The Front Runner (39 page)

And still I could not cry.

TWENTY

AT Thanksgiving, John Sive and Vince Matti came up to spend the holiday at Prescott with us. It was snowing heavily, a surprise early storm. When I saw John's car pull up the drive, I went out. Vince got out into the swirling snow, the first flakes of it sticking to his hair. He was wilder looking and hairier than ever. I had expected to see him heavier because of his not running, but he was as thin as ever from all the frantic activism and running around. His eyes met mine a little guardedly, but he squeezed my arm.

"Good to see you, Harlan," he said.

"Yes," I said. "We've lost touch."

Betsy was waiting at the door, wearing a flowing red crepe pants-suit. Vince kissed her on the cheek and laughed a little. "How's my favorite Amazon?"

In the house, we sank into chairs by the fire, and Vince looked around. "Been a while since I was here," he said. "You've changed some things." A little of the old teasing note entered his voice. "You've been decorating, Harlan. What's come over you?"

"That's Betsy's doing," I said. "She likes to mess around in the house. I've got a little money now, so she can do what she wants."

"When we drove up, I noticed the addition you built on," said Vince.

"Yeah, we needed a couple of extra rooms," I said. "One for Betsy, one for the baby. What can I get you guys to drink?"

"The first thing I want is to see Billy's child," said Vince.

Just hearing his name wounded me.

"No sooner said than done," said Betsy.

She was bringing the baby out of the nursery. Little

John was three months old by then, and wearing his pale blue sleeping outfit. Betsy kneeled down on the old Afghan rug by Vince's chair and put the baby on Vince's lap. Vince held up the baby tenderly so that John stood braced with his tiny feet on Vince's thighs.

"He's growing," said Vince. "That's Billy, all right. The brown hair and the eyes. God, Virgo eyes. Did you guys plan that?"

Everybody laughed but me. They laughed a little nervously, because they knew how I must be hurting.

"No," said Betsy. "It just happened that way. The first time they tried to inseminate me, he would have been a Virgo, but it didn't take. The next month it did, and that would have made him a Libra. But then he was born three weeks premature, so that made him a Virgo." Her eyes were fixed on the baby, and she patted his diapered rear end.

I was beginning to realize that this was going to be a painful Thanksgiving. Vince's willingness to talk about Billy was going to pick all the scabs off the wounds.

John was dandling the baby now, his face alight. He was definitely the dotty grandfather.

He had asked for something to make him forget about sex, and he got it. Billy's death had shoved him into an angry, celibate and activist old age. He had moved to New York and started a law firm with three other gay lawyers. Barton, Cohen, Manolson & Sive was taking only discrimination cases against gay men and women, and John told me that the complaints were flooding in, the way they had from straight women after the women's lib movement began. John seemed bent on singlehandedly winning enforcement of the Supreme Court decision in American life. A poignant sign of his commitment was that he stopped tinting his hair—it was now streaked silvery and natural.

Just looking at John, that night, made me think of Billy.

"Well, what can I offer you guys to drink?" I said, getting up.

"Scotch on the rocks," said Vince. He was lighting a cigarette, drawing on it hungrily, inhaling deeply.

I brought the drinks, and some 7-Up for myself. Betsy was just finishing peeling potatoes, and she took off her apron and came in with a glass of white wine. We sat talking about the things that mattered, and invariably the conversation touched on Billy.

For instance, Delphine's name was mentioned, and everyone fell silent a moment with pain. Finally Vince said softly, "Sleeping pills . . . just like a real woman."

John sighed heavily. "Poor Delphine. I never knew whether he was putting on, or psychotic. I couldn't have lived with him."

"He didn't kill himself because of that," said Vince. "He did it because of Billy. He was wild about him."

My hand tightened on my bottle of 7-Up.

A little later, Vince said, "Steve still in California?"

"Yes," I said, "or I would have had him up here tonight."

Vince laughed a little. "I still can't believe they're filming
Rape.
If they'd come around to me with
that
script two years ago, I would have said yes."

"You would have made a helluva virgin," I said, trying hard to fall back into our old-time teasing.

"Billy could have played that role, though," said Vince.

My hand was about to break the 7-Up bottle.

John tried to rescue me. "Steve still hasn't laid the Angel yet, you know. But he's getting there."

"Oh yeah?" said Vince, not really diverted from the subject of Billy.

"The kid doesn't talk," said John, "but he will now let Steve hold his hand and kiss him. Steve has him on methadone now, and he's hoping to get him off the habit entirely. The Angel is growing up too, and he's indecently beautiful."

"Billy was indecently beautiful," said Vince. He was already a little smashed.

The baby was wiggling in Betsy's lap with amazing strength. "That kid's going to be a sprinter," said Vince. "You sure you know about coaching sprinters, Harlan?"

I picked up the baby and jounced him on my knee hobby-horse until he smiled and gurgled. "Well, I wouldn't object if he turned out to be an athlete," I

said. "What I want most for
him
is to be free. Free to choose how he wants to live, and free to do it no matter what."

Vince was gazing sadly at the fire, one foot up on the brass fender, the smoke from his cigarette rising pale in the rosy light. "Do you ever hear from Jacques?" he said.

"Did you know he got married?" I asked.

"No." Vince turned pained eyes to me, then looked back at the fire.

"He's teaching biology at Illinois. He's got a grant to do field research on wild birds. He married a student of his, a girl named Eileen Meriwether, and she's helping him with his work. She seems like a nice enough girl. They're expecting their first child."

"So he's finally happy," said Vince, with a soft tone of bitterness.

"He seems peaceful. He's running again, you know."

Vince seemed suddenly depressed. "Well, I guess that was predictable. Track?"

"No. Long distance, road races. I think he likes to lose himself in those big fields. He's doing very well, just turned in a new 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 through all the human angles. I guess it was pretty naive of us. After the baby came, Betsy was so in love with him, and being such a good mother, that I realized John might be damaged emotionally if I made her give him up. And I was living alone—how was I going to look after him during the day? I didn't want him to grow up with babysitters."

"What you needed was a Frances," said Vince, grinning drunkenly.

"Well, I'm not into queens, as you ought to know," I said, again a little offended. "And Betsy and I had gotten along pretty cooperatively. So we decided it would be best for the baby if she just moved in with me."

Vince was laughing with the soft raunchy laugh I remembered. "The eyebrows went up all over New York. Harlan Brown going
straight,
man..."

"Listen, I wouldn't touch her. And she'd probably shoot me if I tried. This place is sexless as a monastery. I worry about that too. John and Frances had a warm and loving sexual relationship that Billy probably sensed even as a baby. I keep thinking ... I could never love anyone again like I loved Billy, but I ought to have someone around here that I care for in some way..."   .

"Aren't you sleeping with anybody?"

"Oh, when I get horny, I go down to the city for a quickie, like I always did."

"What does Betsy do when she gets horny?"

"Well, I don't know. At the moment she doesn't seem very interested in sex. But she may grow past that, and bring a lover into the house too."

"That'll be something new," said Vince. "A whole new kind of family."

"It's funny," I said, "how I've come full circle. Betsy has taught me a lot of things about the way women can care and give. Her offering to have the child simply floored me. But their caring and giving, and ours, are just two different worlds. Theirs begins where ours leaves off."

Vince was leaning forward, hands clasped between his knees, gazing at the log blazing on the bed of coals. "After Billy died, I suddenly found I wasn't a bisexual any longer. I don't know, maybe it was the hatred and resentment at anything connected with the straight world. Maybe it was a desire to identify myself more with Billy. But I can't respond to women any more. I'm in that three percent hard core now."

"Look," I said, "you have to realize, it's very hard for me to talk about all that."

Vince shook his head, closing his eyes. "You and I are going to talk about Billy. We're going to have it out."

I stood up and was about to walk off, but Vince stood up and grabbed my arm. "You always wondered if I slept with him, didn't you?"

I stood still and stricken. Finally I said, "Vince, please!" My hoarse whisper cracked in the still room.

Vince was gripping my arm painfully. He looked straight into my eyes. "I loved him too. I loved both of you. Deep down, I always had this thing for you, and I wondered if you and Billy might break up someday. And I always knew you had a thing for me too, because you weren't pure like Billy."