Know Not Why: A Novel
Page 8
“You’ve got a lot to learn, buddy,” I tell him. I wonder for a few seconds how ‘buddy’ snuck in there, but then I shake it off. There’s some stuff you gotta shake off.
+
For Thanksgiving we go over to the Clarks’, because like I said, my mom’s not big on cooking. Amber’s mom, on the other hand, is a culinary deity. The food is great, and the conversation’s mostly harmless. There are seven references to Amber and me getting married and having babies, but we’ve learned to take those in stride. Amber’s parents rhapsodize about how brilliant their little girl is, how driven and responsible and how wonderful it is that she’s working so hard to earn money for grad school. Amber rolls her eyes a lot and reminds them that wanting to teach isn’t exactly groundbreaking stuff, but I know that she’s pleased.
I can tell my mom feels bad as they talk, even though she keeps a smile on her face. When Mr. C brings up Dennis the Mighty Aspiring Brain Surgeon, she doesn’t talk about him too long. I know it’s because she doesn’t want me to drown in misery, what with all this light being shed on what a failure I am compared to my brother and my girl wonder best friend.
In an act of mercy, Mr. and Mrs. C ask about the arts and crafts store. I answer their questions and it’s not even that hard to sound upbeat about it, what with how okay things are going.
“That Kristy Quincy works there, doesn’t she?” Mrs. C asks.
“That’s right,” I reply.
“She’s such a charming young lady,” Mrs. C says, then shoots this ‘Look out’ glance at Amber. I swear, they don’t even try to be subtle about it anymore. Neither does Amber – she busts out an extra-emphatic eyeroll, then sticks out her tongue.
“Don’t worry, she’s got a boyfriend,” I say.
“So no workplace romance on the horizon for you, then, Howie?” Mr. C surmises.
I choke on my sip of wine.
“Nope,” I rasp out. “Nope. Nope.”
Amber gives me a weird look.
“Nope,” I throw in again as soon as I regain my ability to breathe. “Amber’s still got a chance, if she plays her cards right.”
The ‘rents eat that up. Amber, not so much.
She pulls me aside later while the parentals are cleaning up the kitchen. “Howie, what the hell was that?”
“What?” I ask, playing innocent.
“You don’t say stuff like that. It’s going to give them ideas.”
“It’s the holiday season. I thought it’d be nice to give them some hope.”
“Yeah, well, that’s fantastic. I’m gonna remind you of that when they lure us into a church under false pretenses one day and marry us.”
“No one could lure you into a church under any pretenses.” It’s the sort of thing that’d usually mollify her (oh, Amber, you with your super-cool agnosticism-bordering-on-atheism! You’re so edgy!) but not tonight.
“So, are you into that weird Cora girl or something?”
“What?” I ask, totally caught off-guard.
“Your workplace romance freakout wasn’t exactly subtle, Sir Chokelton of Chokesfordshire.”
“No,” I reply. Then I realize that Amber’s a smart one, and with Kristy and Cora out of the workplace romance equation, guess who’s left? Yeah. “I mean. I don’t know. Maybe I am.”
“Even with the—”
“Hey, some ladies are just foxy enough to pull off a yak coat,” I interrupt, pointing sternly at her.
Amber stares at me for a few seconds. I look back. Refuse to blink. It’s like if I look away, she’ll figure out the truth, the whole sordid fake-flower-aisle truth. Finally, her face breaks into a smile, her classic ‘my best friend’s a big loser’ grin of indulgent affection, and I could weep with relief.
“You are so horny,” she declares, making a face at me.
Oh, for the days when that was the worst of my problems.
“Yeah,” I reply, holding back a sigh. “That’s me.”
+
And then it’s December, which isn’t as holly-jolly as you’d think. Artie Kraft’s Arts ‘N Crafts isn’t a smashing financial success. What it all comes down to is that there’s a Holly’s in town now. And not only that: Holly’s is a little bit cheaper. Arthur’s starting to feel the oh-God-we-might-go-out-of-business strain. Combine that with the fact that he’s still sleeping on Kristy’s couch, and, well—
“Arthur,” Cora says, when all of us are gathered around the kitchen table in what I guess is a staff meeting, “that’s like the most fucking ridiculous idea I’ve ever heard.”
“I think it sounds fun,” Kristy pipes up.
“You like Katherine Heigl movies,” Cora retorts, not even bothering to look at her.
Kristy pouts.
“Back me up here, Jenkins,” Cora adds, glaring at me with those heavily lined eyes of hers. I think her eyelashes might be fake today. See? I pay attention to all kinds of eyelashes. “There’s no way you’re into this idea.”
“It is kinda …” I dwindle off, not wanting to say it.
“Kinda …?” Arthur prompts. He looks right at me, meets my gaze, and having his eyes so focused on me like that kind of gets me—
Never mind.
“Lame as shit?” Cora contributes.
“There we go,” I say, gesturing to her.
She smirks, pleased.
Arthur looks disgruntled. “Lame or not, I think it could work very well for us. It’s a fun family activity. It will remind the public that we’re a local establishment, that we have a humanity to us that the competition—” He’s started doing that lately, saying ‘the competition’ instead of ‘Holly’s,’ “—might lack.”
“Oh, come on, you guys!” Kristy chirps. “Everybody loves gingerbread houses!”
“Sure, okay, whatever,” Cora drawls. “Gingerbread houses are super peachy. But dressing up?”
“If we’re going to have a Christmas celebration,” Arthur replies with very calculated precision, “we might as well go all the way.”
“Besides, Cor, you’re an actress!” Kristy reminds her. “This is your area of expertise!”
“Exactly,” Cora says. “I’m an actress. Not a mall exhibit.”
“Cora,” Arthur says patiently. He looks at her dead-on, in all his green-eyed lashy glory. “Please?”
Cora looks at him for a long time. Then she lets out a tortured groan. “You’re being Santa Claus. I wanna watch you have to be Santa Claus.”
“Those are reasonable terms,” Arthur replies with a nod.
“I’m not being Mrs. Claus either,” Cora goes on, making a face. “I’ll be an elf. A slutty elf.”
Arthur sighs. “I don’t think slutty elves are thematically appropriate for gingerbread-house-making with children—”
“What if they’re slutty gingerbread houses?” Kristy contributes with a giggle.
“Ni-ice,” I say, high fiving her across the table.
“I bet Mrs. Claus is a little tarty,” Cora adds, heartened. “You know an old geezer like Santa can’t give a lady what she needs.”
“Depends,” I say, wriggling my eyebrows. “Is she naughty, is she nice—”
“Hey!” Kristy exclaims. “Who’s Howie gonna be?”
Way to ruin the camaraderie.
There’s a moment of thoughtful silence, while I rack my brain desperately for some way to change the subject. Elves are cool and everything (I … guess), but that doesn’t mean I want to be one.
“Rudolph?” Arthur pitches.
I glare at him.
He stares calmly back at me. The corner of his mouth twitches.
Kristy squeals.
And that’s how I wind up doomed to dress up like a motherfucking reindeer.
Chapter Eight
When the day itself rolls around, Cora shows up lugging a huge black garbage bag filled with costumes. It’s roughly the same size she is, and looks like it might devour her at any second. But when I ask her, “Why don’t you let me give you a hand with that?”, w
hat I get back is “Why don’t you bite me?”, so I let her make like Ralph Waldo and rock that self-reliance.
When Arthur comes in, he’s got an acoustic guitar. My stare seems to contain some quizzical, And How Are You Today, Bob Dylan? vibes, because he explains, like it’s the simplest thing in the world, “Emergency precaution.”
Okay then.
The gingerbread house shindig doesn’t start ‘til noon. It’s set to go until three, which will probably make it the longest three hours ever. I’m not exactly a gingerbread architect. I’m not even sure I’ve ever built a gingerbread house successfully in my life. Kristy seems like the type of person with gingerbread talent oozing out of her cute little ears, though. I’m not too worried.
I also get off fairly easy costume-wise. Brown pants. Brown t-shirt. Pair of light-up reindeer antlers plunked onto my head with way too much satisfaction by Cora. Not exactly hip threads, but it could be worse.
It gets worse, a little, when Kristy – Mrs. Claus’d up, with a red dress and spray-dyed silver hair and a pair of old lady glasses – insists upon coloring my nose with her lipstick.
“You’re Rudolph! Not, like, Prancer!”
“I know I’m not Prancer,” I say quickly, because Arthur’s in the kitchen and suddenly nothing in the universe seems quite as gay as the name ‘Prancer.’
Arthur stares at his Santa threads with a mixture of resignation and torment while Kristy hums a few bars of Rudolph The Red-Nosed Reindeer and then dubs my nose “adorable.”
Whatever.
“Oh, hey,” I tell her, remembering, “I have something for you, by the way.”
“You do?” Kristy asks, her face lighting up.
“Yup.” I dig into my backpack and hand her my Freaks and Geeks DVDs. “I thought I heard you say you wanted something new to watch.” (I didn’t, but when somebody talks as much as Kristy, there’s no way they can remember all of it, right?)
“I did?” Kristy asks, scrunching her nose thoughtfully. “Wow, I totally can’t remember that!”
“Huh,” I say, innocent. “Well. It’s a great show. I think you’ll like it.”
“Awesome!” Kristy beams at me. “Thank you! Nikki and I will totally check it out tonight. And, hey, Arthur!” Arthur looks over from where he’s still contemplating the Santa suit. “Look what Howie’s lending us! You have to watch it too, okay??”
“Sure,” Arthur says, sounding a little surprised.
He catches my eye, and I shrug. I can’t help throwing in a little bit of a ‘yeah, man, this is me saving your ass’ smirk. He smiles slightly. Then Cora the Slutty Elf comes in and starts bitching at him for not being in his costume yet, all, “This was your idea, Jolly Old Saint Prick,” and it’s enough to take his attention off me.
It may be one of the greatest moments of my life when he comes out of the staff bathroom bedecked in his Santa gear. It hangs off of him to a degree that’s just, like, ridiculous, because he hasn’t been stuffed with fluffy cottony goodness yet. He straightens the hat, then adjusts the beard with an awkward little ‘ahem’ sound. He looks absolutely just … delightful.
“Come on, Arthur,” Cora orders. “Show us what you got.”
Arthur gives a very refined and tasteful, “Ho, ho, ho.”
She rolls her eyes. “You’re going to make them want to stop believing in Santa.”
He tries harder after that.
The first people to show up, at 11:56, are Amber and Mitch. I am immediately filled with deep, profound regret that I ever let the existence of this event slip to them. They both grin their faces off at the sight of me, because they’re sad excuses for humans who don’t have anything better to do. Amber’s even got a camera.
“Say cheese, Rudolph,” she instructs giddily.
I flip the camera off. It’s a pretty thirteen-year-old-skateboarder thing to do, but under the circumstances, it seems justifiable.
“Hey, none of that!” Amber chastises, gleeful.
“Yeah, dude, these are for your mom,” Mitch adds, beaming broadly. “Be decent.”
I don’t know if I’ve mentioned it, but I’m pretty sure I hate them.
“Ooh, pictures, yay!” Kristy cries. “Group shot, group shot, come on, you guys!”
The four of us squish together. Kristy gets everyone to put their arms around each other, all snuggly; at the last minute, she wiggles out away from me down next to Cora on the floor, leaving me and Arthur all snuggly. I have this split-second freakout, complete with the impulse to move away, far far away, all-the-way-back-into-the-kitchen away, New Zealand away. But then I realize that Amber’s here – documenting the moment via photograph, no less – and I know that freaking out won’t fly. So I sort of settle into it, or whatever, and don’t pay attention to his arm across my back or his hand lightly cupping my shoulder.
Amber snaps a couple shots, and that’s that. The end. No biggie. Still, I breathe easier when we’ve all broken apart.
At first it seems like nobody’s going to show, but they start filing in at around 12:20, and by one o’clock, we’ve got ten kids sitting around getting their gingerbread on. It’s an okay turnout. Plus, once things start to function successfully, Amber and Mitch get bored and take off. I’m glad to see them go. There’s something about work plus life that doesn’t add up.
Arthur surprises me and the girls with his Santatude. As we’ve got a crowd inside, he commits, and he is all holly jolly, all the way. Stuff is cool and fun and gingerbready until one of the little girls gets too enthralled by the fact that she’s currently surrounded by Santa and his crew.
“He’s your husband?” she asks Kristy, all doe-eyed and itty bitty as she looks over at Arthur.
“Yes, he is!” Kristy coos.
“You should kiss him!” the girl says decisively.
Everybody laughs, and more than one “aww!” is thrown in there. Kristy goes over to Arthur and plants a big kiss on his cheek, to the general delight of everybody. Arthur ho-ho-ho’s his way through it. I almost forget he’s not Santa.
But the kiss on the cheek isn’t enough to satisfy this little girl. Now, she turns her attention to Cora. “You’re his elf?”
“Yes indeedy dee!” Cora chirps. It’s terrifying to see her like this, bright and kind and springy. She’s not even that slutty, elf-wise. Her green shorts are pretty tiny, but they’re over red-and-white striped tights, and it’s not like she’s hurling Come Hither looks at the dads in attendance.
“You should shake hands,” the little girl instructs Cora. “Because you work together. That’s what you do when you work together.”
I sort of want Cora to tell her to fuck off – I’m nostalgic – but, sure enough, she and Artie share a hearty handshake. Whatever. ‘Tis the season.
Honestly, I’ve started to forget that I’m a reindeer, until the little girl’s eyes land on me.
I am immediately seized by panic. Somehow, I just know – know – this isn’t good.
“Rudolph!” she squeals, looking up at me with those big eyes.
“Hey!” I say, forcing as much cheer into the word as I can, because I genuinely believe for a stupid second or two that it will be enough to satisfy her.
Then I start wondering if she’s going to flip out because I talked. Reindeer can’t talk. She gets that I’m not an actual reindeer, right?? I mean, I have a human face!
And then she exclaims, sweet and high-voiced, “He has to ride you!!”
…
I stare at her.
And stare, and stare.
“You have to ride him!” the girl persists, whipping her attention over to Arthur. “He’s your reindeer!”
There’s laughter again, but this time it’s tittering and naughty, and it’s all the adults. I look over at Kristy and Cora; Kristy’s hiding her smile behind her hand, and Cora is flat-out laughing. I do not, do not look at Arthur.
And then somehow, accidentally, eyes guided by the will of Satan (or, you know, something else that sucks), I do.
“Not right now,” Arthur says at last. He sounds like Arthur for a couple of words until the jovial Santa voice kicks back in. “He and the other reindeer have to work hard on Christmas Eve, so he needs to get his rest until then!”
“Ohhhh,” the little girl says, nodding her understanding.
“How about we sing some Christmas carols?” Arthur adds, dodging over to the counter and retrieving the guitar. Hey there, emergency precaution.
Arthur busts out “Frosty the Snowman,” and I am forgotten. It’s a glorious relief. I try not to think about things like sick coincidences and messages from higher powers. From the mouths of babes comes crazy-ass malarkey. That’s what they say, right?
+
By the time that the gingerbread festival comes to a close, the atmosphere has gotten pretty mellow. I’m very carefully and deliberately not thinking about anything.
Kristy and Cora go change back into their non-Christmas gear while Artie and I clean up and keep an eye on stuff out front. We don’t really talk. Then the girls come back, and it’s our turn. Arthur heads back there really fast. I can’t blame him.
I let him get in the bathroom first. It seems fair, considering he’s wearing a jolly red suit and stuffed about twice his normal size, whereas I’m just rocking a pair of antlers. He comes out after five minutes, straightening his tie, and he’s Arthur again. He’s carrying the beard in one hand, and the rest of the costume is slung over his other arm.
I don’t say anything. I don’t really know what to say, besides, like, ‘Har dee har, how ‘bout that universe and its unending quest to make us gay for each other – are those some hilarious hijinks or what?’ Thanks but no thanks.
Arthur looks at me and smiles a little.
“What?” I ask, immediately suspicious. He might be entertained by all this gay stuff – hell, he is gay, what has he got to worry about? – and that’s just great for him, but—