My Best Man (22 page)

Your Amity

We’ve agreed it is the way things should be for both of us that we remain free to be with the correct sex, which for both of us is men. We talked about the experimental encounters we’ve had together, and she knows that, while I was able to do it, there was an aspect of detachment and curiosity that made it a novelty. I want something authentic, not a novelty. Amity agrees for me and for herself. Men, it is.

“Absolutely, Susan. We planned it for today, I promise,” Amity gushes as if my mother were sitting next to her.

Last night, while Amity and Kim were out, Troy called, crying as usual . only this time I listened carefully to his message because Amity wasn’t home to turn the machine down or talk over it. He begged for her to tell him why. He just kept saying that all he needed was an explanation. “Why did you leave without a word?

Not even a note or letter?” he kept crying.

Was there a note? I wondered.

“I look forward to seeing you too. Give the general my love. “Bye!” Bah/

“What was that about?” I ask apprehensively.

“Susan wants us to get ourselves registered at Maxwell’s immediately,” Amity tells me, returning to her little bottle of polish and her toes.

“Fuck, we’re not Muffle and Biff. I don’t want to do any of that stupid shit.”

“Harry Ford!” she scolds, sounding like Scarlett O’Hara. “Of

course we will. This is the only time your mother will ever be able to do this, and we simply can’t deny her. Stop being selfish.”

Imagine, chastised by Scarlett O’Hara. I look disgusted. Feel a little angry. I keep telling myself that Amity and I are in this together, that we have our heads on straight. But her head seems to be tilting more and more these days. And her smile of satisfaction is beginning to look a little too sincere. “The fact is, my father’s will said nothing about registering ourselves, throwing engagement parties, or even that we had to have a ceremony,” I snort. “It’s not like we have to convince anyone or land ourselves a mention in Barbie Botter’s column. We just have to get married, plain and simple. My mother can do all this foofy stuff when Winston gets married.”

“The only person Winton is interested in marrying is himself,” she pops.

“Well, stop trying to make me into a straight boy,” I snap. “It’s not worth the money.”

She changes tack. Her voice softens. “Look, babe, this is the one time in our lives that either one of us is going to walk down a wedding aisle.” She says it as if her other wedding didn’t happen. “Just because your momma is trying to make it a traditional scene, don’t let that spoil it for us. It’s a game. Let’s make it fun. You’ll step into your Armani tux, and I’ll pour myself into a Calvin Klein wedding gown, and if your momma wants to knock us on the head with Nambe serving utensils and Baccarat goblets as we walk down the aisle, we’ll just have to suffer through.”

“Something tells me you won’t suffer, Miss Name Brand.” “You be nice.” Yew bee nauce….. “Tell me about your date,” I say, heading into the kitchen for coffee. “I need to talk about something real for a change.”

“Well, Kim is real wealthy. He just separated from his wife, and he’s moving into a very expensive condominium. I think he’s going to help us.”

I take a coffee cup down from the cupboard. “Great,” I answer sarcastically. “And what do you mean by that, Amity?”

“With the rent, babe. I told him that I just don’t make hardly any money as a flight attendant and that my roommate can’t pay any rent until his bills are paid off. So when you meet him, you need to act like you just started flying and you don’t pay rent.”

“Amity, my mother paid off my bills . and yours.” I pour the java, add half-and-half. “We don’t need any help.”

“I know, babe,” she answers. I hear the clinking ice as she drains her iced tea. “But why get ourselves back in debt? You don’t have your inheritance yet. We should take all the help we can get.”

“It was me that was in debt, not you. And besides, it’s our inheritance we’re waiting for. It will be yours as well. So you don’t have to date him,” I offer, coming back to the sofa.

“Harry, I don’t date someone unless I want to. Besides, he’s great,” she says, enthusiastically. “He’s an electronics importer. Old family business. I told him I so desperately need one of those new multiple CD players.” She does the pouting gesture, bottom lip out, eyes drooping. She quickly reanimates. “He also has several other businesses and part interest in a racehorse. He’s going to take me to the Derby next year!”

“Winston goes to the Derby every year,” I warn her. “He’ll grill you like a steak if you show up with a guy named Kim.” “Wigs and glasses, baby. Wigs and glasses.” “What about your accent?”

She speaks in a perfectly British accent, “Not to worry, my dear Harry. I shall not expose myself in any way.”

“Impressive. So how come you didn’t spend the night with this guy?” I ask, fully ambivalent.

She looks shy. Reverts to her Texas twang. “First date. It just wouldn’t be right.” She’s in her Emily Post mode.

“Where did you guys eat?” I ask, sipping my coffee.

“On the Border.”

“Mexican food? He didn’t take you to the French Room at the Adolphus?”

She snaps quickly from the demure Emily Post mode to the thinking girl. “Oh, no. I insisted on going to On The Border. There’s plenty of time for truffles, foie gras, and lobster later on. First impressions are indelible you’ve got to make these guys think you’re low maintenance from the get-go. He’ll always associate me with On The Border, even when we’ve moved on to the Adolphus. Believe me, babe, it’s to my advantage to sit there and eat my inexpensive Mexican food. Besides, I had a taco salad! Have you heard of them? They’re these new things a big ole fried bowl of dough with everything but the cocina sink thrown in. By the time we left the restaurant, I was farting like Mama Cass’s corpse. And oh!” she says, her eyes flashing. “I told him you’re gay. So he doesn’t know about us, of course.” Then she changes her tone, to sex kitten, while sliding her hand over my back and down to my ass. “I don’t want him to know how my man really makes me feel,” she purrs. “I have to pretend I’m his girl, so he thinks you and I are just roommates.” She pulls herself to me and whispers in my ear, “He’ll never know I’m your girl.”

It’s as if we’re fooling the whole world, but not ourselves. Or are we? She smiles devilishly at me and raises an eyebrow. This whole conversation has made me uncomfortable. In fact, this whole charade is starting to gross me out. “Amity, Troy called again last night.”

She looks slightly agitated, rises, goes to the kitchen. “Just a minute, babe,” she calls, ,“I need some more lemon and tea.”

“He’s just so pathetic,” I yell. “Can’t you at least talk to him?” “I don’t know what else there is to say!” she answers, exasperated. She wishes I’d drop it. I’ve been bringing it up now and then, and her Southern calm is being tested, I can tell.

“He didn’t get your note,” I say.

AllOy onunn

“Then I’ll send another one?” she chirps. “Or I’ll call him. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of Troy.”

Amity is out on a date. I pick up the phone on the fourth ring, just before the machine clicks on, hoping that it’s Nicolo, but knowing it’s probably Amity offering to bring home food. “Hello?” “Harry?” “Yes?” “Nicolo.”

Two days. I’ve waited two whole days for this call, but it seems like forever. I was starting to wonder if he’d ever call. I had imaginary conversations in my head with him for practice, and I was so suave, cool, and funny that I almost wanted to date myself. “Hey, Nicolo,” I answer, all those urbane conversation skills pounded out of me by my nervous heartbeat. “Hey, Nicolo.” That’s it. That’s all I can say.

“How come a cute guy like you is home on a Monday night?”

he asks quietly.

“Football.”

“Who’s playing?” he asks, almost in a whisper.

“I don’t know,” I laugh nervously, swallowing. “TV’s not on.

I never watch it.”

He laughs. “I do not blame you. Besides, it’s not really football. Football is what we play in Argentina. We use a lot more feet, and we have more balls,” he says, flirting with me.

“I don’t doubt it,” I say, doing my best sexy-man voice though I probably sound like a nervous telemarketer. “So where are you?”

“I’m at the library,” he answers. “On a pay phone. That’s why

I sound so romantic, because I have to whisper.”

“Damn,” I answer, relaxing. “I thought you were trying to seduce me.”

“Maybe I am.”

I take the phone cord in my hand and twist it around my finger. “How will I know for sure?”

“The next time you see me, if I’m wearing a light yellow shortsleeve polo shirt, and a faded pair of button-fly jeans, then that means I’m trying to seduce you.”

“Your two favorite pieces of clothing?”

“They work better than drugs and alcohol, and there’s no hang over.”

“So you’re a nice heM thy Latin American boy, huh?” “Mind and body.”

‘ The body is evident. I’ll have to get to know the mind.” “I’m hoping you will,” he says strongly. “I knew when I saw you at the restaurant that I liked your looks, but after listening to you speak, I knew that I also liked the inside of you. It makes me want to offer the inside of me.”

Whoa. He’s not messing around. Man, it’s hard to find this kind of forthright honesty from an American boy. I’m unbelievably flattered, but I’m also taken aback. “I’d like that,” I answer sincerely

“Good. I’m hoping to get a day off sometime next week. It’s hard for me. I go to school full-time, and I work full-time.” “What are you studying?” I ask. “Journalism. It’s a family tradition.” “Your mom’s side or your dad’s?”

“Father. There is much to tell of my family history, my back ground. I’d like to share it with you if you’re interested.”

“I am,” I assure him. “It’s the best way to know someone.”

“I’m glad you think so,” he says. “Will you allow me to know your family as well?”

“As best as they can be known,” I say wryly.

“Then we will talk of these things,” he says, knowing that dissection of family doesn’t lend its autopsy report to a pay phone discussion. “Call me later in the week? We’ll plan a meeting?”

‘“Definitely. What’s your number?”

I take down his number, and we sign off, both of us making it clear how eager we are to meet. Oh, boy, I can’t believe it. Amity. My inheritance. And now, possibly, Nicolo. I could have it all. I could really have it all.

“I saw Gina Hyland at the bakery this morning,” I tell Amity, referring to a flight attendant at the airline. The two of us are splayed in the hot Texas sun at the apartment pool down the street, and I’m spreading coconut oil on my stomach. “She said to tell you she had Victor on one of her flights. Who’s Victor?”

Amity, who is spreading baby oil on her legs, quickly puts her sunglasses on. Something’s weird. I can tell she’s nervous. “An old boyfriend.”

“Do you still see Victor?”

“Not often.”

“Was that who you saw in Houston a few months ago for a date?”

I can tell she’s trying to decide whether to tell me or not. “It’s hard for me to talk about him,” she says, bounding out of her chair and diving into the pool. I’m surprised by her sudden immersion .. or is it sudden diversion? “Shit!” she yells, rising to the surface halfway across the pool. “I forgot I had my sunglasses on!” She takes the dripping glasses off and sets them on the side of the pool. “Listen, we’ve got to make us a plan for these waiter boys!” she says, hanging on the pool’s edge.

“Nicolo called me last night while you were out,” I say, giving in to her change of direction.

Amity screams with delight. “And Thomas called me! There was a message on my machine.”

“I know,” I say before I realize I’ve exposed my auditory peeping.

“Harry,” Amity says softly, shifting gears again. “Emily Post

says a husband must never listen in on his wife’s phone calls or private conversations. Privacy must be respected.”

“Sorry. But what does it matter? We don’t keep any secrets from each other anyway.”

She doesn’t answer. And she never did tell me who Victor is. And how come I still haven’t met her family? How come I still know so little about her upbringing? God, I hope I’m not fucking up here. My discussion with Nicolo about the importance of family and its bearing on personality has made me think twice about Amity. Yes, on the surface, I was comfortable with her immediately. Even more so than with Nicolo at the same stage. But why do I get the feeling I’ll grow more comfortable with Nicolo over time while I seem to be growing less so with Amity as we proceed with this pact? What happened to that magic I felt for her in Mexico?

Hey, Harry. Wake up, buddy. You’re gay and you’re marrying a woman. And even if your marriage is a mutually agreed-upon pact with Amity, your pact involves money. Even if you do truly love and respect her, your decision was based on money.

Well, I guess that’s OK. Not every relationship in life has the same priorities. I mean, at least I have all three aspects to my relationship with Amity, regardless of their order: money, love, respect. And whatever her secrets may be, they don’t necessarily have anything to do with me. After all, my past has nothing to do with her.

“We’ll make it fun, Bubba, I promise.”

We’ve cleaned up and dressed up, and we are now heading into Maxwell-Grey to register ourselves for wedding gifts. Amity is trying to convince me that this kind of bullshit can be fun, but I always think it smacks of grabby self-congratulation when couples do this kind of gift solicitation.

We enter the wedding department, and a woman descends upon us like a peregrine falcon on fresh mice. “May I help you?” she asks, inches from our faces. She’s such a package she could fly on

Federal Express. Her red nails nearly blind us with their shine, her tiny face is painted into a geisha like mask, and her hair is the requisite Texas helmet that moves en masse. She’s wearing a stylish suit-dress of red and black the in colors for this year and her red heels are so high that each step is a treacherous risk that could take her down. I love her.