Know Not Why: A Novel (37 page)

“How long have you known?” she finally asks.
“You were …?”

“Not so long,” I say, deciding it’s best to
leave certain prom nights buried. “He sort of made me realize.”

“Oh,” she says again.

“I’m sorry,” I say helplessly. To my soggy Corn
Pops.

“What?” She sounds so sharp that I actually look
up.

“I don’t know. First you get Dennis dating
Emily, and now me and a
dude
. This must be the worst—”

“Don’t,” she interrupts, so fiercely it would be
hilarious under different circumstances. “Don’t you dare. I’m all
right with this.”

“You are?” It is not exactly easy to buy. “You
look sort of messed up.”

“I’m processing. But acceptingly.
Supportively.”

“Okay.”

Silence again. Oh, Jesus. Who or what made me
decide this was a good idea? It was probably Dream Dad’s fault,
that bastard. Damn it, Dream Dad. Damn it, subconscious.

“Well, then, I’m going to have to get to work
around here,” Mom says very crisply all of a sudden. “We’ll have to
straight – er, clean things—”

“Did you seriously just avoid the word
‘straight’? Mom, seriously, you don’t have to—”

“
Processing
.”

“Right.”

“We’ll have to
clean
things up around
here. He seems very neat. Is he very neat? Oh, God, the last thing
I need is for this boy to think we live in some sort of hellhole.
Those hotdogs, those ancient hotdogs, are they still in the
fridge?”

“Nah, Mitch took care of those.”

“All right. Well—” She stands up, stares around
the kitchen, and then, at a loss, sits back down again. I haven’t
seen her this flustered in – possibly, literally ever. She takes a
very abrupt sip of her coffee, swallows, and looks right at me. I
force myself to look right back.

“You have a boyfriend,” she says, very
steadily.

“So do you,” I say back, without quite thinking
first.

She laughs. “Touché.”

“Sorry.”

“No, no. That was good. That was fair.” She
stares at me for a long time again. I don’t really like it. It’s
like she’s trying to figure out how she’s supposed to look at me
now, or how she could have missed it, or – something weird. I try
my damndest to deal. “Are you happy?” she finally asks, which
surprises me.

“It’s complicated,” I reply awkwardly.

“How?”

“I’ve spent the past two months lying like crazy
to just about everyone I know. Last night I made Kristy Quincy slap
me.”

“Kristy? But she’s such a nice girl.”

“Exactly. But–” I consider it. “I think maybe if
everyone knew, and stuff settled down … then yeah. I’d be happy.
I’m a lot closer to happy than I have been in a really long
time.”

“Arthur makes you happy,” she surmises.

“Yeah,” I reply. And then, because that doesn’t
quite seem to communicate it all the way: “Definitely yeah.”

For a second, it seems like she might cry. She
smiles and then her whole face sort of crumples, her eyes turning
bright. “Oh, thank God.”

“What?”

“I know you’ve been miserable here,” she says,
blinking a lot. To which I say, keep on blinking. I so cannot
handle Mom tears on the top of everything else. “I’m not blind.
I’ve spent the past few years feeling awful for doing this to
you—”

“Mom,” I hurry to say, because that’s exactly
what I haven’t wanted her to think for the past
ever,
“I
chose to stay here, it’s not like—”

“Shhh,” she orders, reaching across the table
and pressing her finger against my lips. “This is Mommy’s Lifetime
monologue.”

“Sorry,” I say, shutting up accordingly.

“There is nothing as terrible as a mother
feeling like she’s hurting her child. Holding them back. And if
you’ve found someone here that makes you happy, then there is
nothing,
nothing
in the world more important to me than
that.”

“Even if it’s a guy?”

“Oh, especially if it’s a guy,” she says, and
lets out a watery laugh. “Howie, you had such terrible taste in
girls.”

I wonder whether I should attempt to defend the
honor of Heather Grimsby and Lindsay, but I can’t bring myself to
go there. Maybe chivalry really is dead.

“Have you told Dennis?” Mom asks.

“No,” I say. “Not yet.” Still scary
territory.

“Well, that makes two of us,” she says, with a
wry smile.

“Poor dude.”

“He wrought Emily upon us. Let’s call this
balance restoring its place in the universe.”

I’m going to let that one fly, but then, well,
honesty seems like an okay alternative. It’s kind of the theme of
the morning. “Mom, I really like Emily. I mean, yeah, she’s weird,
but she’s also pretty great. She totally pimped out our Christmas
tree. So maybe if you could just … go easier on her, or try to like
her—”

“Oh, Howie, it’s not that I don’t like her.”

I stare at her.

“Well,” she admits, “maybe it’s like that. But
it’s been mostly stress and surprise, honestly. She just isn’t what
I expected, and wasn’t exactly the easiest of houseguests at first.
And it’s very odd to think that my son was once the kind of boy who
only dated potential supermodels, and now he’s been so far away for
so long that he’s become the kind of person who can fall in love
with a girl like Emily, and I know nothing about what made him
become that. I’ll try harder.”

“Good,” I say, smiling at her. She smiles
back.

“Tell me about Arthur,” she says, leaning
forward on one elbow.

“I don’t know,” I say, at a loss. “He’s Arthur.
He’s pretty self-explanatory.”

“I’m looking forward to getting to know him
better,” she says. I believe her when she says it. How’s that for
surreal – my mom and Arthur, they’re going to get to know each
other. This has been a really frigging eventful twenty-four hours.
“Oh! We’ll have to get him a Christmas present! What does he like?
Wine? We could get him a nice bottle of wine. Or – bath products?
Maybe one of those nice baskets— Or does that seem too—”

“Gay?”

“No,” she says swiftly.

I can sense a new favorite hobby forming. “You
know what, I think this is going to be fun.”

“Be quiet. I’m adjusting.”

“You know what you should get him? A mesh shirt.
ABBA Gold. Xanadu on DVD.”

“How do you even know what Xanadu
is
?”

“I’m very cultured, Mom. I’ve watched all the I
Love The’s on VH1.”

“Of course you have.” She smiles at me. “I love
you, kid.”

“You too,” I say, smiling back. I still feel
like I might throw up on the tablecloth, and the sight of the soggy
Corn Pops isn’t exactly helping. But I feel good too. Good in this
really basic, really pure way. That went okay.
That went
okay.

“Maybe,” she says thoughtfully, “I’ll give him
the Josh Groban CD.”

+

I jog over to Amber’s house. I was freaked at
the idea of talking to her before, but well, now, now I’m on a
roll. Besides, I feel – I dunno, happy, and light, and it’s the
kind of thing that I want to share with my best friend. Sure, she
might still be pissed at me. Sure, I should probably still be
pissed at her. But right now, I just want to work this out.

I ring the doorbell. Maybe a couple times. Or
like five.

“Oh my God, stop ringing the doorbell!” comes
April’s screech, and then she swings the door open.

“Hey, kiddo.”

“I knew it was you. Nobody else would do that.
Did you like my concert?”

“Sure, it was spiffy. I—”

I fall silent as Amber comes up behind her. She
approaches slowly, looking at me like she’s not sure what to
expect. I so get the feeling.

“I just told my mom,” I say.

Her expression softens. She steps past April,
‘til she’s out on the doorstep with me.

“She knows now,” I elaborate. Really
brilliantly. “As do you.”

A smile ghosts across her face, and then –
wouldn’t you know – she wraps her arms tight around me. I hug her
back, shutting my eyes, enjoying the comfortable familiarity of
her.

“If you guys make out, I’m telling Mom and Dad!”
April informs us.

“I just told my mom,” I say again, because I’m
still kind of coming to terms with that weird truth.

“Told your mom what?” April demands. “That you
guys made out? Oh my gosh! Amberrr—”

“Oh, screw off, April,” Amber snaps. “Go watch
Hannah Montana.”

“Hannah Montana’s not
on
today,
stupid—”

Amber reaches back with one arm and slams the
door shut, then hugs me tight again.

“I’m proud of you, Howie,” she says softly.

“Last night fucking sucked,” I say into her
hair. “But all of a sudden it’s like … stuff could work out.”

“Good,” she murmurs.

We pull apart.

“If you want to talk,” I say, “I’m good for it.
I can do that.”

“Sure,” she says kindly. “I’m listening.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

Turns out, honesty’s a good thing. Who knew?
Driving to work on Monday, I’m feeling so different it’s creeping
me out a little bit – but the good kind of creepy. I got so used to
lying about everything that I never really stopped to consider how
the alternative, this funky little notion called Not Lying, might
feel. And it feels good.

I’m gonna work things out with Kristy somehow. I
can feel it. It probably won’t be easy. It will probably involve
groveling. Some none-too-manly weeping. (On my part, I mean. Her
weeping is never anything less than manly.) But it’ll be worth it,
and it can be done. Stuff is capable of being good, and working
out. I am beginning to subscribe to this belief.

An additional source of cheer? Arthur called
while I was in the shower and is, according to my mother’s message,
locked out of the store because he forgot his keys, and could I
bring mine, please? Mwa ha ha. Jenkins to the rescue.

Sure enough, when I pull into the pitch-blackish
parking lot, it’s pretty much deserted – just a few cars in front
of the hair and nails place and a shadowy figure lurking outside
the store. I step out of the car and into the cold pretty
cheerfully, because if there’s one thing that’s better than Arthur
first thing in the morning, it’s an Arthur first thing in the
morning who’s made some minor error that I can mock him ceaselessly
for.

“Gotta say, Mr. Kraft,” I proclaim merrily,
brandishing my key, “I expected be—”

But then Arthur turns around, and it’s not
Arthur. It’s –

“Cliff?”

“Yeah,” Mr. Kristy Quincy himself says, taking a
few steps forward so he’s illuminated by the streetlamps. He’s
looking dapper as ever, and holding a Starbucks coffee. “That’s
right. Cliff.”

“Oh.” I am officially confused. “Uh, hey man.
What … are you doing here? And, uh, have you seen Arthur? He called
and said that he needed me to come down here—”

“That wasn’t Arthur.” He takes another step
forward. “That was me.”

“Oh. Uh. Okay. Yeah, my mom’s never met him, so
I guess she just thought—”

“That,” Cliff says, and his mouth does this
weird little twitch, “is just what I was counting on.”

His face suddenly looks really bare without a
diabolical moustache to twirl.

“See,” he says, taking another step forward.
There are only so many steps forward left before he’s gonna be
standing on me. Also, this guy is tall. Seriously tall. He’s got a
good six inches on me. Why have I never paid attention to that
before? “’Cause you’re all repressed and stuff. That’s like the
whole big deal. So I figured, your mom wouldn’t know Arthur,
because you wouldn’t want her to meet Arthur. So if I called up and
said I was him, then she wouldn’t know any better, and she’d give
you my message. The whole key thing. And then …”

“What if I had answered the phone?” I can’t help
interrupting.

Cliff looks perplexed for a minute. But still
tall. Finally he settles on, “But you didn’t.”

“No,” I admit, “I didn’t.”

“’Cause you seem lazy,” he continues, with a new
flash of triumph, “So I figured you’d sleep in, and then you’d be
too busy getting ready to answer the phone.”

“Deftly handled, Sherlock.”

Cliff frowns. “Isn’t it supposed to be ‘No shit,
Sherlock’?”

“I’m pretty sure that’s not a rule.”

“Huh,” he muses.

We stand and look at each other for awhile. It’s
awkward, and continues to be confusing. On the plus side, though,
he’s not beating me up, so that discounts my original theory re:
what the hell he’s doing here.

“So, um, you’re here because … you wanted my
key?”

“No,” he says. “You can keep your key.”

“Good,” I say, “I … will, then.” I put it into
my pocket.

“Cool,” he says with a nod. He takes a sip of
his coffee, and then his expression suddenly gets real serious.
“No, I’m
here
because of what you did to Kristy.”

Okay. Beating up, suddenly not seeming totally
off the table. “She told you?”

“Yeah.” He doesn’t actually take another step
forward, but he leans in. It gets the job done.
Why so tall.
“She told me a lot of stuff.”

“And now you are going to … beat the shit out of
me?”

“No shit, Sherlock,” he says, then stops,
realizes, and smirks a little bit.

“Haha, nice.”

“Oh, whoa, that was totally by accident. I guess
the phrase was just in my head.”

“It happens, man.”

He laughs. Then it sinks back into quiet. I’m
having trouble deciding whether to be scared or – I dunno –
socially uncomfortable. He takes a sip of his coffee. This time it
leaves some whipped cream on his face.

“You’ve got a little—” I point to my upper
lip.

“Oh. Thanks.” He wipes it away with the back of
his hand.

“Sure,” I mumble. I feel sort of lame, like
maybe you’re not supposed to be that considerate to people who are
about to end you. But, like, what is he even
doing
?
Caffeineing up first? At this rate, nothing’s gonna go down ‘til
it’s bright outside. If he’s going to beat the shit out of me, I’d
prefer the cover of darkness.