Harlan's Race

the media all over us again.”
    I drew a deep sigh of weariness.
    “Living off campus will be more expensive for you,” I said. “At least let me help with the expenses. And you shouldn’t live alone.”
    “I can handle it. It’ll be great to have my own place.”
    “You won’t have the campus security. You’ll be isolated.”
    “It couldn’t be any worse than living next to a lightning rod.” Then she smiled. “And... I need some privacy. Room in my world for that golden lover. That’s what Vince used to call it.”
    In the soft afternoon light I studied her face as she bent over the crib. She wore her helmet of short black hair like a Roman bronze. Her blue eyes, with long curved eyelashes, didn’t have a flicker of humor in them. Her delicate cheekbones and jaw were chiseled by some ice-ax of female determination. Betsy was the most loving and devoted mother I had ever seen. But she was also a loner, like me
    —    stoic and embattled.
    I held Falcon up, and kissed his tummy, which he loved.
    That wondrous life-heat of his — her heat, and Billy’s — warmed my hands.
    “The vets ought to know that he’s Billy’s child,” I said.
    “I want as few people as possible to know.”
    “How can H-C protect him if they don’t know all the angles?”
    She thought about this. Reluctantly, she finally nodded.
    So I called Chino in, and Betsy took a deep breath and told him the family secret. Our war-dog stared down into the crib, as the baby made mighty swipes at the dangling mobiles. He had been there when Falcon was born, but now he was visibly shaken. As he picked the baby up, he showed us that tender, gentle side of himself that he usually kept hidden. Chino felt like he’d been raped by death, and crawled away from it with a desperate desire to protect life.
    “Mi’jito, mi vida,” purred Chino. “Queguapito eres ____”
    The baby melted into Chino’s shoulder, and took a fistful of his glossy black hair. Next he grabbed the little medal of Mary that my friend wore around his neck.
    “Ayyy, mira-mira . . . La Virgencita,” Chino said, showing Mary to the baby.
    As Betsy watched Chino expertly coaxing a burp out of Falcon, her eyes widened. Clearly he’d been a veteran babysitter in a big barrio family. Then, behind Chino’s back, she looked at me with a grudging little smile and gave me a thumbs up.
    While Harry gravitated toward Steve, Chino and I edged toward friendship. I’d coached a few men of color, but never been close with one. He was intriguing, elusive, still a little edgy about our differences, but willing to express them in humor.
    War had taught Chino to keep people guessing what his scene was. Let other gay males spread their peacock tails of chic. He lived in clean jeans, work shirts, jungle boots. No tattoos, no bandannas or studded belts, no sassy
    T-shirts. Besides, belts and earrings were handles for an enemy to grab you by. The medal that he wore, of the Virgin of Guadalupe, was oxidized, so it never glinted — a glint could spell death in the jungle — and it hung on a light chain, easily broken. The only hand-hold was his long hair
    — and heaven help anyone who touched it. His only display was that dignity and reserve. Emotion lay hidden a thousand fathoms deep in him, like broken ships.
    As I got started writing, Chino sat in my room by my typewriter, reading Steve’s Rape of the Angel Gabriel. I had cut my literary teeth in a busy newspaper office, so having a sidewalk superintendent was not a problem. In fact, his presence was comforting.
    When I took breaks, we talked.
    “Where’d you get those gray eyes?”
    He shrugged. “I’m a California half-breed — Mexican, Spanish, Japanese. Kids in the barrio called me Chino, because I look so Asian. And my mamita was part Chumash, and she raised me the old way. So I’m not even Catholic. I don’t know where the eyes come from. Maybe the Spanish side.”
    About childhood and school, he said only:
    “Mamita stood up for me — she thought I would grow out of being a joto. She wanted me to be the big Latino man. To have respect. But I had to survive. The vatos, the gang guys, beat on me all the fucking time, man. I learned my first evade and escape stuff on the home streets. When I was 17, I dropped out of school and enlisted. Mama cried... and cried. But the SEALs have a high-school equivalency program, and I made her happy when I finished it. Yeah... I had big plans in those days. Things got FUBAR