, except maybe —■” He paused, and laughter went up at the unsaid joke. “So take care of yourselves. This is a day that we celebrate caring for people. Everybody's a winner here. That’s what this race is about.”
    More cheers went up. The rightists were stony-faced.
    As I looked at the course curving away into the maze of green, I felt an unutterable paranoia and terror.
    “You don’t have anything to say to me?” Vince dug at
    me.
    ‘Yeah,” I snapped. ‘You’d rather have your head shot off in public than keep your mind on the race. Let’s get together here, or we’re fucked.”
    “I’ll count to three,” Mason announced. “On three, I’m going to fire the starting pistol. When you hear that sound, run like hell.”
    Everybody laughed. Vince stared at me. Our stomachs were churning. His elbow nudged mine unfeelingly.
    “One ... Two ...” Everybody tensed forward,