Know Not Why: A Novel (26 page)

I get that I like this person. I mean, I fear
this person. I cower before this person. I am haunted by the memory
of this person endeavoring to chow down on my ear. But still.
Overall, at the end of the line, when it all comes down to what it
all comes down to, I like this person.

I look at Arthur, and I look at Kristy – who
looks more crushed than ever, like she’s of the devout belief that
our poorly hidden storage closet makeout romps are sacred and
should be used only for good – and I have a really hard time
remembering I feel anything towards Cora besides bright filthy
hatred.

At least she seems to realize it. After the
tensest, most miserable ten seconds in the history of mankind, she
mutters, “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Kristy says, weakly and
unconvincingly.

I can’t quite agree with her on that one.
Neither, by the look of him, can Arthur.

“Just admit that we’re fucked, Arthur,” Cora
finally says. “Just get your head out of your ass and admit it so I
don’t have to be mad at you.” By Cora standards, it’s kinda
sweet.

He looks at her for a long time. His face is
perfectly, frighteningly blank.

Then he turns around and leaves.

“Fucker,” Cora mutters as we listen to him climb
the stairs.

“Um,” I say, “thanks for that, Brutus. That was
really just phenomenal.”

“Oh, shut up,” Cora scowls.

“Maybe you should go talk to him,” Kristy
suggests gently.

Which, okay, real brilliant idea, I’m sure what
the world really needs right now is
another
touching
Arthur-and-Cora heart-to-heart—

And then I realize she means me.

Well.

Damn it.

“I dunno—”

But Kristy looks heartbroken, all shining big
blue eyes. It’s easy to tell that even Cora feels like shit and
she’s trying not to show it.

“Yeah, okay,” I reply, figuring I can go hide in
the storage closet for fifteen minutes and spend the time making up
a story about Arthur’s and my so-not-gonna-happen chat. It’ll be
real rousing stuff.

And then Kristy pecks me on the cheek. “Thanks,
Howie.”

She sounds so flippin’ earnest.

Goddammit.

+

“Come in,” Arthur says brusquely in response to
my knock – the softest, reluctantest, unknockiest knock in the
history of that long complicated relationship betwixt doors and
knuckles.

Well, fuck. Call me an incorrigible optimist,
but I was kinda hoping he’d be grumpy enough to refuse to see
anybody. Just, like, lock the door and drown his pain by listening
to some angry Beethoven. I’ve got this perception of Beethoven
where he’s just, like, really pissed all the time. Yeah, ol’
Ludwig, he had a lot to pound on the piano bitterly about.
I’m
Germannnn! I’m deaffff! I’m bliiiind! My name is Ludwigggg!

Was he blind? I’m pretty sure.

Or, wait, maybe that was Helen Keller.

Was he even German?

Was
she
German?

Is Ludwig a name?

I’m starting to worry I’m just making shit
up.

“Come in,” Arthur calls again, more pointedly
this time.

‘Til we meet again in the recesses of my
crazy-ass brain, Maybe-Ludwig Helen von Keller Beethoven, Deaf
Blind Sorry German (?) Bastard.

I take a breath, then push the door open and
walk into Arthur’s office. He’s sitting at his desk, shuffling
through papers. I get the sense that the papers aren’t as important
as the shuffling, with its convenient suggestion of busyness.

“Yo, boss,” I say, all jaunty. “What’s
shakin’?”

“Sorting through some papers.” His voice is
extra-brisk. It freaks me out. “I’m sure you’re not
interested.”

“You know me. I hate papers.”

“Right.”

“Reading, efficiency … me, I just like to say
no.”

“Of course.” Well, this sucks. “Does this visit
have a point, Howie?”

“The ladies sent me up to talk you down.”

“Talk me down?”

“Off the ledge. The metaphorical ledge. Or, I
dunno, somethin’. Bitches. Who knows what they’re talking about,
right? I’m sure glad I switched sides on that one.” Jesus.

“Well, rest assured, I’m not contemplating
ledges,” he replies, rapping the stack of papers against the desk
and then setting them aside. He looks up at me and gives me this
flat, run-of-the-mill smile, this plain generic smile that he’d
give to anybody. A random dude on the street, a pain-in-the-ass
customer. Don’t I feel special. “Metaphorical or otherwise. Cora
has always been troublesome.”

“Listen, she’s really sorry,” I say, feeling
weirdly obligated. “I can tell she feels shitty about it.”

“I’d certainly hope so,” Arthur replies crisply.
He glances over at his computer screen.

Man, he is bumming me out, old school style. I
almost expect him to accuse me of trying to fistbump him.

“Maybe we aren’t doomed.” Oh, God, I can’t
believe I’m being forced to be the voice of hope. Where’s Kristy
when you need her? Oh, yeah, that’s right – downstairs feeling
unduly guilty about her adoration of laundry lint. “I mean, sure,
it looks bad, but … it’s not like we’re totally screwed yet, right?
Something good could still happen. Holly’s could … burn down, or
something.”

Arthur lifts his eyebrows.

“I’m not gonna burn down Holly’s,” I hurry to
add.

He keeps on staring.

“Ya know, unless you really want me to.”

Goddammit, man,
react
!

“That was a joke,” I explain helpfully. “Arson,
not really my dealio.”

“You know,” Arthur says, “it’s probably a good
idea that you suggested we take a break.”

That’s it. I’m never coming upstairs because
Kristy tells me to ever again.

“Oh yeah?” I ask, so cool. “Why’s that?”

“Well, Cora brought up a good point, in spite of
her less-than-lovely demeanor. It is very unprofessional, and I’ve
never made a habit of being unprofessional.”

“Yeah,” I say, “I get that.”

I’m lying. I get
nothing
.

“I’ve always worked very hard at running this
place,” he continues. All I hear is ‘blah blah blah I find you
secretly repulsive.’ “It may not exactly be my chosen field, or
what I envisioned I’d be doing right now, but I’ve got
responsibilities to my family and to this business, and just
because the odds are against us doesn’t mean that I’m going to
simply—”
BLAH BLAH HATE BLAH.

“You know what,” I interrupt, “I think I hear
Kristy calling from downstairs.”

“I’m sure you do,” Arthur replies smoothly.

“So I will just … catch you later, hombre.” And
then, because there’s something in me, some virile impulse to snark
in the face of getting shot down, I add, “Sorry. Was that
unprofessional? Catch you later, boss.
Sir.
”

“You don’t have to call me sir.” Motherfucker’s
still perfectly composed. How does he
do
that?

“Got it,” I mutter.

I make it to the door, then stop instead of
going out. It’s inopportune, but I’m sort of intrigued. He’s never
really talked to me about his family before. He’s never really
talked to me about himself before, period. I never thought about it
so much. I’ve been kind of preoccupied by the whole
secretly-into-a-guy thing and what it meant for me. I still don’t
really have that figured out, but hell, maybe it’s not going to
matter anymore.

“What would be your chosen field?” I ask. “Like,
your dream job or whatever?”

For a second, I think he’s not gonna say
anything back. Then: “Practical or ridiculous?”

Easy. “Ridiculous.”

“Concert pianist.” His mouth twists into a
bitter little smirk.

“Huh.” I almost feel bad for him, and something
about him smirking like that makes me want to tell him it’s all
gonna be okay or whatever, but – well, but he was just a total
pain-in-the-ass son of a bitch to me. He maybe dumped me, and the
worst part is that I can’t exactly get upset, seeing as how I
started it.

So I don’t say anything, and I go back
downstairs.

+

That night, Amber and Dennis and Emily and I go
out for pizza. I know Amber’s nervous because she sent me seven
grammatically immaculate text messages about how she’d see to it I
was castrated if I ditched her, but it’s impossible to detect said
nervousness once we’re all together.

“What are you, a satyr?” Amber asks Dennis as
soon as we’re inside the pizza place. She points at The Goatee.

“Sure, if by satyr, you mean sex bomb.”

“Still totally deluded, I see.”

Dennis grins big and pulls her into a hug. “Long
time no see, Amber May.” (He remains the only person allowed to
invoke the power of her much-hated middle name, ClarkRents
included. The fact that he doesn’t read anything into this? Kinda
worrying. Come on, man.)

“It’s been awhile,” she agrees, squeezing him
tight. “How’s doctor school? Are you really important yet?”

“You even need to ask? Seriously? Amber.
C’mon.”

“Yeah, you see, I’m just not getting really
important vibes yet.” She’s so smiley and sarcastic and normal and
Amber
. It simultaneously freaks me out and makes me kind of
jealous.

“One day you’ll stop hating on me. And on that
day, I’ll be so awesome – nay, so
awesomely important
– that
you’ll feel bad for ever hating in the first place. I’m just
saying. I’m just warning you.”

“Yeah, that’s cute how you think that.”

Emily looks back and forth between the pair of
them with mild, quaint puzzlement, like they’re speaking a language
she doesn’t know.

“And this,” Dennis finishes, slinging an
affectionate arm around her, “is my girl Emily. Who’s always nice
to me, may I just point out.”

“Aw, Emily,” Amber says, shaking her hand. “How
unfortunate for you.”

“Not really,” Emily replies, so far out of the
rapport they’ve got going that she might as well be in a different
country. Frickinweirdodonia. “I find him easy to be nice to.”

“That makes one of us,” Amber says, smirking at
Dennis as we sit down. She and Dennis wind up next to each other,
which means I’m next to Emily. Joy, joyness. Our table’s right by a
window, though, and I’ve got a prime view out of it. I figure that
if I throw in a random remark every five minutes, I’ll be good.
Amber’s too busy being secretly in love with Dennis, Dennis is too
busy a) not noticing, and b) justifying his relationship with Emily
as something that should exist, and Emily is … Emily. She’s
probably daydreaming of running around fields with dead piggy
Gilbert while Enya beatifically
la-la-la
s in the
background.

“Amber, do you have a boyfriend?” Emily
asks.

Or not.

“Nope,” Amber replies, totally untroubled. “I am
doomed to spinsterhood.”

“Yeah riiiighhht,” Dennis jumps in immediately,
rolling his eyes.

“You’re questioning the spinsterhood, Doctor
Jenkins? Really?”

“She always says that, but come on, look at
her,” Dennis says to Emily. “Ya know, I’m of the theory that she’s
had dozens of secret boyfriends over the years and she’s just not
telling us. The whole spinster thing? Total charade.”

“I’ll never tell,” Amber replies, elegant and
smirky.

“You know, I often used to think that I was
bound for spinsterhood,” says Emily. “I never dated anyone before
Dennis.”

“Oh yeah?” Amber whacks Dennis lightly on the
arm. “Bastard, you’re not supposed to go around stealing my sisters
in spinsterhood.”

“Didn’t mean to,” Dennis replies, grinning at
Emily. “Couldn’t help it.”

He reaches for Emily’s hand across the table and
kisses it. For split-second, pain flickers across Amber’s face.

“Anyway, if the parents had their way, it’d be
Amber and Howie,” Dennis continues, smiling at me.

Emily’s eyes widen a little bit.

Damn it, Dennis, why’d you have to go there?

“Yeah,” Amber says, “not gonna happen.”

“I didn’t think so,” Emily agrees.

“Why didn’t you think so?” Dennis asks.

Shit.

“
I
think it could happen,” I leap in. I
have no choice. “Whaddya say, Amber? If in, say, ten years, you’re
still single, I’m still single—”

“You’re romcom-propositioning me.”

“Maybe a little.”

“Don’t. Ever.”

“Check,” I mumble.

“I’m sure there’s someone very good out there
for both of you,” Emily says placidly. She pauses just long enough,
then adds, “Maybe you’ve even met them already.”

I try to look a whole lot like I don’t have a
secret (ex?) good-for-me person out there anywhere, especially not
one that’s a dude. Amber doesn’t look at Dennis.

“I’m starved,” Dennis says, happily oblivious.
“Let’s get us some pizza.”

“Yes please,” Amber says.

“Good by me,” I say.

“Would anyone mind terribly if we didn’t have
pepperoni?” Emily asks demurely.

+

We eat and Amber and Dennis chat about TV and
occasionally try to include Emily and me in the conversation. I
switch back and forth between staring out the window and watching
Emily carefully chop up her pizza into tiny bites and eat it with a
fork.

Man, I wish I wasn’t here. I don’t know where I
wish I was instead. Not with Arthur, hell to the no, not if he’s
gonna be all distant and spurny. If I wanted that, I’d just try to
win the affections of hot, out-of-my-league ladies. I’ve got years
of being-spurned practice there.

The worst part is that I can’t shake the feeling
that it’s my fault. I’m the one who started it. And I felt so damn
good about it, too, for about five seconds. Now it’s just like … I
dunno, I wish I hadn’t. I wish I’d sat down and made a friggin’
chart or a snazzy Venn diagram, puzzled out some way to balance the
whole two-lives deal without having to ditch one of them.

But, well, seems like I’m too late now. I should
just get over it. Move on. Quit worrying about—