Knowing Things by Molly O’Connell

Martin is waiting for his neighbors to arrive home. He shifts his weight in the flimsy plastic chair on his family’s balcony. Hunching over, with his elbows planted on his knees, his eyes peer out from under strands of black hair. He has a perfect view. The Franklin’s apartment is one story down in the building across from him.

To his right, the kitchen window is open. He hears his mother singing and the dishes being scrubbed and dunked and dried. She won’t give him a second’s thought till her kitchen is spotless. Still, he tilts his chair back. From here he sees her arm and the flash of a checkered towel through the window. He thinks: “Perfect. Not done yet.” Occasionally, the air fills with garlic and lemony soap; the scents of the spoils of his family’s dinner drifting out into the night.

The plastic bands of the beach chair are embedding into his thighs and buttocks as he waits. He counts the seconds and inhales the garlicky air. Goosebumps prickle up on his arms and legs. Lifting a hand off his knee, he wipes beads of sweat from his upper lip and hair line.

The florescent light begins to pulse and flicker in the apartment across from Martin’s. The light is suddenly on. Martin presses his elbows harder into his knees. His breath catches and he swallows. His mouth tastes of spaghetti sauce of Coca-Cola. He is thinking “this is it this is it.” Mr. and Mrs. Franklin enter the bright room. Martin’s fingers tap the dewy armrest in anticipation.

***

In the afternoons after school, Martin works at his father’s store. Though the store has recently undergone the rites of passage that converted it into a chain, Martin’s father is still the manager, and the customer-base is the same. It has been nearly one year since Martin started. He knows most of his father’s customers by name; he knows all of them by appetite.

He knows that the plump, bald man, rocking gently back and forth as he strolls through the isles, will buy pasta—every variety that Martin’s father stocks—and one jar of Ragu every week.

Martin knows that Mrs. Nelson, who is approaching with her purchases, can’t last three days without baby carrots or ‘Banana Dreamboats.’ He punches buttons mechanically. The register responds in it loud electric clacking as he watches her. She empties the sad contents of her purse onto the counter, rummaging for change. She looks helplessly at Martin: “The pastries are for the kids, you know.” Martin nods, “Yep, Mrs. Nelson. Paper or plastic for you today?”

Martin knows that the man in the crisp business suit at the back of the store is very particular. He will stand in the produce section poking and sniffing and eyeing; when the man emerges at last, Martin is sure that he’ll come up to the counter with several nearly perfect apples or a bright round orange.

Martin knows many many others as well. As many, it seemed as there were items on the ever-emptying shelves.

Running his fingers through his dark, greasy hair, Martin thinks about people and food. It has been a while since he noticed that he could begin punching in prices and totaling tabs before his father’s customers ever neared the cash register. And strangely, that knowledge felt like power.

Mrs. Franklin enters the store smiling and nods a ‘hello’ to Martin before he loses sight of her down isle three. She is a tall woman with a slightly stocky build. Martin thinks that her hair is so blonde that it’s colorless. She is at least as old as his mother, but her clothes are different. They sucker to her and squeeze her flesh like toothpaste from a tube wherever her clothes have an opening. While he waits for her at the register, he taps his fingers to some new song from Earth, Wind and Fire that fills the store with the help of the new sound system Martin’s father got during the renovation.

Mrs. Franklin always pays for her groceries in cash. Martin knows how she will lick the tips of her fingers as she sifts through bills in her wallet. And press herself against the counter as she counts, standing so close that Martin remembers the smell her heavy floral perfume. Her grocery list varies more than most people’s, but she always buys a lot. Martin has helped her more than once to her car. Today is no different. She walks out of the store before him. He struggles under the weight of her two large bags and he almost trips. But the bags aren’t that heavy. He is tracing a long thin indent on the back of her skirt; he wonders if the panties are black as she presses a dollar into his hand. “Thanks, Marty” she says.

***

Martin lies on his back on his bed. He thinks about the Franklin’s window.

Mr. Franklin is a large man. He has thick heavy hands and Martin guesses that his shoulders are the width of two grocery bags. Martin thinks that he’s probably strong. Strong enough to crush Martin. Strong enough to…

Martin thinks about his own hands. They are small and soft—like girls’ hands. He thinks about his body. His hand brushes over his t-shirt. He can count his ribs. He wishes he could count muscles. He feels better when his fingers trace down to the waist of his jeans. There is hair there and it makes him think “I am a man.” He likes it.

Martin inhales and closes his eyes. The window is before him like it was last night. Mrs. Franklin smiles. Her lips are pink and shiny. And, he thinks, she smells like a suffocating flower. His fingers tighten and he closes his eyes tight—tighter.

His mother is knocking on the door.

Martin is glad he is only 15 because there is plenty of time for him to get bigger. But when he is big and older he knows that he won’t want to share. He will hang black curtains in every window.

***

Martin’s mother loves wearing aprons around her kitchen. She has six. Martin gave her the one she is wearing tonight for her last birthday. He doesn’t understand why she likes it so much. But he likes seeing her in it; she seems like his mother when she wears it.

The lid of a pot clatters above the boiling water. His mother flies about the kitchen. One swift hand lifts the pot’s top, one opens the fridge. She talks all the while. “Did you remember the potatoes, Martin sweetie? Your father is expecting potatoes.”

“Yep.”

“Good. Thanks so much dear. Did work go well?”

“Not too busy. No complaints.”

“Yes, well, slow time of year. Strange isn’t it? It’s as if people just stop eating after Thanksgiving. Your father is working on a new promotion—did he tell you that, Marty?—I am sure he’d love your help…”

His mother talks as she stirs the pot of water and opens and closes drawers. Martin leans back in his chair. He watches his mother. He knows she is not an ugly woman. But she is a mother. He thinks that is why she doesn’t wear shiny pink lipstick. That is why his father kisses her on the forehead and never on the lips.

His mother seems safe and clean in her apron. He is glad she isn’t the other way. Mrs. Franklin is the other way. He is also glad of that.

***

Tonight Martin’s view is interrupted by the occasional shirt or pair of boxers fluttering on a clothesline. Laundry day. He is waiting again. Martin’s mother is cleaning in her apron in the kitchen and talking to his father about promotions. So Martin isn’t worried.

Martin knows that the light will come on soon. It has come on every night for 13 nights.

He doesn’t feel nervous anymore. He feels excited. He feels lucky. He feels like he has discovered something and so he feels proud and old, too. He knows what they’ll do and how before they do it. He loves knowing that. He has a sense that they need him there to know that. He tilts his chair back and feels the brush of brick on his neck. Lifting his arms, he rests his head against his hands. In a few minutes the window will be his again.

The window brightens and they are there. He pulls his father’s binoculars out from under his jacket. He is a spy. His eyes are fixed into the long black tubes. Mrs. Franklin’s lips are shiny pink and parted. Martin knows that she always stays closest to the window. Martin leans forward farther. His eyes burn with wishes for a turn a lean a look.

“Marty…Martin!” A hand lands on his shoulder. His father is on the porch. “Huh. What. Oh. Dad. What?” Martin stands, grabbing the balcony railing. “What the heck are you doing, son? Bird-watching? Crazy kid…Your mother needs some help in the kitchen.” “Oh. Fine.” Turning, Martin shoves the binoculars under his coat. His face is flushed. He walks towards the door and hears his mother close a cabinet door. The kitchen is bright, his heart is pounding, he walks inside.

***

Mrs. Franklin stacks her groceries in disorderly piles on the black conveyer belt. Martin’s cheeks are warm as he reaches for the first item sliding towards his fingers. Somehow he wants her to know and that is why he is blushing. “Paper of plastic, Mrs. Franklin?” he manages.

“Paper for me, thanks Marty.”

He looks up for a second. She is smiling with her shiny pink lips.

“Say, I have a favor to ask. Mr. Franklin needed the car this afternoon—business. I’ve to carry the groceries all the way home myself. I suppose I could make it, but it’d be such a help if you’d carry them—you wouldn’t mind, would you?”

He shakes his head. He feels his heart race.

“You’re a doll, Marty. You really are.”

Martin packs up the groceries while she watches. Mrs. Franklin bought three bag-fulls today. He hugs the two big brown sacks to him and the third bag, plastic, hangs from his arm.

He does not talk as they walk. He is faintly aware that she is talking. Something about the price of fruit this time of year. Her apartment—their apartments—are just two blocks from the store. All the time she is ahead of him. His arms are probably exhausted. He wouldn’t know.

Her apartment building has an elevator like his. They step inside. He watches her finger reach toward the button for the fourth floor with a long pink nail. He realizes he knew that was the button to press. He shouldn’t know. He likes that he does because it makes him feel powerful. Like God or something.

Her perfume is in the elevator. He smiles and inhales deeply. Then he stops because the perfume is making him dizzy. Something is making him dizzy and his heart is pounding in his head—in everywhere.

She slips the key into the lock and her door swings open. They are in the kitchen. Martin thinks: “Thank God” because it’s not the window-room. He sets the two paper bags on the counter where she is pointing. The paper bags are curved in at the sides. There are small damp marks where his arms sweated. The plastic bag hangs on his arm.

He turns to ask her where to set it, but stops because she is staring at him.

She smiles and looks at him for a second before looking up. “You know when Mr. Franklin and I first moved in I was so worried we’d never get any light in here. You know—stuck between two buildings like this. I guess that’s why I didn’t ever get curtains.”

Martin pauses.

“Do you think I need curtains, Marty?”

Martin swallows with wide eyes and thinks that he is nodding ‘no.’

“I think you’re right. View’s not half bad once you get used to it. Plus, it helps if you’re feeling lonely.”

“Lonely?”

“You know, everyone can see everyone else. I never feel alone. I like that.” Martin thinks he see her lips curl up when she says this.

She is standing next to him, their shoulders are almost touching. She is breathing next to him with her bright shiny pink lips. She is looking out the window; Martin does not know where he is looking. He does not feel powerful. He wishes very hard that Mrs. Franklin had an apron. He wishes that he was on the other side of the window.

Martin also wishes for a second he could lean in and kiss her. But he doesn’t. He can’t because he doesn’t know what she would do. Instead, he takes a step back. He says: “Have to get back to work” and clears his throat loudly. He takes another step—a quicker step—and is out the door and down the stairs. He didn’t think that he would run, but he is running. Running fast and hard and now he feels his feet meet the pavement with heavy slapping steps. Something else is slapping, too. Mrs. Franklin’s plastic grocery bag against Martin’s leg.