Know Not Why: A Novel (9 page)

There’s silence. And
It’s All Coming Back To
Me Now
playing on the loudspeaker.

“Dude,” Mitch says, snickering. “That sounded
kind of gay.”

“Your mom’s kind of gay.” Not a great feat of
scathing genius, but considering the circumstances, it’ll cut
it.

“Your mom’s not,” Mitch replies, not missing a
beat. “See, I know because I totally did her last night.”

“Plebeians, all,” groans Amber.

Chapter Six

Monday morning comes way too fast, and I just
can’t do it. At five to nine, I make the grand effort to reach for
my phone. As I dial the number, there’s this lump in my throat,
this gross nervous feeling. I close my eyes as I listen to the
ringing. After three rings, it gets answered.

“Artie Kraft’s Arts ‘N Crafts this is Arthur how
may I help you?” He says it all without pausing, a steady flow of
words. There’s this precise lightness to the way he talks. It
sounds like a voice that should be reading
The Lovesong of J.
Alfred Prufrock
, it has the right wise lilt, and I realize
that’s a weird thing to think as soon as I think it.

“I’m sick,” I croak.

There’s this little sound, like maybe he inhales
sharply. Or maybe I’m making it up because I’m losing my mind.

“Okay,” he says. He sounds like he feels weird.
Well, good. He better.

I think about saying something else, for just a
second. But what? ‘
How ‘bout that kissing, eh?
’ I don’t
friggin’ think so. So I lie there and don’t say anything.

“Feel better,” Arthur throws in at last, with
this helpless awkwardness that sounds so strange coming from
him.

I hang up.

+

At around eleven, there’s a gentle knock at my
door. “Howie?”

Busted. Playing hooky my second week into the
least impressive job known to man. Yeah, that’s right, Mommy, just
making you proud.

“Honey, you in there?” my mom prompts.

For a second, I contemplate pretending not to
be, but then that seems a little too lame.

“Yeah,” I call, and hold back a sigh.

She pushes the door open. “Sick day?”

“Yeah.”

She comes over and presses her fingers to my
forehead. “Doesn’t feel like you have a fever.”

“I think it’s a stomach thing,” I invent.

She gives me one of those I Am Mom, I Know All
looks. “Not a lame job thing?”

“Nope,” I answer with as much conviction as I
can summon. Which is not a lot.

She looks sad all of a sudden. It’s enough to
make me wish I had just manned up and gone to work.

“I know what it’s like not to want to drag
yourself out of bed in the morning,” Mom tells me, running a hand
through my hair. “I’ve still got the scars from working retail in
college. Hon, if you really don’t like it there …”

“No,” I interrupt, “I do.”

She’s not buying it. “Howie…”

“It’s fine,” I say, forcing the words out. “It’s
cool. It’s low-key and the work’s really easy. And my coworkers are
cool. It’s cool.”

“It is,” she says, not believing me.

“I just don’t feel great today, Mom,” I finish
firmly. “That’s it.”

She looks at me for a long time.

“Okay,” she says at last. She smiles at me. I
watch as she reaches over with her left hand to massage her right
arm.

“Is it hurting?” I ask.

“Not too bad,” she replies in that airy tone she
gets every time she knows I’m worrying about her. “I think the
weather’s going to change again, though.”

“Oh,” I answer lamely. I hate even bringing it
up, but sometimes it’s hard not to slip up on this stuff.

But Mom seems okay. She just gives me this tired
smile and asks, “You want a cup of tea?”

“Yeah, sure,” I reply, because if she wants to
convince herself that she can still take care of me, then I’m not
exactly going to stand in her way.

When she brings me the tea, it turns out to be
chamomile, which feels a little bit like the universe is mocking
me. Really, what else is new? I drink it anyway.

+

I go in the next day. From the second I pull up
in the parking lot, I feel so on-edge I think I might pass out.
When I step inside, Kristy’s there already, turning the lights on
and singing along to the radio.

“Hey, Howie!” she chirps, beaming. “Feeling
better?”

“Two hundred percent.”

“That’s good,” she says, bouncing over to give
me a little hug. “I missed you yesterday!”

There’s this momentary urge to believe that she
dumped Mr. Flower-Wielding Whasisface, that she is single and
willing, that this is her
begging
for it, but what it all
comes down to is that she’s just nice.

“Hey,” she adds, “Arthur wants to see you in his
office for a sec.”

“Great,” I grumble.

I take my time. First I go into the kitchen, set
my stuff down, put on my buddy the Apron of Death and Emasculation.
Going up there, it’s dangerous. Who knows what awaits me? What if
he, like,
tries
something again? What if he thinks he’s
entitled to, just because he’s where my paychecks come from?
Newsflash, Kraft: I’m not
that
poor.

I climb the rickety staircase, trying not to
remember climbing the rickety staircase with Artie all over me. He
probably thinks that was, like, our fucking first date or
something. Fucking freak.

When I get to the top of the steps, I’m actually
shaking. God, this is ridiculous. The fact that a drinker of
chamomile can reduce me to
this
is just – I’ll tell you what
it is, it’s untoward. It’s not gonna fly. It ends now
.
I
push the door open in one jerky, decisive movement.

Arthur looks up. “Howie.”

He seems totally caught off-guard and, like,
nervous. And hearing him say ‘Howie’ is strange, really strange. I
suddenly realize I don’t know if he’s ever called me that before;
it was always ‘Howard,’ always annoying as hell, like, what, now
that The Thing happened, he’s gonna start being considerate? That’s
not even remotely fair.

“Yo,” I say, only I draw it out all awkwardly so
it sounds more like ‘yooooo.’ Just awesome. “You wanted to see
me?”

“Um,” Arthur says. He’s looking at me dead-on,
like he’s forcing himself to do it. God, I wish he would knock it
off. I also wish he’d lose his eyelashes in a freak eyelash fire
incident. And his lips, too, because all of a sudden I’m looking at
them,
what is that
. “Yes. I thought we should discuss—”

“You mouth-mauling me?” I ask loudly,
indignantly, like a tough sonuvabitch who doesn’t want to be
mouth-mauled. I make myself meet his eyes. They’re green; I never
paid attention before. This really light, interesting, intelligent
green—

FUCK, this guy needs to STOP HAVING A FACE.

“Yes,” Arthur says. “That.”

“Explain away, buddy,” I order. I take a seat in
the chair opposite him. “I’ve got all day.”

“No you don’t,” Arthur replies crisply. “Kristy
will need you back downstairs by nine.”

“I’ve got ‘til nine,” I amend smoothly. “So you
just … enlighten me.”

Arthur takes a breath, presses his fingers
briefly to his right temple. Then he opens his mouth. “I—”

“Wait,” I say, seized by the sudden need for
truth.

He goes obediently silent.

“Do you wear girl chapstick?” I demand.

“No.” He has the nerve to look baffled.

“Are you sure?”

“Very sure.” His forehead wrinkles in
confusion.

“Wait, just, hear me out here,” I order, ‘cause
I’m not settling for that, no effin’ way. “Nothing that’s, like,
called pink-banana-grapefruit, or, I dunno, raspberry fucking
surprise, or that – that bee stuff?”

“Pink banana?” he repeats.

“Don’t be a sicko, I didn’t mean it like that,”
I say, horrible realization dawning.

“Mean it like what?” Arthur asks,
‘confused.’

I glower at him. “Like some … gay-ass euphemism
or something.”

“Gay-ass,” Arthur repeats, like he’s trying to
speak another language.

“That’s
not
what I meant, Sir Elton, so
you can just simmer down.”

“Bananas aren’t pink,” Arthur says, sounding
increasingly weary (like that’s gonna fool me). “That was my only
issue with what you sa—”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” I interrupt harshly.
“Play innocent, that’s nice, that’s really great, but I just think
you should know, dude, you have
clearly
got some underlying
homosexual shit you need to work out, like, stat, and me, I’m not
gonna help you with that.”

There’s a long pause.

I like to think it’s the truth sinking in.

“All right,” Arthur says at last.

“I’m straight,” I add, just in case he needs me
to, like, draw him a word-picture. “I like ladies.
La-dies.
”

He doesn’t answer right away, and for some
reason, that last word – “
la-dies
,” dragged out like I’m
talking to a two year old – hangs in the air and makes me really
uncomfortable.

“I apologize, then,” Arthur says. He doesn’t
really seem nervous anymore. Just a little confused. And like he
knows something that I don’t, which –
false
. “I was having a
very bad day, those kids got on my last nerve, and you … just so
happened to be there. Quite frankly, I was just as surprised as you
were that it happened. To be candid …”

He drifts off, like being candid is something
that’s gonna hurt my
feelings
. Yeah right.

“Sure, go ahead.”

“I find you obnoxious and fairly insufferable,”
Arthur finishes. His eyebrows are a little raised in this ‘you
asked for it’ way, and I’m really careful not to let my expression
change, because – because screw what he thinks of me! Like I
care
. I don’t care! Just in case you cared to know. “And
kissing you was not something I had ever thought about doing or
wanted to do until it actually happened. It was completely,
completely spur of the moment. Possibly some sort of hypothermia
side-effect.”

“Really?” My voice sounds weird. Hollow. A tiny
bit squeaky.

“Yes,” he says – and then, as if the word itself
isn’t enough, he gives a brisk nod, too.

So he didn’t want to kiss me? What? Like – like,
what
, was it not
good
for him or something? So he
comes stomping on in and he violates me – yeah, that’s right,
violates
me! – and then he doesn’t even have the secretly
gay decency to enjoy himself???

“Good,” I manage. I sound pretty chill.

“Yes,” Arthur agrees, utterly calm, like he’s
multitasking, like he’s spent this conversation not only dealing
with me but
also
trying to attain nirvana. “Of course, if
you want to stop working here, that’s perfectly understandable. In
fact, it’s probably the best course of action. My behavior was
absolutely inexcusable, even if you didn’t seem bothered at the
time—”

“What?” I squawk. “I was bothered. I was
bothered all over the fucking place.”

“So you’d like to leave,” Arthur surmises.

All I really want to do is say “Hell yes, moron”
and take off in a blaze of glory, but then I remember my mom
yesterday.

“No,” I scowl.

“Oh,” Arthur says, looking mildly surprised.
“Mind if I ask why?”

“Yeah,” I glower. I sound like a surly eighth
grader, but I can’t even care.

“Okay, then,” Arthur says. He sits up a little
straighter. His words get a little more clipped. “You should
probably get downstairs, and we can just put that little incident
behind us.”

“Dandy,” I say, standing up. I kind of want to
kick the chair over on my way out, but then he’ll probably fire
me.

“Howie?”

I turn around, hand on the doorknob.

“Your apron’s untied,” Arthur informs me
serenely.

I stare at him. And just as my brain starts
boiling over with thoughts of the ‘Whoa there, you saucy bastard,
eyes off’ variety, he gets all goddamn psychic and—

“Don’t worry, I wasn’t – how did you phrase it?
Ah yes – working out my underlying homosexual shit on you.”
Underneath the loftiness, there is this undeniable, loathsome
flicker of amusement. “Just a casual observation.”

And so I achieve the seemingly impossible, and
leave feeling even worse than I had going in.

+

“Kristy?” I ask as soon as I get downstairs,
because something’s starting to dawn on me. Something that could
make me the actual biggest dumbass in the world.

“Yeah?” she asks brightly. “Ooh, how’d it go? I
hope he didn’t get mad at you. He was sort of grumpy this morning
because I like to get up early and watch exercise tapes, you know,
stay in shape! And I thought that maybe it wouldn’t bother him if I
just put it on mute and turned on the closed captioning, but I
guess I’m a really loud exerciser? So I wound up waking him up, and
I sort of kicked him in the face by accident at one point,
and—”

“Kristy—”

“Ooh, you want me to tie that for you?” she
asks, spotting my untied apron. Without waiting for a reply, she
moves behind me and gets to work. “I love bows! Is that dorky? They
just make me happy. When my mom taught me how to tie my shoes, it
was all I wanted to do for like a week—”

“Kristy, is Arthur gay?” I cut in, hating the
weird urgency in my voice.

“Of course he is, silly,” Kristy replies,
laughing a little. “What kind of question is that?” Then, slowly,
she comes back around to face me. Her mouth is an adorable o of
shock. “You mean you didn’t know?”

“No,” I reply stiffly, “I did not.”

“Ohhh!” Kristy exclaims. She reaches over and
swats me playfully on the arm. “Yeah, that’s the whole reason I got
him to hire you!”

“Because he’s gay?” I ask blankly.

“Noooo,” Kristy says. “Because he and Patrick
have been having all these awful problems lately, and to be honest,
I’ve never really liked Patrick that much, because he has like the
most boring taste in movies ever and he can never take a joke about
anything
. But Arthur loved him for some reason, so I didn’t
want him to be sad, and I thought you were really, really cute! And
you’re fun, and you’re so funny, and you obviously have great taste
in stuff. And I really thought that Arthur should be with someone
like you instead of someone like Patrick. You know, so he can
actually get to experience a
fun
relationship. And I know
that it’s not smart to do the whole dating-people-you-work-with
thing, especially when it’s your boss, but you were just
so
sweet, and I really thought it was worth a shot! So.”