My Best Man

by Andy Schell

  He’s laughing and rubbing his eyes. “Dios mio, hombre, that was one hot time on the couch.”

  “Yeah, well I was sort of under the gun, you know?” I answer, laughing myself. I blush.

  “Nothing to be embarrassed about,” he assures me. I’ll never forget it. Or the kiss,” he adds softly.

  “Me either. Look, I’m really sorry about everything that has happened. Honestly, I’d die if you ever got hurt. When that fool was waving that gun, I just kept thinking about your mother and how she couldn’t bear to lose one more child.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ve been through much more difficult times. Crazy, gun-carrying Americans don’t scare me—not after what I’ve been through in Argentina.”

  “I guess that’s right,” I tell him.

  He takes my hand, looks soulfully into my eyes. “Harry, you’ re loco. And I love you for it. You’re my funny hero and a poet, and you ride a horse with skill, like the gauchos. These are the reasons I love you, and many more. But I can’t live with you if you are married to someone else. I’ll tell you one more time: If you marry her, you can not marry me.”

  Tears fill my eyes. I nod. Kiss his cheek. I have no way of responding other than gently patting his shoulder. Why the hell don’t I get into the truck with him and ride away? What is it that makes me continue this alliance with Amity? Is it pity? Hardly a basis for a marriage. Is it the inheritance? If it is, then I’ve become as soulless and manipulative as I accuse my brother of being. Is it love? Is that why I’m with her? Do I love her enough to create the family we both desire?

  Nicolo opens the door, steps up into his truck, fires it up, and slowly drives away, looking back at me from his open window.

  I walk into the house and sit down beside Amity. “Harry,” she says quietly, “where’s the bong?”

  I walk into my bedroom, retrieve it from the closet, and return.

  Anuy

  She grabs the baggie of pot from under the sofa cushion and fills the bowl. I light the bowl for her, and she inhales hard, taking in a tremendous amount of smoke before handing me the bong. As I suck in, she exhales, and with her exhalation she breaks down into sobs. “I’m sorry, Bubba. I’m truly sorry. I’ve made a terrible mess of things.”

  I hold the smoke in my lungs, look at her, then exhale. I realize I’ve been awfully hard on somebody who probably has a good heart buried inside. I slide my arm around her shoulders and hug her to me. “It’s OK, honey. You didn’t mean for things to turn out this way, I’m sure.” And I am. Even with all the subterfuge, lies, and manipulation, I doubt she planned on a shoot-out at the BJ Corral. “Where’s Nicolo?” she chokes, still sobbing. “He went home.”

  She looks at me, her cheeks drowning in saltwater, mascara racooning her baby blues. “Is he coming back?” She sounds scared, almost childlike.

  I answer with a sigh, “I’m not sure.”

  She sobs with shame and lights up the bong again.

  Seeing her like this, so weak, so fragile underneath the bravado of her surface, I realize something I’ve probably known for a while now: Nicolo is strong. He’ll survive without me. It may be painful and difficult at first, but he will survive. And Amity? Not a chance. She’ll self-destruct. Even if she does make it out of the treatment center again, she’ll snap right back to this place, this hallway, with her nasal linings throbbing, and her head in a marijuana cloud even if her sense of humor prevails. She’ll remain out of control, pushing her family away, while hunting out her next five-minute man to jump in and rescue her.

  “What’ll we do?” she sobs.

  I look at her and smile. “We’ll get married … that’s what we’ll do.”

  “Harry, you belong with Nicolo,” she tells me, wiping the tears

  from her eyes. “You don’t care about money like other people do. Fuck the inheritance.”

  I can’t believe she says it. “It’s not just the money,” I say wistfully. “If I give up the wedding, I’ll be giving up my family too. They’ll abandon me. My whole identity, fucked as it is, like it or not, is still wrapped up in my family. How can I just let them go?”

  “I can’t answer that. I just don’t know how that feels,” she answers in a dazed whisper, “being a part of a family like that.”

  “Amity, I’m not supposed to tell you, but I met your parents. They’re nice people. They love you. They told me great stories. Playing Blanche Dubois, reading Gone With the Wind. How you stole makeup from the neighbors when you were three,” I tease, nudging her on the leg.

  “I didn’t steal that makeup,” she says in a trance. “I earned it. From my friend’s father.” Tears stream down her face.

  I get a sick feeling. “Oh, God,” I whisper, after her statement hits me. “Is that why you’re never having kids?”

  She nods. “They might turn out like me.”

  I take her hand and hold it in mine. “I’m sorry.” I let her cry for a minute, then explain, “I’m not trying to hurt you, Amity, but my guess is you’ve been running your whole life toward some kind of home you feel is good enough for you. Or maybe you’re just running away from the neighbors’ home because it was so bad for you. But the faster and farther you run, the more unhappy you become, and the larger your ghosts loom over your bed at night. If I leave my family, don’t you think it’s going to be the same for me?”

  “But you’ve overcome all that. That’s what’s so great about yOU.”

  I shake my head no. “You’re wrong. I haven’t overcome them at all. You can’t escape your family because your family is what makes you who you are. This whole year has showed me that.”

  She shrugs, the tears drip down her face.

  I take her hand and push my fingers against hers. “I want to say I’m sorry. I’ve been thinking some pretty awful things about you lately. I sold you short. You’ve been a wonderful friend to me, Amity. Nobody else came to that hospital room when I was sick. And you pulled me off that couch at the airport and were willing to let me live here for free. You shared the spoils with me as they came your way and covered me in Padre Island when my credit cards were bum. You’ve become friends with my mother and made her feel younger than any face-lift ever could. You’ve confirmed what I’ve always known about my brother. And most important of all, you’ve taught me I can never escape my past never outrun the Fords of Kansas. So how can you tell me to choose Nicolo over you?”

  “Because you’re gay. And you love him. Right?”

  The tide turns. The tears recede into her eyes and flow from mine. “Yes, I love him. But he also has a family that loves him just as he is,” I say, wiping the tears away with my forearm. “Unlike me. And maybe through this whole sicko bullshit game, you and I can create some kind of new family we can live with. So I want you to marry me, Amity. But I have to tell you right now: If we do this, we do it for love. No money. Winston can have it. Or my mother or whoever. But no inheritance. It’s the only way.” ‘

  She looks uncomfortable. “Not a dime?”

  “Not a dime.”

  “But you love me?” she asks, her brow wrinkled. “You truly love me?”

  “Yes, Amity. I love you.”

  “Enough to give up Nicolo?”

  “Yes,” I tell her, wiping away more tears. “Enough to give up Nicolo.” I wrap my arms around her and pull her close to me and hope that I’m doing the right thing.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-FIVE

  When we arrive at Love Field, the Lear is idling. Amity, in her black stirrup pants and lemon-colored sweater, is radiant, carrying her wedding gown in one hand, a container of biscuits and gravy in the other. She’s gone light on the makeup and left her blond hair straight and pulled back into a pony tail. I don’t know how, but she looks ten years younger than I’ve ever seen her. Her eyes are clear, focused, even after the four bong hits she swallowed into her lungs before we left the house. Her complexion is luminous. There’s a softness to her sense of purpose that I don’t recognize.

  I’m so
nervous I feel as if I’m going to throw up, but she’s as relaxed as the day we met. And just as ebullient. She’d insisted we stop at Butch’s for biscuits and gravy, so the pilots of the Lear have a chance to eat a real Texas breakfast. The smell of the food while driving made me nauseated. As I lowered the windows to take in fresh air so I wouldn’t vomit, she laughingly told me, “You’re probably pregnant, darling’!”

  As we climb the little steps to the jet, Amity calls, “Hi, boys! Harry and I brought you some grub. Get it while it’s hot!” The pilots are instantly in love with her and thank her kindly for the food.

  She lays her dress in the seats across from us, and we buckle ourselves in. The jet takes off like a rocket, leaving Dallas in the dust. We streak past the skyscrapers of downtown, swing into an easterly turn that continues until we’re heading north for Kansas. I look out the little window as we pass our neighborhood. The DCU campus is below, and I search the tiny sidewalks for Nicolo, knowing it may be the last time I see him. I choose one of the little antlike students below and imagine he’s Nicolo and stay glued to him until he’s slipped out of my window frame

  We hurdle the sky at five hundred mph, passing over Oklahoma, moving toward our future at hyper speed Amity sits across from me and smiles, periodically holding my hand because she senses I need it. When the copilot comes out of the cockpit to offer us champagne, compliments of the Goldman family, Amity holds up two empty glasses for him and crows, “God bless the Goldmans and all their wonderful coolers.” He accidentally spills a drop on her pants while pouring and quickly showers her with apologies. “For heaven’s sake, darling’,” Amity tells him, “I’m a flight attendant. Considering all the drinks I’ve spilled on people, that’s just a drop of my karma coming back to me.” Karma comin’ back to May.

  “Thanks for being so nice about it,” the copilot tells her, “and thanks again for the biscuits and gravy. Some of the best I’ve had,” he says, blushing.

  “I made them fresh this morning,” she answers, winking at me. As the copilot returns to the cockpit, I realize that the magic she offers doesn’t come from her hands, but her soul. It doesn’t matter that she didn’t make those biscuits and gravy or the chicken and dumplings or the peach pie. What matters is that she offers them with so much love they taste as if they’re from her heart. She hands me one of the glasses of champagne, but I decline, so she clinks them together herself and says, “Cheers!” Then she gulps the champagne from one glass, sets it down, and retains the other.

  “Harry, would you like a scone?” she asks, taking one from the tray of catered breads left by the copilot.

  “No, I’m afraid I’d just throw it up,” I tell her honestly. “Darlin’, there’s nothing to worry about,” she assures me, confidently “We’re going to get through this together. You should eat.”

  She hands me the scone, and I pull a piece off and stick it into my salty mouth. At least I negotiated with my mother the forfeiture of the requisite rehearsal dinner. I knew I couldn’t take another backslapping ceremony after the engagement party, and for once my wishes prevailed. No, today’s the day. It’s straight to the altar. Straight up the aisle. Straight straight straight.

  Before we land, Amity announces, “Power nap!” and falls into a coma. She’s eaten two scones and drunk half a bottle of champagne, and now she’s out. How does she do it? Especially today. It’s as if she’s embracing our future with no trepidation, no caution, as if she’s certain of its sanguine outcome. I look down to the squares of farmland below and realize that the summer harvest is gone and most of the land is relaxing into the coming days of autumn. Amity sleeps through the steep descent and touchdown, and as we’re taxiing toward the private terminal, I wait, clutching my seat, preparing myself for her frightening rise from the dead. But instead, she slowly opens her eyes, like a baby bird in its nest, and blinks sweetly until she’s awake. I relax, let go of my armrests, and smile at her.

  “Let’s go, Bubba!” she shouts, springing out of her seat.

  “Shit, Amity!” I say, slamming against the back of my seat and grabbing my heart. Fooled again.

  She takes a little carton of juice from the bread tray. “Drink some orange juice, Bubba. You’re going to need your energy today!” she chirps, reaching across and grabbing her wedding dress.

  She’s right. I pat her hand. Sip the juice. Wait for my heart to descend into my chest again.

  As we pull up to the terminal, we can both see my mother and Donald waiting by a shiny gold Mercedes sedan. The car is sitting right on the tarmac, next to several business jets. The pilots shut the engines down and enter the cabin to release the stairs. “After you,” I tell her, and Amity steps out, the glamorous movie star making her return. My mother and Donald wave enthusiastically, and she waves back.

  Now that it’s autumn, the sun generously shares the sky with the cool dry air washing down from the Rockies that moves east to mix with the northern winds coming down from Nebraska. Autumn is my favorite time of year in Kansas. I usually welcome its arrival. Today I’m reticent, but Amity continues to hold my hand and lead me on toward the next season.

  “There they are!” my mother cries, taking off her sunglasses and throwing open her arms.

  “Hey!” Donald yells.

  “Susan!” Amity answers, wrapping her arms around my mother.

  I shake Donald’s hand and wait for him to slap a lung into my throat. He doesn’t disappoint, and when we’re done, I see that Amity and my mother are still embracing. Amity seems to be holding my mother with predilection, and when she finally lets go, she backs up to take a look at her. “You look great, Susan. Really great.”

  My mother’s hair is down again, but pulled back in gold clips. And like Amity, she looks younger, more relaxed than in the past. The crisp breeze ruffles her ecru linen pantsuit as she reaches out to me. “How could anyone not love this girl?” she asks, referring to Amity.

  I hug my mother, feeling her new breasts press against my own new built-up pecs, and answer, “I don’t know, Mom. But we sure do, don’t we?”

  “Yes, we do,” she answers as we watch Amity wrap Donald

  in a hug. “Your parents are here already,” my mother gushes to Amity. “We got a call from them. They sound very nice.”

  I look at Amity with surprise. She followed through and invited them. She turns to my morn. “They’ll be very pleased to meet

  “

  you.

  The pilots deliver our luggage to us. Then Donald clears his throat in a nervous gesture, as if he’s about to send us over enemy lines.

  “Right,” my mother responds, beaming. “Have you noticed anything?”

  “The car?” I ask, pointing to the gold Mercedes. Mom and

  Donald nod affirmatively. “It’s not yours, is it?” I ask.

  “No, it is not,” Donald answers. “It’s yours.”

  Donald smiles, and my mother looks like the cat who swallowed the stomach-bursting macaw. “Well?” she gushes.

  I look at Amity and wait for her eyes to spring out of her head and hit the windshield. But instead they mist over, and she most genuinely says, “Susan and Donald, you shouldn’t have. Really. You’ve gone too far.”

  “What do you think, Hart’y?” my mother asks enthusiastically. “Have we gone too far?”

  Well, it’s not exactly like receiving money. And compared to the trashed, totaled-out BMW, it’s certainly functional. “Not at all,” I answer. “We were actually hoping for a little jet like the one we arrived in.”

  “Well, then you have something to work toward,” Donald answers, not sure if I was joking.

  “Come on,” my mother says, handing me the keys. “Let’s go home. ‘

  I hand them to Amity. “A man can live in a ditch, as long as he’s driving a Mercedes,” I tell her, smiling. “Let’s go home.”

  “Home,” she says, making magic of the word.

  For the remainder of the day, Amity and my mother are occupied with last-minute arran
gements. They leave to check the flower arrangements, sample the reception hors d’oeuvres, make sure the church is prepared, meet with the soloist.

  I lie on my bed most of the day, thinking about Nicolo and what life with him would have been like. I imagine us in every possible situation. Riding horses on our land in Argentina. Feeding our dogs … two Labrador retrievers and a beagle. Nicolo, like his father, writing for a noble cause. Me studying Spanish and enrolled in law school, realizing my father’s dream for me to become an attorney. My strictly pro bono practice would be for those who could not afford representation otherwise. Nicolo’s mother and I would patch things up, and she would live in the guest house on our property. We’d equip her with a beautiful kitchen where she could create every piquant native dish of her desire. And Nicolo’s brother, his kindred spirit I’ve yet to meet, could live in the house with us.

  As the day passes, and I can’t stand to lie in bed any longer, I stop by the kitchen to pour myself a beer, then move to a reclining chair by the pool. Donald approaches, pulls up a chair, and gets a look on his face that tells me I’m supposed to listen up. “Now, Harry,” he tells me, as if I’m a soldier under his command. “I have some things I want to say to you.” He sits sturdily in his chair, as if he’s daring me to knock him out of it.

  I want to run through the yard, onto the golf course, and down the fairway. But he’s caught me in a sand trap. “Yes, Donald?” “Harry, I assume you’ve never been with a woman before.” This ought to be good.

  “There are some things you should know about women.” He stands and starts to pace back and forth along the edge of the pool. “Women have a different chemistry than you and I. You see, men think with their brains. Oh, sure, women like to tell us we think with our dicks, but we don’t. No, our brains, and the chemicals