My Best Man

by Andy Schell

  being his usual awful self, I detect a slight crack in the armor. Is Amity on to him? Does she suspect what I’ve always suspected?

  Since it’s nearly evening, Donald dons an apron and prepares Cornish game hens for cooking on the grill. We all sit on the patio by the pool and continue to drink. Mom and Donald scotch, Amity and Winston champagne, and I beer. Mom is chipper, animated, and downright obsequious at times. In between taking pictures of us in every situation, she makes sure that everyone’s drinks are full and that the table is set just right and that the conversation never lags for a moment. “I can tell by that accent that you’re a Texan, Amity. We have friends in Dallas. Where are you from in Texas?”

  Amity tilts her head, and I know the F-word is coming. “Fort Worth, Mrs. Ford.”

  “For heaven’s sake,” my mother says, “call me Susan.”

  She never asked my ex-boyfriend, Matthew, to call her Susan. And when he did, I watched the hair on her neck rise just slightly. This is serious her immediate allowance of first name fights to

  Amity and I see Winston’s venom rising in his throat.

  Amity sees it as well. “Fort Worth, Susan.”

  “Fort Worth,” my mom repeats. “I’ve been to Dallas, but not

  Fort Worth. We have friends in Highland Park.”

  “Of course,” Amity smiles.

  “Fort Worth?” I ask teasingly. “Isn’t that an old abandoned frontier town with cow shit on the streets?”

  Amity renounces her perfect manners to throw a cracker at me. “Harry! Don’t talk about my home town like that.”

  I know why she threw the cracker. Winston has been watching her, inspecting her for authenticity, finding her perhaps a bit too studied, too polished. She’s a smart girl to have thrown that cracker.

  “I knew a guy in the Air Force from Fort Worth,” Donald says. “One of the nicest guys I ever met.”

  “See?” Amity answers, vindicated.

  I pick the cracker up, dust it off, and eat it.

  “Harry!” my brother Winston says distastefully. He hates anything to be dirty or improper. Including food. He washes bananas with soap and water before he peels and eats them.

  “What?” I ask, crumbs flying out of my mouth as I aspirate the wh.

  Amity giggles.

  He dismisses me and tunas to Amity. “Is your family still there?” Winston asks, also holding his champagne glass by the stem, so as not to increase the temperature of the sparkling wine. “In Fort Worth?“l

  “My folks are.” Amity smiles. “My momma and my and my grandmother too.”

  Winston digs a little deeper. “Does you grandmother live with your momma and your daddy?” he asks, doing Elvis versions of the words.

  “Oh, no,” Amity answers. “Grandmother has her own house. Of course it’s too large for her at this point, but she just can’t bear to leave it.”

  I can hear Winston thinking, How large? And in what part town?

  “That guy from Fort Worth,” Donald continues, “had a wife and two young daughters. They’d be about your age by now. You know the Hedelsons? Ever heard of a family of that name?”

  “No, sir.” Amity answers, placing cheese on a cracker. “I sure I haven’ t. ‘

  “He left the service. Became a dog breeder. Never knew anyone who knew so much about Rottweilers.”

  Amity smiles, reminisces. “We had a German dog too. Weimaraner. Duchess.”

  “We had a Duchess!” my mother exclaims. “But ours was a dachshund.”

  “A weenie dog!” Amity spouts, looking at Winston. She’s off the track again, confusing Winston with her irreverent bravado. “That’ sGerman too.”

  “So where did you go to college, Amity?” Winston asks. Uh-oh. He’s used her real name, This means he’ sgoing for the kill. I think she senses it. She sits ever so higher in her chair. Answers, “CCT in Fort Worth.”

  He smiles that smile. “And what does CCT stand for? Cold Calculating Tech?”

  Amity laughs. “No. Christian College of Texas.”

  “Education is a religious experience,” my mother declares for Amity’s benefit.

  Amity exhales. “I agree, Susan.” She takes a sip of champagne.

  “A good cabernet is a religious experience, Susan,” Winston says.

  “Don’t be facetious,” Mother answers.

  “So,” Winston continues, ready for the big hit, “when did you graduate?”

  She hesitates. Will she tell the truth? “I didn’t,” she answers,

  her hands crossed in her lap.

  “You didn’t graduate? Don’t you feel it’s a burden, being uneducated?”

  “Winston!” my mother shrieks.

  “For Christ’s sake, you little shit!” Donald barks.

  I want to kill him, but as Winston raises his chin slightly in victory, Amity rallies. “It’s OK. He’s right. It is a bit of a burden at times. You see, the reason I left was to get married. Sadly, the marriage never happened. But I’m proud of myself for following my heart.” With a hint of tears in her eyes, she uncrosses her hands and reaches them both out to take mine in hers. “I’ve been waiting all my life for the right person to come along. And I believe he has. And don’t think that I don’t know everything there is to know about Harry and his past. I do. But when love calls, a person has no choice but to answer.”

  God, this is so cornball. I feel as if I’m in some syndicated soap opera that couldn’t even make it to the major networks. The only

  thing that makes it work is Amity. She’s so committed, so convincing, that even Winston can’t decide if it’s an act or not.

  Amity raises our hands in the air and gives me that look that says I’m the finest man in the world and finishes, “And that’ swhy I’ve proudly agreed to become Mrs. Harry Ford.”

  My mother puts her hand to her cheek so hard she accidentally slaps herself. Donald knocks over his chair when he stands and congratulates me, nearly shaking my hand off. He tells me I’m doing the right thing and how proud my father would be. My mother grabs the camera and flashes on our Kodak moment. Then she drops. the camera on a chair cushion and hugs us both with manic energy. “When did this happen? I can’t believe it! You never gave me any reason to think this visit was so important!” she squawks.

  “It was a recent decision,” I choke. I’m too shocked to say anything else, but try to play it out, because I know Winston is watching. It’s not that we haven’t discussed it, but to hear it go from a possibility to a reality leaves me so stunned that all I can do is put my arm around Amity while she coos in my grasp and. bats her eyelashes at Winston.

  “Well done,” Winston says, reaching out his hand. I extend mine to shake, but I realize he’s talking to Amity. ;

  “Thank you,” Amity says, shaking it in triumph. “I look forward

  “

  to knowing you.

  “I’m calling your aunt Shirley!” my mother says, running into the house like a bird on fire. Energized by her triumph, Amity turns to me and suggests, “Let’s take a stroll through the yard.” She takes me by the and leads me away. Winston lowers himself onto the chaise longue, disgusted, while Donald rights his chair, shakes his head, and tends to the other birds on fire, the game hens on the grill.

  “I can’t believe you did that,” I whisper, not angry but stupefied, i

  “Just keep walking, Bubba,” Amity whispers back.

  The yard is impeccably manicured, no longer by gardeners, my

  mother has told me, but by Donald. Amity makes it appear we’re walking arm in arm, young lovers on a saunter through the garden, but it’ smore like she’ san attendant in a psychiatric hospital, holding up the dazed patient on her arm, lest he fall face first into a pyracantha bush from the news he’s getting married before he’s even been discharged. We stroll past native grasses and sunflowers, marigolds and impatiens, petunias and geraniums, past the new water fountain, past the ancient oak and sycamore trees at the edge of the property, and when we’re o
ut of earshot, almost to the edge of the fairway, Amity says sincerely, “I’m sorry, Harry. I had to do it. Your brother is gayer than you’ll ever be.”

  I knew it! I’ve always known it! I hadn’t told her that he was mostly because he’s never come out, even to me. And it’s only been a sense I’ve had never confirmed by anyone. And I knew she’d tell me if she sensed it, because Amity’s not-so-remote detection is as sharp as any gay guy’ s. I can see she is blown out of the water by this unexpected grasp of Winston. “Do you think so?” I ask innocently.

  “I know so, Bubba. That boy’s about as straight as a circle jerk in a bathhouse!”

  My eyes grow wide. “How do you know what goes on in a bathhouse?”

  “Never mind!” she answers, the whites of her eyes flashing. “Listen, Harry. I’m sorry, but I just couldn’t let that bona fide queer take all your heterosexual money. It would be as ironic as a Baptist beauty pageant.”

  I can smell the stagnant water from the pond by the sixteenth hole of the golf course. “I’ve carded these doubts around for years, but deep down I think I’ve always known. None of my friends has ever met him because Winston and I keep such distance between us, so I’ve never had anyone who could make an analysis.”

  “He’s gay,” Amity says. “How can you stand it? Why don’t you expose him?”

  “What am I supposed to do, ask his girlfriend if his dick tastes like shit?”

  “His girlfriend isn’t Patty, but some guy named Pat, I guarantee you.”

  “What difference does it make? He can live his life any way he wants. If he’s willing to deny what he is and live a lie just for money, then that’s his own miserable business. I’ve never wanted that kind of a life, and he knows it. It’s why he hates me.” “Misery wants company?”

  “You got it. God,” I laugh, watching a foursome tee off in the distance, “are we really doing this? Are we getting married?”

  “We can’t turn back now,” Amity says forcefully. Then she changes expression. “Unless you want. I can write your momma a note after we return to Dallas. Tell her we decided to call it off. Is that what you want, Harry?” she asks, searching my eyes for a clue.

  “My mother’s probably in the house calling all her friends, booking the church, the caterers, the photographer. It’ll be in the

  Eagle-Beacon tomorrow.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The local paper.” I pause. “My mother will make this huge.” “And we’ll laugh through the whole thing,” Amity promises. She rubs my back in circles with her palm. “Don’t worry, Harry. We’ll pull it off.”

  The foursome drives away in their little golf carts. “I’ve always known in my heart that Winston was gay. But he’s so powerful, And mean. He was mean as a kid, and he’s mean as an adult. I think I knew the day he ratted on me to my father that I was sucking my baseball hot dog like it was a dick.”

  Amity bursts out laughing.

  “I’m serious,” I contend. “He recognized too well what was going on. He totally understood my desires. They were his only he was successful at masking them. He somehow fooled Father.

  And Mother. And most everyone else. But he hasn’t fooled you. And he knows it. You better watch out, Amity. Those handsome queers are the most vicious.”

  She says nothing more, but wears her smile like a weapon.

  That night, in the bedroom next to Winston’ s, Amity takes great pleasure in seducing me, not even asking me if I want to do this. There’s something weird for me about being naked in front of a girl. I’m slightly uncomfortable for her to be looking at me with lust, which is probably the way a straight guy feels in a locker room when he knows another guy is looking at him. But unlike the straight guy in the locker room who can quickly put his clothes on and leave, I have nowhere to go. We lie down on the bed, and she brings her face to mine. As on our layover in Denver, it feels strange to kiss Amity’s soft, feminine lips. It doesn’t do the trick for me, but she’s forceful tonight, so animal in the way she has sex that, after a few minutes, I’m spurred forcedminto action. Meaning, she’s a great top, staying in control, filling my emotional void with friction, keeping me going when necessary with her hands and tongue and torso. As she slides down my stomach, leaving her waves of hair splashing all over my chest, I grip the pillow in my hands. And when she goes for it, with even more hardihood than the first time, I can’t help but think about those farm team baseball players of my youth. I close my eyes and travel back to those guys in their tight striped pants with their jockstraps showing through and their caps on their sunburned heads. How their hands were rugged sexy instruments of power. And how they constantly pulled on their dicks, while standing around spitting mouthfuls of tobacco or chewing globs of bubble gum. Once, after I caught a pop fly (the greatest moment of my spectator life), the pitcher of the opposing team, from Omaha, came over and signed it after the game. When he finished signing it, he tossed it back at me and gave me the sexiest wink of an eye I’ve ever seen.

  He’s winking at me now, as Amity pushes me to the edge,

  then pulls me back. Again to the edge. Again back. She’s totally controlling me with her mouth. And as I thrash and strain and moan, I half expect my mother to open the door, snap a picture of us, and say, “Thanks, kids!”

  Finally, right before I pop, Amity pulls away from my dick and slides herself up to me, pushing me inside her soaking wet Virginia. I’ve never been inside a woman, and it feels different from any past sexual experience. Softer. Not as tight. But warmer, more slippery, and certainly pleasurable. I was sure this would never happen to me, and to be losing my heterosexual virginity with someone I love makes it more exciting still. Is this it, the moment that I’m a bona fide heterosexual? As the moment comes, and I fill the state of Virginia to its borders, I let go with a low “Ahhhhhh.”

  Amity, on the other end of the pendulum, is screaming, “Oh, babe! Oh, yes! Oh… maw… Gawd/” She collapses on top of me and smiles wickedly, satisfied.

  I think that last amplified “Oh, my God!” was for Winston’s sake.

  The next day, Amity and I are bonded in a way we weren’t before. There’s a connection in our eyes, and my mother sees it, which makes me nervous enough that I decide to squire Amity out of the house and show her the sights of my childhood before my mother sets the wedding date for today.

  We drive east, less than an hour, out into the country, where there’s a famous drive-in that’s been serving up burgers and shakes since the beginning of the automobile; it was one of the few places my parents would take us that didn’t require jacket and tie.

  Amity and I order two banana milkshakes. They’re the best banana milkshakes in the world made with homemade ice cream, milk straight from the cow, and chunks of banana and we sit in the car, like two teenagers on a date, and drink them while watching the cattle folk of this small Kansas town trod out of the place with greasy bags of burgers and onion rings.

  A large gal struggles out of her car, practically tearing the door off with her weight.

  Amity giggles. “G’yaw, Harry. She can hardly walk. Were the girls in your high school like that?”

  “No, most of them were pretty normal size. It happens two years later. By twenty years of age they’re having babies, and it’s all over. They’re bigger than buses.”

  “The babies?”

  “The moms. Well, actually, the babies too.”

  “I’m never having children,” she says, her voice low, her accent dissipated. It’s a voice I’ve never heard. It’s as if all the cameras and lights have been turned off on the movie set where she’s starring in a film based on her life, and she’s sitting, secluded, in her trailer, after everyone has gone home.

  I look over at her. See significant pain of insignificance.

  She cranks it back up. “I can’t believe you went to high school here!”

  “Well, not here. In Wichita. But me neither,” I stutter, steeped in painful memories of my own. For all of my bravado about atte
nding a public school, once I did it wasn’t so great. Most of the kids in my grade looked down on me and called me Richie Rich. They were either intimidated by my name, ignored me, or thought I was a faggot by virtue of the sports I chose: tennis and golf. It was hard making new friends at a new school in my senior year. And of course I couldn’t let on to my folks that it was a mistake, that I would have probably been better off staying in the academy and graduating there.

  My grandmother was the only one I confided in. She’d let me come to her house and drink a beer and pour out my lonely teenage troubles. She never judged me and always made an effort to ask, “Have you met a boy you like?” No one ever asked me questions like that. And it was through her that I slowly realized that it was OK to be who I am.

  But now I realize that, if I’d had Amity then, I would have saved myself a great deal of that teenage pain and perhaps Amity’s pain as well. We’d have bonded immediately I know it. And though I was born the way I am, maybe I could have gained some confidence about my sexuality by hanging around her. As much as I wanted one, I certainly never had a boyfriend in those days. Maybe I would have been better off with someone like Amity, and maybe she would have been better off with someone like me.

  That night we have the big “coming-out” party. Only, this:. coming out is what my mother has hoped for all along. My has gathered certain relatives Grammie (my father’s mother), my aunt and uncle (my mother’s sister and her husband), and their kids,. my cousins, one boy and two girls, all in their early twenties. And like my brother and me, none of them are married. So here I am, the gay kid, home with a girlfriend, and my mother is absolutely exploding with the unexpected news that I’m the first to be married,

  Amity, in full poo up, drives with me over to my grandmother’s home. I’m nervous about Grammie meeting Amity. Obviously, haven’t spoken to her about Amity’s and my hasty

  And this won’t be the time or place for me to explain fully.