The Front Runner

by Patricia Nell Warren

  "All I can promise you," I said, "is that Billy and I are going to conduct ourselves with dignity. If anybody makes fools of themselves, it's going to be those senile old fanatics."

  "Look," said Bruce, "I'm sitting here thinking. There's a story here on the whole question of ... of this kind of thing in sports. If I can find just the right handle on the story, and if I can find somebody to publish it, I'd like to try a piece. Would Billy let me interview him?"

  "Sure," I said. "He's a beautiful interview. His head is an open book."

  "All right," said Bruce, "I'll get in touch with you when I've worked things out."

  "If you do a story," said Aldo viciously, "find some kinda way to dispel all the other rumors too."

  "What other rumors?" I said.

  "You really want to know?" Aldo asked. He was furiously tearing up a piece of bread.

  He started to tell me. When he'd finished, I'd had one more sociological revelation. Society had tried to teach me that the gay mind was an open sewer. Now I knew, beyond any doubt, that it was the straight mind that was the sewer.

  Billy was silent as I repeated to him what Aldo had told me.

  "That I have orgies with some of my freshmen that I've seduced," I said. "That you and I go down to New York and pick up chickens. That students disap­pear off the campus because I take them down to New York drugged and tied up and sell them to pimps."

  It was that evening, and we were lying in my big, hideous, Victorian bed made out of Caucasian walnut. Rain rattled against the windows. It was cold already, and the furnace in the little old house wasn't working very well, so we had the quilt pulled up over us. Mak­ing love had not had its usual therapeutic effect.

  "And of course that I have orgies with all three of you. But what's worse, that you and your father and I ... and that you and your father always . .."

  Billy sighed and shook his head. "Wow. I could tell you were upset when you came back from the city."

  "Chickens," I said bitterly. "I can't even stand kids that age. And all the grief I had all those years pre­cisely because I was prissy about sleeping with runners, and they've got me balling my whole goddamn team."

  "And that one about the pimps," said Billy. "That's a classic. That's straight out of the Saturday-night hor­ror flick. And the crap about me and my father . . . poor Dad, when I think how careful he always was. There's just no pleasing some people, is there?"

  He was propped on his elbow by me, and his warm body was stretched out easily against mine. He tried to comfort me, caressing my side. But I could tell he wasn't all that upset about what I'd told him, and this irritated me. I wasn't comforted by his stroking.

  "Well, what're you going to do?" said Billy. "We knew that people would react this way, didn't we?"

  "They really believe these things," I said.

  "Just don't think about them," said Billy. "Rumors like that just dry up and disappear."

  "And another one," I said, "that you're two-timing me all the time with Vince and Jacques. That really hurt."

  "Why did it hurt?" said Billy. After a minute, he said, "You don't trust me."

  "I don't worry a minute about Jacques. But you and Vince are very close. Vince sleeps around. How do I know he's not going to sleep with you?"

  "Look," said Billy, annoyed, sitting up, "when will you learn that I never lie? I've told you before that there's never been anything between Vince and me."

  "All right," I said. "I'm just a jealous old man."

  "Well, don't be," he said. He sat with his knees drawn up against his chest and stared at the foot of the bed. Then he added, "Part of your problem is, you still haven't totally accepted the fact that you're gay. You still want to have things their way."

  "I'm aware of that," I said, a little sarcastically.

  "You won't be happy until you put your head in order. We won't be happy."

  "Aren't you happy with us?"

  "Don't put words in my mouth," said Billy. "I just meant that your straight hang-ups are gonna get in our way if you don't work them out."

  "Are you that tired of me already? Are you about ready to move on?"

  Billy got out of bed. "Look," he said, "I know you had a rough time at Mamma Leone's, but this is too much. I'm going back to the dorm."

  I lay there under the quilt, watching him pull his clothes on. His face was expressionless, and his move­ments were deft and precise. He tied the laces of his worn-out Tigers, and pulled on his light red rain parka with a swish of nylon.

  "See you tomorrow," he said in a toneless voice and walked out. I heard the front door slam and lock.

  I lay there for about fifteen minutes, feeling helpless and desolate. The rain ticked on the windows, and the wind soughed in the spruce boughs outside. The clock ticked loudly by the bed. Automatically I reached out and set it for 5:30 a.m. I was just about to turn out the bedside light when I heard his key in the door again.

  He came into the room swiftly, lay down on the quilt by me without even taking off his parka and pressed his face blindly against my chest. The parka was wet, and his hair smelled of rain and autumn leaves.

  "Harlan, they want us to fight," he said.

  He started to cry with strange, creaking sobs, clench­ing the quilt. He kicked off his Tigers and got under the quilt, pressing his body against me, holding me franti­cally. His damp clothes made me shiver. I held him as hard as he held me.

  "What is really the matter with you?" he said.

  "We're sneaking around snatching twenty minutes here and there in the dark. Our lives are passing like that."

  "My God, if that's all that's bothering you, I'll move in with you tonight."

  "No, it isn't all. Nothing ties us together. There's nothing to guarantee that we'll stay together a year, five years. You have to understand my jealousy. It isn't as simple as sexual jealousy. I'm terrified of losing you."

  "Guarantees are for new cars," Billy said with his face still buried in the hair on my chest.

  "Look, I'm going to ask you again. I want us to marry."

  He lay beside me, quiet now. After a minute, he said, "I'll do anything you ask but that. Does it occur to you that I'm pretty terrified of losing you? Maybe I worry about you cruising off after some other young studhorse, huh? You've been around a lot more than me, how do I know you aren't totally fickle, huh?"

  I sighed and nodded slowly. Billy was, in his way, superstitious. He was afraid of tempting fate by tying himself to me formally. He had never seen such a marriage last. At the age of twelve, he had seen his father and Frances break up.

  "And another thing," said Billy. "Are you really ready to come out with this? You're so upset about all these rumors. Are you really ready to face the uproar if we married?"

  "No, I'm not ready," I said.

  "Look, I'll move in here tonight."

  "I don't want to live with you without that declara­tion. I don't want to feel like I'm just shacking up with someone."

  "Well, I don't know what we're going to do, then," said Billy.

  I stroked his head. "I know one thing. It's stupid of us to fight."

  "Maybe we just need more time together," he said. "Maybe once in a while I should spend the night."

  "Anything is better than fighting," I said.

  "Like tonight, maybe," he said, smiling a little.

  He got out from under the quilt, kicked his Tigers over under the chair, and started undressing.

  "Just once more," I said. "You've got to get your sleep."

  11

  We all tried hard to ignore the rumors.

  But a number of parents started trying to pressure Joe Prescott. Two forced their straight boys to drop off the team, although the boys and Joe tried to show them that they were seeing ghosts under the bed.

  Then the NCAA started making noises, at Joe that either I should be dropped as coach or the NCAA would drop the school from membership. The rest of the team were indignant on Billy's and my behalf, and they wrote a letter to the
NCAA that they all signed. Joe took a very strong stand, saying that the NCAA had better come up with solid proof of the rumors and reminding them of the Supreme Court decision. The NCAA finally decided that they were on uneasy legal ground, and they shelved the matter. But they then took a few cheap shots, hurting' me by hurting my in­nocent team—they withheld the travel expenses that they might have paid us to NCAA meets. Joe covered the expenses himself.

  Our little cross-country meet at Prescott was fairly successful, though fewer teams came than I'd hoped for, and it got about one inch of newspaper space.

  Then, just a week after our meet, Billy's and my cover got blown in spectacular and painful fashion.

  It happened when we took Billy to New York to run in the national Road Runners Club 15-kilometer cross-country championship. It was being held on the famous course in Van Cortlandt Park, known affection­ately to eastern runners as the "Vannie." I'd planned the race as a little change for Billy—he'd been doing all that hard track running in Europe, the distance was a good one for him, and not many other top runners made the effort to get to an odd-distance race like that, so he could just relax and enjoy himself.

  Vince and Jacques didn't run that day, as neither of them was avid for cross-country, but they went to watch, as did Betsy Heden.

  Three hundred fifty-five runners gathered on the great lawn at the edge of the park, where the start was to be. Everybody was milling around doing stretching exercises and warming up. There were sweatsuits and headbands and shoes of every color. Runners' families and runners' children were underfoot. The officials were cheerfully disorganized.

  It was perfect weather, rainy and cool. All in all, it was one of those big, informal, long-distance races, and the five of us relaxed and were having a good time.

  Finally they all massed at the start, with Billy one of those seeded in the long front line. At the gun, a multi­colored sea of men poured off across the grass. Every­body was running balls-out to be as far up front as possible when the field funneled into the trail that led into the woods.

  While the race was in progress, Vince, Jacques and I stood around chatting pleasantly with Aldo and a couple other officials and the meet director. As usual, we felt that odd, questioning atmosphere around us. We were waiting for the field to finish the first of the three loops they'd have to make, up through the hills.

  When the leaders appeared far off, pouring down out of the hills onto the lawn again, Billy was with them, running in his usual just-in-front spot. As he went past, I shouted his split time at him. He was running easily, spattered with mud, and from the look on his face, he was enjoying himself.

  What seemed like an unusual number of reporters Were present, plus an NBC-TV camera crew. Ordinarily the metropolitan media don't get very excited over these odd-distance open cross-country races up in the Van-nie, so I could only conclude that they were there be­cause of Billy. They had all approached him before the race, but he wouldn't talk because he was psyching himself, so they were waiting till afterward.

  When the leaders streamed in a second time, Billy was still in front. He had opened his lead to about twenty yards. He came hurtling along the cinder path across the lawn, with the spectators cheering him pleasantly from both sides. He was more spattered with mud then ever, his legs black with it. His hair was sopping wet. A swift, soft gnashing of spikes, and he was past us. He made the rest of us seem so stationary and earthbound.

  Then the long long line of the field started to pass us—the runners were all strung out now. I watched Billy's figure disappearing off across the lawn, starting the third and last loop.

  "He looks like a racehorse," a guy behind me said.

  "Jeez," said another guy, "the horse would die of embarrassment."

  Vince and Jacques and I exchanged a glance.

  We waited a little longer. A fine drizzle was coming down now, and the spectators and officials were all huddled under umbrellas. The officials' timesheets were so damp they were having a hard time writing on them.

  Finally, off across the lawn, you could see a lone white figure springing down out of the woods. The words of the Song of Solomon came to my mind: "Be­hold, he comes, bounding over the hills—my beloved is like a young stag." Billy had really pulled away, in­creasing his lead to several hundred yards.

  As he came flashing down the cinder path toward the tape, the crowd along it cheered and applauded. Photographers jumped out and squatted for photos as he bore down on them.

  He breasted the tape with a little smile on his face. Everybody crowded around him to pat him on the back and shake his hand. He was covered with mud from head to foot, and still looked fresh. It was one of his easiest victories.

  Billy still left the reporters hanging. He did his usual careful warmdown, striding and jogging in his warm-ups, and then he slipped away to the locker room at the nearby athletic field to get under the shower and scrape off the mud.

  Everybody started drifting off to the awards ceremony. Originally they'd planned to hold it right there on the lawn. But because of the rain, the officials ad­journed it to a nearby bar on Broadway.

  So everybody packed into the bar. The runners were dry and clean and bundled into sweats or regular clothes, their hair wet, their faces glowing. Hot coffee and tea were being served by the race committee. There were a couple of cardboard boxes of ham and bologna sandwiches, and the runners were all fishing into them hungrily. Everybody was relaxed, laughing, talking about their injuries and illnesses and how out of shape they were, and the usual bunch of lies.

  Finally Billy came in, in his usual floppy bellbot-toms and his Prescott blazer, his hair clean and wet and somewhat combed. The reporters wouldn't even let him get close to the tea urn—they backed him into a corner and asked him their questions, and he was very affable and relaxed with them.

  Finally the race director got up, the talking shushed, and the director made a pleasant little speech. The first three finishers came up, and he handed them the tro­phies, and everybody clapped. Billy was given a big, handsome, sterling silver bowl, while flash cameras went off, and the other two guys got smaller bowls. Billy came back to us lugging it, stopping to talk to a couple of people. The soft glowing expression on his face told me that he'd had a good time that afternoon, which was just what I'd wanted.

  Jacques clapped him on the shoulder, and Vince in­spected the bowl. "Silver . . . they must have known you'd win," Vince said. Silver is for Virgos. We all laughed.

  The metropolitan media left, but there were still quite a number of people around us, when another re­porter stepped up, followed by his photographer. "I'm Ken McGill of the National Intelligencer," he said pleasantly. "Could I ask you a few questions?"

  "Sure," said Billy. He was squatting on the floor, trying to fit the trophy into his gear bag, but it was too big.

  A little warning buzzer at the back of my mind sounded. The Intelligencer was a tabloid, and not over­ly interested in sports.

  "There's been a lot of rumors going around about you," said McGill.

  "Oh yeah?" said Billy, still holding the bowl. He must have picked up my thought, because he suddenly looked watchful.

  "You have a reputation for answering questions very frankly," said McGill.

  Billy now knew what was coming, and so did I. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that Jacques' and Vince's smiles had disappeared.

  "Like ... what do you want to know?" said Billy.

  "The rumor mill says you're a queer," said McGill.

  The group around us went dead silent. Elsewhere in the bar, the talking and laughing and milling around seemed suddenly loud by contrast. A number of run­ners were still bent around the officials, getting their official times off the long long list of damp sheets.

  Billy straightened up slowly, his face suddenly cold and set and defiant. He had gone white around the nostrils. He looked down at five-foot-seven McGill from his five-foot-eleven with his terrible clear eyes for several long moments. McGill met his gaze
boldly, earnestly.

  In all fairness to McGill, he was not obnoxious. He had been sent to get a story, and he was getting it.

  "The right word is gay," said Billy.

  "Let's compromise and call it homosexual," said McGill.

  I felt a slow, sad sinking of my stomach. A fine tremor started to spread along my arms and legs.

  Billy smiled a little. "I think you're funny," he said. "I really haven't made any secret about being gay. What's the big deal?"

  McGill looked at Vince and Jacques. "I understand you two are homosexuals also. Is that true?"

  "That's right," said Vince. Jacques nodded his head slowly, looking down.

  The group around us were frozen, mouths open. More and more people were getting up and coming over. Then McGill's eyes came to rest on me.

  "Harlan," he said, "the rumor mill says ..."

  In my anger and my pain at the way he'd questioned the boys, I cut him off short. The words came so easily that I hardly thought about them.

  "Save your fucking breath," I said. "I'm as gay as they are."

  Betsy thrust forward, her chin out. "You forgot me," she blazed at McGill. "I'm a gay woman."

  Aldo pushed through the group, and was about to grab the reporter by the lapel. "It's none of your god­damn business," he said. Vince was also moving to­ward McGill in a very threatening manner.

  I grabbed both Vince's and Aldo's arms. "Leave him alone," I said. "He's just trying to do his job." I looked at McGill. "Maybe you've got some more ques­tions," I said in my best Parris Island voice.

  "Yes, I do, as a matter of fact," said McGill. "The rumor mill says that you and Billy are having a sexual relationship. Is that true?"

  A number of people gasped softly around us. By now nearly everybody in the bar was packed around us. Even the officials got up from their rain-soaked time list to take in the spectacle.

  Billy seemed to get even whiter around the nostrils, and his eyes narrowed. As for me, I was doing a job on my face, hoping that it showed nothing of my feelings.

  "Hey, uh, your thing about the rumor mill is kind of tiresome," said Billy.