Know Not Why: A Novel (5 page)

I stand there like a … well, ‘dumbass’ is
accurate.

Wait. Employee? Then this must be—

“Cora?” I ask.

“Enchanté, darling!” she yells back
sarcastically.

Well.

I guess it makes sense. Employees feeling
entitled to bust a move on the counter? Less shocking. Although I,
for one, would never bust a move on the counter. Especially never
like that
. The only dance I do, when wrangled into
situations where there is dancing, is an unenthused head bop. And
that’s ironic. I never dance unironically.

But that is neither here or there. You know
what’s here
and
there, though?

Arthur clearly knew who this chick was, and what
was going on. And Arthur didn’t tell me. Arthur played me.

Arthur
played me?

…
Arthur
?

+

Cora’s not so bad after the initial shock wears
off. She’s like the anti-Kristy. I mean, I’m pro-Kristy all the
way, but it’s refreshing to hear so many sentences that don’t have
the word ‘totally’ in them. Plus, I find out that she’s playing
Magenta in a production of the Rocky Horror Show, which makes her
countertop actions seem, if not sane, then at least justifiable.
Plus, we have a jolly good time hating on all the stupid crap we
sell. Oh, it’s blissful, especially after spending four days
marveling at all this nonsense in silence. Like, I’m sure someone
somewhere once upon a time thought a Paw Pals Furry Friendship
Bracelet-Making Kit For Your Dog Or Cat was a swell idea. And that
does nothing besides make me sad for them.

“But,” I say, after I eloquently describe the
concept of beaded jewelry for your canine companion as ‘on crack,
yo,’ “don’t tell Kristy I said that, ‘kay? Because she seemed to be
under the misguided but adorable impression that that thing was
awesome.”

“Sure,” Cora says easily. “You’re not into her,
are you?”

I don’t say anything. Silence has a certain
manly stoicism that, say, stammering and blushing bright red tends
to lack.

“Yeah, figures.” Cora snorts. “The cute blonde
with great tits. How original of you!”

“Can’t hate on a classic,” I reply,
shrugging.

“Right.” Cora rolls her eyes. “Well, don’t get
your hopes up, babe. She’s—”

Luckily, I’m spared the ‘way out of your league’
speech – a thing I know well – because Arthur comes downstairs to
make sure we’re closing in a timely manner. We’re not.

Cora grabs all her stuff and gets out in like
two seconds; as a result, it’s just me and my favorite
chamomile-imbibing nemesis on our way out the door. The cold is
even nastier today. It bites down on you as soon as you step
outside. I linger a little, watching my breath come out in clouds
while Arthur locks up.

“Hey,” I say, almost by accident. It’s just – I
dunno, I can’t
not
say it, I’m still weirdly stupidly mad
about this morning. Whatever, it’s his fault for a) being a sly
bastard and b) threatening to develop a personality. “Earlier.”

“Mmhmm?”

“You were messing with me.”

He doesn’t even turn to look at me. I watch as
his mouth quirks up in a smile. “Maybe a little.”

Maybe a little? That’s it? No denials? No
stuttered apologies filled with shame?

I can’t really think of anything to say – well,
anything
nice
– so I abide by a timeless classic and don’t
say anything at all.

Well, until I’m a few feet away. Then I mutter a
hearty “Fucker” under my breath.

“’Night, Howard.” He heard me.

“’Night,
Artie
,” I retaliate, because
it’s cold and I’m irritated and so, yeah, I went there.

+

“Hey, hon,” my mom greets me when I come in.
She’s lounging on the couch, a composition notebook open in her
lap. “How was work?”

“Okay,” I reply. I don’t really feel like going
into it. I go into the kitchen and start rummaging through the
fridge. Doesn’t look like there’s anything on the agenda in terms
of dinner. My dad was the one with the cooking skills in this
family, and my mom hasn’t exactly striven to pick any up since he
died. Whatever. Could be worse. If she
did
start doing the
fifties housewife thing at this point, half of the restaurants in
town would go out of business. We are connoisseurs of takeout. But
apparently even that would’ve been asking for too much tonight. I
wish I’d stopped for burgers.

“Dennis called earlier,” Mom reports as I come
into the living room, toting a Coke and a cup of tapioca pudding
from the back of the fridge. Meals are for the weak. “He’s thinking
about bringing this Emily girl home with him for Christmas.”

“Great,” I say, maybe not so enthusiastically. I
love my brother and all, but there’s something depressing about
being around someone who looks just like me but happens to excel at
life. Not to mention that Dennis bringing This Emily Girl home
won’t exactly equal happy holidays for Amber.

“It sounds like he’s doing well,” Mom continues.
She’s starting to get
but-maybe-I-shouldn’t-be-talking-about-your-brother-lest-it-scar-your-delicate-soul
face. My favorite.

“Great,” I say.

“He was glad to hear about your job.”

“Swell. I bet he was real jealous, too.”

“Howie,” Mom begins, her eyes threatening to
turn concerned.

“Not bitter, though,” I’m quick to add. “Just
acerbically witty.”

Mom gives me her time-honored Don’t Bullshit Me
look.

“Seriously, I’m good,” I insist, because it’s
not like I’m ever gonna tell her anything else. “I work with a girl
who has a tongue ring. And a nose ring. And a coat that’s probably
made at least partially from yak. Really, Mom, I’m living the
dream.”

“Sounds like,” she says wryly.

We sink into silence. I start wondering about
the chances of Kristy wanting to tag along for Christmas dinner.
Just gotta play this right. For once.

My mom is pretending to watch the news, in a way
where she keeps sneaking worried glances at me. I take this as a
sign that it’s time to brighten up this evening. I point at her
notebook. “Dare I ask?”

“Gwendolyn and the Pirate King,” she informs me
with a wicked smile. “Hot love on the high seas.”

I make a face. “You’re lucky I keep you
around.”

“Shut it, you.”

+

Kristy works the next day. The sun shines, birds
sing, flowers blossom and renewed dreams of her plus me minus
clothes fill my head.

But then I get a look at her close up, and I
realize that she’s not draped provocatively across the counter to
come-hither me over there, as I first suspected. It’s more like
she’s splayed across it because the effort to keep on standing is
too much to ask of her. Like she’s being steadily pressed down by
the universe. And – wow, she does not look like the Kristy I know.
Her ponytail’s kind of droopy, with strands flying out of it here,
there, and everywhere. She looks majorly sleep deprived. Also
majorly makeup deprived. And it’s not like she looks appalling
without it or anything, but … wow. Maybelline really gets it
done.

She heaves a great big sigh at the sight of me.
My stomach does a discouraged flop.

“Oh,” she says, morose, “hi, Howie.”

“Hey,” I say, lowering my voice a little. It
seems appropriate. “What’s the matter?”

Wow. That sounded …
sensitive
. Maybe this
is a good thing. Maybe this day of downtrodden not-so-hotitude will
just help to bring us closer together. And it’s not like she’ll
never wear makeup again. I bet the prospect of hooking up with me
will make her so happy she’ll bust out that mascara and … lipstick
and … I dunno, bronzer or whatever it is girls use.
Enthusiastically.

“Oh, nothing,” she says, blinking rapidly. “I’m
okay.” This declaration is followed by a squeak of woe that totally
contradicts it.

Okay. Don’t push it. Just … let her know that
you’re there for her.

“Well, I’m here for you,” I say, resting my
elbows on the counter and meeting her eyes. Sensitively, I like to
think. “If you need to talk.”

“Thanks,” she sniffles, and then – get this! –
she reaches over and takes my hand.

Score.

Her fingernails are chipping, I can’t help but
notice as I look down at our hands. Man, did her kitten die or
something? (Kristy strikes me as the type to own lots of kittens.
Just, all the time, all over the place.)

I squeeze her hand, feeling pretty daring. But,
hey. It’s not like I’m the one who initiated this little
palm-to-palm shindig.

“It’s just,” she begins, and I look back up to
find her staring at me really intensely. Even without makeup and
her eyelashes all pale, she does have great eyes. I wait as she
pauses, imagining ways she might finish this little proclamation.
Right away, my favorite candidate becomes, ‘Oh, I just want to
remember how to
feel
again. Howie, take me now! In the
supply closet!’

But then what she says is: “Aren’t boys the
worst
?”

Disappointing.

Really, I’m not sure how to answer that one.Then
I realize, looking at her, that I
know
this look. I’ve seen
Amber like this. Kristy, like Amber, must like some ass who doesn’t
give a damn about her. She’s probably feeling pretty down about
herself. Pretty pathetic and lousy. It’s always hard to see Amber
this way. It always makes me want to beat the crap out of Dennis,
if only for a couple seconds.

And so I let Kristy win this round. “Yeah,” I
say, nodding compassionately. “Yeah, boys can be bastards.”

“Right?
Thank you.
” She squeezes my hand
tight. Really tight. Jeez. How can someone so tiny be so – ow, ow,
fingernail in the flesh, fingernail in the flesh. But there,
finally
, she smiles at me, and that makes the new and
surprising pain worth it. “I knew you’d understand.”

“Of course,” I say chivalrously. She’s still
looking at me with those eyes of hers, and all of a sudden the
moment has this now-or-never quality to it. “Listen, seriously, if
you ever want to, like, talk, or get together to talk … maybe even
outside of work, then—”

Suddenly, her eyes turn huge and furious,
Jekyll-to-Hyde,
bam
. It’s all I can do not to jump away from
her.

“NO.”

Whoa. Wait. What?
Shit
. What did I
do?

“Um,” I say, failure oozing out of my every
pore, “okay, I, uh, didn’t mean—”

“Oh,
no
.” She yanks her hand out of mine,
stands up, and glares out of the display window with that same
bright fury. I have the genius idea to follow her line of vision.
There, about to step into the front door, is a black guy my age
with a bouquet of flowers, a contrite expression, and way more
handsomeness than one individual should ever be endowed with.

“Don’t you come in here!” Kristy cries, just as
the bells threaten his entrance with one faint little ringy noise.
The guy freezes. “Don’t let him in, okay, Howie? Seriously. Don’t
let him in, don’t even, he is
not
coming in here.”

I’m majorly confused, and all I can really
figure out is that there’s something about this guy that gives me a
bad, bad feeling.

“Who is that?” I ask dumbly. “Your brother?”

“It’s my stupid boyfriend,” Kristy replies,
glaring at the door. And it’s just like – it’s like getting
sucker-punched and drenched with icy water and being forced to
listen to Joanna Newsom all at the same time, because I don’t care
how bad Amber wants to convert me, it’s
always
going to be
like getting stabbed in the ears hearing that chick. This, this is
like getting stabbed in the everywhere. “But, whatever, it’s not
like he cares about me. He wouldn’t even—”

“Boyfriend,” I repeat, dazed and useless.

“Yeah,” Kristy replies. She’s still frowning at
the door, and I find myself pissed off that this isn’t doing to her
what it is to me. She
must
have noticed, right?
She
was the one all, ‘come and get me, big boy, don’t mind me while I
hold your arm,’ like, seriously, what the
fuck
? “Although
apparently he’s comfortable with just throwing away
everything
two weeks before our one-year anniversary!” She
shouts the last part toward the door.

“Sweetie,” Kristy’s boyfriend, Kristy’s
boyfriend
says. “Just let me in, okay, and we can talk about
it.”

“No! You
promised
you’d go with me!
Everyone’s expecting you to be there! And now you
won’t
be,
and I’ll be there all by myself, just because you have to go to
stupid
work
when those jerks said they’d give you the time
off already, I
told
you that you should quit, they’re so
mean to you, they can’t just control your life like that and I hate
having to watch you so miserable all the time—”

“I know,” The Boyfriend says. He’s starting to
shiver. Good, I say. Let the bastard freeze, I say. “Stuff’s gotten
really hectic over there, that’s all. Maybe I can get the weekend
off, but—”

“You better,” Kristy pouts. It’s like she’s
forgotten I even exist. “Or I will never, never,
never
forgive you. You
know
you’ll regret it afterwards if you
don’t go, Reddy, you
know
you will, you can’t keep
sacrificing everything for that awful—”

“Kris, I’ll do the best that I can. I promise,
okay? Just don’t be mad.”

“I
am
mad,” Kristy insists, arms folded
adorably.

“I got you roses.”

“I’m
mad
.”

“Kristybee, it’s freezing out here.”

“I don’t care.”

“Oh, come on. Let me in.”

“No.”

It’s like watching a fight between a sitcom
couple, to the point where I can almost hear the jolly roar of the
laugh track, ha ha ha, domestic squabbling, isn’t it cute. Kristy’s
starting to smile a little bit as Boyfriend keeps on begging to be
let in, and, ugh, you know what, I don’t want to be here, here is a
place that I don’t want to be, like, ever again, actually.