Harlan's Race

by her house, ostensibly to drop off some athletic-department paperwork, I thought about how to approach her.
    But she was way ahead of me.
    The two of us talked quietly in her back yard, as we weeded around her tomatoes. The lawn under the apple trees was littered with windfalls. Autumn leaf-burning scented the air, and the whole scene was so peaceful. But we kept our heads down, so anyone doing a long-distance visual surveillance couldn’t read our lips.
    “Falcon and I need to be away from here,” she said. “I’ve been talking to Joe and Marian since that Intelligencer story came out, and I sent my resume around. A community college in northern California wants me. I can start in January.”
    All my yearnings to have that baby grow up at my side were now crashed.
    “Do it,” I said, pulling a weed.
    “And don’t offer to help me. Anything you do calls attention to me and the baby.”
    I felt a pang. The familia (Chino’s word was now deep in my brain) was scattering like a covey of quail.
    “Chino says ... if you need him, he’ll grab the next plane.”
    “Thanks,” she said, tears rising in her voice. “But whoever they are, they know he’s with you. I, uh ... I’m getting a gun, and I’m taking a firearms safety course. God, if my friends ever find out. Funny, isn’t it? The last closet in the gay community is owning a gun.”
    Suddenly tears streaked down her cheeks.
    “Get the bastards, Harlan,” she said. ‘Whoever they are. We shouldn’t have to live like this. Get them.”
    Later that day Chino and I visited Jacques in the local hospital. Our ringneck was sitting up in bed, wearing a huge Earth Day T-shirt in lieu of pajama tops. His wound was a near miss — no damage to bones or the shoulder joint; now it was dressed. Adoring girl students were leaving, and the room was full of flowers and silly gifts.
    “Good to meet you, Chino,” he said cheerfully, shaking the SEAL’s hand. “Heard a lot about you.”
    We sat down by the bed.
    “I don’t think this is more Montreal,” said Jacques. “Why would they bother with me? I mean, I’m straight now _»
    ‘The police say it was a hunter who missed,” said Chino.
    “Yeah,” I said. “Got you instead of a 12-point buck.”
    “Good thing my antler isn’t decorating somebody’s pickup,” Jacques commented. “I’m gonna be a father again. Elaine is pregnant.” He squeezed my hand. “I wanted you to be the first to know.”
    Chino and I had already agreed how I’d handle the media questions about leaving Prescott. I’d make the simple offhand comment that it was time for a change. Downshifting out of academe, upshifting into private life as a writer.
    Late that night I lay awake in my small bedroom, in the newish Danish-modern bed, still chewing on the rage.
    Across the hall, the door to the other, bigger bedroom stood open. It was the guest room now. Chino was sleeping there, curled in the sagging old walnut bed where Billy and I had once slept together. My friend’s uneasy, silent sleep filled the house — the sleep of a man who lived his life waiting in ambush. Tomorrow he’d fly back to L.A.
    So it had ended. They had taken almost everything. Two lovers. My career.
    Everything but my life, and my will to outkick Them.
    They wouldn’t get those.
    One Friday morning, as I was waiting out the term, Life balanced out the hurts with healing.
    Putting the kettle on for tea, I sat down to read my mail. Since I didn’t have much to do on campus now, I could sit back. First, a check for letter-bombs. Then I read. Three moralizing scorchers from clergymen. A psychology professor who wanted to study my gay mind. Seven love letters from men. A straight mother who prayed my example would help her confused boy.
    Last was an envelope from the Hames-West Institute for Hemophilia Research in Manhattan.
    Reading it, I snapped to attention.
    Dear Dad,
    It is amazing how the family uptightness has affected me all this time, because deep down I didn’t agree with it. If you decide to throw this letter away, and not answer it, I will understand.
    It has made me angry to see your personal life spread all over the media. When I saw the latest crap in the National Intelligencer, I got mad enough that I decided to try and contact you. If you are interested in seeing me, that would be truly copacetic. Call me at home or the office.
    Your son,
    Michael
    T he teakettle was whistling, forgotten. Turning off the flame, I re-read the letter