Harlan's Race

is only the beginning,” Vince was saying. “Too many Americans want the queers to disappear. Concentration camps in the desert, like Spiro Agnew said.”
    As we listened in helpless discomfort, Vince talked about what some gays saw as “the plot to exterminate us”. He quoted further from Vice President Agnew’s speech about getting rotten apples out of the barrel. His scenario had a horrible logic to it. We were four somber silhouettes trudging past Rockefeller Center, with its magnificent tree, its blaze of lights and music, its skaters sweeping happily around the rink. We ignored the vendors who sold roasted chestnuts — the smoky smell floated past us unenjoyed. Laughing children jostled us. Bogus Santa Clauses collected money for their personal Christmas funds.
    “So you really believe all that?” John asked Vince testily. “You’re telling me that all the court victories are for nothing?”
    Michael stayed silent, looking uncomfortable.
    Vince kept his eyes warily moving along the street.
    “If I could take Dan White and Anita Bryant and Senator Briggs and a few hundred other people,” he added, “and line them up against a wall, I’d —•”
    He pantomimed holding a heavy machine-gun with his right hand. His body jerked realistically as he mimicked a long burst, letting a long belt of invisible rounds run through the invisible gun.
    “Well,” John declared, weary of rhetoric, “this old Mary is tired and cold. Let’s grab a cab.”
    In the Village, our neighborhood florist was holding a magnificent spruce tree with a SOLD tag on it.
    The Village sparkled with gay holiday spirit. Store windows were decorated with saucy imagination. The famous bakery had its window full of chocolate-covered dicks. As we pushed through the crowds, Vince looked around like he wanted to fix every sound, smell, taste, feel in his memory, as if he was sure he wouldn’t see it again. Two women, a butch in custodian’s uniform and a femme in suede boots, were wrestling a huge tree onto the top of their car. Now and then, an older male couple passed us — men with careers and money to burn, hampered by glittery gifts in paper bags. A fey mixture of disco music and old carols sluiced the streets.
    Vince looked around hungrily.
    “God,” he whispered. “I love it so much. Why do I love it? There’s so much pain here.”
    Suddenly tears were freezing on his cheeks.
    “Are you okay?” I asked him.
    “Now and then I get this feeling.”
    “What?”
    “Maybe you understand it —you’ve been a dad. A feeling like all these men, and all these women, are my kids. And somebody has messed with my kids.”
    We put up the tree in the corner by the fireplace, where it loosed its pungent scent into the air.
    The apartment had a feeling of family overcrowding. Michael had surrendered Angel’s old room to John Sive, and was bunking on the sofa for a few days. Vince would share the master bedroom with me. John was planning a traditional roast-goose blowout for tomorrow, so he was busy with cookbooks and checklists.
    “In the morning, don’t let me forget to call the butcher,” he fussed, “to make sure they got my goose order in.”
    For tonight the old lawyer took charge of our simple dinner.
    After dinner, Astarte came, and we all decorated the tree. Amid pleasant arguments about whether the tree should be traditional or piss-elegant, we finished by 10 p.m. The tree was a hybrid of both styles — a silver pyramid of tinsel, glowing with lights in every color of the rainbow. Michael glowed like a kid as he teetered on top of the ladder, hanging the last glass ball by the star.
    Vince held the ladder for him. “I can’t believe I’m being so bourgeois,” he said.
    Looking at the finished tree, we all felt overcome by bittersweet memories of childhood holidays. Of the people who weren’t there. Steve and Angel. Marian and Joe—it was like they were dead too. Most of all, Betsy and Falcon. We called them up, but Betsy wasn’t home. I showed Vince the studio portrait of Falcon that Betsy had just sent. Falcon was a sturdy two years old now.
    “You miss him,” said Vince, behind me, resting his chin on my shoulder. I could feel a sexual vibe coming from him.
    ‘Yeah.” I was on my guard, feeling his body heat.
    “He’s the real baby Jesus in our cradle, huh.”
    ‘Yeah.” My mind was moving ahead to our talk.
    “If he grows up gay, and you and I do our job, Falcon will have a better world to live