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

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