Read Online Harlan's Race by Patricia Nell Warren - Free Book Online
Authors: Patricia Nell Warren
Tags: gay, romance, novel
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They’d catch the beach taxi there.
Joe slumped on the sofa, looking strangely ancient, soaking up the warmth from the Franklin stove. Horatio, in a rare show of domesticity, was draped across Joe’s lap. I stirred up the fire and joined the old man.
“What do you think, Joe? You think they’re going to leave us alone now?”
Joe roused himself out of his torpor.
“I hope so,” he said. “They’ve won this round. The next
move is up to us. The next thing we do that provokes them.” For me, taking a new lover might be that provocative act. Especially taking Vince.
“Do you think there was a second sniper?” I asked. “There’ll always be a second sniper,” said Joe darkly. This was not the old exuberant, optimistic Joe.
“I used to believe that education is the answer to everything,” the old liberal added. “But you can’t educate people who think they already know it all. Especially people who want to kill their own kids if they grow up thinking differently.”
Heavily, he got up and shuffled off to bed.
Joe’s words left me feeling gloomy and defensive. I locked the doors and windows. Then I went to my room, got the .45, the old King James and a red pen. I had started in Genesis, crossing out passages that I didn’t agree with. Back at the fire, I opened the book, and some loose pages fell out. That infamous passage in Leviticus 20:13 was staring up at me.
If a man also lie with mankind, as he lieth with a woman, both of them have committed an abomination; they shall surely be put to death.
Almost breaking the pen, I made red marks through those lines.
Vince’s rage was at this belief, and the strangers that it sent to war on our gay beauty. The picture of his hot eyes rose in my mind — the vibrant sound of his young baritone voice. Closing my eyes, I conjured the memory of that night he’d made his move on me — the hard embrace, the not-unexpected four-letter words of pure gay passion.
The fire crackled. Out on the beach, long waves breaking sounded like trains going by. Was the house being watched by unfriendly eyes?
Then the boardwalk vibrated with approaching footsteps. My hand hovered by the .45. But it was Steve, Marian and Angel trampling in, looking disgusted. Steve
saw the gun first, and raised his hands in mock surrender.
“The taxi went in some quicksand,” said Marian. “The police finally came and pulled us out.”
“It happened because you didn’t go,” Steve teased me. “Okay ... okay.” I raised my own hands in surrender. “Tomorrow night for sure.”
PART TWO
NINE
PART THREE
SIXTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY-TWO
About This Book
PART TWO
Summer Things
FIVE
These days, some straight and bi Fire Islanders liked to dare the nine miles down the shore to gay turf. Some went to gawk, to shoulder us aside on our own beaches. Others went to drink up the liberated sexual energies. Gays and lesbians hated the tourism, but couldn’t lock it out. If you had a boat, you tied up at the Pines or Grove docks. If you were afoot, you rode one of the few vehicles on Fire Island — the beach taxi. Tonight the rusting sedan was piloted by a new driver, Rowdy, who had a joint hanging between his lips. In the back seat, Steve lounged in one corner, with Angel sitting stiffly beside him.
In the other corner, Marian had on pedal pushers, blazer and sunglasses — her one concession to disguise. She looked worried. Reaching my hand back to her, I gave her a brotherly wink.
“Worried about your first close-up on the Life?” I asked.
She gave my fingers an uncertain sisterly squeeze.
“No. It’s Joe .. . the future,” she answered.
The window by me was rolled down, so I wouldn’t get high on Rowdy’s smoke. My clothing was clammer chic — frayed jeans, boots and scuffed bomber jacket. The sheepskin collar was turned up against the blast of salt wind. My limbs were vibrating with expectation like a tuning-fork. Now and then, our tires hit the wash, and a wing of spray flew
Joe slumped on the sofa, looking strangely ancient, soaking up the warmth from the Franklin stove. Horatio, in a rare show of domesticity, was draped across Joe’s lap. I stirred up the fire and joined the old man.
“What do you think, Joe? You think they’re going to leave us alone now?”
Joe roused himself out of his torpor.
“I hope so,” he said. “They’ve won this round. The next
move is up to us. The next thing we do that provokes them.” For me, taking a new lover might be that provocative act. Especially taking Vince.
“Do you think there was a second sniper?” I asked. “There’ll always be a second sniper,” said Joe darkly. This was not the old exuberant, optimistic Joe.
“I used to believe that education is the answer to everything,” the old liberal added. “But you can’t educate people who think they already know it all. Especially people who want to kill their own kids if they grow up thinking differently.”
Heavily, he got up and shuffled off to bed.
Joe’s words left me feeling gloomy and defensive. I locked the doors and windows. Then I went to my room, got the .45, the old King James and a red pen. I had started in Genesis, crossing out passages that I didn’t agree with. Back at the fire, I opened the book, and some loose pages fell out. That infamous passage in Leviticus 20:13 was staring up at me.
If a man also lie with mankind, as he lieth with a woman, both of them have committed an abomination; they shall surely be put to death.
Almost breaking the pen, I made red marks through those lines.
Vince’s rage was at this belief, and the strangers that it sent to war on our gay beauty. The picture of his hot eyes rose in my mind — the vibrant sound of his young baritone voice. Closing my eyes, I conjured the memory of that night he’d made his move on me — the hard embrace, the not-unexpected four-letter words of pure gay passion.
The fire crackled. Out on the beach, long waves breaking sounded like trains going by. Was the house being watched by unfriendly eyes?
Then the boardwalk vibrated with approaching footsteps. My hand hovered by the .45. But it was Steve, Marian and Angel trampling in, looking disgusted. Steve
saw the gun first, and raised his hands in mock surrender.
“The taxi went in some quicksand,” said Marian. “The police finally came and pulled us out.”
“It happened because you didn’t go,” Steve teased me. “Okay ... okay.” I raised my own hands in surrender. “Tomorrow night for sure.”
PART TWO
NINE
PART THREE
SIXTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY-TWO
About This Book
PART TWO
Summer Things
FIVE
These days, some straight and bi Fire Islanders liked to dare the nine miles down the shore to gay turf. Some went to gawk, to shoulder us aside on our own beaches. Others went to drink up the liberated sexual energies. Gays and lesbians hated the tourism, but couldn’t lock it out. If you had a boat, you tied up at the Pines or Grove docks. If you were afoot, you rode one of the few vehicles on Fire Island — the beach taxi. Tonight the rusting sedan was piloted by a new driver, Rowdy, who had a joint hanging between his lips. In the back seat, Steve lounged in one corner, with Angel sitting stiffly beside him.
In the other corner, Marian had on pedal pushers, blazer and sunglasses — her one concession to disguise. She looked worried. Reaching my hand back to her, I gave her a brotherly wink.
“Worried about your first close-up on the Life?” I asked.
She gave my fingers an uncertain sisterly squeeze.
“No. It’s Joe .. . the future,” she answered.
The window by me was rolled down, so I wouldn’t get high on Rowdy’s smoke. My clothing was clammer chic — frayed jeans, boots and scuffed bomber jacket. The sheepskin collar was turned up against the blast of salt wind. My limbs were vibrating with expectation like a tuning-fork. Now and then, our tires hit the wash, and a wing of spray flew
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