Know Not Why: A Novel (11 page)

“Come on, Arthur,” Cora orders. “Show us what
you got.”

Arthur gives a very refined and tasteful, “Ho,
ho, ho.”

She rolls her eyes. “You’re going to make them
want
to stop believing in Santa.”

He tries harder after that.

The first people to show up, at 11:56, are Amber
and Mitch. I am immediately filled with deep, profound regret that
I ever let the existence of this event slip to them. They both grin
their faces off at the sight of me, because they’re sad excuses for
humans who don’t have anything better to do. Amber’s even got a
camera.

“Say cheese, Rudolph,” she instructs
giddily.

I flip the camera off. It’s a pretty
thirteen-year-old-skateboarder thing to do, but under the
circumstances, it seems justifiable.

“Hey, none of that!” Amber chastises,
gleeful.

“Yeah, dude, these are for your mom,” Mitch
adds, beaming broadly. “Be
decent
.”

I don’t know if I’ve mentioned it, but I’m
pretty sure I hate them.

“Ooh, pictures, yay!” Kristy cries. “Group shot,
group shot, come on, you guys!”

The four of us squish together. Kristy gets
everyone to put their arms around each other, all snuggly; at the
last minute, she wiggles out away from me down next to Cora on the
floor, leaving me and Arthur all snuggly. I have this split-second
freakout, complete with the impulse to move away, far far away,
all-the-way-back-into-the-kitchen away, New Zealand away. But then
I realize that Amber’s here – documenting the moment via
photograph, no less – and I know that freaking out won’t fly. So I
sort of settle into it, or whatever, and don’t pay attention to his
arm across my back or his hand lightly cupping my shoulder.

Amber snaps a couple shots, and that’s that. The
end. No biggie. Still, I breathe easier when we’ve all broken
apart.

At first it seems like nobody’s going to show,
but they start filing in at around 12:20, and by one o’clock, we’ve
got ten kids sitting around getting their gingerbread on. It’s an
okay turnout. Plus, once things start to function successfully,
Amber and Mitch get bored and take off. I’m glad to see them go.
There’s something about work plus life that doesn’t add up.

Arthur surprises me and the girls with his
Santatude. As we’ve got a crowd inside, he
commits
, and he
is all holly jolly, all the way. Stuff is cool and fun and
gingerbready until one of the little girls gets too enthralled by
the fact that she’s currently surrounded by Santa and his crew.

“He’s your husband?” she asks Kristy, all
doe-eyed and itty bitty as she looks over at Arthur.

“Yes, he is!” Kristy coos.

“You should kiss him!” the girl says
decisively.

Everybody laughs, and more than one “aww!” is
thrown in there. Kristy goes over to Arthur and plants a big kiss
on his cheek, to the general delight of everybody. Arthur
ho-ho-ho’s his way through it. I almost forget he’s
not
Santa.

But the kiss on the cheek isn’t enough to
satisfy this little girl. Now, she turns her attention to Cora.
“You’re his elf?”

“Yes indeedy dee!” Cora chirps. It’s terrifying
to see her like this, bright and kind and springy. She’s not even
that slutty, elf-wise. Her green shorts are pretty tiny, but
they’re over red-and-white striped tights, and it’s not like she’s
hurling Come Hither looks at the dads in attendance.

“You should shake hands,” the little girl
instructs Cora. “Because you work together. That’s what you do when
you work together.”

I sort of want Cora to tell her to fuck off –
I’m nostalgic – but, sure enough, she and Artie share a hearty
handshake. Whatever. ‘Tis the season.

Honestly, I’ve started to forget that I’m a
reindeer, until the little girl’s eyes land on me.

I am immediately seized by panic. Somehow, I
just know –
know
– this isn’t good.

“Rudolph!” she squeals, looking up at me with
those big eyes.

“Hey!” I say, forcing as much cheer into the
word as I can, because I genuinely believe for a stupid second or
two that it will be enough to satisfy her.

Then I start wondering if she’s going to flip
out because I talked. Reindeer can’t talk. She gets that I’m not an
actual reindeer
, right?? I mean, I have a human face!

And then she exclaims, sweet and high-voiced,
“He has to ride you!!”

…

I stare at her.

And stare, and stare.

“You have to ride him!” the girl persists,
whipping her attention over to Arthur. “He’s your reindeer!”

There’s laughter again, but this time it’s
tittering and naughty, and it’s all the adults. I look over at
Kristy and Cora; Kristy’s hiding her smile behind her hand, and
Cora is flat-out laughing. I do not,
do not
look at
Arthur.

And then somehow, accidentally, eyes guided by
the will of Satan (or, you know, something else that sucks), I
do.

He looks back at me hopelessly. Or at least, I
think he’s hopeless. It’s hard to tell behind the big white
beard.

“Not right now,” Arthur says at last. He sounds
like Arthur for a couple of words until the jovial Santa voice
kicks back in. “He and the other reindeer have to work hard on
Christmas Eve, so he needs to get his rest until then!”

“Ohhhh,” the little girl says, nodding her
understanding.

“How about we sing some Christmas carols?”
Arthur adds, dodging over to the counter and retrieving the guitar.
Hey there, emergency precaution.

Arthur busts out “Frosty the Snowman,” and I am
forgotten. It’s a glorious relief. I try not to think about things
like sick coincidences and messages from higher powers. From the
mouths of babes comes crazy-ass malarkey
.
That’s what they
say, right?

+

By the time that the gingerbread festival comes
to a close, the atmosphere has gotten pretty mellow. I’m very
carefully and deliberately not thinking about anything.

Kristy and Cora go change back into their
non-Christmas gear while Artie and I clean up and keep an eye on
stuff out front. We don’t really talk. Then the girls come back,
and it’s our turn. Arthur heads back there really fast. I can’t
blame him.

I let him get in the bathroom first. It seems
fair, considering he’s wearing a jolly red suit and stuffed about
twice his normal size, whereas I’m just rocking a pair of antlers.
He comes out after five minutes, straightening his tie, and he’s
Arthur again. He’s carrying the beard in one hand, and the rest of
the costume is slung over his other arm.

I don’t say anything. I don’t really know
what
to say, besides, like, ‘Har dee har, how ‘bout that
universe and its unending quest to make us gay for each other – are
those some hilarious hijinks or what?’ Thanks but no thanks.

Arthur looks at me and smiles a little.

“What?” I ask, immediately suspicious. He might
be entertained by all this gay stuff – hell, he
is
gay, what
has he got to worry about? – and that’s just great for him,
but—

“Nose,” he replies.

Lipstick. You could even say it glowed (like a
lightbulb!). “Oh, yeah.”

I go into the bathroom, wet some toilet paper
under the sink, and set to work trying to get my nose
un
red.
It’s way harder than it should be. It’s not glaring crimson
anymore, but there’s a distinct ruddiness that definitely isn’t
there under normal circumstances. Just fantastic.

I see something out of the corner of my eye, and
when I look over, Arthur’s leaning against the doorframe.

“Having trouble?” he asks – harmlessly, though.
If he’s mocking me, he’s at least being subtle about it.

“She could have mentioned this was gonna be
permanent before she attacked me,” I grumble, swiping at my nose
again.

“Kristy,” Arthur says, in a way that pretty much
sums it all up.

“Kristy,” I agree.

“Speaking of – thank you for lending her the
DVDs.”

“No problem.” I’d never really counted on a
thank you. If I’d thought of expecting one, I probably wouldn’t
have done it. “So, uh. Why are you still suffering through Kristy’s
TV, anyway? Apartment hunting not going well?”

“To be honest, I haven’t gotten started
yet.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. I think I might be being lazy.” He says
it like he can’t quite know for sure, like he doesn’t have any
prior experience.

I can’t help it, I find that delightful.
“Really? I didn’t know you were wired for laziness.”

“Apparently,” he says, chuckling.

“Just like the rest of us,” I mock-marvel.

I lean nearer to the mirror, scrunching up my
nose experimentally. It’s starting to look okay. Which is good,
because if I have to keep this up much longer, I’m going to rub off
my whole nose, and there’s no way Kristy’s not gonna feel
super-guilty—

Out of nowhere, Arthur starts laughing. It’s
quiet at first, and then he really starts going.

I look over at him, tossing the lipstick-stained
toilet paper into the trash. “What?”

For a long time, he doesn’t say anything – just
shakes his head like I’m going to politely ignore him. I keep
staring, and finally he goes, by way of explanation, “‘You have to
ride him.’”

Immediately, I feel myself blushing.

“Oh, shit,” I groan – it’s all I can come up
with. Despite myself, I start to smile.

“I think I should have been surprised,” he
continues, still laughing. “But honestly, after all of this that’s
gone on, I wasn’t. It was more like – of course. Of course, at this
point. Why not?”

“Exactly! What is
up
with that?”

“I have no idea! I don’t think I want to
know.”

“I’m so
tired
of it, aren’t you?” I
gesture back and forth between us. “Like, you and me and there’s
this – like – you know what I mean? This awkward crap. I’m so
sick
of it. It’s making me nuts.”

“God, yes,” Arthur sighs. “Me too.”

“Good,” I say. “Good.”

We laugh for a little bit longer. It’s such a
goddamn relief to do it.

When the laughter dies down, it’s in that way
that sort of pleasantly fades into quiet. Somewhere along the line,
without quite noticing, I turned around. I’m facing him now instead
of the mirror.

He’s got this slight, relaxed smile on his face,
like he probably doesn’t even know he’s smiling, like it’s laughter
left over. And for the first time, I really just
like
him.

There’s at least two feet between him and me,
and it’s not like he makes a move to come closer, but all of a
sudden, I’m struck by this big feeling. It turns right away into a
panicked feeling.

“I better get back out front,” I say, not
looking at him anymore. I brush past him, really feeling it as I do
it. My hand grazes his for just a second, and it’s like–
whatever.

“Apron,” Cora says as soon as she sees me. “Get
back there, babydoll.”

“You wanna go somewhere after work?” I ask with
so much conviction that it doesn’t even sound like me.

Her eyebrows shoot up.

“Like, with you?” she finally asks.

“Yeah,” I say. I’m breathing a little heavy;
here’s hoping she doesn’t notice. “With me. You know. Somewhere.
After work.”

She stares at me for a long time. An
excruciatingly long time. I have no idea what she’s thinking.

“Yeah, okay,” she says at last. Her mouth twists
into a smile that is decidedly Cheshire Catlike. I don’t care, you
know? She can bust out all the Cheshire Cat grins she wants to.
That doesn’t matter. All that matters is that in an hour and
forty-five minutes, she and I are gonna be out of here, and we’re
gonna go somewhere alone, together, and, shit, my car smells like
McDonald’s, doesn’t it?, because Mitch and I went through the
drive-thru a couple nights ago and then didn’t bother throwing the
trash away, and that’s not exactly conducive to good times of the
backseat variety, if you know what I mean, but, hell, you know
what, it doesn’t matter, she can deal. She can deal with the
McAphrodesiac that is the scent of old French fries and sweet ‘n
sour sauce.

With God as my witness, I am getting some
tonight. And if it requires a slutty elf to get me there, that’s a
step I’m willing to take.

At this point.

Chapter Nine

That hour and forty-five minutes goes by fast
and slow all at once, like, there’s a part of me that’s just
itching to get out of there, an individual itch for every single
second, and there’s another part that feels
weird
when all
the lights are off and I’m actually walking out the door with Cora
a few steps ahead of me. She glances back at me and gives me this
little smirk that in all likelihood means impending sex.

Cool.

Fuck yeah.

At
last
.

And stuff.

Or maybe she’s just smug because she’s got me
carrying the garbage bag of costumes for her. I’m feeling sort of
winded already, but I’m trying my goddamndest not to show it.
Revealing you can’t carry a garbage bag of clothes doesn’t seem
like the kind of thing that makes a girl want to jump your bones.
Sure, it suggests a certain sensitivity (feebleness, sensitivity,
it’s all the same in the grand scheme of things), but Cora doesn’t
strike me as the sort to go for the sensitive fellows. She’d
probably beat up Hans Christian Andersen and steal his lunch
money.

Arthur follows us out. I haven’t talked to him
since the bathroom earlier, and I’m not planning on doing it
anymore. I’ve learned my lesson.

But then, while he’s locking up, he says
“Goodnight,” and it’d be kind of rude to ignore him altogether.

“Yeah, ‘night,” I say, glancing back at him for
a second and putting exactly no feeling into the words. It’s mostly
dark out, so I like to think I’m imagining the look on his face.
It’s not, like, a facial contortion of misery, but he looks sort of
baffled, like he can’t understand how we’ve gone from buddy-buddy
to grunting monosyllables in two hours.