My Best Man (30 page)

He takes my hand in his and slips his fingers gently through mine. We hold hands and stare ahead, the way Amity and I did at the movie only we’re looking not at some manufactured world on a screen, but at the wide-open Texas sky that supports a cluster of thunderheads in the far distance. Below the clouds and sky is the infinite horizon of prairie and cattle land. In front of us, the creek moves slowly, like syrup. No sound. I realize now that my hand-holding with Amity while at the movie may not have been a political statement, but it was a statement as much as my hand holding with Matthew during college. They both took on sociological meaning, and whether with Matthew or Amity, I looked to the outside world for some kind of reaction or non reaction But at the moment, I’m holding Nicolo’s hand because he’s reached for mine, and we simply like the intimate feel of our fingers being interlocked while the clouds grow taller and the creek slides by.

“How long did you have your pony Cinnamon?” he wants to know.

“Eight years. Until I was seventeen.” “And you say he’s retired?” “Not exactly.”

“Did you sell him?” he asks, using his free hand to take the bota from his neck.

“No.”

“Did he die?”

“No. I didn’t sell him and he didn’t die. When I was seventeen

I told my family that I was gay. They didn’t take it so well. My mother wanted me to get therapy, to turn myself straight. My father just wanted to punish me. So he did the worst thing he could think of: He took Cinnamon away. He didn’t even tell me. I went out to the barn, and he was just gone. I swear to God, Nick, I never cried

harder over anything in my life. I wanted to kill my father. I drove straight to the hospital and found him. He was so humiliated that I was crying in front of his peers that he threw me into an empty room and backed me against the wall and told me that, as soon as I was ready to be a normal man, I could have my horse back. He made me choose.”

“You never saw your horse again, did you?”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because you have integrity. That is why I like you.”

For a moment I’m silent. I think about Amity and how much my lack of integrity has cost me. And I wonder how I’m going to tell him I’m engaged to her. “I never saw my horse again,” I continue. “I knew I was gay, and there was nothing I could do about it. Nothing I wanted to do about it other than just be it. I never found out where my father took him. Whom he sold him to. Or whether he gave him away. Or even if he just turned him loose. And I never forgave my brother for not telling me because I know he knew. I wanted to run away. I used to dream about the year before, when I was sixteen that I would be riding on him and he would fall while jumping a creek and we’d die together and spend eternity in heaven, like those brothers in Greek mythology, Castor and Pollux.” I recite, by memory, the last seven stanzas of my poem I attempted to read to Amity.

Till the day arrived when off the trail

A shoe came loose, a broken nail.

It happened as they jumped the creek,

So quick that neither one could speak,

And down he went, onto the rocks.

The last he saw, his pony’s hocks

And when he woke, the steed was gone And light had washed from dusk to dawn.

Anuy c,uJ

Then lightning flashed, a cloud bore down

And took him high above the town.

And with the view of soaring birds

He searched the land for errant herds.

But nowhere did his pony run

Not on the earth, nor moon, nor sun

And when the boy did cry a tear

He heard a whisper, “I am here.”

Upon the cloud, his horse stood by.

The two embraced, within the sky.

The boy climbed on and said, “Let’s go”

The pony’s words: “One thing to show.”

And back they rode, to the fateful creek

And hovered o’er to steal a peek. ” And there they lie, in blood and stone, . Their bodies cold, no cry no moan.

And when he understood the sight

He grabbed the reins, and held on tight.

O’er wheat fields, and farms, and creek beds stony

He flew to heaven on his cinnamon pony.

Nicolo pats my leg. “Very nice, hombre.” He lifts the bag of wine, and he fills my mouth with sangria. And this time, when the dribble falls down the side of my cheek, he gently laps at it with his tongue. I close my eyes and let him move his mouth to mine. He closes his lips over my tongue and softly pulls back, scraping the leftover wine into his own mouth. Then he gives it back to me, and we intertwine our lips and tongues and breathe. It’s minutes before we separate and lie back against the tree again.

“Jesus,” he says, pronouncing it the Spanish way.

“SI,” I whisper, exhaling every ounce of my breath. “You’ve been driving me crazy.”

“I know,” he laughs softly. “I’m going crazy too. But this is how I am when I truly like someone. If I don’t care, I’ll sleep with you fight away.”

“Don’t care,” I order.

His eyes grow wide.

“I’m only kidding,” I tell him. “I’m glad that you care. But at this point you’re never going to live up to the fantasies I’ve created of you.”

He laughs again. “Do I have a ten-inch dick and an ass like Pele?”

“Yep. And beautiful brown huevos,” I claim, taking my own sip of wine. “So when am I going to see them?”

“I know. I’m dragging this out. I’m sorry, Harry. Sometimes Latin men are old-fashioned, even the queer ones. I’ve always dreamed that I would get married one day … when I found the right guy. And… well …” He turns shy, even red in the face. “It’s weird, but that night in the restaurant, when you defended me, I knew we would be together. Forever.”

The victory I feel when he says this to me is so complete that I’m speechless. Me. Harry Ford. It isn’t like when Amity announced our engagement and I knew everyone was watching and that I was validated in their eyes and now free to be comfortable in their presence. No, this victory is personal, whole, undiminished by any one’s thoughts but my own. The roar of approval this time is silent and in my heart.

“You have not said anything,” Nicolo says.

“I’m happy,” I assure him. “More than you know. It’s just that my brain is taking a ninety-degree turn again at a moment when it shouldn’t.”

“What is it, Harry?”

“Well, can two guys get married?” I ask, ever the cynic even in my brightest hour.

“I first realized I was gay right before we left Argentina. The only person I told at that time was my sister, Graciela. I was so sad because I told her that I have always known that I wanted to be married one day, and now I couldn’t be because of my homosexuality. She told me that was nonsense. That if I want to be married, then I must marry another man. She was sure of my rights. That was the last conversation we had before she was disappeared. I have never forgotten. And I know she is right.”

“Well then,” I say, laying my cheek next to his, “maybe some day, after we have sex, we’ll get married.”

A flock of enormous crows flies in, not intimidated at all by our presence. Some land in the cottonwoods, some next to the creek. “After we have sex, huh?” he asks. “You are too modern.” “Hey, man, what if we suck in bed?”

“I hope we do,” he laughs, hitting me on the thigh.

As I jerk, a couple of the crows look over, but none fly away. “You know what I mean. What if none of the parts fit? What if the smells are all wrong? What if we don’t like the taste of each other?”

“We already know our mouths fit perfect,” he says, running his thumb over my bottom lip. “I guarantee that every part of my body tastes like dulce de leche.”

“Sweet milk?” I ask, translating.

“It is the thick, sweet caramel that Argentinos pour on everything for dessert,” he whispers suggestively. Then he looks at his watch. “Uh-oh. We have to have the horses back,” he says, sobering up. “The rancher said by noon.”

“Or thereabouts,” I stress, ready to strip off my clothes. “Whatever that means. Anyway, it will be past noon when we get back, even if we run. And I planned this ride for the morning because I have to return for my afternoon classes.”

“I thought you took the day off from school?” I ask, disappointed.

He shakes his head. “Not the whole day.”

Foiled again. “Mount up, eunuchs, mount up,” I moan, dragging myself up, untying the horses.

He grabs our hats. “What are eunuchs?” he asks, recoiling the rope.

“Dudes who don’t have the problems we have,” I say, positioning the bay gelding. He sticks the hat onto my head, and I climb onto my horse and take off like a rocket, spurring the cinnamon colored bay over the creek. We jump it together and land on the other side. Alive.

At home, we climb out of the track and head for the house. Because we smell like a couple of sweaty gay caballeros, Nicolo has agreed to take a shower with me, and I figure if I can’t get him to sleep with me I’ll at least soap his back. We’re pure dust, grime, and sweat as we walk into the house and smell food. Cooking. Food cooking. I know if you combine Diet Dr. Pepper, champagne, and nail polish on the stove, they don’t smell like chicken, so I’m completely stumped. I’m additionally confused because I thought Amity was supposed to be out on a trip. I yell, “Hello,” and as Nicolo and I round the corner into the kitchen, there stands Amity, wearing a gingham apron. She’s stirring something in a pot on the stove.

And beside her is my mother.

“Harry!” Amity-shouts nervously. “Look who’s here: Susan!” “Mother, what are you doing here?” I ask, friendly yet cautious.

“Well, I was supposed to fly down tomorrow on the airline as yOU know

.. .”

No, I didn’t know. And Amity told me she was working today and tomorrow.

My mother continues. “But Alexandra called to say she had to

An0y Gfluii go down to Dallas to market to find fabric for some drapes, and she offered me a seat in her King Air, so here I am, a day early!”

Before I can say anything, Amity butts in. “P’yew-eee, Aunt Bea! I can smell that horse fertilizer! Thank you so much for your work today, Raul.” Raw-ool. She’s talking to Nicolo, calling him Raul, motioning for him to take off. “Fertilizing the rosebushes is all we need for now. You can go ahead. We’ll call you if we have anything else.”

My mother smiles at me, nods to Raul. “I’d hug you, dear, but it looks like you’ve been giving the gardener a hand. Why don’t you have shower? Amity has made chicken and dumplings.”

Only Nicolo’s eyes move. He looks at me with anger and warning.

I can’t let this happen. He’s too Latin, too proud. The insult could be a thorn forever embedded. “Mother…”

“And after that, we’re going shopping for Amity’s wedding gown. You don’t want to miss that, do you?”

“Really, Raul. You can go now,” Amity states, not unkindly but with great urgency.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, what am I saying!” my mother says, aghast. “We can’t let you see your bride in her dress before the wedding day that’s bad luck.”

Nicolo looks at me, then at Amity. She awkwardly washes her hands at the kitchen sink and avoids both our gazes.

My mother presses on. “Sometimes I think I’m getting daffy. Since the day you were born I had hoped you’d find a nice girl like Amity and settle down, and now I’m about to jinx the whole marriage by inviting you to go gown shopping with us!”

Nicolo turns on his heel. “Adios, amigo,” he says over his shoulder.

“Nicolo, wait,” I say, following him out of the kitchen and through the living room. “Nicolo!” He nearly shatters the front door on his way out. “Did you plan

to invite the gardener to your wedding?” he spits, stomping over the lawn in his boots as I run along beside him.

“I’m sorry,” I plead. “Of course I was going to tell you.” “When?” he asks, opening his truck door, sliding himself into the cab. He slams the door hard enough to break it. “Were you going to call me from your honeymoon?”

“There’s a reason I was going to marry Amity,” I tell him through the open window. “Look, it’s for you. You and me. And your mom.”

He starts the engine. “You are marrying Amity for me?” He laughs. “Perhaps I have mistaken who you are.”

“No,” I say. I don’t want to break anyone’s heart. How the hell am I going to explain this? That he and I can live happily ever after. That I can pay off his student loans. We can move to Argentina. Buy our own ranch with horses. Start our own newspaper. We can do anything except get married because I have to marry Amity in order to make us all comfortable. I look into his black coffee eyes, see my own reflection in their light. I’m teeny tiny. Nothing really. Like a cartoon on a filmstrip.

He turns off the engine. It’s eerily quiet. We’re suspended in time for a moment while he wrinkles his brow. “Do you love me, Harry?”

I take a breath. Exhale. “Si.”

“And do you love Amity?”

I take a moment and realize that I do. I love Amity, even with all her faults. “SI.”

“You love us both, but you’re going to marry Amity.” He squints at me, then closes his eyes altogether, then starts the car. “Wait!” I plead, pulling on his shirt. “I can explain.”

But he grabs my hand and throws it off his shirt as if it were a deadly spider crawling toward his throat. Then he slams the truck into gear and takes off.

I race for the house to grab my keys and head after him. As

this Nicolo person!” she huffs. I look at Amity, and I’m ready to kill her. My mother follows my eyes, my thoughts. “It wasn’t Amity’s fault,” she says, forcefully. “She never told me directly. I figured it out myself.”

“I just said he was your Mend,” Amity clarifies in a neutral voice.

“So what?” I say, stomping into my room. “He is.” I push everything around on my drafting table, lift up magazines and dirty T-shirts, throw junk mail on the floor. “Where are my fucking car keys?”

My mother follows me into my room, her hands on her hips. “Watch your language, Harry. Now you listen to me good and I’ll tell you what I told Amity: This thing with this Nicolo better stop!” Amity comes into my room, and stands behind my mother, and gives me a shrug as if to say sorry. My mother continues. “I’ve told Amity there is no reason for her to try to cover for you and your foreign friend, and I’ve given her the same warning I’ll give to you: I’ve never been more excited about a wedding in my entire life, even my own. But this wedding better be real or else! I don’t like being made a fool of. And I won’t allow either of you two to. make a mockery of the Ford family name just so you can have enough money to pop bonbons on the back patio of your house in Highland Park—understand?”