My Best Man (29 page)

“Anonymity.”

“Right!” Rot! She turns to me. “I hate that word. I shouldn’t use it.” Back to Jacqueline. “You got it, girl?”

Jacqueline thinks about it for a second, then heartily agrees. “Yeah, that’s it. That’s what I’ll say. I had an abortion. An abortion. Yeah, I had an abortion, man. I just had to take care of it, you know. Get an abortion.”

We pull into the employee lot at the airport and wait while she goes in for her meeting with the Gila Monster. Amity puts Culture Club’s cassette into the player, and I roll down the windows. “OK, Harry. What is it that you wanted to talk about?”

It’s all adding up. Her out-of-control behavior, the coke, the professor, the marriage, Julie’s claims, Nicolo’s suspicions, and now this: this bogus story she’s woven with master skill for Jacqueline from thin air. “Work up tears,” she told her. “You had to have an abortion!” she told her. She’s too quick. The duplicity comes too naturally for her.

“Well?” Amity asks. “Do you need to talk, Harry?”

My dad channels into me again. “Not now.” Why tip my hand? Information is power. Never exit the building until your car is waiting out front, my father would say. I have to come up with a plan before I exit this charade. I turn on the radio, and the announcer’s voice says, “Today, Soviet cosmonaut Svetlana Savitskaya became the first woman to walk in space.”

“Jacqueline’s been doing that for years,” Amity says, reclining her seat for a power nap.

“Gila bought it, man!” Jacqueline says, returning to the car. “The whole thing. I took your advice, Amity, and I really cried a lot. At first, I didn’t say anything at all, I just cried. Then I told her that I needed to tell the truth, that I had an abortion. She was really concerned. I can tell she’s had an abortion herself, ‘cuz she kept telling me I could have come to her, ‘cuz, you know, she would have helped me, and that an abortion is something no woman should have to go through alone.”

“Amen, girl,” Amity says, as if it really happened. “It’s just too scary for you to be alone.”

Jacqueline agrees. “Right. You’ve got to have support.”

“Is that all?”

“She offered to help me pay for it,” Jacqueline said, taking out a cigarette. “She said she’d write me a check.”

“Girl! Did you take it?”

I notice the flash of excitement in Amity’s eyes. She wants Jacqueline to have taken the money.

“No,” Jackie says, lighting her cigarette, ” ‘cuz I just would have had to pay her back, and I didn’t want to have to do that.”

“You wouldn’t have had to pay her back, Jackie,” Amity says slyly. “What’s she going to do? Bug you for the money? “Hey, Jacqueline. Where’s my abortion loan?” No way. She’d have let it slide.”

“I don’t want her money,” Jackie answers.

Amity finishes with conviction. “Well that Gila Monster has been mean enough to a lot of people, and it’s time she helped somebody, Jackie. You deserve her concern and her money after all you’ve been through.”

This is getting freaky. Like, where does the truth lie? So to speak. If I had any prior doubts about Julie’s stories of the real Amity, I don’t now. I can see the thrill Amity’s getting from playing this game. It’s Jacqueline’s life that is affected, but Amity loves moving her and Gila into position, like pawns on a chessboard, until she can manufacture the best outcome.

“I’m just so glad it’s all over,” Amity finishes.

I can’t tell if she means the conflict or the mythical abortion.

“You still have your job, and this calls for a celebration,” I tell Jackie. “Let’s go to Sfuzis and drink belli nis

“Great idea, Harry!” Amity cheers. And before we’re out of the airport drive, she pulls a little vial of cocaine from her purse and starts scooping tiny spoonfuls for everyone. I decline.

I’m declining, big Tom.

That evening, Amity has a date with Thomas, who has the night off from the restaurant. When he comes over, he mentions that, from the sound of it, Nicolo finds me to be serious boyfriend material. I’m so ecstatic to hear this news from someone he calls a friend that I want to dance on the ceiling. But I have to reel it in, stay cautious, as I don’t want Amity to think I’m too far in until I figure out the best direction for her and me. I smile. Tell Thomas, “We’ll see.” But I can’t quash the smile on my face, the smile that says it all.

“I’m so happy for the two of them,” Amity chimes in as sweet as icing on the wedding cake. I’m paranoid around her these days. I know her happiness about Nicolo and me is an act. “Aren’t you?” she asks Thomas, grinding her teeth from the coke she stuck up her nose when he rang the bell. “Aren’t you happy for Harry and Nicolo?”

“Yes,” Thomas answers. “Nicolo is my friend. I’m glad he has found someone.” “I’m glad you’ve found someone too,” Amity purrs, locking

her arm in Thomas’s. “How do you like my dress, Thomas? As Karl Lagerfeld said himself, “Shaped to be Raped.” “

Thomas laughs, grabs her by the waist, and pulls her to him. “We better go, darling’,” she cautions. “Our reservation is for eight o’clock. You know what happens when you’re late for dinner in Texas some hungry cowboy rides in and eats your meat!”

If only Nicolo would. Shit, I’m getting so pent up from no sex, I’m about to pop. I call him at work.

“I can’t go out, Harry. I’m working late,” he tells me. “But I have a surprise for us tomorrow. No coffee and turnover. No class.

We’re skipping out for the day, OK?”

Yes, yes, yes. Finally. “OK.”

“Wear boots. Manana ?” he asks, his accent giving me a woody. “Manana,” I answer.

A few minutes later, a guy comes to the door. Early thirties. Dressed in high-water slacks, a polo shirt, penny loafers, no socks, a belt that doesn’t match, and his sparse hair in one of those comb overs on his mostly bald scalp. Gotta be a pilot. “Is Amity Stone here?” he asks. “No. She’s out,” I answer.

“Out? We’re supposed to be having a date tonight.”

Yep, a pilot. Must be a new one. First officer. Doesn’t know about me. Definitely doesn’t know about Amity. “Sorry, pal. You missed her. What’s your name?”

“Chip.”

I’ll tell her you were here, Chippy.”

I close the door, go into the hall on my way to my room when

I notice the light on her phone machine blink on and hear the cassette tape engage. I can’t resist. I turn up the volume just in time to hear Kim demanding to know where she is and why she broke their lunch date this afternoon.

Thomas. Chip. Kim. Boy, is she fucking up. Her cocaine habit is starting to wreak havoc with her scheduling abilities. This is

crazy. I’m being a fickle bastard. A couple of months ago I thought I was in love with her. I’ve got to talk to her, confront her. Surely we can work this out. I care for her and I don’t want to see her self-destruct. Maybe I can help her change. Get off drugs. Stop lying. But do I have to marry her in order to help her? Do I have to marry her in order to help myself?.

Maybe it’s just not worth it. Maybe I need to cut my losses, move on, live a life of poverty and freedom with Nicolo. I know I’d be happy. Hell, I’ve been living like a poor kid ever since I was seventeen. Gay too. I’ve been mostly content. I never cared about money or what people thought of me before. Why care now?

Or is there an outside solution? The clock is ticking I only have a month and a half until the big birthday deadline. Is there some girl out there who would help me out without cleaning me out?

]

icolo is driving me into the country in his old Ford pickup truck. Instead of driving east from the city, we’re driving west, to where there is nothing but the legend of “West Texas.” It’s an August morning, hot as Texas can be, and since the truck has no air-conditioning, we have the windows rolled down all the way to let the wind fly in as we soar past parched mesquite trees, rusty fences, huge wheels of hay, and an occasional naked mobile home. Our hair is whipping around, our eyes are dry, and we’re having to yell to understand each other, but it’s plain we’re both as happy as two guys can be. Nicolo has brought a bota filled with sangria wine, and when he opens his mouth wide, like a baby bird, I shoot the citrus wine into his throat until he laughs and closes his mouth and the wine dribbles down his chin. I lick the remains from his chin, his short whiskers puncturing my tongue, and take a drink of my own from the bag.

“General Videla was indicted last week. They’re detaining him for his part in all the disappearances,” Nicolo tells me. “Who’s that?” I ask as we pass a dead armadillo on the road.

“Our former president in Argentina. Evil man. He’s going to be on trial. Things are getting better in my homeland.”

“I’m glad,” I tell him. I’m also worded that he’s going to leave the U.S. and return to his native country.

We drive for over an hour, passing a new corrugated barn standing next to an old splintered dead one, a satellite dish larger than the moon, a dry creek yearning for rain, and he still hasn’t told me where we’re going. Finally, following directions on a piece of paper he’s taped to the dash, he pulls the truck off the highway and heads down a two-lane road that runs through a little town, then out into the countryside. He turns through a gate, where a Texas flag is flying, the entrance to a ranch. We drive down a dirt road for half a mile until we see the ranch house. He slows down, swings around the house, and stops the truck at an old green barn behind it. “Estamos aqug hombre,” he says, turning off the ignition.

An old man comes out of the barn wearing dirty overalls and a dirtier T-shirt. There’s shit on his work boots. As he approaches the pickup, he drawls, “One of you guys Nick?”

“That’s me,” Nicolo answers, reaching back behind the seat. He exits the cab with two cowboy hats in his hand, the bota around his neck.

“They’re all saddled up, ready to go,” the man says, itching an eyebrow. “Remember, I wanna see your ability ‘fore you take ‘em out on the land.”

“No problem,” Nicolo says. We follow the guy into the barn and Nicolo whispers, “Now do you understand why I say to wear your cowboy boots?”

Theresa palomino and a bay waiting, bridled and saddled, both good-looking horses with fine conformation. Nicolo lets me choose, and naturally I pick the bay because he reminds me of Cinnamon. We walk them out into the sun, put on our hats, and let the old man hold them while we mount up. He directs us into the small arena next to the barn and puts us through a few paces. Walk, trot,

canter. Turn them around. Do it all the other direction. As the man watches me ride, I feel as if I’m in a horse show, like when I was a little kid, and I remember my father as a good guy who stood on the side of the arena and gave me an approving nod of his head when I sat up correctly in my saddle and cantered on the correct lead. I look over at Nicolo, who has spaced himself across the ring, and I’m more in love than I ever could be watching my own handsome gaucho sit the palomino with ease and confidence.

“OK,” the man yells. “Guess you were tellin’ the truth. You both sat a horse ‘fore. Take ‘em on out. Just don’t cross any boundary lines. Marked by fences all around, ‘cept the west boundary that’s marked by the creek.” He pronounces it crick, like a Kansan. “Don’t taunt the cattle, and be back ‘fore noon or thereabouts, ‘cuz we got work to do with ‘em later.”

Nicolo tips his hat, I do the same, and off we ride, through the gate, into the pasture land. Los gauchos son libres.

We’re dressed alike. Jeans, white T-shirts, and boots. Hats on our heads. Nicolo’s muscles are bigger than mine, but I’ve been working on my body, and the results are coming in. I’m not at all the guy I was when the year started. I’m feeling, dare I say it, confident. Happy. Not without edges, but smoother than before.

We walk our horses steadily, through the prairie grass, toward what will be the sunset ten hours from now. The hot wind blows like a furnace, and a gust causes us to quickly reach for our hats and hold them on. “Are these your sombreros?” I ask.

“My brother’s. I told him what I was doing and he dug them out of his trunk. We wore them as teenagers when we visited Tia Angelica and rode her horses.”

“You don’t speak much of your brother,” I point out.

“I don’t have to. He is my kindred spirit. We seldom need words between us, so I think that is why I don’t speak of him so much. He’s very special to me. What about you? You also never talk of your brother.”

“My brother and I don’t talk much either,” I say, stroking my horse’s mane. “But not because we’re kindred spirits. We’re more like Elizabeth and Mary.” “Who.”?”

“A couple of bitchy English queens. Liz was vicious and ugly that’s Winston.”

He wrinkles his brow. “That’s disturbing.”

“Sorry. I wish I could tell you we’re great pals, but we’re not. If I could get the American government to disappear Winston, I would.”

Nicolo stops his horse. His face tightens. “Don’t ever joke about that,” he dictates. His words are controlled, but discharged with force. Even his horse stomps his foot, as if to punctuate the point.

How fucking flip can I be? How inappropriate, as Matthew would accuse. “I’m sorry,” I say, halting the bay horse. “I’m so sorry. I won’t do it again.”

“I believe you,” he answers generously. “But why do you say these things, Harry?”

“I don’t know,” I sigh. “It’s like I can’t turn my brain off sometimes. It gets me into trouble, I know. Please know that I don’t mean to be disrespectful. I really like you, Nicolo. A lot. I don’t ever want to hurt you if I can help it.”

Nicolo says seriously, “Then I hope you will think before you speak.”

We spur our horses into a trot and let the breeze wash our confrontation away as we ride. In minutes we’re cantering, our horses enjoying the gait as much as we. In the distance we see a clump of cottonwoods, which tells us there must be a creek. We slow our steeds and approach the small creek at a walk, stopping to let them drink. After they’re full, we cross the water, dismount, and lead them the hundred feet to the cottonwood trees, where we tie them to a tree with the rope from my saddle and let them graze.

We take off our hats, lean against the trunk of a tree. “This is incredible, Nick. Thank you, hombre. I haven’t ridden a horse in years.”