Know Not Why: A Novel (46 page)

“We meet again,” Arthur grumbles.

“Whoa. Why did I not know you have a cat?”

“She’s Patrick’s,” Arthur informs me. “She hates
me completely.”

“Really?”

“Really. I don’t think either of us will be all
that sad to part ways forever in a few short weeks, now will we,
you little hellion?” He takes like two steps closer.

She gives him a disdainful look, does a bitchy
tail-swish, and then turns and disappears back down the hall.

“That was touching to witness,” I say.
“Really.”

“Wasn’t it?”

“I want to watch it again in slow motion with a
Sarah McLachlan song in the background.”

“You should have seen the time I got saddled
with taking her to the vet. That was—”

“Poignant?”

“Traumatic. Humiliating. Emasculating.”

“Emasculating?” I raise my eyebrows.

“I’d regale you with the story, had I not made a
solemn vow with myself never to think on it again for longer than
five seconds. That’s all right, though. This is the true lady of
the household.” He sits down at the piano. His hands dust over the
keys briefly, leaving a few notes of nonsense music that sounds
better than anything years of lessons could give me. “Oh, my
darling, how you’ve been missed.”

I sit down next to him on the bench. “Do I get
to make fun of you for talking to your piano?”

“Shhh.” He puts a finger to my lips. “Allow me
this sole eccentricity.”

“Sole? Yeah, okay, watcher of Antiques Road
Show, drinker of chamomile, lover of Weimaraners—”

He starts playing, and I shut up. It’s nothing I
recognize at first. My musical knowledge isn’t exactly vast, so I
can’t tell whether it’s something that exists or he’s just making
it up as he goes along. Some gut instinct tells me it’s the latter.
There’s something really free in the sound of it, and the way that
his hands move. Whatever it is, it sounds serene and happy. He
moves a little bit as he plays, rising and sinking with the music;
I look up at him to see that he’s got this slight smile on his
face, one he probably doesn’t even know is there. The music changes
gracefully, easily, and I recognize what it’s turned into as the
song that was on the radio when we were driving over, some cheerful
Jack Johnson ditty. I watch his hands, his fingers drifting over
ivory and black with something that’s like purpose but a lot
looser. I can’t remember the last time anything was as beautiful to
me as the movement of his hands.

The song slips back into unrecognizable
territory, makes a pit stop at “All You Need Is Love,” takes an
alarming detour into “We Text U A Merry Xmas,” redeems itself with
“The Boy With The Thorn In His Side,” and then finishes with
something new, a sound that perfectly matches the sight of the
snowfall outside the window. When he stops, we sit in silence for a
couple of seconds.

“What are we calling that, exactly?” I ask.

Arthur ponders this for a moment. “Hmm. How
about … Haphazard Medley Inspired By Radio on the Drive Over,
Messrs. McCartney, Lennon, Harrison, and Starr, The Most Hideous
Preteen Holiday Monstrosity Ever Inflicted Upon The Ears Of
Longsuffering Parents, The Smiths Because I Know You Like Them, And
A Great Deal Of Nonsense Made Up Spur Of The Moment, All For The
Beautiful Boy Who Is Sitting Next To Me, Because Somehow, Amidst
The Recent Chaos, Dissatisfaction, And Mediocrity Of My Existence,
Lord Knows How, I Seem To Have Done Something Very Right.”

Oh, this guy.

“You’re never going to fit that on any album
sleeves,” I say, leaning in to rest my forehead against his.

“Just the beautiful boy part, then,” he
compromises, starting to smile.

“Hey, Arthur?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you for turning into a lunatic that one
time, chasing a bunch of shoplifting teenagers through a rainstorm,
and coming back to kiss me in the fake flower aisle at random. In
retrospect, I really appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome,” he says fondly. He doesn’t
quite kiss me, even though he’s close enough to. I look at him,
loving the quiet and the quirk of his mouth when he smiles,
thinking I could stick around this guy for always and be happy,
thinking I could count his eyelashes and not get bored.

+

The next day I’m out front at the store.
Kristy’s in the kitchen having lunch. MGMT is on the stereo. I may
be partaking in some fairly enthusiastic head-bopping to the end of
“The Handshake” when the bell jingles on the door. I don’t stop
right away, because – and this is a tragic testament to the amount
of customer traffic we’ve been getting lately – I figure it’s just
Cora dropping by. I look up, though, and there’s no yak-coated mad
maiden in sight. Instead, it’s a woman who looks maybe
mid-thirties. She’s got crazy flyaway brown hair, glasses, and a
look that can best be described as mondo-tremulous. (I mean, maybe,
like, Proust wouldn’t agree, like, he’d find a more elegant
synonym, but that’s the description that I’m sticking with.)

“Heyyyy,” I say, trying to give off the vibe of
a man who wasn’t just caught head-bopping. “How can I help
you?”

“I am going to start knitting,” she announces,
with the very steady conviction that can only accompany poorly
stifled craziness. “I’ve been meaning to do it since I was twenty,
and now … I am going to do it. It is going to happen.”

“Uh,” I say, “that’s great. Congratulations.
Knitting stuff’s that way—”

“I’m getting a divorce. After fifteen years of
being not divorced. You know. Married. I was married.
Am
married, still, technically, but, you know. That’s over with. There
is nothing salvageable there. So! Knitting! I’m not really sure who
I’ll be knitting things
for
, but …”

She trails off, and stands there looking
lost.

It is so sad. Not, like,
ha-ha-you’re-
lame
sad, but genuine, Old Yeller sad.

“How ‘bout I give you the tour? The grand
knitting tour?” (Secret: there’s no such thing as the grand
knitting tour. Or at least, there wasn’t ‘til two seconds ago.)

“That would be nice,” she says with a quavering
smile.

“Great! So, what have you got in your knitting
arsenal so far?”

“Nothing at all. This – this is all new for me.
And I’m awful at new things, as a rule. But not now! This is me
starting over. With knitting.”

“Okay then! No biggie. We can grab you some
needles over here—” I start off toward that aisle; she follows me,
nervous puppyish. “You probably wanna go with some eights, that’s
your standard size. We’ve got an assortment of colors, as you can
see, so, ya know, whatever your fancy—”

“I do like purple,” she volunteers shyly.

“Purple it is. Go purple, totally. The color of
royalty. For some royally good knitting.” Some things, I reflect,
never change. Namely, the fact that I talk like a dumbass.

The mondo-tremulous customer laughs, though. She
seems pretty grateful that I’m trying (emphasis on ‘trying’) to be
funny. “Okay. Wonderful. Purple it is!”

I retrieve some purple needles and hand them to
her. She smiles down at them in her hands, like they’re promising
her a splendid future.

“Then you’re gonna need yourself some yarn,” I
continue, leading her down the aisle. “Now, okay, important
knitting life lesson right here: don’t go acrylic. Just don’t.
Acrylic’s what you’re gonna find at, like, Wal-Mart, and acrylic is
crap
. I have it on good authority that it’s like knitting
with barbed wire, that it’s squeaky, yeah, that’s right,
squeaky
, and that – although I can’t vouch for this one
personally –
apparently
it’s what Satan uses to make
Christmas sweaters for the ninth-circle sinners.” She giggles.
“What you’re gonna want to do is go for good, old-fashioned wool –
which, fortunately, is what we’ve got here. Lots of colors – again,
go for what feels right. Pick out something you like. Now, I’ve
never done any knitting myself, but I just received a pair of socks
for Christmas made out of some kick-butt baby alpaca, and they are
excellent
socks. My feet have never been jollier.”

She laughs again, taking in the magnificent
sight that is the yarn aisle.

“Oh, they’re all so lovely,” she says
admiringly, reaching out to run her fingers over some dark pink
merino. “How do I choose?”

“Take your time,” I say, smiling. “You want any
other pointers?”

“Oh, whatever you can tell me,” she replies
earnestly.

The fact that I have more to say is a little
creepy – like, when did
that
happen? – but I oblige. “You
can get started with a how-to guide book that’ll outline how to do
the basic stitches for ya, and we sell those over at the end of the
aisle, but from what I’ve heard, it’s less confusing if you can
just find someone to teach you.”

“I’ve got a friend at work who knits constantly.
I was thinking I would ask her—”

“Perfect. And, okay, sometimes you’ll hear to
start with a scarf, because you’re pretty much, ya know, knitting a
big rectangle. Very basic, not much that can go wrong there. But
actually, I’ve heard from a friend of mine that that’s not
necessarily the best way to go, because it’s quite the undertaking,
and by the time you’re finally done, you might be so irritated that
you never want to knit again.” (Or, well, okay, the way Cora
phrased it was, “You’re just like, oh my God,
die
, you
fucking cocksucker scarf, screw this fucking knitting
nonsense
,” but.) “So instead, you might wanna just start
small. Do, like, a coin purse.”

“All right,” she says with a slow nod, like
she’s trying to commit every word to memory. “And who doesn’t need
a coin purse?”

“Exactly!” I say. “We all got coins.”

“Yes!” She gives me a big smile. “Thank
you.”

It’s like she’s thanking me for something way
bigger: getting her kitten out of a tree, helping her granny across
the street, I dunno. It’s funny, how stuff that seems so small can
be so important. I guess there’s no real way of telling how much
something can mean to somebody else. Maybe even this job is sort of
important.

“Of course,” I say, smiling back at her. “Good
luck. You’ve got this already. I can tell.”

She smiles at me just a little bit longer, then
turns her attention back to yarn.

When I return to the cash register, it’s to
discover that Kristy’s standing there. She’s got this big, sappy
smile on her face. Damn it. Caught in the act.

“You can go eat now if you want to,” she says,
her fingers traipsing affectionately up my arm.

“Nah,” I shrug, throwing a glance back the yarn
aisle’s way. “I’m not too hungry.”

“Okay,” Kristy says easily. Her eyes have that
pesky adorable knowing sparkle.

After about five minutes, the customer comes
over with her arms full of yarn. I ring everything up, giving her a
ten percent discount on the grounds of Just Because, and put it
into a bag.

“Thank you again,” she says, pausing at the
doorway. “This is a very kind little store.”

It’s a funny choice of adjective, but I like
it.

“Thanks,” I say. “Have a nice day.” And I really
mean it, too. I would like her to have a nice day – and a nice
life, too, if she can swing it.

The door jingle-jangles itself shut. I turn to
see Kristy looking at me like she’s suddenly transformed into my
proud mama bear.

“What?” I demand.

“Nothing!” she says, beaming. “You did that
really well, that’s all.”

“Yeah, well, guess what, home girl? I’m a
professional.”

“I can tell,” she says, giggling.

“She was a nice lady,” I can’t help saying. I
glance back over at the door.

Kristy just keeps on with the smiling. “I bet
you made her day.”

“Let’s not go all crazy.”

“I’m not! You’re wonderful, Howie Andrew, and I
think it’s time for you to just accept it.” She is a picture of
adorable sternness, all hands-on-hips, trying really hard to glare
up at me, like this is somehow going to convince me that I am,
contrary to twenty-two years of believing otherwise, actually
wonderful.

Just between you and me, I’m beginning to maybe,
I dunno, reach the tentative conclusion that I’m not that bad.
Possibly even pretty okay.

But it’s not like I’m gonna tell Kristy
that.

“The middle name, Kristina Elyse?” I say
instead, mimicking her pose. “Really? You wound me.”

“It’s very serious business, Howie Andrew.”

This could, of course, potentially continue on
until the end of time, but a thought strikes me. A wistful thought
indeed. “It’s a bummer Cora’s not here.”

“Coralia Victoria Caldwell,” we sigh
together.

When “Kids” comes on the stereo, Kristy lets out
a squeal of delight, the way she does every time “Kids” comes on,
and starts dancing around the empty store. She grabs my hand and
tries, not for the first time, to get me to dance with her. This
business of hopping around like a hooligan, it’s way super dorky,
it’s so not my style, it is – in short – not how I roll.

But damn it, it’s a catchy song, and I think
Kristy’s ponytail has hypnotic powers of pep.

And so, for the first time in Artie Kraft’s Arts
‘N Crafts history, I surrender, and I dance with her.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Cora decides that, regardless of whatever plans
we may have, the employees of Artie Kraft’s Arts ‘N Crafts need to
be together at midnight on New Year’s Eve.

Mitch and Rudy are throwing a party, which will
no doubt result in a whole legion of humans getting New Year’s
Crunk. I’m gonna be hanging there until eleven thirtyish, and
Amber’s brave enough to accompany me. Dennis and Emily are coming
too. The idea of Emily bearing witness to bellybutton shots kind of
makes my soul want to cry, but she’s very intrigued by the whole
thing, since she’s never been to a
party-
party before. Mom
and Herrick are going to some fancy party the dean of the community
college is throwing; hopefully, there won’t be quite as much going
on there in terms of bellybutton shots, but who knows?