My Best Man by Andy Schell (top 10 novels TXT) 📕

surprise. She followed through and invited them. She turns to my morn. “They’ll be very pleased to meet

“

you.

The pilots deliver our luggage to us. Then Donald clears his throat in a nervous gesture, as if he’s about to send us over enemy lines.

“Right,” my mother responds, beaming. “Have you noticed anything?”

“The car?” I ask, pointing to the gold Mercedes. Mom and

Donald nod affirmatively. “It’s not yours, is it?” I ask.

“No, it is not,” Donald answers. “It’s yours.”

Donald smiles, and my mother looks like the cat who swallowed the stomach-bursting macaw. “Well?” she gushes.

I look at Amity and wait for her eyes to spring out of her head and hit the windshield. But instead they mist over, and she most genuinely says, “Susan and Donald, you shouldn’t have. Really. You’ve gone too far.”

“What do you think, Hart’y?” my mother asks enthusiastically. “Have we gone too far?”

Well, it’s not exactly like receiving money. And compared to the trashed, totaled-out BMW, it’s certainly functional. “Not at all,” I answer. “We were actually hoping for a little jet like the one we arrived in.”

“Well, then you have something to work toward,” Donald answers, not sure if I was joking.

“Come on,” my mother says, handing me the keys. “Let’s go home. ‘

I hand them to Amity. “A man can live in a ditch, as long as he’s driving a Mercedes,” I tell her, smiling. “Let’s go home.”

“Home,” she says, making magic of the word.

For the remainder of the day, Amity and my mother are occupied with last-minute arrangements. They leave to check the flower arrangements, sample the reception hors d’oeuvres, make sure the church is prepared, meet with the soloist.

I lie on my bed most of the day, thinking about Nicolo and what life with him would have been like. I imagine us in every possible situation. Riding horses on our land in Argentina. Feeding our dogs … two Labrador retrievers and a beagle. Nicolo, like his father, writing for a noble cause. Me studying Spanish and enrolled in law school, realizing my father’s dream for me to become an attorney. My strictly pro bono practice would be for those who could not afford representation otherwise. Nicolo’s mother and I would patch things up, and she would live in the guest house on our property. We’d equip her with a beautiful kitchen where she could create every piquant native dish of her desire. And Nicolo’s brother, his kindred spirit I’ve yet to meet, could live in the house with us.

As the day passes, and I can’t stand to lie in bed any longer, I stop by the kitchen to pour myself a beer, then move to a reclining chair by the pool. Donald approaches, pulls up a chair, and gets a look on his face that tells me I’m supposed to listen up. “Now, Harry,” he tells me, as if I’m a soldier under his command. “I have some things I want to say to you.” He sits sturdily in his chair, as if he’s daring me to knock him out of it.

I want to run through the yard, onto the golf course, and down the fairway. But he’s caught me in a sand trap. “Yes, Donald?” “Harry, I assume you’ve never been with a woman before.” This ought to be good.

“There are some things you should know about women.” He stands and starts to pace back and forth along the edge of the pool. “Women have a different chemistry than you and I. You see, men think with their brains. Oh, sure, women like to tell us we think with our dicks, but we don’t. No, our brains, and the chemicals

inside our brains, are what motivate us, guide us, make us who we are. Right?”

“More or less,” I say agreeably.

He stops. Points a finger at me. “But women are controlled by their vaginas.”

What ?

He starts to pace again. “Their vaginas make them laugh, and their vaginas make them cry. Their vaginas make them sad, and their vaginas make them happy. But only because their vaginas make them think first.” He speaks with great commitment, the way he might when giving a speech at the officers’ club. “You see, all the chemicals that control a woman’s reasoning are right… down..” there.” He points at his privates.

I slowly ask, “Why are you pointing at your crotch?”

“Because this is where my vagina, or my brain, would be if I were a woman.”

“I see,” I tell him, with a wrinkled brow. “How high is your

IQ?”

I hope he’ll laugh. He doesn’t. “That depends on how much stimulation my brain gets. Do you understand me, son?”

I’ll never understand you, Donald. “Go on.”

“If you want Amity to continue to be smart, outgoing, agree able then you need to stimulate her brain. And I mean stimulate it good. Because if you don’t, it’ll go dry on ya. Like the desert floor of Death Valley. And then you’ve got trouble on your hands, son. Because once a woman stops using her brain, it dries up, and she stops thinking clearly, and becomes nothing but emotion. And you’ll lose control over her. I guar an-fuckin’-tee ya.”

“So you think I should keep control over Amity?” “Absa-fuckin’-lutely,” Donald says, his eyes in a squint. “I don’t give a shit what generation you’re from. Women are women, and men are men. Now,” he states, clearing his throat, opening his eyes, “I understand that your soldier is used to standing at attention for a different commander. But listen to me. I have no doubt your soldier is ready to fall in line and penetrate the foreign border with the rest of them. Don’t be afraid, son you can do it. And if you have any questions, don’t be afraid to report back to me. You got that?”

I nod. Stand. “Donald?”

“Yes, son?”

“Does my mother have a … high IQ?”

“She’s a fuckin’ genius, buddy.”

No wonder she married him in six weeks. I reach out my hand. “Thank you.”

He shakes my hand while breaking nearly every one