by Andy Schell
So far, September is just as hot as August, and the sun beats down with brutal strength. I go from hot to cold to hot, from the sun to the inside of a building to the sun again, searching for my Argentinean. No luck. I swear he’s gone underground. And I’m sick of the smell of books and air-conditioning, polished linoleum and window cleaner, cafeterias and science labs. I kick the pavement in anger. It bruises my foot in retaliation, and I limp over to the football stadium and climb a few rows and sit in the bleachers.
The football team is in their practice gear on the field. The coaches are screaming at them, putting them through drills, and the big hulks are doing their best to be agile and run the drills. A trio of sorority girls in running shorts and bows in their hair, their tank tops adorned with Greek letters, are jogging the steps in the stadium. I can hear them gossiping about a sorority sister’s weight problem as they pass. “If she eats dessert, she’s not really trying.” Far in the distance, I see a lone student sitting on the steps. A guy. Dark hair. Muscles. Reading a book. It’s Nicolo. I step on a bleacher and start running on my sore foot like an injured gymnast limping across an endless balance beam. The closer I get, the more nervous I become. My heartbeat quickens from the run and my apprehension, and as I approach him from behind, I slow down, trying to gather
my calm and good wits. I know I can make him understand. I’ll devote myself to him, to us, as soon as this whole fucking scenario with Amity is over. Surely he’ll believe that.
I’m almost even with him, and I walk down the four bleachers to where he sits, to face him, when I realize that it isn’t Nicolo at all. It’s someone else.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO
he Oilmen’s Club of Wichita, Kansas, has been spit-polished and shined into brilliance. An eight-piece band plays in the heart of the huge, multilevel dining room, and ice sculptures of swans, dolphins, and seashells are glistening next to spreads of raw vegetables, crab meat, Gruy6re on toast points, and fruit. Flower arrangements of white roses, Peruvian lilies, and Birds of Paradise pour themselves over tables, descend the edges of stair steps, and fill all corners of the room. The tables are set with sea foam green spreads and white place settings, the silver cutlery shines so brightly it makes little stars on the ceiling.
The guest list is a who’s who of Kansas society, and even some who aren’t. The relatives on my mother’s side are thrilled to see Amity again, and those on my father’s side are making great efforts to speak with her and assess her character. A photographer from the local paper is making the rounds, exploding flashbulbs in everyone’s faces as they freeze their good taste for the frame. When the photographer thanks them and moves on, they maintain their expressions for Barbie Botter, as she jots down their sentiments.
My grandmother, Queen Mother of the Plains, holds court at her table, and everyone drops by to pay their respects and compliment her in some way or another. Children, in particular, are fond
of her. Since I was a child, my grandmother has kept nothing but candy and credit cards in her purse, and tonight there are several children gathered at her feet, waiting for a bounty of sugar.
It was the same for me at that age. There was always a magical Pied Piper quality about her, something that made me want to follow her and listen to whatever she had to say and imitate whatever she did. Every summer my grandfather would force me and Winston to go hunting with him and my father. And though Winston would gamely take a shot at a quail or even a deer, I refused to pull the trigger on my own gun. My father would remain silent while my grandfather berated me and called me a sissy. But I didn’t care. I made it quite clear that I much preferred a day on the porch with my grandmother, learning Portuguese fishing songs, squeezing homemade lemonade, and making finger paintings with her from colors that matched the Indian Paintbrush and Lupine that grew on the ranch land of the Colorado house. If songs and cooking and art were the interests of a sissy, then I was happy to be one, though I certainly refrained from full-on disclosure as a boy. And Grammie would always defend me to her husband. She’d tell him there were enough hunters in the world, and that “gatherers of knowledge are esteemed over hunters of game.”
Flitting about the party, Amity passes every charm test with flying colors. She is the belle of the ball, in her black strapless cocktail dress that contrasts with her blond hair and shows off her slender tan shoulders. It’s the perfect amount of formality and sexiness for the occasion, and she’s stacked herself into a black velvet pair of heels, pushing her slightly above the other women in the room. I’m wearing a dark suit and an emerald-colored tie. My shiny, flat dress shoes keep me just below Amity’s height. Donald is overdressed in a tux, and my mother is in a black dress with a scooped neckline that shows off her new Sally Field breasts. Amity’s parents were unable to attend.
When she nervously told me, two days ago, that her grandmother
had suffered a stroke and that her parents wouldn’t be able to make the party, I asked her if we should call it off. “Oh, no,” she said, “it would make her feel worse maybe even kill her!” When I suggested that we go visit her in the hospital, Amity claimed, “I just got back, babe. She’s really weak. We need to let her rest.” I sensed it was a scam, so yesterday I called every hospital in Fort Worth in search of Hazel Stone. No one by that name in any hospital. Then I called information for the James Raymond Stones, but there was no listing. If my father were alive, he’d have had them investigated by now. My mother has no intentions of rocking the boat and willingly accepts all information put forth by Amity.
My mother is taking us by the hand, leading us from couple to couple. “Harry, you know the Harmans …” and “Harry, you remember the McGriffs …” and “Harry, you’ve spent time with the Bennett-Strongs.” I hardly remember any of these plastic people or their manufacturers. Some of these people should be melted down and turned into milk cartons. It’s our maid’s family I was really close to when I was growing up, and they weren’t invited. Likewise, the Fuckers, the favorite family of my childhood, who lived down the street aren’t present. While I struggle, Amity is working the room like a fund-raiser, shaking hands, making small talk, laughing on cue at stupid golf jokes. I want to stab her with a salad fork and see if she shorts out, like that gal in the Stepford Wives, but it’s impossible to keep up with her, because she’s far more energetic than I, and every free moment she slips away to the ladies’ room to powder her nose.
Winston moves counter to us with ballet like skill, no matter what our position, making sure he steers clear of the feted couple. He has a woman with him Patty, I presume. It’s surprising that he hasn’t made any major efforts yet to derail the evening with any of his Winstonisms.
“Amity dear, I want you to come meet my daughter Andrea.
She was married only months ago, and she’s full of sensible advice!” Mrs. Mahaffy says, spilling a little of her cocktail.
“Like how to fry an egg or cheat at bridge?” my mother asks gamely.
“I know how to do those things,” Amity claims, sipping champagne. Her accent is so ramped up that she almost sounds British. “I want to cheat at frying an egg!”
“Nonsense,” my mother tells Mrs. Mahaffy. “She’s a wonderful cook. You should try her chicken and dumplings. And her peach pie!”
It’s the best money can buy, I think.
“I insist you meet Andrea,” Mrs. Mahaffy finishes, dragging Amity away while pouring more of her drink on the floor.
I escape to the television room, where Winston and I would sit with the other children when we were youngsters, drinking Shirley Temples and eating cheese popcorn while watching scary reruns of The Outer Limits or new episodes of The Big Valley. It’s a grand old study with endless shelves of books, all the classics, and huge soft chairs made of buttery leather that would swallow us up. The children of other families would sit two to a chair, but I only tried it with Winston once. As I crawled into his chair, he pushed me out with his feet, and I hit the floor with a thump, spilling
my Shirley Temple and landing in it. Everyone laughed and made fun of me, no one more demonstrably than Winston. From then on, we’d separate, staying on opposite sides of the room, sniveling at each other while digging the cherries out of our drinks.
I walk over to the immense glass windows and look to the street nine stories below. It’s nothing now. Barely a view. Concrete and parked cars. An ugly brick office building across the street. But when I was a child, it was like being on top of the Empire State Building.
“Harry Ford,” a voice says.
I look up, see a guy roughly my age. He’ shand some good bones,
slightly thinning hair. His suit almost matches mine. “Hello,” I say.
“You don’t remember me, do you?” he asks, a grin on his face. “Not really.”
He puts out his hand. “Bob Valentine. We played together here as kids.”
I shake his hand. Bob Valentine. I vaguely remember his child hood face. “Thanks for coming.”
“Wouldn’t miss it. I wanted a chance to see you,” he tells me warmly. “I was really surprised to hear that you were getting married. I… had heard from friends that you weren’t the marrying type.”
Rich white people’s code for homosexual. “I’m not the marrying type,” I tell him, chuckling, “and Amity knows it.”
“Interesting,” he says, picking up the toothpick from his martini and using the olive to stir. He looks me straight in the eye. “My wife has no idea.”
“Are you telling me you’re gay?”
He smiles awkwardly and shrugs.
“But you married a woman anyway? Why?”
He takes a sip of his drink, gives a wry smile. “Isn’t that what we’re supposed to do? I mean, you’re doing it.”
“Not really,” I tell him, plopping down in one of the leather chairs. “Not like you. It’s not like I’m really getting married.”
“Oh, you wait,” he laughs, sitting down beside me. “It will be very real. Once you start down that aisle, you’ll know what I mean.” “You’re making me nervous.”
He comes closer, speaks lower. “You were a cute kid, Harry. You still are.” I have to admit, he’s sexy in that well-bred, rakish way. “I liked you when we were boys.”
It’s an erotic statement, and it has its effect. I’ve had no sex with Nicolo and none with Amity in a good while. I’m tempted.
“I don’t really remember you. If you liked me, why didn’t you tell me?”
He raises his eyebrow the way Amity does. “Is that something a boy tells another boy?”
Physically, I’d have no problem sleeping with this guy. Mentally, that last statement tells me he’s all wrong. “Yes,” I answer emphatically, “it is something a boy tells another boy. There’s nothing wrong with it.”
He looks at his shoes, chuckles uncomfortably. “I wasn’t that kind of a boy.”
My voice is honest, not harsh. “No offense, Bob, but you aren’t that kind of a man either. I am. I don’t want to sneak around with you or anybody. I have no secrets about my love. His name is Nicolo.”
He turns slightly colder. “Funny. Nicolo looks an awful lot like a girl tonight in that black dress and pearls.”
“I told you, Amity knows all about him. My family too.”
“So why the party?” he asks, biting the olive off the toothpick. “And why the girl?”
I sigh. “For my mother, the family name and all. And … personal reasons.”
“Financial personal reasons?”
I nod affirmatively.
He chews the olive, swallows. “Then I guess you’re not that different from me,” he says bitingly. He sets his glass down and walks to the door. As he leaves, Winston appears, and the two of them bristle with recognition. “Hello, Winnie,” Bob spits. “Honoring your brother with a visit from his big sister?”
Winston shows his fangs, mutters, “Nice to see you too, Valentino.”
‘
I have no doubt they’ve slept together—it’s written all over their faces. I’m so glad I didn’t jump into the broom closet with Bob, because I would be grossed out to think I could mess around
z with anyone who’d slept with my brother: male, female, or inflatable doll. And I realize now that it was probably Winston who told Bob about me. “When did the children’s room become the snake pit?” I ask Winston as he plunks down into a chair.
“What’s the matter, Happy. Aren’t you having a good time?” “Who wouldn’t be? All these waxy people walking around. Music from someone else’s generation. Food that gives you the shits. What more could a guy want?”
He raises his feet to the ottoman in front of him. “Nicolo perhaps
I want to punch him in his pretty face. “How do you know about Nicolo?”
“Mother and I are closer than you think. And of course Acidity and I have our little chats.”
Oh, God, I can hardly handle the two of them separately. What are they chatting about?
“I’m sure Nicolo is wonderful, Happy. Far better than this silly girl running around shaking everyone’s hand like she’s running for governor. I really can’t believe you’re going through with this.” He crosses his legs.
I stand over him. “Gee, it’s so hard to figure out. If I do it, I’m fifty million richer. If I don’t, you’re fifty million richer.”
“So shallow. Since when did you start caring about money? What is money?” he asks, picking up a paperweight from the end table beside him. It’s glass with an Indian penny inside. He holds it to the light. “I hear things aren’t going so well with your Romeo from South America. Why don’t you drop this charade and reunite with your true love? I’d be willing to help you out, you know. Buy the two of you a house, another car, throw in some junk bonds, maybe even a horse.”
He still knows where Cinnamon is. Somehow he knows. Cinna mon would be sixteen years old now. With good care, he still has
half a life ahead of him. I can’t believe Winston would do this to me. “What happened to make you so fucking mean?”
He stands, speaks very soberly. “Do you understand what I’m offering you? Nicolo. And the horse. And enough money to be comfortable.” He squints. “Love and money. Are you refusing me?”
“Are you insinuating I don’t love Amity?”
“Not the way you love Nicolo. It’s not possible.”
“Why do you say that?”
“When you’re gay, you’re gay. You can’t love a woman fully.” I look him dead in the eye. “And you’re the expert, aren’t you?” He blasts me with contempt. “Harry. Harry Ford. The perfect little man so true to himself, true to the world.” He walks over to the bookshelf and plucks out a book, which he holds in front of himself like a sword. “Wielding the saber of honesty since the age of seventeen. Forsaking all financial provisions in order to live peacefully. How peaceful was it, Harry? Driving around in that junk heap, in debt up to your ears just to attend a public university. Eating franks and beans with your middle-class chums. Working in a theater box office in order to pay for your books. And now you’re tossing bags of peanuts to those animals in coach.” He tosses the book onto a chair. “Was it worth it?”
I look at him and wonder how he can be so handsome and so ugly at the same time. “It was great,” I tell him with pleasure. “I
was poor, but I was happy. I loved my VW it was the best car
I’ve ever had.”
“There’s no accounting for taste,” he sniffs.
“And franks and beans are just fine …… better after you’re stoned, but just fine. I loved working in the box office because I got to attend all performances for free, and it’s how I met my college boyfriend. And the flight attendant job well, it’s kind of a drag, I admit. But I won’t be doing it for much longer because now I’ll be happy and rich.”
“Wealthy is how we say it.”
I’ll be more than wealthy,” I assure him. “I’ll be spending my life with someone who loves me.” Nicolo, I hope.
“And you’
ll give up Nicolo and your horse for money?” “I’m giving up Nicolo and my horse for Amity.” “She’ll burn you, little brother. Mark my words.”
I get up, leave. “I know what I’m doing,” I spit over my shoulder. I wouldn’t risk saying it if I weren’t sure I could get Nicolo back. Never mind that I can’t find him I know I’ll get him back, because if I have to, I’ll call off the wedding.
“I ask for your attention please,” Donald says into the microphone. “Your attention.” He’s a confident speaker I guess because he’s a general, and generals know how to give orders like, “Go out there and get killed!” So asking for attention is nothing to him. My mother stands beside him, wiggling and glowing like a firefly without an off mechanism. Amity holds on to me with one hand, her champagne glass with the other. “We’d like to make a presentation. As you know, we’re here tonight to celebrate Harry and Amity’s impending doom I mean, wedding.” Ha ha ha. The crowd chuckles on cue as if LAUGH signs are flashing in the corners of the room. “His mother and I …”
Who are you? I wonder, looking at Donald.
“His mother and I,” he continues, “are very proud parents this evening. Needless to say, Amity has made quite an impression on our hearts.” ‘
“And our checkbooks!” Winston yells.
The crowd laughs, mistakenly thinking the imaginary LAUGH signs are flashing again. Donald nods, as if the remark was planned, and continues. “We also want to extend the regrets of the Stones of Fort Worth, Texas, Amity’s parents, who had to cancel their plans to be here this evening when Amity’s grandmother suffered a mild stroke.”