Know Not Why: A Novel

by Hannah Johnson

  “I don’t know,” I finish. I look at the floor. “I’m just really fucking confused.”

  “Well, I’m here,” Arthur says, surprising me. I look up at him. He looks like he means it. “And I can’t guarantee I’ll understand a single thing you’re talking about, but I hereby subject myself to your future spastic rambles.”

  “They’re not spastic,” I protest. It’s easier to do that than to be serious and tell him it means something to me that he said it.

  “Queeriest queerdom?” He raises his eyebrows.

  “That’s just wit. Sterling wit.”

  “Okay, then,” Arthur agrees easily.

  We sit in silence. I look around. There’s a bunch of framed pictures on the end table next to the futon. One of the bigger ones is Kristy and her boyfriend. He’s standing behind her, arms looped around her waist, and she’s leaning back into him. They’ve both got big, open-mouthed grins on their faces, like they were caught in the middle of laughing. They look really happy.

  It’s just – it’s supposed to be easy. It’s not like that’s news, it’s not like that’s some grand revelation, but it sure feels like one right now for some reason. It’s like that thing that Cora said, the thing about falling in love with somebody because they make you feel good.

  “So, how’d you know?” I find myself asking him. “About the gay – you know, the being gay thing?”

  “I realized that all of the people I found myself attracted to were men,” Arthur replies. Like it’s that simple.

  “Oh,” I say. I don’t really know what else to say. “Huh.”

  “Yep.”

  “Did it suck?”

  “Somewhat.”

  “Oh.”

  I can’t really think of anything else to say, and apparently Arthur’s okay with the quiet. I find myself paying actual attention to the opera. It does kind of swallow you up, the sound of it.

  “Would you like to stay for dinner?” Arthur asks.

  “Like, in a date way?” My heart does a panicked leap.

  “In a now-you’ve-made-me-self-conscious-about-eating-alone way,” Arthur replies, smiling slightly.

  And, well. When he puts it like that.

  +

  We eat, and sure enough, it’s great. I can’t remember the last time I had chicken that wasn’t Kentucky-fried or McNuggeted. At first, conversation’s kinda stilted, but then we start talking about work. I compliment him on his Santa-ing, which seems more like it was five thousand years ago than five hours ago, and he confides that he spent the whole time wanting to ‘perish from shame.’

  “Sometimes I suspect I’ve gotten too good at doing what I have to do,” he concludes, shaking his head.

  “Yeah,” I say sympathetically. “You were pretty damn good.”

  He smirks at me over his wineglass. “You were a fairly lackluster reindeer.”

  “Yeah, well. Lackluster’s my specialty.”

  “I thought sterling wit was your specialty.”

  “Oh, ya know.” I shrug. “Many talents.”

  He chuckles.

  Feeling sly, I add, “I’m also pretty badass when it comes to being insufferable and obnoxious.”

  “I’m aware of that, yes,” he replies, not getting tripped up at all.

  “If you feel the need to apologize, I’m not gonna stop you or anything.”

  “I said you were insufferable and obnoxious,” Artie answers pleasantly, not falling for it. “Not that I didn’t like you.”

  I like that more than I probably should.

  “I didn’t like you.” Maybe it’s the sort of thing that I ought to keep to myself, but I’m feeling nice and relaxed for the first time in ages.

  “I suspected as much,” Arthur replies. He smiles a little, not seeming bothered. “Why?”

  “No idea,” I say. And maybe that’s true. It suddenly seems really hard to pin down one solid, concrete reason why I was so eaten up with hatred over this guy.

  We finish dinner and carry the dishes to the sink. Artie gives them a quick rinse – of course he’s a subscriber to the cult of obsessive rinsing – and then turns back to look at me. I’m contemplating the shopping list on the fridge, looking at Kristy’s loopy half-cursive ‘dishwasher detergent!!!’.

  “What’s this?” Arthur asks, catching me off-guard.

  “What?” I turn around so I’m facing him. There isn’t a whole lot of empty space between us. It’s a small kitchen.

  “Your ear.” He touches it with his pointer finger lightly for the slightest of milliseconds. It’s a good millisecond.

  “Cora bit me,” I tell him, remembering.

  “Ah.” He sure accepts that easily. It gets a guy wondering what other bodily harm Cora has inflicted upon her coworkers.

  But Cora doesn’t stick around in my brain for long, what with Arthur being right there. We just stand, looking at each other. La Boheme keeps on being operatic. In the back of my head, in some distant unaffected place, I wonder why it is that I like looking at this guy so much. The simple act of directing your eyes at somebody else shouldn’t be all-consuming, should it? That seems weird. Impractical.

  I think about taking a step or two in.

  “Arthurrrrr, we’re hoooome!”

  We both jump a little at the sudden shock that is Kristy.

  “Oh my gosh, you won’t believe what this guy said to Nikki—” She freezes abruptly at the sight of us. A gigantic smile blossoms on her face. A cute strawberry blonde – Nikki, I presume – trails in after her. “Howie!!”

  “Hey,” I reply awkwardly. Arthur turns around and goes back to fumbling with the dishes in the sink. As he does it, his hand catches my elbow for just a second. I try not to ponder whether it was deliberate.

  “What are you doing here?” Kristy asks me, but it’s in this way where you can tell she thinks she knows the answer.

  “Just admiring your sweet kitten posse over there,” I say, pointing at the poster.

  “That was a present from my niece,” Kristy says with stalwart defensiveness that is just plain adorable. “She’s six.”

  “Well, that’s very kind of you to put it on prominent display. With absolutely no intention other than to appease her.”

  “Thank you,” she replies, with great dignity.

  Three … two …

  “But it’s super cute, isn’t it? Because kittens are cute, and baby angels—”

  “Cherubs,” Arthur mutters.

  “—are cute, and when you put them together, it’s—”

  “Super cute,” I finish.

  “Yep! And you don’t get to make fun of me. Arthur hates it, I can tell.”

  Arthur looks up from washing a glass to protest, “I don’t—”

  “You do,” Kristy says, proving that bouncy blonde ponytails and heightened discernment aren’t, in fact, mutually exclusive. “You totally, totally, totally do.”

  “I’m a dog person,” he grumbles.

  “Yeah, me too,” I say. He smiles at me. Kristy smiles at both of us, the kind of smile that makes Julie Andrews look like a jaded crack whore.

  “Okay, I’m takin’ off,” I announce. “Before I get converted.”

  “Men can like kittens too, Howie, it’s okay!” Kristy calls after me.

  I head to the front door. Arthur comes along.

  “She might let you off the hook about the kittens if you tell her about your true feelings for Mamma Mia,” he mutters, his voice low and full of laughter.

  “Right,” I say. “If that gets out, I’ll hunt you down.”

  He’s mighty cheery for a threatened man. “You know where to find me.”

  “See you Monday.” I stifle the urge to linger. Mostly.

  “Goodnight,” Arthur says pleasantly.

  I step out into the cold and throw one last glance over my shoulder. He smiles at me, then closes the door. Driving home, I’m careful not to think. The truth is, I’m feeling pretty damn okay right now. It’d be a shame to wreck it.

 
; Chapter Eleven

  “You were out late,” my mom observes the next morning. She’s sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee and her laptop in front of her.

  “Yeah,” I reply, getting a mug out of the cupboard and pouring myself coffee. “You weren’t worried I was out wreakin’ havoc, were you?”

  “Please, kid, I have better things to do.”

  “Thanks.”

  “No problem, sweetheart.” She resumes typing away, but she abandons Gwendolyn and Captain Horny when I sit down next to her. She minimizes the window, revealing her snazzy new desktop background: reindeer me, giving the camera the finger. Cute. “So, where were you? Out with Amber and Mitch?”

  I’m about to answer in the affirmative to this handy-dandy, Mom-provided, just-add-nodding lie, but then I realize it’s not the greatest idea. My mom happens to see Amber and Mitch on a pretty consistent basis – hell, she’s got the pictures from yesterday already! One might go so far as to say my mom and my best friends are in cahoots. If I go along with this and Amber and Mitch find out, they’re either going to reveal to my mom that I wasn’t telling the truth, or they’re gonna demand to know what was going on. And why going over to a coworker’s house for dinner is worth lying about.

  So I tell the truth. More or less. “I went over to Kristy’s, actually.”

  “You did?” My mom sounds surprised. “I thought she had a boyfriend.”

  “Yeah, I killed him. They’re probably going to need you to, like, testify at some trial? I don’t know, I didn’t really get the details. You might want to keep your schedule free. Also, I’m arrested.”

  “Oh, sweetie, you could never kill anyone.”

  “No, Mom, for real. I am so serious.”

  “So am I. They’d beat you down, honeybun.”

  “Man, you are all about the supportive parenting this morning.”

  “Sorry,” she apologizes, but her eyes are dancing. “I think Gwendolyn might be turning me saucy.”

  “Blech, ‘nuff of that,” I say, sticking my tongue out. “Anyway, it was just a friend thing. Boys and girls can just be friends, you know.”

  As long as she doesn’t ask about boys and boys, I’m good.

  “Well, that’s very nice. I’m glad you’re branching out a little bit. It sounds like this job is really working out for you.”

  “Yeah,” I reply. “I like it.”

  “I’m happy.” She smiles at me. Then she asks, “Is Arthur still living with Kristy?”

  Curse my tendency to bring home entertaining tales of Arthur Kraft the Second, non-fist bumper and mad boss man. I should’ve known it’d come around to bite me in the ass.

  “Um, yeah,” I say.

  “Was he around?”

  “Yeah, he was.” No biggie. It’s cool. “He made dinner for – us all, me and Kristy and her roommate. It was pretty decent.”

  “So you two are warming up to each other?”

  “We’re doing okay,” I answer. Mighty neutral. “I guess.”

  “And he cooks?” my mom goes on, because she’s obviously got some kind of unhealthy fascination.

  “Yep.” Simple stuff. One-syllable responses. We’re gonna get through this.

  “Well?”

  “Pretty well.” Three syllables, not ideal, but I’ll survive.

  “Ooh.” She lifts her eyebrows, mischievous. “Maybe I should go after him. Do the cougar thing. We’d never have to order Chinese again.”

  “Good luck with that, Mom.” I courteously don’t throw in Already got it covered.

  “Thanks, sweetie.”

  “I like Chinese, by the way,” I throw in. For security’s sake.

  +

  When I go into work the next day, the front room’s empty. I can hear voices coming from the kitchen. Voices of the Kristy-and-Cora variety.

  “I don’t know,” Kristy’s saying, bubbly and super-excited. “I came home, and they were standing reeeeeally close.”

  Oh, shit, she’s talking about us.

  Unless Nikki’s got some steamy new romance going on that Cora cares about for no discernible reason.

  Or Arthur’s in the habit of bringing random dudes home.

  … Arthur’s not in the habit of bringing random dudes home, is he?

  “Howie left right after I got there, though,” Kristy continues. I feel a surge of – not relief, no sir, why would it be relief? “So I didn’t see much. I tried to ask Arthur about it after, but all he said was—”

  “You can get your ass in here, Nancy Drew,” Cora cuts in.

  At a really inconvenient time, I gotta say.

  Kristy looks over and spots me. “Howie! How long have you been there?!”

  “Oh, ya know,” I don’t-really-answer. Turning to Cora, I ask, “How did you know I was there?”

  “Superpowers,” Cora replies dryly. “I can see through doors. Especially when people are leaning past them to look into the room.”

  “That’s skills right there,” I tell her. “You should start wearing a cape.”

  I sit down at the table, lean back in my chair. Real casual. “So. What were you guys talking about?”

  “How ‘bout you tell us?” Cora retorts oh so sweetly. “Since you were listening and all.”

  “I wasn’t really listening. I maybe heard some stuff, but it was just because I’ve got ears, so I couldn’t really help—”

  Cora keeps on looking at me like I’m lamer than a herd of My Little Ponies breaking their legs on rainbows, but Kristy goes along with it. Bless her. “I was just telling Cora about how you were over at my place with Arthur on Saturday night!”

  “Oh,” I say. “Yeah, yeah, I was there.”

  Do something with that, girly girls. I’m totally cool.

  “Didja hit that?” Cora asks.

  Kristy does this great gasp-giggle hybrid thing. “Cora!”

  Thank God I dragged her out of Old Yeller. I’m pretty sure this girl shouldn’t even be let out in public. “What? No! Where the hell would you get that idea?”

  “I dunno,” Cora responds, twisting a strand of crazy hair around her finger. “I guess I was just hoping that you’d grow a pair after our little evening together, sweetie pie.”

  “Well, I didn’t,” I retort. Admittedly, without really thinking about it first.

  Cora just about smirks her face off.

  “Because I didn’t need to because I’ve already got a pair,” I finish. “But really, thanks for your concern.”

  “What can I say? Men’s health issues really get me going.”

  “It seemed to me like they just had dinner,” Kristy jumps in.

  “Yes,” I say, pointing at her. “Thank you. That is what happened.”

  “Did you at least make out a little?” Cora persists.

  I glare at her. “What is up with you?”

  “I’ve decided to live vicariously through you,” she replies, not even slightly discouraged. “Your sex life is my sex life. You don’t mind, do you?”

  “Arthur seemed like he was in a really good mood for the rest of the night,” Kristy mercifully interjects. “I think he liked having you over.”

  “Really?” I ask. Not that I care either way, but, well. You go over to somebody’s house, you want to hear that they had an okay time. It’s just common decency.

  “Yeah! He didn’t even start to look like he had a headache when we found 13 Going On 30 on TV and stayed up late so we could watch it to the end. Oh my gosh, I am pretty sure I just want to be Jennifer Garner when I grow up. She’s so radiant, isn’t she?”

  “Totally,” I say. It’s the least I can do, I figure. “Jennifer Garner, she’s awesome. I can’t think of a better person to aspire toward being.”

  “Madam Curie,” Cora says. “Shakespeare. Jesus.”

  “He didn’t, er, say anything about me, did he?” I add. Nonchalant. Just wonderin’. No big.

  “Jesus?” Cora asks dryly.

  “Not directly,” Kristy says, eyes sparkling. �
�But he did mention that—”

  “Good morning,” Arthur says, coming into the kitchen. He seems pretty jaunty. Pretty step-springy.

  “Would you look at that!” Cora exclaims. It’s like she’s doing a freakily accurate impression of Kristy. “My goodness, it’s almost time to open! And nobody’s out front! We’d better fix that right away, huh, Kris?”

  I think at first maybe Kristy will refuse to go along with such cruel, tactless shenanigans – or at least get insulted at being made fun of or something – but all she does is link her arm through Cora’s. “Gosh, you’re right! Let’s go!”

  They skip off giggling like a couple of lady lunatics, leaving Arthur and me to stare at each other. He quirks an eyebrow at me; I feel myself starting to smile.

  Then—

  “Oh, by the way,” Cora says, stopping in the doorway and pulling Kristy to a halt along with her, “what are you guys doing on Friday night?”

  Something in the way she says it makes it sound like we’d be doing something together, which is totally ridiculous and also, hey, FUCK YOU, reddening cheeks, I am your master now.

  “Well,” Arthur begins, “I thought that I might—”

  “Wrong,” Cora interrupts briskly. “You’re coming to see my play. All of you.”

  “Rocky Horror?” Arthur frowns.

  “Yep,” Cora replies, absolutely merciless. “Bring your fishnets.”

  “I—”

  “Don’t pretend you don’t have any.” And with that parting shot, she drags Kristy out front.

  There’s a moment of silence.

  “I don’t have fishnets,” Arthur says then.

  “I know,” I reply. Because sure, he’s gay, but the whole ‘maybe you’re just girly’ lesson still shines fresh in my mind.

  “Good,” he says, going for a mug in the cupboard. He’s halfway to chamomile heaven when he adds, throwing a glance back over at me, “I suspect they’re trying to matchmake us.”

  And, well, duh, but having it said out loud is a little unsettling.