My Best Man (33 page)

“Honest money or dirty money?”

“My family is honest. And the girl I’m marrying knows about Nicolo. And she’s willing to marry me in order to help me get the money. Is that bad?”

“You are marrying for love or money?” she demands. “Both. I’ll use the money to pay off Nicolo’s school loans. Help him perhaps even youmget back to Argentina. Give him whatever he desires in life.”

She brushes back her hair with her hand and answers indignantly,

“You hardly know my son. He needs love, not money.”

“I’m offering him both.”

“By marrying someone else? You are playing Nicolo and this girl for being fools! I do not believe that you truly love either of them as much as you love your money, or you would have been honest with my son from the beginning. You are selfish. Your thinking is twisted.”

“And what about yours? Have you learned nothing from your government, Mrs. Feragamo? How awful has it been .. to be denied access to someone you love? To know you’ll never see your husband again or your daughter because the government thinks it knows what’s best? That’s what you’re doing to me and to Nicolo. You’re

playing God. You’re guilty like your brother because you don’t speak to Nicolo of what you know.”

She cries, her head in her hands. Perhaps I’ve cut too deep. I walk to the door, stand beside her, put my hand on her shoulder, and quietly tell her, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. But that’s how I see it.” I am right about her and what she’s done.

And she is right about me.

he wedding date is approaching. Amity’s gown is chosen. My tuxedo, as well. The big engagement party is next week in Wichita, and I still haven’t formulated a plan to escape this insanity with my pride and my inheritance. Why did my father do this to me? Hell, I never cared about money when it wasn’t a possibility. But by dangling it in front of me with all these strings attached, he’s trapped me. I’m caught up in the strings and can’t free myself. I suckered into it all.

I’ve been off the hook with Amity lately because she claims to be flying a lot. The truth is, for just fifty dollars here, a hundred there, she gives her work trips away to other flight attendants in need of extra cash on their days off. And since Kim gives her the money, she can afford to bag the flying. She packs her luggage, puts on her uniform, pulls out of the driveway, and heads for Kim’s condo, where she does lines of coke for days, before returning home with perfectly manufactured stories about her trip and how great the weather was in Florida or Maine or wherever she pretends to be.

It’s September and school is back in session. Nicolo is some where on the DCU campus, but I can’t seem to find him. I hang out on campus, constantly looking for him. It’s not a large school,

and it shouldn’t be hard to locate him, but he seems to be hiding, since I can’t hook up with him anywhere.

The day before leaving for the party in Wichita, I decide to devote the entire afternoon to scouting the campus. I look everywhere. The journalism school, the library, the classrooms, the lawns, the student union. Fruitlessly I comb the campus, mixing in with the squeaky young students in their shorts and polo shirts. They seem so happy and innocent, so without worry, as I was only a year ago. I’m charmed by their simplicity, their gullibility, but no longer do I wish it for myself. Nor do I yearn to return to academe. Even amid all this muck, I now take a small amount of pleasure in knowing that I’ve graduated, commenced my life. Even if it is fucked.

So far, September is just as hot as August, and the sun beats down with brutal strength. I go from hot to cold to hot, from the sun to the inside of a building to the sun again, searching for my Argentinean. No luck. I swear he’s gone underground. And I’m sick of the smell of books and air-conditioning, polished linoleum and window cleaner, cafeterias and science labs. I kick the pavement in anger. It bruises my foot in retaliation, and I limp over to the football stadium and climb a few rows and sit in the bleachers.

The football team is in their practice gear on the field. The coaches are screaming at them, putting them through drills, and the big hulks are doing their best to be agile and run the drills. A trio of sorority girls in running shorts and bows in their hair, their tank tops adorned with Greek letters, are jogging the steps in the stadium. I can hear them gossiping about a sorority sister’s weight problem as they pass. “If she eats dessert, she’s not really trying.” Far in the distance, I see a lone student sitting on the steps. A guy. Dark hair. Muscles. Reading a book. It’s Nicolo. I step on a bleacher and start running on my sore foot like an injured gymnast limping across an endless balance beam. The closer I get, the more nervous I become. My heartbeat quickens from the run and my apprehension, and as I approach him from behind, I slow down, trying to gather

my calm and good wits. I know I can make him understand. I’ll devote myself to him, to us, as soon as this whole fucking scenario with Amity is over. Surely he’ll believe that.

I’m almost even with him, and I walk down the four bleachers to where he sits, to face him, when I realize that it isn’t Nicolo at all. It’s someone else.

he Oilmen’s Club of Wichita, Kansas, has been spit-polished and shined into brilliance. An eight-piece band plays in the heart of the huge, multilevel dining room, and ice sculptures of swans, dolphins, and seashells are glistening next to spreads of raw vegetables, crab meat, Gruy6re on toast points, and fruit. Flower arrangements of white roses, Peruvian lilies, and Birds of Paradise pour themselves over tables, descend the edges of stair steps, and fill all corners of the room. The tables are set with sea foam green spreads and white place settings, the silver cutlery shines so brightly it makes little stars on the ceiling.

The guest list is a who’s who of Kansas society, and even some who aren’t. The relatives on my mother’s side are thrilled to see Amity again, and those on my father’s side are making great efforts to speak with her and assess her character. A photographer from the local paper is making the rounds, exploding flashbulbs in everyone’s faces as they freeze their good taste for the frame. When the photographer thanks them and moves on, they maintain their expressions for Barbie Botter, as she jots down their sentiments.

My grandmother, Queen Mother of the Plains, holds court at her table, and everyone drops by to pay their respects and compliment her in some way or another. Children, in particular, are fond

of her. Since I was a child, my grandmother has kept nothing but candy and credit cards in her purse, and tonight there are several children gathered at her feet, waiting for a bounty of sugar.

It was the same for me at that age. There was always a magical Pied Piper quality about her, something that made me want to follow her and listen to whatever she had to say and imitate whatever she did. Every summer my grandfather would force me and Winston to go hunting with him and my father. And though Winston would gamely take a shot at a quail or even a deer, I refused to pull the trigger on my own gun. My father would remain silent while my grandfather berated me and called me a sissy. But I didn’t care. I made it quite clear that I much preferred a day on the porch with my grandmother, learning Portuguese fishing songs, squeezing homemade lemonade, and making finger paintings with her from colors that matched the Indian Paintbrush and Lupine that grew on the ranch land of the Colorado house. If songs and cooking and art were the interests of a sissy, then I was happy to be one, though I certainly refrained from full-on disclosure as a boy. And Grammie would always defend me to her husband. She’d tell him there were enough hunters in the world, and that “gatherers of knowledge are esteemed over hunters of game.”

Flitting about the party, Amity passes every charm test with flying colors. She is the belle of the ball, in her black strapless cocktail dress that contrasts with her blond hair and shows off her slender tan shoulders. It’s the perfect amount of formality and sexiness for the occasion, and she’s stacked herself into a black velvet pair of heels, pushing her slightly above the other women in the room. I’m wearing a dark suit and an emerald-colored tie. My shiny, flat dress shoes keep me just below Amity’s height. Donald is overdressed in a tux, and my mother is in a black dress with a scooped neckline that shows off her new Sally Field breasts. Amity’s parents were unable to attend.

When she nervously told me, two days ago, that her grandmother

had suffered a stroke and that her parents wouldn’t be able to make the party, I asked her if we should call it off. “Oh, no,” she said, “it would make her feel worse maybe even kill her!” When I suggested that we go visit her in the hospital, Amity claimed, “I just got back, babe. She’s really weak. We need to let her rest.” I sensed it was a scam, so yesterday I called every hospital in Fort Worth in search of Hazel Stone. No one by that name in any hospital. Then I called information for the James Raymond Stones, but there was no listing. If my father were alive, he’d have had them investigated by now. My mother has no intentions of rocking the boat and willingly accepts all information put forth by Amity.

My mother is taking us by the hand, leading us from couple to couple. “Harry, you know the Harmans …” and “Harry, you remember the McGriffs …” and “Harry, you’ve spent time with the Bennett-Strongs.” I hardly remember any of these plastic people or their manufacturers. Some of these people should be melted down and turned into milk cartons. It’s our maid’s family I was really close to when I was growing up, and they weren’t invited. Likewise, the Fuckers, the favorite family of my childhood, who lived down the street aren’t present. While I struggle, Amity is working the room like a fund-raiser, shaking hands, making small talk, laughing on cue at stupid golf jokes. I want to stab her with a salad fork and see if she shorts out, like that gal in the Stepford Wives, but it’s impossible to keep up with her, because she’s far more energetic than I, and every free moment she slips away to the ladies’ room to powder her nose.

Winston moves counter to us with ballet like skill, no matter what our position, making sure he steers clear of the feted couple. He has a woman with him Patty, I presume. It’s surprising that he hasn’t made any major efforts yet to derail the evening with any of his Winstonisms.

“Amity dear, I want you to come meet my daughter Andrea.

She was married only months ago, and she’s full of sensible advice!” Mrs. Mahaffy says, spilling a little of her cocktail.

“Like how to fry an egg or cheat at bridge?” my mother asks gamely.

“I know how to do those things,” Amity claims, sipping champagne. Her accent is so ramped up that she almost sounds British. “I want to cheat at frying an egg!”

“Nonsense,” my mother tells Mrs. Mahaffy. “She’s a wonderful cook. You should try her chicken and dumplings. And her peach pie!”

It’s the best money can buy, I think.

“I insist you meet Andrea,” Mrs. Mahaffy finishes, dragging Amity away while pouring more of her drink on the floor.

I escape to the television room, where Winston and I would sit with the other children when we were youngsters, drinking Shirley Temples and eating cheese popcorn while watching scary reruns of The Outer Limits or new episodes of The Big Valley. It’s a grand old study with endless shelves of books, all the classics, and huge soft chairs made of buttery leather that would swallow us up. The children of other families would sit two to a chair, but I only tried it with Winston once. As I crawled into his chair, he pushed me out with his feet, and I hit the floor with a thump, spilling my Shirley Temple and landing in it. Everyone laughed and made fun of me, no one more demonstrably than Winston. From then on, we’d separate, staying on opposite sides of the room, sniveling at each other while digging the cherries out of our drinks.

I walk over to the immense glass windows and look to the street nine stories below. It’s nothing now. Barely a view. Concrete and parked cars. An ugly brick office building across the street. But when I was a child, it was like being on top of the Empire State Building.

“Harry Ford,” a voice says.

I look up, see a guy roughly my age. He’ shand some good bones,

slightly thinning hair. His suit almost matches mine. “Hello,” I say.

“You don’t remember me, do you?” he asks, a grin on his face. “Not really.”

He puts out his hand. “Bob Valentine. We played together here as kids.”

I shake his hand. Bob Valentine. I vaguely remember his child hood face. “Thanks for coming.”

“Wouldn’t miss it. I wanted a chance to see you,” he tells me warmly. “I was really surprised to hear that you were getting married. I… had heard from friends that you weren’t the marrying type.”

Rich white people’s code for homosexual. “I’m not the marrying type,” I tell him, chuckling, “and Amity knows it.”

“Interesting,” he says, picking up the toothpick from his martini and using the olive to stir. He looks me straight in the eye. “My wife has no idea.”

“Are you telling me you’re gay?”

He smiles awkwardly and shrugs.

“But you married a woman anyway? Why?”

He takes a sip of his drink, gives a wry smile. “Isn’t that what we’re supposed to do? I mean, you’re doing it.”

“Not really,” I tell him, plopping down in one of the leather chairs. “Not like you. It’s not like I’m really getting married.”

“Oh, you wait,” he laughs, sitting down beside me. “It will be very real. Once you start down that aisle, you’ll know what I mean.” “You’re making me nervous.”

He comes closer, speaks lower. “You were a cute kid, Harry. You still are.” I have to admit, he’s sexy in that well-bred, rakish way. “I liked you when we were boys.”

It’s an erotic statement, and it has its effect. I’ve had no sex with Nicolo and none with Amity in a good while. I’m tempted.

“I don’t really remember you. If you liked me, why didn’t you tell me?”

He raises his eyebrow the way Amity does. “Is that something a boy tells another boy?”