Harlan's Race by Patricia Nell Warren Read Free Book Online

patronized by fishermen.
    Today I’d see if the coast was clear — to start visiting Steve Goodnight’s house on the Beach.
    Time for a little music. The previous owner had fitted the boat with a good stereo, to deafen himself and girlfriends with rock music. Marijuana seeds still lurked in the cabin comers. I pushed in one of my own tapes. I couldn’t stand rock ’n’ roll, but I liked B. B. King.
    To dig clams, you didn’t need a high-school diploma. You needed a strong back, and the ability to work like an ox, day after day. The only piece of paper needed was a shellfish license in the name H. Brown. The chart gave an idea of the shallower bottoms, where beds of quahog clams might be found. I’d watched where other boats worked, and steered clear. That was the bay code of manners, and the cue that you didn’t like company. My well-oiled gun rode in the cabin. It was a battered holster with the old-model Colt .45 automatic. I’d bought it after Billy and I started getting death threats, but never fired it except at a pistol range.
    Time to stop lollygagging.
    To work at the new depth, I re-adjusted the long metal-tube handle of the rake, with its heavy cage-like basket and digging teeth. Then I got up on the flat prow of the boat, and heaved the business end of the rake over. It hit the water with a deep echoing plunge, and went down. As the iron teeth dug into the sandy bottom, I went into the clammer’s dance, pulling with rhythmic jerks on the rake handle. You had to time the pulls to the gentle pitching and yawing of the boat. Good thing I was fit. With time, a clammer grew impressive arms and shoulders.
    As the breeze pushed the boat, those iron teeth dragged slowly through the sand below, picking up whatever they found and feeding it into the basket.
    The sun poured down.
    I was barefoot, naked to the waist, dark as a pirate, crusted with sweat. An old boonie hat I’d found at the army-navy store shaded my brain. My busted-out jeans stank of shellfish and seaweed. But no matter how hard I worked, my mind never stopped digging through the past, raking up all kinds of pictures. You don’t forget. Harry had told me that.
    The rake felt heavier than it had all morning.
    When I finally pulled it up, it was full of stuff. Old oyster shells, one blue crab, and quite a few clams. Mostly big ones
    — chowders and cherrystones, the cheaper grades. Better than nothing. I dumped the grab on the deck, and started culling. It was the law that seed clams, less than one inch at the hinge, got tossed over the side. I didn’t want trouble with the conservation cops — they could board you and inspect without permission.
    Some clams and the crab were put aside, for dinner.
    B. B. King’s voice floated over the water.
    Besting with a beef sandwich and some tea from my flask, I squatted in the cabin shade and closed my eyes. Right away, my hungry mind dug up Vince’s image. I’d catted around with the best, but always thought I’d be monogamous if I ever found true passion. Billy was monogamy, while he lived. It had been 21 months since he died. Even straights said that a year was long enough for widowhood. “Serial monogamy’ would be a more honest description of me. No harm in fantasizing a little.
    When I first met Vince, he had been an exciting but conventional sports-world figure, owner of the third fastest U.S. mile. He had a killer kick — watching him surge to the front gave me the chills. Meet directors and AAU officials had wet dreams about Vince bringing drama back to track. But all that ended in 1976, when his closet door was blown open at Oregon State. Along with Billy and Jacques LaFont, who were also fingered in the gay witch-hunt. We had hoped that Vince would join Billy on the 1976 Olympic team. Ironically, it was greed, not gay, that blitzed Vince out of athletics — he’d taken under-the-counter money from meet directors. So the AAU tore up his card.
    Now, at 26, Vince was no boy, but he still