Know Not Why: A Novel (43 page)

“What do you think?” he asks, when we’re
there.

“I think you probably do not want my opinion on
this.”

“Oh, come on. You must remember something about
what kind of wine your mother likes.”

“Yeah, I don’t really make a big point of
boozing it up with my mom. Do you?”

“Booze it up with your mom? Well, yes, during
our several secret trysts, but you’re not supposed to know about
that. We’re very discreet.”

“Oh no you didn’t.”

“All right, we’re going to start very basic.
Does she prefer red or white?”

“How ‘bout some Bacardi?” I ask, pointing
merrily and helpfully at the line of bottles. “We’s gon’ get
crunkkkk! Christmas crunk.”

“Interesting news: I no longer feel so much as a
spark of attraction toward or respect for you.”

I shrug. “Had to happen sooner or later.”

Arthur rolls his eyes and smirks, and we amble
wineward through the store.

“You do realize that wine’s the obvious choice,
right? I’m sure Herrick’s got wine covered. Don’t you want to try
something a little different? Really stand out?”

“I’m getting wine.”

“How ‘bout a nice Christmas goose? Or – hey – an
adorable Weimaraner puppy.”

“Oh, look at all the wine.”

“Not to eat, obviously. That would not endear
you to my mother at all.”

“Red or white, Howie?”

Regretfully, I surrender. “Red.”

“Merlot?”

“Sure. That’ll bring out the flavor of the
Christmas goose just swimmingly.”

Once the wine-purchasing’s out of the way, we
make our way out onto the sidewalk. There’s a general sense of
holiday merriment in the air, a flurry of last-minute shoppers and
Salvation Army bells ringing. We walk close, shoulders together. I
look at all of the people around, on the sidewalk and in the
parking lot, coming in and out of stores. They’re almost all
familiar faces, even if I can only pick out a few that I know by
name. Living here, it’s like being in a perpetual state of At Any
Second, You Could Run Into Your Kindergarten Teacher. It’s hard not
to get caged in by that feeling.
Still
, I think, as Arthur’s
arm moves a little against mine.

“Crunk,” Arthur muses under his breath, saying
the word (if it can be called a word. Has ‘crunk’ achieved true
word status yet? Are we there yet, as a race of sentient beings?)
in a way that’s, like, the vocal equivalent of holding up a dead
mouse by its tail with two very reluctant fingers. He ponders for
awhile, then comes, with a disgusted sort of victory, to, “Crazy
drunk. Am I right?”

“And you got it in one,” I reply, and I reach
for his hand. “You hip unstoppable genius, you.”

I can tell he’s surprised. Hell, I feel like I
should be surprised, too – but for the first time in what feels
like, well, ever, I’m not. I can be in control of my own actions,
despite what my track record might imply to the contrary, and
suddenly, I just feel like, sure. I can hold my
boyfriend-yeah-that’s-right-world-
boyfriend
’s hand wherever
I want to, and not because I want to be all, ‘Check it out,
humanity, there’s someone out there who’ll hold my hand,’ but
because we’re walking close enough that his arm is against mine and
he’s musing over the meaning of ‘crunk’ like he’s sixty-five and
somehow, by some mad glorious stroke of luck, he is mine to
touch.

He looks down at our hands. Ever sensible, he’s
wearing gloves, nice leather ones. I left in a hurry, and I’m not
exactly the most practical guy to begin with; I’m barehanded, and
my fingers are cold. He tightens his grasp on my hand, smiles at me
a little bit. I smile back. Beats pockets.

+

Amber shows up about an hour before Arthur and
Herrick are set to. She’s in a pretty good mood, considering she
got subjected to both a double date
and
a blind date last
night.

“You’re very brave,” Emily says, staring at
Amber with wide(-r than usual) eyed admiration. “I don’t think I
would want to go out with a stranger. Especially one who’s just had
his heart broken.”

“He was okay,” Amber says, unloading the
multitude of Christmas feast-type goodies Mrs. Clark sent over. I
get the feeling that Mom mentioned Herrick to Mrs. C, because she
went all out: ham, fancy potatoes, stuffing, cranberry sauce that’s
not even shaped like the can
because it didn’t come out of
one
, three pies, cookies … it’s the perfect holiday spread of
domestic deceit. “He was really nice and everything. Just sort of …
traumatized.”

“Traumatized?” Emily sounds mildly
interested.

“He brought up his ex Cally thirty-eight times.
After awhile, I started counting.”

“You mean you didn’t do anything to take his
mind off his heartache?” Dennis asks, roguery in every
syllable.

“Dennis, really,” Emily chastises.

“Screw you, pervert.” Amber tosses a dinner roll
at him. Dennis, feat of Herculean perfection that he is, catches
it. “I’m a lady, mind.”

“You think you’re going to go out with him
again?” Dennis asks, taking a bite out of the roll.

“I don’t think so,” Amber replies, wrinkling her
nose. “He doesn’t really seem ready. Which, in and of itself, was
kind of uplifting, you know? I definitely didn’t expect to be the
one who was
more
ready. But, nope. I think I’ll leave poor
Johnny to wallow in his lingering emo pain.”

“Oh, come on,” Dennis cajoles, grinning at her.
“He sounds like a sensitive lad. I think you guys seem great
together.”

“How can you think that?” Amber demands. She
sounds jokey, and all. I think it’s a mark of my Amberly expertise
that I can hear the bite underneath. “You don’t even know who he
is. You’re like, what, wishing me upon random emotionally disturbed
strangers now?”

“I just think you shouldn’t let a good thing
pass you by,” Dennis replies with a shrug. He shakes his head,
fake-earnest. “This could be the greatest man who’ll ever come your
way, and you’re just letting him slip between your fingers. You
gotta seize the day. Right, Em?” He rubs her shoulder.

“I think that Amber deserves better than a boy
who’s obsessed with someone else,” Emily replies. Amber looks at
Emily with a whole new appreciation.

“Right?” she says. “
Thank you
,
Emily.”

Dennis turns to me. “What do you think,
Howie?”

“I think,” I reply, operating from a strict
stance of Staying Out Of It, “that Amber should do whatever she
wants to.”

“Aw,” she says, leaning over and giving me a
one-armed hug. “I’ve trained you well, buddy boy.”

“You bring me food, I’m your bitch.”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure you’re my bitch
anyway—”

“Did you know that brach is an antiquated form
of bitch? Meaning the female hound, of course. I’m not quite
comfortable saying it in any other context.”

There’s that moment where the pall of Emily’s A
Weirdo sinks over us all, manifesting in the awkwardest of
silences.

Then Amber – Christmas miracle to end all
Christmas miracles – salvages things like a regular pro. “Oh, I
like that way better. Maybe you’re my brach, Jenkins.”

“I like it too,” I decide. “It’s got zest.
Flava, if you will.”

Emily’s smiling, now, and Dennis is looking at
Amber and me with what I’m pretty sure is gratitude. It makes me
feel sort of like a shitty-ass human being, more than anything;
like, being nice to Emily shouldn’t be this monumental gesture
spurred by holiday good cheer. It should just be a thing that
is.

Well. Better late than never.

“Could I get somebody to come help me up here?”
Mom calls from upstairs. “I’m caught in the midst of a very ugly
zipper dilemma!”

“I would be happy to help you, Miranda,” Emily
calls back, standing up.

“Amber, hon, are you here?”

Emily sits back down.

This is not lost on Amber. She doesn’t make a
move forward. Instead, she says awkwardly to Emily, “You can—”

“No, no, go ahead,” Emily says, gracious as the
queen of England. “She called for you.”

Amber nods, and disappears up the stairs. Dennis
stares after her with – well, with a look that is in no way a
normal Dennis look. He doesn’t look all that pleased with the world
and everyone and everything in it. Come to think of it, he probably
looks a whole lot like me.

“We had a very nice time watching A Room with a
View,” Emily finally ventures. Dennis looks at her like he can’t
decide whether to hug her or avenge her honor. “I can’t help
feeling so sorry for poor Cecil Vyse. He’s not one to kiss a girl
in a field of violets in Italy, of course, but even so.”

“Um,” I say, having exactly no clue what any of
that means, “yeah. Poor … old chap.”

“He is an old chap, isn’t he?” Emily says,
giving me this very keen look, like I’ve landed upon the perfect
phrasing.

“I think she probably just wanted to thank Amber
for bringing the food over,” Dennis says, sounding about forty
percent convinced by himself. “And that’s why …”

“Yes, I know,” Emily says serenely.

“Okay.” He kisses her hair. She gives him a
quiet smile, but it’s not quite enough to brighten up his
expression. I don’t really know what to do. I start counting all
the whole cranberries I can spot in the cranberry sauce.

“So, why doesn’t Arthur have anyone to spend
Christmas with?” Dennis asks, switching back to pleasantly
conversational mode. “That guy we saw him with, wasn’t that
his—”

“They split up,” I reply, abandoning
cranberries. “Awhile ago, actually.”

“Oh,” Dennis says. “That’s too bad.”

“I dunno,” I reply. “I think it was for the
best.”

Because that means I get him all to myself,
wikka whaaat,
I do not say. For the first time, though, I feel
like maybe I should. Technically, I guess I’ve always gotten that
Dennis has a right to know. I’ve just never quite felt it ‘til now,
with him standing there looking down at Emily, not even slightly
smiling.

+

Dinner happens. Everybody survives. There are
five things, though, five things that go down throughout the course
of the evening that really feel like they
matter
.

1.

Emily hangs up mistletoe. (“It’s such a lovely
tradition, I think. Did you know that it dates back all the way to
pagan rituals? And in Scandinavian history, it was a symbol of
peace: if two enemies walked beneath it, they had to lay their arms
aside. Well. Not their literal arms, of course. That wouldn’t be
very peaceful at all.”) For the most part, we’re all careful when
it comes to doorways, but at one point, Mitch and Amber slip up and
walk under it together. Amber – new, bold, I Went On A Blind Date
and Survived Amber – is actually, like, totally game for it. She
throws one little look at Dennis, who doesn’t notice, and then
says, “You know what? Sure. It’s about time, right? And in terms of
storytelling, nothing’s gonna top ‘I had my first kiss at
twenty-two under some mistletoe with a guy who, at first glance,
mistook said mistletoe for marijuana,
and
, fun bonus fact,
brought along corndogs and rootbeer as his contribution to the
Christmas feast.’”

“What’s wrong with corndogs and rootbeer?” asks
Mitch, looking a little bit crestfallen and a lot bit freaked.

“Nothing,” Amber says impatiently, inching into
him. “Mitchell, can we just—?” She puts a hand on his chest.

“You don’t have to kiss me,” Mitch insists,
encircling her wrist and guiding it off of him with all the grace
and speed of a jungle cat (who’s suddenly really scared of girls).
“You don’t. Screw that little plant. He’s not the boss of us.”

Mitch then spends all night looking miserable.
Amber doesn’t do much better.

2.

Herrick brings snowman cookies. They are
intricate little fuckers, too; he didn’t just use a Frosty-shaped
cookie cutter and call it a day. Herrick is this very intellectual,
very Englishy guy with light brown hair and a beard and wire-rimmed
glasses and lots of cardigans with those little elbow patches on
them, who is about as British as you can get without actually being
from Britain. The idea of
him
taking the time to draw little
icing faces and scarves and button noses onto like twenty friggin’
snowman cookies is unreal. I reach the conclusion that they must be
store-bought, but then I hear him telling my mom about his
adventures in making them. I pause on my way to the living room:
the two of them stand in the kitchen alone, bending over the tray
so my mom can inspect the cookies. She laughs and points out the
scarf on one of them, and says, “Ooh, lilac and sky blue stripes,
this one’s quite a dandy.” Herrick gets Very Serious, all, “Yes,
that was absolutely my intention there. Whereas here, this one’s a
bit more of a ruffian, a wrong-side-of-the-tracks snowman—” and my
mom laughs, and he looks at her with this very fond look, even
though she forgot one of her earrings and she introduced him to
Dennis as “my friend, well, my work friend, well, we know each
other from work – not that he’s not a friend, certainly we’re
friends, right, David?”

I see Herrick looking at her with that look,
like she’s cooler than the Oregon Shakespeare Festival and a whole
class’ worth of student essays with perfect MLA formatting put
together, and I think I may be capable of reconciling myself to
this.

3.

My mom is not the sappiest of matriarchs, not
even slightly, but she spends the whole first half of the night
looking at Arthur like she wants to throw her arms around him and
burst into tears. I can’t help but feel like this doesn’t bode well
for the future; how can I expect them to have a functional
relationship if she’s all blubbery whenever she’s in his presence?
But then somehow, the conversation turns to music, and Arthur
mentions driving around with me and being subjected – direct quote,
that’s the word he uses,
subjected
– to a half hour of The
Clash. This makes my mom’s eyebrows shoot up.