The Front Runner

out on you."
    "Why not on the others too?"
    "Maybe because I expect more of you than the others."
    For the first time he looked at me. His eyes were level, accusing, sad.
    "This has been a lesson to me," I said. "From now on, I'm going to treat you right."
    "You know," he said, unsmiling, "I began to think you hated my guts."
    I shook my head. "No," I said, as softly as I dared. "How could I hate you?"
    Billy's shoulders slumped a little. "All right," he said. "I believe you."
    As I got up to leave, I allowed myself the liberty of ruffling his hair—in nothing more than a fatherly fashion. "Get some rest," I said.
    After I left him, Vince and Jacques headed back to his room. I learned later that Billy told them, "so he doesn't hate me. Where does that leave me? He doesn't love me either. What the hell am I going to do? How did I ever get myself into this mess, anyway?"
    SEVEN
    WE went to Des Moines, to the Drake Relays.
    Vince's knees were hurting him, and the best he could do in the mile was fourth. Jacques won the half-mile. Billy ran poorly, listless and distracted. Considering his condition, the fifth-place 28:35 he turned in in the 10,000 meter was a tremendous effort.
    After the race he was out cold. He had the dry heaves, and didn't recover the way he should have. He complained that his right leg, the one the cramp had hit, was tight and sore. And he had muscle tremors.
    A couple of spectators yelled, "Faggot!" as he walked off the track. Obviously word was finally getting around: a little gossip at a meet, a snicker or two at a trackwriters' lunch or an AAU meeting. But Billy was so exhausted that he gave no sign of having heard.
    Billy's father had flown in to see him run, and was worried. "I've never seen him look so bad," he said.
    When the meet ended that Sunday afternoon, we all flew back to New York. I went on up to Prescott with the rest of the team, and Billy stayed in New York with his father. Late the next afternoon, after classes and workouts, I drove down to have dinner with them.
    At the Fifth Avenue Hotel, I found John talking business with a gay activist, George Rayburn, a dark, swarthy and politically vehement guy. Billy was lying in his father's bed, looking as bad as yesterday.
    I sat down on the bed by him and felt his forehead. He was running a low-grade fever, a typical symptom of overtraining.
    "Did you get any rest?" I said.
    He answered in a low voice, barely moving his lips. "No. I can't sleep at all."
    "I can tell just by your face you've lost weight."
    "I've dropped five pounds."
    He looked strangely apathetic, lying there on his stomach, "the blankets pulled clear up over his shoulders, his face half-buried in the pillow. John and George were standing over by the window, each with a whiskey glass in his hand, talking gay politics.
    I sat looking at Billy with a feeling of anguished helplessness. If I wasn't careful, I was going to have a sick runner on my hands. Colds, flu. Or maybe mononucleosis, which a runner takes months or even years to recover from. It occurred to me then that the only way Billy Sive was going to get to Montreal was through my bed. I had to release him from the pressure I was putting on him. As I sat there, my starved body begged me to he down beside him and ease his starved body.
    I put my hand on the back of his neck. He was vibrating with tension, and his skin was burning hot.
    "A little relaxation will help," I said gently. "A good dinner, a movie."
    He shook his head.
    "Come on," I said, putting my hand on the back of his neck again, letting a little of my feelings show in my voice.
    He looked at me guardedly for a moment. I tossed a newspaper onto the bed. "Pick what you want to see."
    He sat up and listlessly flipped till he found the film ads. Then he said, "Song of the Loon is on." After a minute he said, "I love that silly old film. Let's go."
    Billy pulled on jeans and a turtleneck sweater, and we caught a cab downtown.
    The theater was a rundown little place a few blocks east of Washington Square. The whole area looked bombed out. The streets were littered with garbage.
    In the small musty lobby, John and Rayburn left us and went up to the balcony. Obviously they wanted to be alone together. That left me with Billy. We sat downstairs, in a side row. Many seats were empty, and the men sat alone or in pairs here and there. The
    place had that stale smell that tells you it's probably going to be bulldozed for urban renewal. The velvet seat-cushions