Know Not Why: A Novel

by Hannah Johnson

  It’s also sort of nice, though. Because, here’s the thing: this is a big deal. Inevitably a big deal. But Artie? He doesn’t really make it seem that way. And that, I can appreciate.

  So I just say, “Yeah, what’s that about?”

  “Honestly, Kristy’s been at it for awhile.”

  “Yikes,” I say.

  “Yikes,” he agrees.

  It gets quiet, but it’s not necessarily a bad kind of quiet. I grab a book on the table, only to discover it’s A Little Princess. Super cool. I pretend to read the back cover, and I watch Arthur out of the corner of my eye. Oh yeah. Straight up spy skills. He opens the cupboard above the sink and pulls out a mug, then goes over to the coffeepot and fills it up. Arthur plus coffee? What can it possibly mean?—

  “Here,” he says, suddenly right next to me. “You’re a coffee drinker, right?”

  “Um, yeah,” I say. “Thanks.”

  “Of course,” he replies genially, heading back to the microwave.

  I take a sip. It’s scalding and has a distinctly tarlike consistency. Ah, Cora. A lady who knows how to brew it right.

  “Can you maybe pass me some—”

  Arthur soundlessly hands me five sugar packets.

  “Awesome. Thanks.”

  I set to work pouring them in. He grabs his tea out of the microwave, then settles down in the chair next to me.

  “This a favorite read of yours?” he asks, a perfect mockery of seriousness, and prods at A Little Princess lightly.

  “Oh, yeah. I love the part where she’s a princess. And does all that … princess crap. And then, when the – dragon attacks— it really sucks for her, because she’s so little, she fits right in his dragon mouth—”

  “Nope,” Arthur says.

  “Didn’t think so,” I say. “You a big—” I glance at the cover, “—Frances Hodgson Burnett fan?”

  “I,” Arthur says, “grew up with a big sister. Who loved to force upon me the reading material of her choice.”

  Oh, this knowledge has some potential. “Did she ever make you dress up in, like, tutus?”

  “Not answering that,” Arthur replies crisply, and takes a sip of his tea. I chuckle.

  There are a few moments of peaceful quiet.

  “Thanks for dinner,” I say.

  “Thanks for staying,” he replies.

  “Oh, totally. You feed me, I will stay.”

  He smiles. “Good to know.”

  Whoa. Is it?

  Do I want it to be?

  Kind of.

  I don’t really know what to say, and I think I can feel my ears turning red, a feat that should not be biologically possible. (Like, isn’t that so lame that evolution should have knocked it out by now?) I rip open my remaining two sugar packets at the same time and dump ‘em in.

  Arthur’s brow furrows. “Didn’t I give you--?”

  “Five.”

  “And you put in …”

  “Five.”

  “I didn’t mean for you to use all of them.”

  “What can I say? I live to exceed your expectations.”

  “Oh,” Arthur says, staring into the mug. “My God. That’s so ruinous.”

  I lift the cup and give it a tantalizing little swirl. “You want a sip?”

  “No. No, just – not … at all.”

  “You sure?”

  “So completely certain.”

  “Come on, man. It’ll give you a little jolt. Wake you up.”

  “And I will remain awake for the next three months. Say, haven’t you ever contemplated chamomile?”

  “Yes, and the conclusion I came to was, ‘I’m not eighty.’”

  “I think it may be time to reevaluate your stance—”

  “ARTHUR! WHAT DOES IT MEAN WHEN THE CASH REGISTER SPITS THE TAPE AT YOU??” comes Kristy’s desperate cry from out front.

  Arthur sighs. “I appear to be needed.”

  “Go save ‘em, boss man.”

  “Enjoy your sludge.” He stands up.

  “Oh, I will. Count on it.”

  “I SWEAR I DIDN’T DO ANYTHING DIFFERENT! BUT IT IS TOTALLY FREAKING OUT!”

  “FUCK THIS MACHINE.”

  “CORA, CALM DOWN, IT’S OKAY! ARTHUR!!”

  Arthur takes a few steps toward the door. Then, so fast that I don’t even realize it’s happening ‘til it’s happening, he comes back over to me, grabs my mug out of my hands (complete with some finger brushing I don’t totally un-notice), and takes a sip.

  There’s a moment of solemn silence broken only by the distant sounds of Kristy and Cora hysterically battling the cash register.

  “Yep,” he says at last. “Disgusting.”

  Then he hands the cup back to me and hurries on out.

  I stare after him, awed.

  +

  “Oh! That thing Arthur said!” Kristy exclaims out of nowhere that afternoon; we’re sitting in the knitting aisle restocking yarn.

  “Oh, yeah,” I say, oh so subtle. “I forgot about that.”

  “It wasn’t all that much,” Kristy continues, bouncing on her knees. “It never really is with Arthur. He didn’t even cry after he broke up with Patrick, and they were together for two and a half years! And I know boys aren’t supposed to cry, but that is such a lie, sometimes they do! Like, I have totally seen Reddy cry before, even though I don’t think I’m really supposed to tell anybody about it, so forget I said it. But it’s not like it makes me like him less! I think it’s so sweet.” (Reddy’s her boyfriend’s name. Well, no, correction: Clifford is her boyfriend’s name, and everybody calls him Cliff – except Kristy, who calls him Red, like, Clifford the Big Red Dog. And then, because Kristy’s the sort of person who likes to put ‘ee’ sounds on the end of things to the point where it might be an actual speech impediment, he’s Reddy.) “And anyway, if Arthur needed to cry, I would have totally held his hand and told him it was gonna be okay! But all he did was read The Remains of the Day over and over, which is apparently about a sad butler? He told me all about it. After I asked. A couple of times. So anyway! That’s how Arthur shows his emotions. He doesn’t. He reads books instead. So when he does even a little thing, it means a lot.”

  “And … what’d he say?” I don’t want to seem eager. I’m not eager. Just … curious. Not, like, cat-death-curious. A healthy amount of curious. George-curious.

  “After you left, I was like, ‘You seem happy,’” Kristy reports, her eyes bright. “And he was like, ‘Yeah. It was a nice night.’”

  Huh, I think.

  +

  I dawdle after work, take awhile to get my coat on. I step out into the parking lot while Arthur’s still locking up, but I don’t get into my car yet. That’s saying a lot, just so you know: it’s reached new levels of freezing out here. After what seems like roughly twelve gazillion frozen eons – like, maybe we squeeze in a new ice age – Arthur turns away from the front door and starts over to his car.

  “Hey,” I say, sauntering over. Okay, maybe it doesn’t count as sauntering if you slip on the ice a little. But whatever. I’m totally cool. I don’t fall or anything. Barely noticeable.

  “Whoa,” Arthur says, holding out a steadying hand. His fingers brush my shoulder. “You okay?” He smiles at me, this small, easy smile, and even though we’re drenched in the dull orange light from the lampposts, the kind of light that’s just bright enough to turn everything dingy and ugly, he still looks so good to me.

  Damn it.

  And so I ask. “Will you do something for me?”

  “Yes?”

  “Freak out about something.”

  He stares at me. “What?”

  “Freak out about something. Anything. Just – I, okay, I would appreciate it if you’d just show me that you can. Like, hey, how about that kitten angel poster? That is some freaky nonsense. No one should be forced to live with that! Am I right??”

  “I’m not really upset about it,” Arthur replies, with that typical slight frown of his. He has a nice frown. “It is K
risty’s house, and I am imposing upon her hospitality. Complaining about her choice in wall decor seems unfair.”

  “Of course,” I mutter.

  I start to turn around. What’s the point in trying to force the impossible, and all that.

  “Howie?” Arthur says.

  “What?”

  “Why do you want me to freak out?” He asks it sort of gently, which makes it worse somehow.

  “Because you make me freak out all the time.” Maybe I’m not so totally chill, but whatever, whatever, I’m sick of it. “Like, honestly, I’m pretty sure I’ve started doing it professionally. Maybe you should start considering paying me extra. ‘Cause seriously, dude, when it comes to freaking out about you, I am the master. I am friggin’ incomparable, I got mad skills all over the place. And I don’t think this is exactly mutual freaking out, like, I don’t get the sense that I make you want to wither and die and explode. And that’s okay. That’s cool. I’m kind of going through a thing here that you probably went through a long time ago, unless you didn’t go through it at all because you’re just all together, like, you popped out of the womb, all, ‘Thanks for squeezing me out, Mom; no more pussy for me.’”

  “I would never say ‘pussy’ to my mother.”

  I glare at him. I think I’m out of words.

  “And that was a terrible response,” Arthur adds, sighing slightly.

  “No, that’s cool,” I say. I kind of feel like shit. “I’m just … going completely friggin’ nuts all over the place, it’s okay, I’m getting used to it. ’Night, man. See you tomorrow.”

  I take three steps, and then I get—

  “I hate going to the dentist.”

  I stop. “Everybody hates going to the dentist.”

  “I suppose so,” he agrees, sounding discouraged.

  It’s nice that he tried.

  I take another step away.

  And then, with renewed fervor: “But I hate going to the dentist. I really do. I find it degrading and filthy and … and frankly a bit sickening.”

  All right, fine. I’m intrigued. I turn around.

  “How is it filthy?” I ask. “They’re cleaning your teeth.”

  “Yes, yes, they’re cleaning your teeth,” he says dismissively. “That doesn’t mean it isn’t terrible. It is. I find it terrible.”

  I smile a little. “Okay.”

  “They poke at you,” he continues, making a tiny, spastic hand gesture, “with those terrible little instruments – it’s like something you’d find in some sort of torture chamber. I’m fairly convinced it’s inhumane. And then the sound – ughh, the sound of the metal against your teeth, like fingernails on a blackboard but worse, and your gums! Surely they must understand that it’s unpleasant to get poked in the gums by a sharp metal object, but that certainly doesn’t stop them, does it?” By God, he’s into it. It’s stunning.

  “Sure doesn’t,” I agree, grinning now.

  “Not to mention that they always talk to you as they’re doing it. And they don’t even have the decency to make it a one-sided conversation – they always ask you questions! Horribly insensitive, if you ask me! It’s not as though you’re in the position to answer. It’s inevitable you’ll sound like an idiot if you do. And the toothpaste is gritty and disgusting, and the toothbrush – the horrible electric toothbrush, just the sound of it, that mechanical hiss. Right there, against your teeth. The way it feels. It’s deplorable, all of it. You’re left completely stripped of your dignity, spitting all over yourself and wearing a paper bib, for God’s sake. You might as well be an infant – you’re just, just composed of drool and the inability to speak. And then, you can’t even eat for a half hour afterward. I hate that.”

  He finishes, breath coming out in puffs, looking sort of surprised at himself for spewing out so much bitterness.

  It’s kinda sweet.

  I don’t stop to think, but I don’t make the effort not to think either. I just step forward, getting rid of the distance between us, and I kiss him on the cheek. The slightest beginnings of stubble tickle against my mouth. That should weird me out. It doesn’t. His face is cold, but so are my lips, so it’s not like it makes any difference.

  After a few seconds, he turns his face to meet mine, and we kiss. It’s not much like the first time – it’s not all desperate and hungry, not exactly mind-blowing stuff, but it’s calm. Serene, sort of. It feels like being where you’re supposed to be.

  When we pull apart, he smiles, but he’s got this slightly wary look to him, too, like he’s expecting me to lose it.

  I stay put, and I smile back.

  “That chapstick that you’re wearing,” Arthur says after a few seconds, his smile broadening, “is that pink banana?”

  “Fuck you,” I reply, but I laugh. This one, he can be funny when he wants to be, the sneaky bastard.

  He laughs too, this wonderful warm sound. “Goodnight, Howie.”

  “’Night,” I say, and it’s weird to hear me sounding, I dunno. Happy, I guess.

  Chapter Twelve

  “You know,” Kristy says the next morning, out of nowhere (the kind of nowhere, in case you’re curious, where she’s been staring at me for the past ten minutes, all sly and sneaky and – bless her blonde, bouncy heart – super-friggin’-obvious), “someone was talking to me about you yesterday.”

  She waits, mighty pleased with herself. Like I’m immediately going to start falling all over myself, begging to know exactly who! this mysterious someone is and why! they were talking about me and what! it was they said.

  Real cute, Kris. Real tricky. Guess what? I’m not fallin’ for it.

  Anyway, it’s obvious she means Arthur.

  … Hey, she means Arthur.

  “Oh yeah?” I am so fucking casual in this moment. Not, like, desperate, or wild with curiosity, or anything like that. Some people might be eager to hear what gets said about them after they happen to kiss somebody by quasi-accident. Not me. I’m cool. I’m like thirty-two flippin’ degrees of cool. I’m freezing. Ice motherfuckin’ ice, baby. “What’d they say?”

  “That you’re cute,” Kristy informs me, all playful, dragging her words out.

  Oh, jeez. He thinks I’m cute. Am I cute? I dunno, I guess the whole messy-hair thing could lend me a certain disheveled charm, but cute? Full-scale cute, for real? He should have told that to some of the girls in high school, because they sure as hell needed to have that little knowledge bomb dropped on ‘em. And how cute are we talking, exactly?

  “—aaand that she’d really like to hang out with you sometime.”

  All lame-ass pondering of the word ‘cute’ immediately fizzles and dies.

  “She?” I repeat without thinking about it. Then I really wanna just kick myself or something, because as far as the whole rest of the world knows? I’m straight! And, you know, as far as I know, I’m straight, too. I’m just having a slight man-digging episode.

  I’m not the only one who sucks at preserving the illusion (or, not illusion, but … whatever) of my heterosexuality, though. Kristy actually snaps her fingers and says, “Darnit!”

  So she wanted me to think it was Arthur. Jesus Christ. I’m starting to feel like Artie and I are the ‘rents in the world’s gayest Parent Trap, and Kristy and Cora are twins. Really fraternal twins.

  “Who’s this she?” I ask, because wow, is it subject-changin’ time.

  “Nikki,” Kristy reports.

  My mind immediately drifts back to her – or what I can remember of her, which, honestly, isn’t a lot. I dunno, my brain was a lot of places that night, but a focusing-on-Kristy’s-roommate place wasn’t really one of them. I vaguely remember reddish-blonde hair, but in terms of a face? Nope. I’m fairly certain that she was hot, though. Almost-but-not-quite Kristy hot.

  An almost-but-not-quite-Kristy-hot girl thinks I’m cute?

  It might be like an actual Christmas miracle.

  “If you’re interested, I can give you her number,” Kristy continues, sounding real c
heery. “She’d be really happy to hear from you.”

  “Oh,” I say.

  And that’s all I can really come up with at the moment.

  It’s just – this, this right here is a weird, unforeseen turn of events. Because I think … Jesus, I think it worked. I got a job at an arts and crafts store. Now, thanks to a series of events that occurred solely because I got aforementioned job at aforementioned arts and crafts store, a hot girl is interested. In me.

  Wow.

  The only thing I’m sure of in this moment – like, the only thing about which I am really for real concretely certain – is that Amber is going to get one hell of an “In your face, woman” the next time I see her. Maybe I’ll even spin something about how if Alexander Graham Bell could be here on this momentous occasion, he’d be proud. Glad to see that a fellow bold imaginer, a taker of risks, a planner of strange and glorious plans has triumphed at last. Telephone; cleverly concocted scheme resulting in the getting of mucho action … It’s guys like us who change the world.

  But then, well, Nikki, Nikki herself, the actual hot girl in question—

  I think about Arthur. Not on purpose, or anything; all of a sudden he’s just there in my head. It still seems really vivid, the way he looked last night standing there in the parking lot, drenched in shitty light. Smiling at me.

  Kristy’s looking at me expectantly. Knowingly.

  “Uh—” I begin.

  “Hey.” Arthur comes in, showing off his crazy good timing. When he meets my eye, something about his face lights up a little. I don’t hate that. “Can I talk to you for a few minutes?”

  “Yeah,” I reply, “totally. Um.” I turn to Kristy. “I’ll get back to you on that.”

  “Okay.” She’s practically floating on air just looking at the two of us. She’s like a mom who wants to snap our picture together before we take off for the school dance.

  “What were you two talking about?” Arthur asks as we head back to the kitchen.

  And, well, jeez, should Kristy’s roommate pining after me (or, fine, being slightly interested) be the sort of thing I discuss with my man Artie here?