Know Not Why: A Novel (42 page)

I’m so wrapped up in my pity soliloquy that it
surprises me to look up and see Arthur’s not sitting at his desk
anymore. He’s on his way over to me. He stops in front of me and
kneels down, a little bit awkwardly. Arthur, he’s not much of a
natural floor-sitter, with all his pesky inherent dignity. He takes
one of my hands in his and looks right up at me.

“May I just remind you,” I say, “that you
volunteered to listen.”

“Not necessary. I’m glad to.”

“You’re not
glad to
,” I protest,
scoffing. “To be glad to is humanly impossible.”

“Well, then,” he says, smiling slightly, “I
suppose I must be the pinnacle of human impossibility.”

“I’ve suspected it awhile,” I admit.

“This is going to be hideously trite,” he says.
“Prepare yourself.”

“Prepared.”

“It’s Christmas. You love them. They love you.
More than anything else, that’s what matters. Things will happen
the way they happen, and you’ll sort out the way you feel about
them, and it will be all right. And you’ll keep loving them, and
they’ll keep loving you, and … God bless us, everyone.”

I consider this. “Kind of a weak ending.”

“I can’t help suspecting it would have resonated
more if I were a sickly child in Victorian Britain,” he agrees
wistfully.

“Hey, Arthur?”

“Yes?”

“You,” I say, brushing my thumb against his
cheek, “are the flippin’ bomb.”

“Thank you,” he says, leaning into the touch.
“Honestly, I was fishing for exactly that compliment.”

God, he is the best ever human.

“All right, boss man,” I say, clambering with an
exceptional lack of grace down onto the floor next to him.
Equality, and all that. He laughs. “Your turn.”

“What?”

“You got to listen to me. Now it’s Artie ramble
time.”

“I don’t have anything to—”

“Nuh uh. Not gonna cut it. Come on, man, there
must be something that’s bugging you at this point in time. And I
am here to listen.”

“All right then,” he says, looking cheerfully
pensive. I surreptitiously attempt to practice his I’m Here And I’m
Listening And I’m The Best Damn Boyfriend Ever expression on my own
face. He does it so well. But it must be
possible
, right?
It’s not like he’s
that
crazy-talented.

He’s about to start talking, but then he stops
and stares at me.

“What?” I say, trying not to let my face muscles
shift too much. This is damn tricky.

“You look like you’re about to start playing the
world’s saddest song on its tiniest little violin,” Arthur informs
me. “And then hug a kitten, and paint a rainbow, and watch Titanic
whilst weeping profusely.”

There’s a part of me that’s just proud he pulled
off such a seamless (if dated) pop culture reference.

“Okay,” I say, abandoning that well-intentioned
and horrifically under-appreciated plan, “you shut up and start
bitching, Kraft.”

He does. “There’s the fact that this store isn’t
much longer for this world, and I’m … oddly enough, coming to terms
with it. There’s the stress that accompanies telling my parents
about said development. I can’t quite fool myself into believing
that that’s their dream holiday surprise. The moment I woke up this
morning, I had a song stuck in my head: I was then afflicted with
the very depressing realization that it was by that woman who
spells her name with a dollar sign, and that I knew all of the
words. Because my current place of residence is the futon in the
living room of a pair of teenage girls. Not a recent development,
but a harrowing one. Always, always harrowing. Then there’s the
fact that I’m currently caught in quite the vicious struggle with
Patrick over who’s going to get to keep the ottoman in our living
room, which I have the distinct memory of paying five hundred
dollars for. However, he just so happens to have the distinct
memory of paying for it as well, and quite frankly, it’s all
leading me to suspect that you were onto something with the whole
‘douchey’ label—”

“If I may,” I say, “what the fuck is an ottoman,
and why the
hell
is it five hundred bucks?”

He stares at me. “Really?”

“Is this the face of a jesting man?”

“It’s a piece of furniture. There’s no way you
don’t know this.”

“Actually, there is a way. And that way is, I’m
not my own grandmother.”

“It’s an upholstered footstool—”

“A
footstool
? You paid five hundred bucks
for a stool … for feet?”

“It was a very good deal. It’s antique—”

“You really are gay, aren’t you?”

“Really? This is what confirms it?”

“Jeez, man, just let DP have it.”

“Not all the sex that I could have sworn you
were present for, but
a piece of furniture
—”

“Or, you know, you could really fight for it.
Keep it around. Knit some doilies to put on it—”

“I think doilies are more typically
crocheted.”

“You are so not helping your case here,
Grandma.”

“Howie.”

“Arthur.”

“Shut up.”

“Yeah, you might have to make me. I’m really on
a roll here.”

He rises to the task most admirably.

+

Amber and I both leave the store in considerably
better moods than when we got there. Kristy’s in the process of
scheduling date night, and Amber talks cheerfully all the way home
about how John’s supposed to be nice so hopefully it won’t be that
bad, and how she and the ladies also have plans to hang out girl
style at some point, no boys allowed, and how she kind of wishes
that she could pull a me and go gay because she’s ninety percent
convinced Cora is her soulmate. When we pull up into the driveway,
it’s to find that it’s been newly shoveled by Dennis, who’s getting
started now on the Clarks’ driveway. Amber takes off, but not
before she and Dennis get into a short-lived but violent snowball
fight that results in her awe-inspiring victory.

He’s brushing snow off of his sorry vanquished
shoulders when he says, “Hey, do you think you could stick around
out here for awhile?”

I’m pretty sure there’s a mug of hot chocolate
and an honest afternoon’s aimless internet browsing awaiting me
inside, so this isn’t exactly the best request ever. Still, he asks
so damn nicely. Bastard. “Sure. What’s up?”

“Mom and Emily are currently in the middle of a
viewing of A Room of One’s Own. I think they might actually be
bonding. The fewer interruptions there are to mess with that
fragile peace, the better.”

A mistake! A mistake from Dennis. It’s
incredible. Almost unprecedented. Dulcet-toned angels start
harmonizing in my brain.

“A Room with a View,” I say. “A Room of One’s
Own is the Virginia Woolf thing.”

“Oh,” he says, a little taken aback. Because,
roaring triumph that it is to me, my vast and astounding knowledge
of lady literature isn’t quite enough to balance the Dennis vs. Me
Awesomeness Scales in one magnificent go.

“Most of my company has been provided by Mom and
Amber over the past few years,” I tell him. “Regrettably,
lamentably, sometimes shit sticks.”

“Well, yeah,” he says, grinning. “And you take
all those English classes, so you’re learning all of that.”

“Yeah,” I say, “that too.”

“I’m gonna have to tiptoe around you, little
bro.”

“Oh, absolutely,” I say. “It’s intimidating, how
brilliant I am.”

I wonder if it’s possible to throw up from
irony.

We stand there. It’s, oh, just riveting.

“So,” Dennis says, succumbing to the pressure of
the awkward silence first. “How are you, man? We haven’t really
gotten a chance to talk much.”

“No, I guess we haven’t.” Such the
conversationalist. “Uh. I’m good. Just, ya know. Work. Home. That’s
pretty much it.”

Maybe that wasn’t the most helpful of replies. I
can’t quite bring myself to feel bad.

“Oh,” Dennis says. He’s still smiling, still
curious and courteous and that whole damn cornucopia of social
acceptability. “Nothing new?”

“Nothing new.”

Silence, silence. “How’s Lindsay?”

“Uh,” I say. “I don’t really know. Since that
hasn’t really been going on for … like … years.”

“Oh.” For just a second, he falters. “Right. Any
new lucky ladies?”

“Nope,” I say. “No ladies.” And then, because he
shouldn’t have to do all the work, and this is such a craptastic
conversation that I’m pretty sure even me contributing to it won’t
eff it up too badly, I throw in, “Emily’s great.”

“I’m a fan,” he says, the smile coming back.
“I’m glad you guys are getting along.”

“Yeah, totally. She’s really cool.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. At least this time, the
silence is a little more cheery. After roughly seventy thousand
years, he ventures, “I think she might be knitting you socks.”

“Really?” The idea of having my own personal
Emily-knit masterpiece – overwhelming. So many feelings. Really, I
just think it’s cool of her that she’s doing it. I dig her enough
that I will wear her funky socks proudly. But I’m not exactly sure
where to go with that now, because does Dennis realize that Emily’s
knitting is either yarn’s equivalent of the avant-garde art
movement or really, really bad – or does he think she’s actually
fandamntastic at it? Is he so blinded by love that he wouldn’t
notice it? Even though he’s obviously spent way more time with the
hat than I have? And besides, he’s so damn
nice
to everyone,
about everything, that I just can’t imagine that he’d say anything
less-than-glowing about Emily. Once again, I find myself bested by
his unfailing excellence. And so all I can muster reply-wise is,
“That’s … cool.”

“Yep!” There he goes, busting out the extra
enthusiasm in an attempt to drown my general social retardation.
Good luck, soldier. “And, okay, I also know she didn’t want me to
tell you that, so, um – come Christmas morning, act surprised.”

“Sure,” I say. “Surprised. Got it.”

Silence anew. And there’s no defeating this one,
either. It’s just him and me, standing here, saying nothing,
nothing, nothing. Maybe the outside observer would presume we were
just communicating in psychic twin language, like, transcending
normal plebeian speech altogether with our all-powerful siblingly
bond. Oh, Nonexistent Outside Observer, that’s so cute of you. Me
and Dennis, we are atypically, remarkably bondless. It was one
thing when we lived in the same house, went to the same school –
then closeness was at least forced upon us. But it’s so easy for
stuff to just die when you throw in some space. We never really
keep in touch, because it’s like – from my end, anyway – what is
there to say?

Finally, he gives up. “I guess I better get back
to shoveling.”

“Guess you better.” Heartened by the knowledge
that this conversation is over, I find it in me to tack on a
mock-epic, “Good luck, man.”

“Oh, I got this,” Dennis replies, lifting the
shovel over his head.

“Lame-ass,” Amber yells out her window, and
Dennis grins up at her and does this dorky salute. Because for all
the accidental pain he’s caused her over the past
ever
,
Amber’s still better at interacting with Dennis than I am. Kind of
a shame, but not something I’m gonna lose sleep over.

I wait until he’s got his back turned, and I
sneak into the house. I do it quiet, and everything, and I don’t
think the thirty seconds I spend saying hi to Mom and Emily will
forever shatter whatever great thing they momentarily had going.
Still, I feel kind of shitty. I drown that feeling in hot chocolate
and many a quippy text message to Arthur about ottomans.

Chapter Twenty-Six

A cheery air of panic hangs around our house
come Christmas Eve morning. When I come downstairs, my mom is
already in hysterical cleaning mode; she’s still in her pajamas,
hair pulled back all crazy-sloppy, and she’s scrubbing the stove
with wild ferocity.

“Howie! Chairs!” she barks.

“Chairs?” The fact that it’s one syllable
doesn’t mean it’s not hard to compute. Caffeine. Need caffeine.

“From the garage. We’re going to need a few of
the folding chairs if we’re going to fit everybody at the
table.”

“Who’s everybody?” Dennis asks. He’s dressed
already, looking awake and windswept, and he’s taking stuff out of
a plastic grocery bag and arranging it on a tray. Pastries. Fruit.
A single red rose. I look at the clock above the (besmirched and
slovenly!) stove – 8:37. Not even nine, and he’s already left the
house to get his ladylove the fixings for breakfast in bed? I’m
caught between the warring forces of ‘aw, good for Emily’ and ‘gag
me.’ “Isn’t it just us and Amber and Mitch?”

“Um,” Mom says, pausing in her stove-scrubbing
frenzy. “Actually, I’ve invited a coworker who didn’t have anywhere
else to go. And so did Howie. ‘Tis the season, you know.”

“Oh,” Dennis says. “Cool. Who’d you invite?”

“Howie invited Arthur.” Thanks, Mom.

“Atrocious Arthur?” he asks, grinning at me.

“Chairs!” I say. “I should get chairs!”

“Don’t worry about it,” Dennis says. “I’ve got
shoes on already, I’ll grab them.”

We wait ‘til he’s out of the house.

“We are terrible, lying, cowardly people,” I
announce.

“Oh, he’ll figure it out on his own,” Mom says.
“And he’ll react to it with a level head. He’s always been the
sanest member of this family.”

“Thanks, Mommy,” I say.

+

I play the role of dutiful son long enough to
clean the downstairs bathroom. When Mom, looking fetching in her
bathrobe and a pair of bright yellow rubber gloves, suggests that I
do the upstairs bathroom too, “just in case,” I decide to make my
escape. There’s only so much time you can spend with a toilet
before your Christmas spirit is irrevocably dashed. When Arthur
calls me to ask what kind of wine he should bring, I – opportunist
that I am – invite myself on along on his liquor store quest.