The Front Runner

personal best in the marathon, a 2:27. I'm still coaching him. The important thing is, he's enjoying it again. He's even got Eileen running a little."
    "People hassling him?" In his sorrow, Vince was still protective.
    "No. Not much. The road races, you know, that's a very liberal scene. But even in track ... I think that's one thing that did change. The guilt that everybody felt . . ." It was going to be impossible to avoid talking about Billy. I could feel a terrible strangling non-feeling building up inside of me. "Anyway, we've got four new gay runners out in the open now, and a few of the old men are muttering, but mostly everybody is kind of leaving them alone."
    A sad, heavy silence hung in the room.
    John tried to break it. "Harlan's being modest. He's not telling you about his running."
    Vince grinned sadly. "You mean, competing?"
    I laughed a little. I was playing with the baby, pre-
    tending to be fierce and growling a little, and he was grinning and loving it. "The AAU's got a new rule now, pros like me can compete with amateurs in the masters events. You're looking at a very hot over-40 trackman."
    Vince threw back his head with a sad little laugh.
    "Don't laugh," I said. "I've got a 4:05 mile. In college I only ran a 4:04. It's really amazing, the speed that some of us old guys have got."
    Vince leaned forward suddenly and put his hands over his face, but then took them away again and stared into the fire.
    "The Whole thing was my fault," he said.
    "What do you mean?" I asked.
    "I was a horny idiot back at Oregon, and took off Jacques' belt in the locker room. If I hadn't done that, the three of us would probably have drifted apart, and Billy would be alive, and you'd be here living your peaceful life."
    I stood up. "Vince, would you stop talking about it!"
    "I killed Billy," he said. "Christ, I would have stopped that bullet with my own head, so that the two of you could still be together."
    I was starting to come apart myself. "A lot of people ate guilty. But are we going to call it guilt? I'm guilty. But is it guilt? If I'd just stuck to my rule about not laying athletes, Billy might still be alive. But at the time, the choice seemed very simple. The choice was, was I going to live out the rest of my life without ever having loved a single human being. Is that guilt?"
    I stood staring into the fire. The big blackened log lay on the bed of glowing coals, flames rising softly all around it. Suddenly it looked like a human torso to me—Billy's torso in the furnace. I turned away.
    Vince got up and came to me, gripping my arm wordlessly. Finally he said, "I'm sorry, I'll shut up."
    Betsy was standing in the kitchen door, wiping her wet hands on her apron, her eyes wide and sad. She had overheard us. John was holding the baby, looking down, with Utile John's hot silky head resting against his tie.
    The scene was mercifully ended by the doorbell ringing. Joe and Marian were outside, cheerful and covered with snow. "Whew," said Joe, "six inches already." I could tell from their faces that they sensed we'd probably been having a painful discussion.
    But we all managed to start being social and superficial. Betsy put the baby to bed, and we brought the food to the table. Betsy lit the candles. I said the blessing and we sat down. John carved the turkey with skillful grace. We loaded our plates with mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce, asparagus, stuffing. We must have looked like a scene straight out of Norman Rockwell. It was one of those family holidays, and I was alone again.
    We stayed up late, talking softly so the baby wouldn't wake. Finally, about one, Joe, Marian and John got up. John was going to spend the night at their house. I had told Vince he could stay with us, so I couldn't very well suggest he go with them now, even if he'd made me sad.
    Betsy yawned. "I'm going to bed," she said. "You two talk as long as you want to." She kissed Vince on the cheek, and went to her bedroom.
    Vince sat drinking yet another whiskey. He was close to being stoned out. I threw another log on the fire, and sat down in the other wing chair.
    "You have separate bedrooms, huh?" he said.
    "You didn't really think we're sleeping together," I said, a little offended.
    "Sorry," he said. "I keep putting my foot in it. I just can't get over seeing the two of you living together."
    "It was a hard decision to make. Billy and I"— impossible to avoid mentioning his name—"planned that insemination thing without thinking