Harlan's Race

men kept their faces expressionless.
    “A year ago, you turned Ram down,” I said.
    “I’m flat broke. I’m only going to do it once.”
    “They’re giving you top billing, I hope?” I couldn’t hold back the sarcasm.
    “I’m the star.”
    ‘You majored in TV film production. What’s a bright kid like you doing in front of the camera with no clothes on?”
    ‘You’re not my mom,” Vince growled.
    “Mother knows best. And before you go, give me Billy’s shoe.”
    “Fuck you. It came off in my hand.”
    Chino shook his head, and lit another Tiparillo. Harry looked like he wanted his shot of bourbon. But they wouldn’t
    drink on duty. They’d get blasted on the plane to L.A. John leaned back in his corner and closed his eyes — he needed a nap. The last two years had aged Billy’s dad by ten years.
    We were crossing a city square, where thousands of pigeons were flying around a few old people feeding them. I could see the set of the porno film, probably somebody’s penthouse living room, shades down, hot lights, camera moving in for the extreme close-up. Many years ago, I’d donned a black-leather mask and made a film myself. Just once, for groceries.
    The Bible was right about one thing — not throwing the first stone.
    Back on campus next evening, around 9 p.m., Betsy and I were lounging on her downstairs window-seat. She occupied a small faculty house not far from mine. I’d gotten so worried about endangering her and the baby that I seldom went there now. So this was a rare visit by the “old friend” and “ex-coach”.
    My wild idea of proposing to the mother of Billy’s child was not one that I’d discussed with anyone. So my knees quivered a bit. Would she see my reasons?
    The spring night was a little cold, so a bright fire crackled in the fireplace. We were bundled in clean sweats, with a huge patchwork quilt around us. The baby was crawling in the joint lap that our knees made. I was trying to feel cheerful, putting that courtroom defeat behind me. The evening was off to a good start.
    Betsy and I were having one of our friendly arguments about runners. She’d been a top NCAA sprinter, and was going to coach the Prescott women’s team in the 1978-79 school year. Betsy was like a hummingbird — small, feisty, and hard to catch. So we liked to get each other going.
    “Go on,” Betsy scoffed, “women runners can compete with men.”
    The baby was gung-ho to crawl off the window-seat. We kept grabbing him.
    “Aw, Bets,” I said. “Look at the spread between men and women in short distance. Look at the 60-yard dash, for Chrissake. Women will never come close to the men’s world bests. No matter how hard they train!”
    “Aw, yourself!” she laughed back. “Look at long distance. Women are beating men one-to-one in the 100-mile races.” Holding the baby in one arm, she used the other to bat me over the head with a sofa pillow.
    Happily I defended myself with upraised arms.
    “Only a few women can win a hundred miler,” I said, taking the baby from her. “Exceptions prove the rule.” The kid was eight months now — all that was left of my lover. Alert, he stared at me boldly, waving his fists. Half of his chromosomes were Billy’s — how many would dominate? His blue-gray baby eyes — were they going to be Billy’s eye color? Would his black hair change color, like so many babies’ did, and go light brown, like Billy’s? His strong little feet felt more gifted at karate than running.
    I had heard the hippie talk about reincarnation, and wondered if it was possible — if Billy’s spirit was back in this tiny body?
    The baby grabbed my nose.
    “Holy jeez,” I exclaimed, pulling back.
    “I can hardly wait for him to start walking,” Betsy said dryly, taking the baby back.
    “He’s like a little falcon. He zooms in and nails things.” “A falcon? God, the Irish poet in you comes out at the weirdest moments.”
    ‘Well, that’s how falcons hunt. Good nickname for you, kid.”
    Falcon suddenly squalled with hunger.
    “Right now, he’s hunting me,” she said, sticking his head under her T-shirt, so he could nurse.
    His kicking feet quieted, and soft suckings floated in the air. Studying her lamp-lit figure, her smiling face bent over the baby, I felt that emotional foliage stirring in me that was still photosensitive to women’s moonlight. All the bitterness toward my ex-wife, and some nega-
    tive attitudes about women in general, hadn’t killed it.