Harlan's Race

the small cove at Steve’s house.
    Was a media stake-out waiting?
    The shingled house sat by itself, on a neck where the island narrowed to just 100 feet. Realtors had warned Steve that the ocean could break through here. But Steve loved the privacy. The front deck faced the ocean. The back deck led to a small dock by the cove. Amidships was a two-story tower where gaslight glowed in the upper windows — Steve’s studio. Over the door was a twist of driftwood lettered HOTEL GOODNIGHT. From the security standpoint, this site was very exposed — easy to watch, and shoot at. But so was every other house on the Beach.
    As I eased the boat into the boathouse, I wondered how long I could quietly come and go from here without being noticed. City weekenders didn’t pay much attention to the working boats. But the local people, some of whom had houses on the Beach, knew every single clam-boat by sight, even the generic ones like mine.
    “Hi,” said a voice out of the dark.
    Nobody was there but Steve’s familiar figure, sturdy and broad-shouldered as a hawk, with unruly hair and half-breed look.
    “Coast clear?” I asked.
    “It’s been quiet. Guess our media friends decided the cold war is more important.”
    He wrapped his arms around me, and hugged me hard.
    It felt good. I was so hungry for even the most minimal intimacy with males. Even with this long-time friend who was so close to me that I’d never considered sleeping with him. Steve pulled back and studied me in the dark.
    “Don’t think I’d recognize you on the street, buddy. What’s that new cologne?” He sniffed my fishy aura. “Channel No. 5?”
    “Don’t complain,” I said, handing him the burlap bag of seafood.
    Another shadow came forward — Steve’s companion, Angel Day. Angel was around 18.
    “Hi, Angel,” I said.
    As usual, Angel said nothing, stroking their big black cat who sat on his shoulder. He had gotten very thin, but moved with his usual languid energy as he helped us carry in the food. The cat weaved adoringly around his ankles.
    In the glow of gaslight and warmth of the Franklin stove, living-room curtains were drawn so that no one could see in. Marian and Joe were relaxing there with glasses of wine. They had come quietly on the ferry, also disguised, after some maneuvers to throw off any tails. They got up, and we had more warm hugs and exclamations about my new cologne. Joe had a look of deep exhaustion, and his cigarette cough was worse than ever. All the heat he’d taken for supporting Billy’s Olympic bid, as college president, had cost him.
    The clams went into spaghetti sauce, and the crab into boiling water.
    While spaghetti cooked, Steve said the fatal words: “I’ve got some good news and some bad news.” ‘What?” I asked, feeling uneasy.
    ‘The good news is... Vince is out here for the summer. At The Pines.”
    ‘This is good news?”
    “I thought you’d be pleased.”
    “Only if he’s calmed down a little.”
    The mere mention of Vince’s name sent emotion rushing through my nerves. “What’s the bad news?”
    “Later,” said Steve.
    Over dinner, Steve and Marian chatted about visiting the gay towns the next night. The Prescotts had wanted to get closer to gay life. But now Joe said he’d be too tired to go. I filled my belly with pasta and listened, and wondered if I should go with them and look Vince up. Later, after Marian and Joe had gone to bed, Steve and I sat up in the Tower Room talking, and he gave me the bad news.
    ‘Vince is trying to organize a gay revolutionary front,” he said. “He’s talking violence ... revenge for Billy.” Shocked, I stared at Steve. What had happened to my peacenik boy?
    “Where’s Vince staying?” I asked.
    “In some yuppie’s house. A guy named Mario Vitti.” “Doesn’t sound very radical.”
    I could blow off rumors of gay revolutionaries. By 1978, America had been boiling with radicals and revolutionaries for more than a decade. On many campuses, there had been Students for a Democratic Society — SDS. There’d been Abbie Hoffman and his Yippies, who disrupted the 1968 Democratic convention in Chicago. There’d been Weatherman, who went underground and violent. The Chicano movement, and the Black Panthers, and the American Indian Movement — AIM. The FBI had hounded all these movements. I could even blow off a rumor of Vince starting the Gay Panthers. But I couldn’t blow off jealousy of Vince’s sexual adventures. The feeling was