Harlan's Race

his ear, threatening endless lawsuits and revenge. Later Michael told me she’d tried to call his office, and he’d hung up on her.
    After Labor Day, I was revising the book, and couldn’t tear myself away from the Beach.
    One day in September, I heard excited shouts. The first bluefish run was on — millions of the fighting fish pouring their way south to the Carolina Banks. I grabbed my waders and pole, and raced to the beach, along with a couple dozen other people from the beach houses. The wash was alive with ravenous blues feeding on tiny smelt. Just as I made the first cast, the police Jeep pulled up, poles sticking out the back. Lance and Bob had their waders on, too.
    ‘We just got a squeal that a big run’s on at Mastic,” shouted Lance. “Hop in!”
    My pole flung in with theirs, we careened down the beach.
    The diehard Island lovers enjoyed the pungent autumn days. Wild creatures were in urgent flight. Monarch butterflies. Ducks and geese and snowy egrets. One day, Striper joined the great migration — she disappeared. At first I got all paranoid, thinking she was the victim of another hate crime. But a couple days later, I found her half-eaten body. Evidently she’d been killed by a wild animal. I missed my little cat spy — the last living link with Steve and Angel.
    Autumn was abandoned-pet season again. One day the two cops showed up with a thin Black Labrador pup that they’d found wandering around. She pranced all over my deck on her big feet. Lance produced two cans of dog food to get me started.
    “If you’re not gonna have a boyfriend,” Bob said, “you gotta have a dog. You gotta!”
    The pup named herself Jess.
    Finally I committed to wintering on the Beach, so I could finish the book without a break. Non-perishable groceries and firewood arrived from the mainland. That year, winter came early to the South Shore. People closed their beach houses. Ferries stopped running. Only the hardcore clammers went out on the bay now. Such a normal end to a good year. It never occurred to me that I was looking at a fragile moment in time, that would soon be gone.
    By mid-November I’d turned the manuscript over to Steve’s old agent. Ernie sold hardcover and paperback rights for $150,000. It was one of those lucrative contracts of the ’80s, and a staggering amount for a jock who’d never made more than $40,000 a year. My book would be published in October 1981.
    Chris didn’t contact me again.
    Neither did Vince. It appeared that the door between us, like the one between me and Chris, had finally closed.
    On December 14, when I picked up my mail on the mainland, I got the first letter from LEV. in months. This one baffled me. It said,
    BAD BOY — RUNNING AGAIN — HAVEN’T
    YOU LEARNED TO FEAR — SPORTS ARE HOLY
    — OFF LIMITS TO FAG SCUM — DESIST OR
    I’LL WHIP YOU.
    The letter didn’t make sense — I wasn’t running now.
    Suddenly impatience and rage almost choked me. With the book done, it was time for me to take LEV. by the throat. Chino was right — he was making fools of us. It was time to kick. Time to blow the menace off our track.
    That night, I wanted to discuss it with H-C, but couldn’t reach them, so left a message. For some reason, I was feeling worried about Chino. Then I started worrying about other family, and made a few calls. Outside, as I talked, a chill wind was sweeping the bay. The Beach was dark, with only a few lights along its 30-mile sweep. Around the corners of the house, the wind sighed, moaned, talked softly, like a lover outside who was trying to sweet-talk his way in. The first drops of winter rain flicked against the panes. Jess lay on her side by the warm stove, dreaming of raccoons.
    Betsy and Marla didn’t answer. Evidently they had gone somewhere for the holiday.
    John Sive’s voice softened a little. He groused about his gall-stone pains, and a case that wasn’t going well.
    Russell sounded insufferably cheerful, and wondered if I’d spend the holidays with him.
    “Did you know George Rayburn died?” Doc Jacobs asked.
    As I sat there, stunned, my doctor told me that George had developed a rare cancer that usually wasn’t fatal. He’d heard of a few other gay men with the same problem.
    After 11 p.m., Chino finally called me. He’d gotten the message. He sounded terrible — lifeless, no energy.
    “Call me back in a few minutes,” he said.
    That was my cue to call him on a secure line. So I threw on a rain poncho, and jogged