The Front Runner

snowy egret."
    We stood still. Across the nearest pond, near the inlet, the tall bird stood in the shallow water. It was" startlingly white and pure against the desolate stretch of salt grass beyond. It waded along slowly, bending its slender neck down, looking at us suspiciously. Then Vince moved, walking on, and the bird flapped up. It was frighteningly white against the stormy sky.
    For a moment the gale blew the bird cruelly. I felt a lump in my throat as I watched it. It planed sharply to one side, fighting with its wings. Then it was gliding safely downwind, away over the tide flats and dunes.
    I saw Billy's eyes follow it too. The last of my young birds.
    The ferry left the island at seven P.M. Steve and the Angel were staying on, but they walked down to the pier to see us off.
    As the ferry pulled away, the six of us were all leaning on the rail on the top deck, the wind blowing our hair, our collars turned up. We waved at Steve, who was standing on the pier. He waved back. The Angel Gabriel didn't wave.
    Then we sat down amid the jumble of suitcases, cat-carriers, dogs on leashes, children, and casually dressed straight parents. I felt defiant. Why should I take my arm off Billy's shoulders just because we were going back into straight country? I kept holding him. Sleepy from all the fresh air, and lovemaking, he yawned, slid down a little in the seat and put his head on my shoulder.
    None of the others were being demonstrative, so to all appearances we were the only gays on the ferry.
    Billy gave a soft chortling laugh. "You're getting there," he said. "We're gonna live together any day now."
    "Life is too short," I said.
    Finally a man in a heavy Irish sweater got up and came over to us, swaying, carrying a half-full glass in his hand. He was one of those Fire Island lushes who walk onto the ferry with a martini.
    "Would you mind," he said, "not doing that in front of my wife and children?"
    I looked up at him with macho insolence. "Would you mind not drinking in front of us?" I said.
    THIRTEEN
    IT was incredible that right after the Fire Island weekend Billy and I had our worst fight.
    With all the hassles and pressures, my fear of losing him had been troubling me more and more. I tried hard to hide the fear from Billy, but he sensed it. He was hurt more and more by what he saw as my lack of trust. He was quiet, less tender, and retreated into his training, his teaching and his yoga.
    On Friday morning, April 23, he mentioned casually that he had sat up late in the dorm talking with Tom Harrigan. "Consciousness-raising," he said.
    I was tired and edgy, and my imagination jumped to conclusions. I questioned Billy sharply. He insisted that they had only talked, about something troubling Tom. I scolded him for breaking a training rule. At that, he just walked away from me.
    All that day, he didn't speak to me much. That evening he didn't come over to my house.
    The next morning, Saturday, he put in a hard workout. Around noon, I realized that he had disappeared from the campus.
    I was panic-stricken and asked Vince if he knew where he'd gone.
    "He went to New York," said Vince. "He hitched a ride down with Mousey, Janice and a couple others," naming four heterosexual students. "I just thought he was going to meet his father."
    A gay kid loose in New York City on a Saturday night could do almost anything. Or almost anything could be done to him. Horrors flooded my mind.
    I could see him being cruised or cruising on the street. The neon lights bathed his hair and shoulders in harsh color. I could see him agreeing, walking away
    with the other man. This was ludicrous, because Billy had never been fond of cruising. But I could see it.
    I could also see other, more possible things. He could be 'kidnaped and held for ransom by someone who recognized him. He could be beaten up, and his body wrecked, with the Trials just weeks away. He could be spirited away somewhere, drugged, gang-raped, whipped. I was sure that someone, somewhere, wanted to get their hands on the body of my Angel Gabriel.
    Recently a big murder scare had hit the Manhattan gays. In three weeks, five gays—two of them known activists—had been murdered. Two were fished out of the East River. The other three were found in tenement basements. All had been tortured, mutilated and killed by multiple stabs. The killer, who seemed to be a straight Jack the Ripper with a vendetta against homosexuals, had not been caught. The gays were convinced the