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

door. He fires up his Jaguar, unhooking it from the smashed BMW as he backs out over the lawn, and floors it. We run to the window and watch as he drops over the curb onto the street and screeches away, heading north, away from the university. Amity slams into save-your-ass mode. “Jackie, Thomas, you just got here. You didn’t see anything. Harry, Nicolo, put some clothes on!” She brushes her hands over her face, sweeping off her nose. “Any powder?”

I check her face for cocaine. “No!” Then I grab Nicolo, drag him into the bathroom, scoop up his clothes, and pull him into my bedroom, grabbing the bong out of the hallway as I go. We hear the squad cars come screeching around the corner and shut down. Doors slam. Voices yell.

“Freeze!” we hear the cops scream into the living room as they come through the front door. I hear Jackie scream, “G’yaw!” in response. Then we hear the back door fly open. We’re surrounded. “I’m sorry,” I tell Nicolo. “I never meant to put you in danger.”

“Officer,” Amity cries, so loud we can hear her from the bedroom, “it was horrible! Did you see my car? Some strange man followed me home and tried to kill me.”

“Is he gone?” the cop asks.

“Yes, he drove away,” we hear Amity tell him.

The door to my bedroom flies open, a policeman points a gun at Nicolo and me. “Freeze!”

We stand there, both of us still naked, Nicolo holding his clothes. “Harry!” I hear Amity scream. She comes running, pushing past the cop with the drawn gun. “This is my roommate and his friend!” she explains. The cop lowers his gun, looks at Amity. “What’s the matter? Haven’t you ever seen a couple of naked queers before?” she asks as if the cop lives in a vacuum.

“Quick!” the other cop says, barging in. “We need a description of the perpetrator and his car.” He repeats Amity’s descriptions into his radio as she talks.

“About six feet tall,” Amity says, “with short red hair. Freckles. Irish looking. He wore wire-framed glasses. And drove a black car .. you can see the paint his car left on the BMW. It was a black station wagon, American made. He went south through the university!”

The cops are gone. Jacqueline and Thomas have left together. The trashed BMW has been towed. The front door has been nailed shut. And Nicolo and I are standing in the street, next to his truck.

He’s laughing and rubbing his eyes. “Dios mio, hombre, that was one hot time on the couch.”

“Yeah, well I was sort of under the gun, you know?” I answer, laughing myself. I blush.

“Nothing to be embarrassed about,” he assures me. I’ll never forget it. Or the kiss,” he adds softly.

“Me either. Look, I’m really sorry about everything that has happened. Honestly, I’d die if you ever got hurt. When that fool was waving that gun, I just kept thinking about your mother and how she couldn’t bear to lose one more child.”

“Don’t worry. I’ve been through much more difficult times. Crazy, gun-carrying Americans don’t scare me—not after what I’ve been through in Argentina.”

“I guess that’s right,” I tell him.

He takes my hand, looks soulfully into my eyes. “Harry, you’ re loco. And I love you for it. You’re my funny hero and a poet, and you ride a horse with skill, like the gauchos. These are the reasons I love you, and many more. But I can’t live with you if you are married to someone else. I’ll tell you one more time: If you marry her, you can not marry me.”

Tears fill my eyes. I nod. Kiss his cheek. I have no way of responding other than gently patting his shoulder. Why the hell don’t I get into the truck with him and ride away? What is it that makes me continue this alliance with Amity? Is it pity? Hardly a basis for a marriage. Is it the inheritance? If it is, then I’ve become as soulless and manipulative as I accuse my brother of being. Is it love? Is that why I’m with her? Do I love her enough to create the family we both desire?

Nicolo opens the door, steps up into his truck, fires it up, and slowly drives away, looking back at me from his open window.

I walk into the house and sit down beside Amity. “Harry,” she says quietly, “where’s the bong?”

I walk into my bedroom, retrieve it from the closet, and return.

Anuy

She grabs the baggie of pot from under the sofa cushion and fills the bowl. I light the bowl for her, and she inhales hard, taking in a tremendous amount of smoke before handing me the bong. As I suck in, she exhales, and with her exhalation she breaks down into sobs. “I’m sorry, Bubba. I’m truly sorry. I’ve made a terrible mess of things.”

I hold the smoke in my lungs, look at her, then exhale. I realize I’ve been awfully hard on somebody who probably has a good heart buried inside. I slide my arm around her shoulders and hug her to me. “It’s OK, honey. You didn’t mean for things to turn out this way, I’m sure.” And I am. Even with all the subterfuge, lies, and manipulation, I doubt she planned on a shoot-out at the BJ Corral. “Where’s Nicolo?” she chokes, still sobbing. “He went home.”

She looks at me, her cheeks drowning in saltwater, mascara racooning her baby blues. “Is he coming back?” She sounds scared, almost childlike.

I answer with a sigh, “I’m not sure.”

She sobs with shame and lights up the bong again.

Seeing her like this, so weak, so fragile underneath the bravado of her surface, I realize something I’ve probably known for a while now: Nicolo is strong. He’ll survive without me. It may be painful and difficult at first, but he will survive. And Amity? Not a chance. She’ll self-destruct. Even if she does make it out of the treatment center again,