My Best Man (18 page)

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 attending 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.

As we pull into the driveway, Grammie, in a handsome maroon silk blouse and matching pants, is sitting on a bench beneath a grand old oak tree in the front yard of her Tudor home in enough. She waves at the sight of us, and we wave back before getting out of the car and walking over to her. “Hello,” she calls as we approach.

“Hey, Grammie,” I say, bending over and hugging her

I step back and hold her hand. “Grammie, this is Amity.”

Amity cocks her head, reaches out for Grammie’s free hand and lays the accent on each syllable. “Grammie Ford, I’ve heard so much about you.” The truth is, I’ve told her very little Grammie. Amity is turning on the charm autopilot.

“And I’ve heard something about you,” my grandmother

answers sweetly, while looking at me. “Your mother called me last night and told me the aim of our gathering this evening has changed.”

“That’s right,” Amity answers, letting go of Grammie’s hand and replacing it with mine. “Harry and I are engaged.” Amity is a little too confident. And she realizes immediately that her confidence has no effect on my grandmother.

There is a moment of uncomfortable silence. I’m holding both their hands, and though no one is moving a muscle, it feels as if these two women are pulling me in opposite directions. I look at Grammie, who is smiling, but neutral. “It was kind of sudden, Grandmother.” I rarely call her Grandmother. She knows I’m slightly off edge.

“Life is always full of surprises,” she answers. “Sit down.” We all release hands, and Amity sits on one side of her, I on the other. Grammie turns to Amity. “Harry tells me you two have no secrets is this true?”

“Absolutely,” Amity answers firmly.

“Why are you marrying my grandson?” she asks directly. She’s not aggressive or distrusting in manner, merely honest.

“I do love Harry,” Amity answers, her feathers just the slightest bit ruffled. She can tell my grandmother is real, not easily flattered or manipulated as my mother can be.

My grandmother asks, “Is that why you’re marrying him?” Amity looks at me. Before I can offer help, she quickly reclaims her perfect instincts and follows them accordingly. “No. I’m marrying him to help him get his inheritance.” Dead on.

“Thank you, dear,” Grammie answers. “The last thing this family needs is another pile of horse manure.” She pats both of our legs. “So. What about true love?”

“She really does love me, Gram, and I love her too,” I answer.

“But not like you would another boy,” she reminds me. Turning to Amity she says, “And no matter how much you may feel for

my grandson, you know he simply isn’t able to feel the same in return?”

I’m amazed that my grandmother is so steadfast in her knowledge of me. “We know, Grammie,” I say, starting to sound defensive. “We’ve talked all this out. We know what we’re doing.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t think you do,” my grandmother tells us. “I know the provisions of your father’s will. He talked about it with me. I strongly disagreed with him about it. Ten years you have to stay married. Ten years. Believe me, the next decade will be the most significant of all. It’s the only time in your life that your body will remain young while your mind will ripen. It’s a precious combination that lasts only for a short time. I fear you’ll be making a mistake by this marriage. If you are planning on coupling in your lives, it’s during this period that you should offer yourselves fully to the right person, each of you.”

Amity dispassionately explains, “I’ve told Harry he’s free to sow his wild oats. Be with whoever he needs to be with. He’s offered me equal treatment.”

“It’s not the same,” my grandmother answers, shaking her head sadly. “The years will pass. You’ll never be able to go back.”

“Grammie,” I say quietly, “trust us. We’re not going to screw our lives up over this. It’ sthe only way. Dad forced my hand, and now I have to play it.”

My grandmother sighs, takes a moment to think. “I could fix all this by giving you money,” she says, exasperated.

I look ahead, then over at Amity. She looks back at me, and we both remain silent. It’s true. She could put a stop to it. But as soon as I realize the possibility of it, she speaks up again.

“No,” she says, resolutely. “I’ve trusted you since you were a little boy to do the right thing, and you always have. You’re better than the rest of us in that way. I respect your decision, Harry. I

just felt the need to give you my two cents.”

I smile and tell her, “Well, that’s two cents more than anyone

else has given me in this family.” She chuckles, and Amity looks uncomfortable. “Come on, Gram. Don’t worry. Just give it time. Everything will work out OK. Let’s go to dinner.”

We arrive at the club to find my mother again beaming like the Statue of Liberty, her family gathered around her. Amity and I approach with my grandmother on my arm, as if the royal couple is now escorting the queen mother, and my mother starts in with the picture taking. Amity knows my mother is making this evening an event, and there’s nothing Amity likes more than an event, especially when she’s the theme. My relatives are slightly nervous, my female cousins stifling excitable giggles. Amity rises to the occasion with flair and grace, shaking everyone’s hands and repeating names as she goes. My uncle Jack, like Donald when he met her, holds Amity’s hand a little too long and greets her with his face so close to hers that I’m sure she is intoxicated by the gin on his breath. She continues on before he can jam his tongue down her throat, and by the time she’s done, she’s soaked every hand with her perfume, and we all smell like the Este6 Lauder section of the cosmetics department at Maxwell-Grey.

As much as I despise him, I’m feeling sorry for my brother, Winston. He’s brought several girls to various gatherings over the years, and my family’s never made a fuss over his dates the way they’re making a fuss over Amity tonight. It’s the engagement, I’m sure, but maybe I was wrong about my mother and father, maybe deep in their hearts they knew these women of Winston’s weren’t the real McCoy. They were props. He’s always used ex-sorority, husband-seeking girls to put himself at ease. Even with our father gone, I don’t see him changing. He never talks romantically about women. Never kisses them in front of the family. Never asks them to stay over. Yet they love being with him. He actually can be exceedingly charming when he wants to be. He looks incredible in a suit. Has a great sense of humor. Impeccable style. And when not being a cad, he’s the quintessential gentleman in the classic

sense of the word. He stands when a lady enters the room, opens doors for her, seats her at a table, selects the wine for her. The problem is, he would also enjoy dressing her, styling her hair, teaching her how to walk, and entering her in a pageant if he could. But I suspect the last thing he’d want to do is to sleep with her.

And Amity knows this. And that’s why he’s threatened by her. The competitive part of me is amused. It’s quite ironic that the “straight” brother has no respect for his women and the gay one now does. But the other part of me is saddened that Winston has never understood that truth is the great emancipator. I take no pleasure in his self-imposed prison, and in a way I find it cruel that my mother is so desperate for some genuine heterosexuality within her sons that she’ll forsake the past pretenses offered by my brother, in order to flaunt the authenticity of this real, live, dick-smoking girlfriend of her formerly gay child. I admit, I love the attention almost as much as Amity does, and it’s fun being so worshiped by my extended family, but I embrace no joy in Winston’ spredicament, regardless of what a shit he is.

We drink cocktails and more cocktails. And Amity answers all the stock questions about Texas, Fort Worth, and her accent. Somehow the subject turns to cooking, and Amity, whose icebox still holds nothing but champagne, Diet Dr. Pepper, and nail polish, claims she’s an expert pie maker. “I’m famous for making pie.”

My aunt Shirley, blessed with a sick sense of humor, starts laughing, and I know right away why. With her accent, it sounds like Amity has said, “I’m famous for making Pa.” Aunt Shirley explains to the group what she thought Amity said, and my family, all of them possessing a wicked wit, joins in laughter at the thought of this beautiful and cultured girl saying, in a polite and acceptable way, that she’s famous for fucking her father.

Amity, ever the good-time gal, takes it in stride and laughs along. She even good-naturedly shakes her finger at Aunt Shirley. But now there is a crack in her mask so small that even Winston doesn’t

see it, probably because he’s concentrating on concealing his own. And inside that microscopic fissure of Amity’s, that only I can see, the pain of something awful is revisited. And I have a feeling that if all the lights and cameras were turned off on this dinner and we were alone and she spoke, she would sound as she did earlier in the day when she swore with an authentic voice that she would never have children.

Before we’re seated for dinner, I excuse myself for the restroom, and my cousin Brad, home from Yale, comes with me. He’s a big handsome guy. A soccer player. Quite intelligent, but macho, definitely a jock. We’re standing at the urinals, an empty one between us, and he’s got a shit-eating grin on his face. He says to me, “She’s pretty wild. All that hair. That accent. This is really something.”