My Best Man by Andy Schell (unputdownable books .txt) 📗

“Inherit it?” I ask, a devilish smile on my face. “I intend to,

, ,

“Not at the expense of your self, she cautions. “I see

mother pushing you. Donald too. I imagine your father is still pushing you, even though he’s gone. But I’m telling you not to make decisions to please other people. Please yourself. Be yourself.”

“Don’t worry, Gram. I’m hopelessly born to the breed it’s just not the same breed as the rest of my family. Which means I’ll probably have a life of blissful poverty while remaining my own man—whatever the heck that means.”

“You’re anything but hopeless, kid. I wish I’d had a life like yours.”

I tease her. “You wish you were born a gay guy?”

“Not exactly,” she laughs. “Listen. Forget about the money, Harry. Everything will fall into place. Just promise me you’ll be honest with yourself. The word amity also means friendship.”

“And that’s what we have. Don’t worry about Amity and me. We won’t do anything foolish.”

“Good. Because that would suck.”

“Suck?” Now I pick up a cookie. “Grammie, who taught you the word suck?”

“TV.”

“My Grammie? My Steinbeck and Stegner Grammie? What’s going on?”

“I’m old now, honey. Can’t read. My eyes don’t work on the page. I watch TV and eat candy. That’s it. I’m done with marriage, horses, travel, and even philanthropy. I gave them my all for most of my life. Put up with a cold husband. Loved those horses as much as my children. Traveled the world in order to learn about people. And donated millions of dollars plus my own two hands to every charity that crossed my heart. But my life is near its end, and I’m stupid and sweet with TV and candy.”

“Hey, whatever works. To thine own self be true,” I say, squeezing her hand.

“Precisely what I’m saying to you, my boy.”

It’s not a week later that I come home from the gym to find message on my answering machine from my mother. She has cancer. She’s already had a modified radical mastectomy, she ” daintily informs me, and the doctor believes that he’s gotten all cancer. The good news is that while she was in the hospital got Bud Orenstein to come in and give her a tummy tuck and soon she’ll be able to have her breasts reconstructed to nice and perky, but don’t tell anyone. And not to worry, she doe have to do chemotherapy, but simply has to endure a little which she intends to look upon as a quick trip to the tanning Beep. End of message.

I’ve never blamed my mother for cutting me off financially. know that it was my father’s doing and that she’s of a generation and feminine ilk that acquiesces to all demands line. And though I think she’s often shallow and ridiculous words, I love her and I’m scared that she has cancer so soon losing my father. I call her and tell her I’ll be on a flight to that day. She says there’s no reason to come the general is care of her every need. I refuse to believe that I, her son of three years, can be replaced by her husband of three months.

The airline gives me a leave of absence and I go to When I bring her flowers, she says, “Put them over by the the general gave me.” When I bring her the morning paper, says, “Oh, honey, thanks, but the general brought the already.” When I bring her favorite candy bar, a Heath bar, says, “The general made me homemade toffee.” A general makes toffee? Forget it. I’m glad she’s happy and taken but I decide to head back to Dallas, where at least someone hates me.

CHAPTER

SEVEN

“I on’t fuck with me!”

It’s late at night. It can’t be one of Amity’s nightmares because it’s a man’s voice. It sounds as if he’s outside the house, but I can’t be sure. I sit up in bed, hear Amity say something in a hushed tone.

“Don’t fuck with me, Amity!”

I get out of bed and step into the hall. Amity sounds strained, but controlled. I can’t really tell what she is saying. The man interrupts her. Angry. Accusing. Shouting something. I know who it is: Troy. He’s finally confronting her for leaving him. I step into her room.

“Is everything OK?”

“Yes, Harry!” She is at her window, a few feet from her bed, wearing nothing but a man’s dress shirt.

Outside the window is a Latin guy with glasses, not Troy. He looks at me, doesn’t give a shit who I am. “I mean it,” he warns, looking back at Amity.

“I think you need to go,” she says, nervous but in command.

The guy slams his fist against the frame of the window and takes off.

“Who was that, Amity?”

Amity shuts the window, locks it, and escorts me into the sitting room, where she grabs some rolling papers and my pot. “You don’t mind, do you?” Of course I don’t. I’m amazed that even with shaking fingers, she rolls the joint with precision and expediency-as if she formerly worked on a joint-rolling assembly line. “Ahhh,” she moans, exhaling the smoke. “Harry,” she says, handing me the doobie, “that was Miguel Arturo. He’s a flight attendant with the airline. I don’t know what’s wrong with him. I really think he must be some kind of a stalker.” She rises from the sofa and heads for the kitchen.

“Really?”

“You saw him,” she calls from the kitchen. “I was in bed, he just started banging on my window. He wouldn’t go away I opened it and we talked.” I hear a champagne cork pop bubbly being poured. She returns with two glasses, hands one to me. “I just wasn’t going to let him into the house. I mean, g’yaw, Harry, I only flew a trip with him. I fucked him because he reminded me of Dex Dexter from Dynasty and his parents own a hotel New Orleans, but it’s not like we dated or anything!” She takes long hit