Know Not Why: A Novel

by Hannah Johnson

  “Weren’t you out with your brother?”

  “I was,” I reply. Brilliantly. “Now I’m here.”

  “Yes,” he agrees, “you are.”

  There’s a pause. A really, really excruciating pause.

  “Would you like some tea?” Arthur asks then.

  “Sure, tea’s good.”

  He heads into the kitchen without waiting for me. It’s not encouraging, but I doggedly follow after him. He’s putting the teakettle on the stove when I get there. I sit down at the table and watch him as he opens the cabinet.

  “World’s Best Grandma or Garfield?” he asks, holding up two mugs.

  “Whatever.”

  He puts Garfield back, leaving me World’s Best Grandma.

  “What kind of tea would you like? Not chamomile.”

  The fact that he remembers that I don’t dig chamomile – it makes me feel better. It’s like this shot of all’s-right-in-the-world. Then I feel like a moron for caring so much.

  “Whatever you have’s good.”

  “Peppermint?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  He puts a teabag in the cup, then stands there at the stove and waits for the water to boil. It’s just barely hissing now.

  The movie’s still on in the living room. Kristy forgot it in her mad dash. Too bad for Cliff the Hugh Grant Fan. I’m sure he’ll be crushed.

  “Amber hates this movie,” I say, because I can’t think of anything else and the silence is terrible.

  “Amber seems to hate a lot of things,” Arthur replies crisply.

  There’s something about the way he says it that makes me want to defend her honor. “Not really. She likes stuff. Peach sorbet. Buying shoes. My brother. Jane Austen—”

  “I believe you,” Arthur interrupts. “I don’t need a list.”

  He says it nicely, but it still sort of pisses me off.

  “You want me to turn this off?” I ask, gesturing to the TV.

  “Sure.”

  I go over and turn the TV off. It leaves the room horribly silent. Okay, that decision lacked foresight. I’m not exactly crazy for ol’ Hugh or anything, but if it’s a choice between his droll British tones and awkward silence, boy oh boy do I pick the former.

  I take my coat off – the zipper is some freak of zippery nature, the loudest of all zippers – and drape it over the back of my chair. Then I sit back down and stare at Arthur some more. It should be illegal to feel this awkward around someone once you’ve had their spit in your mouth.

  The teakettle finally whistles. Arthur pours one cup, then brings it over to me.

  “Aren’t you having any?” I ask. The idea that he’s not prompts this uncomfortable twinge in my brain.

  “No,” he replies, sitting down next to me. “I just brushed my teeth.”

  I stare down into the golden depths of the granny mug. “Well, now I feel like a jackass.”

  “Because you’re the only one drinking tea?” Arthur asks. He makes it sound like this is weird and pathetic reasoning for feeling like a jackass.

  “No,” I say. “I dunno. Yeah.”

  He gives me a slight smile. I simultaneously want to, like, build shrines to it and punch it off his face. It’s complicated. “I promise, I won’t judge you too harshly.”

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  I try a sip of the tea, but it’s too hot; I can tell even before it touches my lips. Burnt tongue, avoided. At least there’s that. My life is full of tiny highlights.

  Arthur watches me. Neither of us says anything. It’s riveting.

  Apparently, our awkward silence tolerance is the same, because at the exact second that he starts asking, “Would you like sugar, or honey—”, I say, “Are you back with Douchey Patrick?”

  “Douchey Patrick?”

  I am overcome with a sense of ‘DAMN IT’ that’s promptly followed by a sense of ‘WHATEVER.’ It doesn’t matter at this point. “It’s what I call him in my head. It’s stupid. Whatever. He seems like a douche. He’s probably not, if you like him so much or whatever, with his sexy glasses, but he just seems like one. So that’s what I call him.”

  “In your head.”

  “In my head.”

  He’s quiet for a long time. Probably trying to determine why he ever got involved with such a crazy-ass motherfucker. I’m trying to determine how I ever became one, so. Aren’t we a damn pair.

  “No, I’m not back with Douchey Patrick,” he says at last. “That is very done.”

  “You sure? ‘Cause you looked chummy.”

  “Yes, I’m sure. We were just discussing what to do with the apartment over dinner.”

  “Oh.”

  “He’s moving to Seattle for work. It looks like I’m going to keep it.”

  “Oh. Congrats, man.”

  “Thank you.”

  There goes Douchey Patrick. Just like that. I feel sort of annoyed that I wasted all that torment on nothing.

  “You’re gonna miss him, I bet.” It sounds like taunting when I say it. I don’t even know why I say it, other than that I’m mad. I’m just mad at this whole fucking stupid situation.

  “A little, I suppose,” Arthur agrees.

  I stare angrily down into my stupid tea. Fuck you, tea. Fuck you, awkward silence. I ask, and so hate myself for asking, “Why didn’t you want him to know about me?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, come on, man. You told him I was a perfectly decent employee.”

  “I wasn’t aware that was a bad thing.”

  “Yeah, sure, that’s peachy, but—”

  “And besides,” he interrupts loftily, “you don’t seem to want anyone to know about me.”

  “Yeah, but that’s different.”

  “Is it?”

  “No fucking duh it is.” (Eloquence.) “You’re gay. I’m—”

  “Not?” He arches an eyebrow.

  I want to punch him in that eyebrow.

  “Well. Fuck. I don’t know. Whatever. You’re out. It’s not like this big secret. So why didn’t you just—”

  “Just tell him a month after we broke up that I’m having a fling with my much younger, sexually confused employee who says ‘yo’?”

  “I don’t mean it when I say ‘yo,’” I say, hating oh hating him. “I’m fucking kidding, it’s fucking ironic, okay. And I’m not much younger. I’m not fucking twelve or something.”

  “Fine, slightly younger. You’re right, that makes it sound much better.”

  “What’s so bad about it?”

  “It doesn’t exactly put me in the best of lights.”

  My stomach twists. “What do you mean?”

  Arthur takes a sharp breath in and steeples his fingertips. “Quite frankly, I wouldn’t want him to think I’m having some sort of rebound relationship. It’s uncharacteristic of me, to say the least, and I don’t want to deal with how he would react.”

  “Rebound relationship,” I repeat blankly.

  “Well. To an extent, I think. If you want me to be truthful.”

  I want to hurl the World’s Best Grandma mug at him. A whole new kind of mugging, a better kind of mugging. “Wow. That’s fantastic. Thanks for sharing. That’s just fuckin’ adorable.”

  “Howie—”

  “No, really. Thanks for fucking up my whole fucking life so you could get your rebound on. You, sir, are a man among men. You should have your own holiday. They ought to christen nations after you—”

  “Howie, come on.”

  “You’re a fucking asshole.”

  He sighs. “I’m not saying I don’t care about you. Obviously I do.”

  “Oh, obviously,” I mock.

  “I don’t think that was adequately expressed,” he says, frustrated. “I—”

  He looks at me, then looks at the mug of tea. Then he reaches over and grabs it, pushing it to the opposite side of the table.

  “What the fuck was that?” I demand.

  “You were going to throw it at me.”

  “I
wasn’t gonna throw it at you. I’m not a hyperactive five year old.”

  “You had a look.”

  “So what if I had a look? That doesn’t mean I was gonna—”

  “You might have.”

  “Maybe I was gonna drink it.”

  “I don’t think you were going to drink it.”

  “Yeah, well, you don’t know everything.” I pause. “And if I was gonna throw it, you earned it.”

  “I suppose that sounds fair.”

  “You say that now that it’s out of my reach.”

  He gets this weird little look on his face. It’s like he can’t decide whether to smile or just be horribly confused. “I do like you,” he says at last. “I very much like you. I don’t quite know what to do with how much I like you most of the time. It isn’t something I planned to do—”

  “You usually plan out liking people?”

  “Well, yes.” His brow rumples. “Sort of.”

  Of course he does. I shake my head. “Man, do I know how to pick ‘em.”

  “Patrick and I went very well together on paper,” he continues, a little brisker.

  Oh, just what I wanna hear. “I hate that expression. On paper. What paper? The paper of what?”

  “The figurative paper of would-you-please-let-me-endeavor-to-explain this.”

  “That’s some pretty dumbass paper,” I grumble. “I know: let’s get some and sell it for a jillion dollars a pack. Look out, Holly’s.”

  Arthur rolls his eyes at me.

  “Sorry,” I say. “Whatever. Keep talking. I guess.”

  “He and I were very similar. Maybe too similar. I guess it was inevitable that we would eventually get bored and frustrated with one another. Still, we had a life together, and I found it hard to let go of that. I still find it hard to let go of that. I like … I like the idea of planning things, planning them once and … and getting it right, and always having that there as something fixed, and certain. And it goes without saying that I’m unsatisfied with the course my life has taken professionally. I suppose that with Patrick, that was the one area in which I could do things right. And I didn’t.”

  “Well, I’m sure he helped to fuck it up,” I say. I’m pretty sure it’s because I’m feeling at least some level of sympathy, which is kind of annoying. “That guy’s a douche.”

  Arthur laughs. It’s just a short quasi-bitter laugh, but it helps to break the ice a little. After a few seconds, he slides the mug of tea back over to me.

  “My tea privileges are reinstated?”

  “For now. I’d tread carefully if I were you.”

  “Got it. You don’t need to worry about me. As the world’s best grandma, I’ve got certified skills.”

  He laughs again. This one’s a little less bitter.

  “You know why I hired you?” he says then.

  “Because Kristy forced you to so she could matchmake us to her heart’s content?”

  “There were a few other applicants,” he says, looking thoughtful. “All young women. All typical store material. All much more qualified than you. You obviously didn’t like me, and you were obviously full of shit.”

  “So why’d you hire me?”

  He pauses, like he’s figuring out how to say it. Whatever it is. “I was quite frustrated with everything. I wanted to do something different. And a little stupid.”

  “You’re just lovely,” I say. “You know that, right?”

  “I believe I may have a lot of subconscious bitterness toward the store. I think I wanted to inflict you upon it.”

  “Seriously. Lovely.” I take a sip of my tea, which is finally cool enough to drink. It’s okay. It’s tea.

  I look back up to see that Arthur’s staring at me.

  “What?” I ask.

  “You’re funny and quick and interesting and aggravating and attractive. It’s such a wonderful relief to be with you.” He says it fast, like he’s not used to saying stuff he really means. It sounds like reading off a grocery list, more than anything, but I can’t help liking it.

  “Yeah,” I say, “why’s that?”

  A little wonderingly, he says, “You’re exactly who I never would have picked out for myself.”

  “Yeah, well.” I snort. “Right back atcha.”

  “And it’s easy to tell you’re unhappy.”

  “Really?” I ask, and this awkward laugh slips out. “I always thought I hid it real well.”

  “Did you?”

  “That’s where most of the funny comes from.” It feels a little uncomfortable saying that out loud. It’s not like it’s a deeply hidden truth, or anything, but no one really wants to admit that the reason they make everything in their existence a joke is that otherwise the bleakness of it all would eat them alive.

  “That makes sense,” Arthur says. “I’m not exactly delirious with contentment myself.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I figured.”

  “Believe it or not, I’m not precisely living the dream. I didn’t go to Berklee with the intention of spending my life running an overpriced, failing arts and crafts store.”

  “You went to Berklee?” It strikes me as the sort of thing I should have known.

  “I went to Berklee,” he confirms, like it’s this morbidly funny joke.

  “Wow.” Lamely, I ask, “Why are you here?”

  “My older sister was supposed to take over the store. It’s what had always been intended. But then she got married, and her husband didn’t want to stay here. My father’s health got bad, and he wanted to retire, and, well. I had to come home and help out.”

  “Had to?”

  “My family’s on the conservative side of things,” he explains, meeting my eyes. “I don’t think it was precisely a joy for them to find out they had a gay son. They’ve always been accepting, but, well. It would take more delusion than I can muster to pretend they’re truly happy with it.”

  “So you’re, what, making it up to them?”

  “I suppose so,” he says. He keeps his voice unaffected, but something about his face changes a little.

  I feel a flicker of – I don’t even know what. Some variation of gratitude, but guiltier and heavier. It’s just, my mom would never do that to me, and I know it. My dad might have been another story, but it’s not like that matters now. My mom? Never, never, never, plain and simple. I could probably be into goats, sexy style, and she still wouldn’t use it against me. She’d want me to achieve whatever goat-wooing dreams I set my mind to. Bring Mrs. Goat home for the holidays.

  It makes me feel worse, in a way, because that doesn’t change the fact that I’m still as stuck as Arthur is.

  “I got into USC,” I tell the tabletop. “In California. I mostly just wanted to move somewhere without winter, see what that was like. But my dad died in a car wreck. My mom was driving and made it out with a broken arm and some scratches, and she thinks she killed him, or whatever. She’s still not really doing so well. I don’t think she’s ever really gonna– so I thought I should maybe stay with her. So that’s why I … stayed with her.” I look up at him. He looks sort of like he just got hit, even though it’s a small town and there’s no way he didn’t know it already. I guess it must be different, hearing it firsthand.

  “Fuckin’ unhealthy dads, huh?” I throw in, trying to lighten the mood. “Although I guess mine’s got yours beat.”

  “Howie,” Arthur says, sounding pained.

  I shrug it off. I’m real good at shrugging it off. They should give out medals. “It’s okay. Or. It’s not okay. Whatever. But it is. It just … is. It’s how things are. No point in getting upset over it.”

  “I’m here if you ever need someone to talk to.” It’s the standard line, but I believe him when he says it.

  “Thanks,” I reply automatically. Then, because somehow honesty’s become the theme of the evening, I add, “I never talk to anyone.”

  He gives me a wry smile. “Me either.”

  +

  Lindsay and I dated – hooke
d up, whatever – for like six months, but when I think back to the time I spent with her, I always remember it as summer. There was this one afternoon where it was crazy hot, this muggy sticky heat that seems impossible when you think about it in the wintertime. We went to the movies so we could make out somewhere with air conditioning. I can’t remember what the movie was, which either means it was pretty crappy or the making out was pretty spectacular. To be honest, the movie probably sucked.

  Afterward, we walked around town, rocking that useless teenage summer lethargy. We held hands, not because we were so wild about each other we couldn’t stand not to be up in each other’s metacarpal business, but just because … I dunno. We were supposed to. Her hand was hot and sweaty and I’m sure mine wasn’t exactly a cool, silky paradise either. I wasn’t over the moon or anything. I wasn’t even happy, I guess. But I remember every time a car would pass or someone would walk by us or whatever, I’d get this lame, almost proud feeling. This sense of, ‘Yeah, that’s right. Look at me. Check me out, not walking alone.’

  We were in the middle of some uninteresting conversation – she was never much with the wit or the wordplay, Lindsay, and I figured out real fast not to bother with it around her because it’d just make her confused – when all of a sudden, she stopped. She took her hand out of mine, and she reached up and rested her fingers really gently on my cheek. She looked up at me with this deep concentration. And even though we didn’t have anything in common, and we didn’t even really like each other that much, in that second, I really think I loved her. Just for bothering to look at me like that.

  “You’ve got something on your face,” she said then, wrinkling her nose. “Like, mustard. Did you eat a hotdog?”

  Then she started trying to wipe it off with her thumb.

  For some reason I tell Arthur about this. By the time I do, we’ve been talking for a long time. Hours, maybe. Not about anything that special or profound. Just random stuff. Life stuff. He tells me about breaking his arm when he was nine, his mom’s chocolate chip cookies, his family’s first dog, the time Jesse Gould kissed him in the deserted chemistry lab in tenth grade and then never looked him in the eyes again. (“No way,” I say, “Jesse Gould? The Jesse Gould who dated Bridget Allen for like all of high school?” “You,” Arthur says, “are the first person I’ve ever spilled this information to. Use it well.” “Jesse fucking Gould,” I say, shaking my head in wonder.) The time Dylan Faber kissed him at a party during the first week of college and then called him the next morning. How good that felt. How bad it felt to move back here afterwards and run into Jesse at the grocery store. He tells me he’s read The Remains of the Day thirteen times since he came back to this town, and it always guts him because he knows he’s wasting his life here. He confesses a great and inexplicable love for Garbage, a band he discovered via yelling at Cora for playing one of their albums constantly at work. There isn’t much about “Sex Never Goes Out Of Fashion,” he says, that matches the arts and crafts store atmosphere. He isn’t nearly as serious as people think he is, but he put that mask on a long time ago and doesn’t know how to take it off.