Harlan's Race

strange calm, and suddenly I remembered how he’d said I would fall for him.
    Caressing him, my hands felt his armpits, and he winced.
    “What?” I asked.
    “Oh, nodes a little sore. Guess I’m still fighting that flu.”
    Later that afternoon, our boat thrummed into the Patchogue marina with six bushels of neck on. We were dressed now, ready for public viewing, hair tight in ponytails, sunglasses on. The post-beatnik drop-out and his rock ’n’ roll cull-boy. Vince had his travel bag and jacket in the cabin. From here, he’d walk to the storage place, get his fancy car, and drive to wherever his choices led him.
    At the trucks, neck had dropped to $25 — the holiday was over, and it was a buyer’s market. No matter. We got $150. I put half the cash in his hand. He already had the $330 from before Labor Day.
    “Thanks,” he said.
    His beautiful eyes were hidden behind the sunglasses now. No hugs or big dramatic farewells on the quay. But he smiled. “Take care, Harlan. See you.”
    “Stay in touch,” I said.
    My next stop would be the boatyard, where I’d park the boat for the winter. I got busy washing her down, so I wouldn’t see Vince walking away across the marina parking lot.
    TEN
    Autumn 1978
    After Labor Day, Steve and Angel usually stayed on the Island till October. But this year, they closed the Hotel early. Angel wasn’t well—lymph glands swollen. Steve was bone-tired himself. I was concerned that he’d contracted some druggie bug from Angel, but Steve shrugged and said he’d stopped using Angel’s needles during the summer. The two went home to their Manhattan apartment.
    Marian and I drove the two vets to Kennedy. As the L A. flight was called, Chino kissed my sister gently on the cheek, and said, “I’ll write.”
    To me, he said, “Don’t let up. LEV. may be waiting for us to go.” Then the two men were gone, down the jetway.
    Back in the parking lot, as we got into Marian’s car, with the giant jets thundering over our heads, she leaned onto my shoulder, sobbing.
    “Why does love hurt so much?” she asked.
    I wished I knew, and tried to comfort her.
    ‘What about Joe?” I asked.
    ‘We haven’t been husband and wife for a while. His health is going, and he understands how I feel about Chino. But he’s my best friend, and I can’t bring myself to —■”
    Why did I feel just a little bit possessive about Chino?
    On the way to Prescott, we stopped at a barber, who shaved my beard and cut my hair back to whitewalls.
    Even with beefed-up security, the college had its familiar back-to-school uproar. Around the brick buildings, the first red glowed in maple trees whose outlines I knew by heart. Behind the athletic center, summer dandelions had gone to seed in the lawns around our beautiful new track. Marian and I were a bit behind, so we plunged into paperwork and meetings. I looked at my campus house with new eyes, and improved security there.
    On September 15th we greeted incoming students. A week after that, Betsy and I joined forces with Mike Stella, the associate coach, for track tryouts. Mike had been a straight buddy of Billy’s on the ’76 Olympic team. In November, the college was going to host its own track meet.
    Missing Vince felt like marrow being drawn out of my bones. I missed Harry too, and Chino even more.
    Some conservative parents were angry that I was still heading the athletic department, and they withdrew their kids. Because of the school’s stand on gay rights, our enrollment and alumni funding had dropped since Montreal. But it looked like my effort to stay out of the public eye was working. Other, more important events had lured the media away. My heart was boggled at the way most of the students were hotly loyal to me. And I was going to field a good track team.
    That year, 1978-79, a few more talented college runners did seek us out. I would coach Gary South. And Betsy would coach Linda Crippen, who would just miss a berth on the 1980 Olympic team.
    Falcon was a year old on September 2. But we delayed the party a couple of weeks because his grandfather was tied up in court. When the clan finally gathered, Vince came up from New York and John flew in from San Francisco. With John, in his rented airport car, came a surprise — a young family we knew. A young father of 25, with a muscular sprinter’s build, china-blue eyes sparkling with antic humor, and frizzy auburn hair held by a hippie headband. His slender blonde wife, and their blonde