Harlan's Race

on the dunes. While others sobbed and blew noses, the two vets and I dug our hands in the two men’s mingled ashes, and sowed them into the surf. Afterwards, we sat silent on that front deck, where we had thrown knives for so many happy hours. It felt like God himself had trained his crosshairs on us.
    Before we left, I stood at the jar with the beach glass in my hand.
    In every way but physically, as a lover, Steve had been in my world since 1968. Billy had come and gone like a meteor through my skies, and Vince like an asteroid crashing to earth — but Steve shone quietly like a planet, through years of retrogrades. Now he was gone.
    The sea-gem dropped with a gentle clink, into the jar.
    The police questioned me briefly about Steve’s death. After all, they reasoned, I might have killed him to get his money. Fortunately he’d let himself be seen alive by several people after I left the building. He’d planned it well.
    May was always a hard month — Billy and I had been married on May 8.
    This May, I got a letter from the LA. Front Runners. They were one of several new gay and lesbian track clubs—young people running at all levels, for self-improvement, inspired by Billy’s example. The very idea of such a club was something I couldn’t have imagined in the ’60s. They wrote me with their idea for a Billy Sive Memorial 5-K. The event would be held for open amateur runners in Los Angeles every year, on September 9th, the anniversary of his death.
    Their letter explained, “We want to attract both gay and straight athletes, to celebrate human rights. Out of respect for you, we’re asking your permission to use Billy’s name. We also invite you to be involved in the planning, so you can be sure our event will be a credit to Billy’s memory.”
    I wrote back, giving permission and wishing them well. But being there was not something I could face.
    That same month, the Dan White trial ended. White got just seven years for the murders of Milk and Moscone. When I read it in the paper, I slammed my fist on the desk so hard I almost broke my hand.
    Sickened, we all watched the TV news as San Francisco was shattered by the biggest gay riots in American history. Swarming thousands of women and men sacked City Hall, smashed windows, and battled with police. They torched dozens of police cars, injured 61 officers, scrawled graffiti everywhere. The most interesting part was, that even in this orgy of anger, gay rioters held a last line of liberal ideology — they threw garbage and rocks and bricks, and beat cops with sticks. But not one of them fired a gun at a cop.
    I wondered if Vince was there, and had a creepy feeling that he was walking his own lonely road of anger.
    Summer 1979

    s Steve had predicted, his rich relatives didn’t contest
    the will. I took possession of the apartment and the beach house. That summer, I became the Davis Park “writer in residence”. Michael and Astarte spent most of those weekends with me. “Hotel Brown” was the new name. Michael and Astarte learned to listen for tin-can alarms. Most neighbors still thought of me as “that clammer who has a house on the Beach”. Nobody bothered me.
    Striper traveled grandly to the Beach in her wicker carrier. Nobody bothered her either. She came and went from the dunes with songbirds in her mouth.
    But on our first weekend, the two Suffolk County cops showed up. With sinking heart, I heard the boardwalk booby-trap squeak.
    “Hi,” I said, opening the screen door. Silently the two entered—blue uniforms, handcuffs, batons, .357 Magnums in holsters. Lance Shirley had replaced Chapman as sergeant. He had a rookie named Bob Enger. Their menace filled the kitchen. Michael and Astarte, who were doing weekend paperwork at the dining table, eyed them nervously.
    “My son, Michael,” I told them. “And his fiancee, Astarte.”
    Hands were shaken.
    “Coffee?” I asked. If it was not a social visit, they’d refuse.
    “Uh... sure,” said Lance. “Lots of cream.”
    “Black for me,” Bob said.
    While I filled mugs, Lance looked at the packets of gourmet coffee beans that Astarte had brought out.
    “Ey-hey!” he said to Bob. ‘This coffee is some serious!”
    I managed a tight little smile, handing them their mugs.
    “Thanks,” said Bob. “We get cold diner coffee from Patchogue.”
    “What can I do for you?” I asked.
    “So,” said Lance, “Goodnight sold you the house?” “He willed it to me.”
    “Why?”
    “He