My Best Man

by Andy Schell

  inside our brains, are what motivate us, guide us, make us who we are. Right?”

  “More or less,” I say agreeably.

  He stops. Points a finger at me. “But women are controlled by their vaginas.”

  What ?

  He starts to pace again. “Their vaginas make them laugh, and their vaginas make them cry. Their vaginas make them sad, and their vaginas make them happy. But only because their vaginas make them think first.” He speaks with great commitment, the way he might when giving a speech at the officers’ club. “You see, all the chemicals that control a woman’s reasoning are right… down..” there.” He points at his privates.

  I slowly ask, “Why are you pointing at your crotch?”

  “Because this is where my vagina, or my brain, would be if I were a woman.”

  “I see,” I tell him, with a wrinkled brow. “How high is your

  IQ?”

  I hope he’ll laugh. He doesn’t. “That depends on how much stimulation my brain gets. Do you understand me, son?”

  I’ll never understand you, Donald. “Go on.”

  “If you want Amity to continue to be smart, outgoing, agree able then you need to stimulate her brain. And I mean stimulate it good. Because if you don’t, it’ll go dry on ya. Like the desert floor of Death Valley. And then you’ve got trouble on your hands, son. Because once a woman stops using her brain, it dries up, and she stops thinking clearly, and becomes nothing but emotion. And you’ll lose control over her. I guar an-fuckin’-tee ya.”

  “So you think I should keep control over Amity?” “Absa-fuckin’-lutely,” Donald says, his eyes in a squint. “I don’t give a shit what generation you’re from. Women are women, and men are men. Now,” he states, clearing his throat, opening his eyes, “I understand that your soldier is used to standing at attention for a different commander. But listen to me. I have no doubt your soldier is ready to fall in line and penetrate the foreign border with the rest of them. Don’t be afraid, son you can do it. And if you have any questions, don’t be afraid to report back to me. You got that?”

  I nod. Stand. “Donald?”

  “Yes, son?”

  “Does my mother have a … high IQ?”

  “She’s a fuckin’ genius, buddy.”

  No wonder she married him in six weeks. I reach out my hand. “Thank you.”

  He shakes my hand while breaking nearly every one of my fingers. “Don’t mention it.”

  Amity and I are in the large bathroom off our bedroom in my mother’s house. I’m sitting on the edge of the tub, watching her poo up for the last time as a single girl. My mother has had a bottle of champagne sent out to us, delivered by Marzetta, who politely but sadly hands it over, and Amity forgoes the glass provided to swill out of the bottle. She’s skipping a lot of the poo up steps. “How come you’re not curling your hair?” I ask.

  Her hair is still pulled back in a ponytail; she’s lightly brushing mascara on her eyelashes. “I’m feeling kind of natural today, Bubba.”

  “Should I take you to see a doctor?”

  “Stop!” she scolds, picking up the bar of soap by the sink and throwing it at me.

  I duck as the bullet flies past. “This is going to be really weird,”

  I tell her, picking the soap up from the floor. I don’t say it negatively, just honestly. “Whoever thought we’d really get married? God, I wonder what we’ll be doing five years from now?”

  She looks into the mirror, and instead of looking at herself, she looks at me.. as she did on the first day she brought me home.

  “Don’t worry about it, darling’. Life never plays out the way you think it will, I guarantee you.”

  “No shit. Whoever thought Jacqueline would turn out to be a shaman?”

  “What’ st hat “In this case, it’ sa tall priestess who repeats herself while wisely sorting through all the muck.”

  “Besides you, Harry, she’s my best friend.”

  “You’re right.” If I weren’t afraid of hurting Amity’s feelings, I’d tell her how I proposed to Jackie that she take Amity’s place at the altar and how Jacqueline refused me on Amity’s behalf. “She’d never do anything to hurt you,” I tell Amity.

  “I’d never do anything to hurt her either,” Amity responds.

  I want to tell her, “But you did!” She doesn’t know I’ve been made aware of her tryst with Jackie’s former boyfriend Arthur. And this is the thing that bothers me most about marrying her. her ability to revise her history at will. At the same time, I realize I’m the yin to her yang, since I’m revising my future at will. I wonder if we’ll ever stop altering the past and the future and just let things be as they are.

  “Do you think we’ll be happy?” I ask.

  Now she looks at herself in the mirror and smiles. “We’ll be happy, Bubba,” she tells me with surety. “We’re going to cut the shit and get on with it.”

  Amity and I are driving to the church in our new Mercedes. My mother had ordered a limousine for us, but Amity convinced her to cancel it. She’s insisted on traveling in full regalia in her new car. My mother and I practically had to sit on her huge dress to get the whole thing stuffed behind the steering wheel.

  “You sure you don’t want me to drive?” I had asked.

  “No way, Bubba!” she’d told me.

  We have the windows rolled down, and the fall wind rushes through the car, blowing the lace ribbons in her hair. “Look at

  us,” Amity squeals. “We’re straight out of Town and Country/ This would be the most killer ad for Mercedes!” She’s right. A brand-new gold sedan, the bride behind the wheel, the groom along for the ride. My mother and Donald are in front of us in their Cadillac, leading the way, and Jacqueline, after arriving at the house just an hour ago, is behind us in her rental car. a train of madness, with Jackie serving as the caboose. Tina Turner is singing on the radio, asking us “What’s Love Got to Do With It?” It’s a valid question. In the beginning, the answer would have been nothing. But now, love has everything to do with it, I can tell by Amity’s repose. She’s happy and at peace, rock-solid peace. But even in the cool breeze, I’m sweating. Amity looks over. “Harry, for heaven’s sake. Stop your worrying. It’s not like you’re going to the executioner. It’s just a bunch of fancy-ass people in expensive clothes, and some nice old guy, who probably hits the sauce a little too much and fondles the altar boys, standing there in a big ole white robe, and you and me. Believe me, darling’, this whole thing will be over sooner than you think.”

  “Good,” I tell her, wiping my clammy palms on my tuxedo pants. “How are you staying so calm?” She glances over at me, takes my hand, and gives me a heartfelt smile. “Because this is the most wonderful day of my life. You’re doing something for me that no one else has ever done, Bubba. Ever. You’re loving me for who I am. No conditions. No rules. You’re putting my happiness before your own. And that’s the meaning of true love, Harry. I want you to know how much you’ve inspired me.”

  “But, Amity,” I say, “that’s how your parents love you.” She glances at me briefly, then concentrates on the road. “I suppose,” she sighs. “And I love them too, but they just don’t get me. It was the wrong family, the wrong house for me. I couldn’t stand pork and milk. I hated riding that stinky old school bus for miles on dirt roads, just to get to Waco to go to school. My brother

  and sister thrived in FFA, while I thrived on THE. It was the only way I could accept my boring life. But I always knew it wasn’t permanent. My cousin came to visit me when I was six, and she loved our farm, but I told her, “This dump is just a place to hang my hat until I can strike out on my own!” “

  “Jesus, Amity, you said that when you were six?”

  “I was an honest six. And I wanted more than a farm family in Waco could offer. I wanted a family with a good name. A family who drank martinis instead of cow’s milk. I wanted the clothes and the house and the style. I wanted to be famous. Oh, I know it’s shallow and disgusting, but why not
? It’s not like I’m some horrible bitch.”

  “But, Amity,” I say, impassioned, “you’re not getting any of that with me! No house, no clothes, no style. There’s only a small amount of name recognition. I’m not taking the money. I’ll be

  “

  poor.

  She looks confidently ahead. “You’re a fine man, Harry Ford. You won’t be poor. I’m sure of it.”

  I’m in a side room, off the back of the main cathedral of St. Thomas Episcopal Church. I can hear all the guests in the pews, some murmuring, some speaking outfight, some laughing. We have ten minutes to go before six o’clock the wedding hour. My cousins, Ellie and Mary, look beautiful in their butter-colored, full length bridesmaids’ dresses. Jacqueline too. Brad and two other cousins, dressed in their long-tailed black tuxes, are nearly finished with their duties seating the guests. Most of the entourage are now standing in the back of the church, shifting in their stiff shoes, waiting for the minutes to pass until the music segues and they hear the bridal march that accompanies all of us down the aisle. I peer out into the church and see my mother and Donald sitting on the aisle in the front row. Next to them is my beloved Grammie, and next to her is Winston. Across the aisle from them sit Amity’s mother and her brother and sister. I’m so happy she’s invited them

  nay n,

  all, and Mr. Stubbs assured me again as they entered the church that this must be the “real deal” since they’ve never been invited to “any of her other weddings,” and that this would be the first time he would actually give his daughter away. I still haven’t found out how many other weddings there were. I guess I’ll never know all there is to know about Amity Stone.

  But all I need to find out about her at the moment is her location.

  I don’t see her anywhere, and when I query Jackie as to her whereabouts, she shrugs, telling me, “I don’t know. I’m not sure, because I don’t know.”

  I walk back into the holding room, wipe my palms for the fortieth time, try to catch my breath, slow my heart down. None of it works. Fuck, if only I could breathe.

  “You OK there, buddy?” my cousin Brad asks, poking his head into the room.

  “Fine!” I answer, gulping more air.

  “Five minutes,” he says, counting it down.

  Fuck. Where is she? I go back out and take another look at the crowd. It’s too many people. Mother and Amity promised to keep it small, intimate. But there must be three hundred people here which doesn’t seem intimate in the least. I glance up at the family pew again. No Winston. He’s gone.

  No Winston. No Amity. Oh, fuck, I can’t even think it. I turn back to the wedding party, ask my relatives and Jackie, “Has anyone seen Amity or Winston?”

  “Winston just walked by. He went down the hall, that way,” Brad answers.

  “Your brother is handsome,” Jackie tells me, smoking a cigarette in her bridesmaid’s dress. “He’s handsome when he walks. Really handsome.”

  I’ll be right back,” I tell them all. “Don’t start without me.” They all laugh nervously, and I start heading down the hall. When I was a child, the limestone hallways of this church were

  sacred, holy, hallowed. They were so much larger than I was, and I always felt I was being led by them, that there was some mysterious force that determined my direction independent of my desire for control. And it still feels that way now …. that as I aged and grew larger, so did these stone halls. And I’m still captive to their power. As when I was a child, I walk softly, with great care not to let my heels make any sound, lest I disturb God. And as I approach the voices of familiarity, they don’t hear me any more than God does. “Two million dollars. Made out to Amity Stone,” Winston says.

  “How thoughtful of you to pronounce my name correctly,” Amity tells him coolly. “Is it spelled correctly?”

  “The T’s are crossed, and the I is dotted,” he assures her.

  I clutch my heart. I’m afraid it will disintegrate. My face flashes hot, and my ears ring. The one thing that made me believe in her was that she hadn’t taken Winston’s offer. I can hardly hear them as they continue.

  “It better be a cash-equivalent check, darling’, or I’m fixin’ to be Mrs. Harry Ford in about two minutes.”

  “Same as cash,” Winston vows. “I couldn’t put a stop payment on it if I wanted to.”

  “Hand me your pen, darling’. I’m going to endorse this bad boy right now.”

  The muted sound of the wedding march, floating down the limestone hallway, begins.

  “They’re starting the music. How are you going to do it?” Winston asks her excitedly.

  I hear her scribbling with his pen. “You leave that to me,” she answers confidently.

  God, what do I do? God, can you hear me? What the hell do I do now? You’re telling me I made the wrong choice. Nicoloo It should have been Nicolo. Never do anything for money. But that’s not what I did! I did this for love. For Amity. So that she could have a family and a life in which she’d be valued and loved. How

  could everything turn out like this? I start walking back down the hall toward the chapel, letting my heels smash against the floor so that God hears me as well as that Texan Eve and my brother, the serpent she’s cut a deal with.

  “Harry!” Amity yells behind me. “Harry, come back!”

  “Let him go,” Winston calls after her. “It’s easier this way. It’s done I”

  I hear her own heels clicking against the floor as she approaches. “Harry! Come on,” she says, looping her arm into mine.

  I throw her arm off. “How could you do this?” I hiss, keeping my voice low. I’m fighting to keep the tears in my eyes.

  “Harry, you don’t understand,” she pleads. “This was the only way for all of us to be happy.”

  “I’m not happy anymore,” I tell her, one tear falling.

  “You will be,” she swears as we round the corner to the chapel. Mr. Stubbs is waiting with an exasperated look on his face, and I turn to the left, to exit the church, but Amity shoves me with the strength of a defensive lineman and I fall splat on my face, Amity on top of me. The whole church turns and gasps to see us on the floor.

  Amity stands, shrugs at the crowd, and nervously laughs. “I didn’t have a shotgun.” A few nervous chuckles arise.

  As Mr. Stubbs comes walking toward us, I see my mother’s horrified expression. Donald is holding her up. Mr. Stubbs pulls me up and sets me in the aisle. Amity takes my arm and pulls me in, then grabs her father’s ann, and suddenly all three of us are linked to walk up the aisle together, Amity with a long-strapped white purse over her shoulder. I’m supposed to be waiting at the altar as he brings her to me, and he’s thrown by the unorthodox style of this improvised trio. I dig my heels into the carpet. “Come on!” Come own! Amity implores, coaxing me forward.

  I flash back to the first time we entered Suicide Express together. She spurred me on, swearing it wouldn’t kill us although I was not

  so sure. The narrow road ahead dared us to enter its clutches, challenged us to hang on as we hurled forward into the world together. She pushes me again, and I step on the carpet, entering on the treacherous road with my heart in pieces. “What are you doing?” I whisper to her desperately.

  We walk slowly, but it feels as if I’m moving seventy miles an hour, like on the expressway. People turn, smile at us, nod in recognition, whisper to each other, and I have to concentrate not to hit the side walls of the pews as I lurch recklessly forward. She’s between her father and me, pulling us on, smiling like an angel who’s earned her wings. The ringing in my ears is deafening now, and my legs are barely holding me up. I look for an off ramp, a chance to dash down a row and slide away. “Keep walking, Harry,” she whispers.

  As we reach the front of the church, I look to see my mother, finally relaxing and radiating with happiness and light, giving shine to all the beautiful hues of stained glass within the windows of the chapel. My grammie stands beside her, braced on a cane. Unlike my mother, she se
es the panic and discomfort in my face, and she raises her eyebrows, then squints her eyes to ask me what is the matter. I can’t answer. Winston has not returned to my grandmother’s side, and I look behind us and see him standing at the back of the church in the shadows, like a vampire waiting to swoop down on his victim. Amity tugs on me, forcing me to look ahead and make the final steps to the priest, Father Warner.

  “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to unite this man, Harry Ford, and this woman, Amity Stone, in holy matrimony. The union of a man and woman is a sacred covenant and shall not be taken lightly. If there is anyone present who has knowledge of any reason that Harry and Amity may not be joined in holy matrimony, let him speak now or forever hold his peace.”

  Amity inhales a huge breath, as do I. What is happening? Is she

  taking his money and mine? She’s got the check. It’s as good as cash. Is she outfoxing Winston and simply marrying me anyway? No one speaks, not even Winston. I start to open my mouth …. “Who gives this woman to this man?” Father Warner asks. Amity and I release the air from our lungs.

  “I do,” her father answers proudly. He separates from Amity and steps directly into the pew with Mrs. Stubbs. Amity and I are left alone in front of God and everyone. My ears are ringing so hard and blood is flushing through my head so fast that I can’t hear anything Father Warner is saying. I think he’s educating us about the sanctity of marriage and telling us to be good to each other, or at least not to kill each other, but he’s woefully late. It’s all too late.

  “Do you, Harry Ford, take this woman, to have and to hold,

  for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health,

  so long as you both shall live?”

  I stare ahead, my vision tunneling, my face on fire. Amity pulls me to her and whispers, “Say yes, Harry.” I turn, look at her. Search her eyes for any meaning. “Trust me,” she whispers, her clear eyes promising me faith. I hesitate. She squeezes my hand, and at that moment, it’s as if God squeezed it and the halls of the church open in my mind and God speaks to me loud and clear.