Death Benefits

by Sarah N. Harvey

  She gets up and puts her dishes in the sink. “I gotta run,” she says with a sigh. “The old coot awaits. Maybe we can get pizza for dinner.”

  I feel bad that she has to spend her weekend with Arthur, but not so bad that I offer to take her place. I can’t face another day with him. Monday morning will roll around soon enough, I figure.

  “Take a book, Mom,” I say. “There’s not much to do, unless you like CNN and MTV.”

  “I’m going to take him out. He needs to do something other than stare at a television screen. I don’t know how long it’s been since he left the house for anything other than a doctor’s appointment.”

  “Good luck with that,” I say, imagining the scene: Mom wrestling Arthur in and out of the truck; Arthur berating Mom about her driving, the price of a cup of coffee, the draft from her open window, her choice of career, her parenting skills.

  After she leaves, I go back to bed and try to sleep, but the stupid song I heard at Arthur’s is stuck in my head: You cut me open and I keep bleeding…I give up trying to rest and start a load of laundry. I’ve got no clean clothes. Mom announced last week that since I was feeling better, I could start doing my own laundry. I’ve been waiting her out, seeing if she would crack, but she hasn’t. The pile of dirty laundry is now about the size of a Smart car. Four loads later, I’m tired, but I can’t sit still, so I drag my bike out of the garage, pump up the tires and ride it down to the beach. It feels good to be back on the bike again. I’d forgotten I had thigh muscles and that the wind feels good on my face. I ride for half an hour and then nap for three hours. When Mom comes home I’m asleep on the couch in the living room beside a pile of folded laundry. When I wake up, she smiles at me and says, “What have you done with my son?”

  Five

  On Monday I ride my bike to Arthur’s. Having mono has messed with my stamina though; a couple of times I have to get off the bike and push it up a hill. When I get there, he isn’t in his usual spot in front of the tv. The surface of his desk is littered with crumpled and stained paper napkins, used Kleenex, an electric shaver, two flashlights, a collection of dried-up pens, a bird’s skull, a plate of congealed scrambled eggs, three dirty coffee mugs, a keychain with about a dozen keys attached, two phones (one of them a brand-new cell), his address book and his checkbook. Nothing unusual there.

  His walker is in the dining room, by the piano. I search the whole main floor: no Arthur. I even go out on the deck, half expecting to see—what? That he’d climbed the railing and hurled himself onto the rocks? Not really Arthur’s style. No audience. I go downstairs, yelling as I run from room to room. No response. What the hell? If Arthur has croaked, there goes my summer job and my car. He better not be dead. Not yet anyway. Just as I am pulling out my cellphone to call Mom, I hear a car start, very close by. A door that has always been locked is slightly ajar, so I follow the sound into what turns out to be the garage. In the garage is a mint-condition 1956 black T-bird. In the T-bird is Arthur.

  “Holy shit!” I yell over the sound of the engine. “Dude, what are you doing?”

  Arthur looks up and beckons me over. He rolls down the window and says, “Can’t let the battery die, dude. I start her up once a week. Don’t tell your mother. She took away my license, you know.”

  I nod. Mom had literally wrestled the license out of his hands at the site of an accident where his car had jumped the curb and very nearly hit a little girl playing hopscotch on the sidewalk outside her house. The police who came to the scene found him parked on someone’s lawn under a red maple. He was slurring his words, and at first they thought he was drunk. A breathalyzer test proved otherwise. His doctor said he might have had a small stroke or simply fallen asleep at the wheel. Either way, Arthur’s driving days were over. I guess I had just assumed that the car had been sold. I’d never even seen it before today.

  “That kid shouldn’t have been out playing by herself,” he says. “Parents made a huge fuss. Not a scratch on her.”

  “Close call though,” I say. I remember how upset Mom was, how she sent flowers to the girl’s family, even though the kid was more frightened than anything else. Mom apologized to them over and over, promising that her father would never drive again.

  “I don’t let just anybody touch this car,” Arthur says. “A fellow from Vancouver comes over and takes care of her for me. Costs a fortune, but it’s worth it. Tip-top shape, even now. Over fifty years old. Bought her off the lot, you know.”

  It takes me a minute to register that he means that the car wasn’t damaged in the near-accident. He doesn’t give a shit about the little girl.

  As if he’s reading my mind, he adds, “I gave them money, you know.”

  “What?”

  “That kid’s parents. Paid them off so they wouldn’t go after me. Hope they used the money to hire someone to look after their kid—they sure weren’t doing the job.”

  Coming from a man who virtually abandoned his own children, this seems pretty rich.

  “She’s still insured, you know,” he continues, caressing the steering wheel. “I had my lawyer take care of that.”

  “But you can’t drive, Arthur,” I say. “No license— remember?”

  He gazes up at me, and the expression on his face can only be described as crafty. Or demented. Or both.

  “Maybe I can’t drive,” he says, “but you can.”

  I step back and hold up my hands as if he is training a gun on me.

  “Whoa, Arthur. Back it up a bit. You want me to drive your car?”

  “What’s the matter, boy? Too much car for you? Not man enough?” I swear he cackles as he revs the engine.

  “It’s not that,” I say. “It’s…” I don’t finish my sentence, because suddenly I can’t think of a single reason why I shouldn’t drive this amazing car. “I only have my learners’ license. I mean, I have to drive with a licensed driver and you’re not…”

  “I doubt whether Nina cancelled it. It’s probably sitting in a drawer somewhere. You could probably find it, if you looked around.”

  “So now you want me to snoop through my mom’s stuff?”

  “Not snoop, you pussy. Just find what’s legally mine.” He turns off the engine and drags his legs slowly out of the car. “Help me upstairs,” he says. “And make me a cup of coffee.”

  Getting him back upstairs is a challenge. I don’t even want to think about how he got down by himself. I’ll say one thing for him—he’s one determined old guy. He has to use the handrails on the stairs to pull himself up. I walk behind him, like a spotter for a very feeble gymnast in the geriatric Olympics. He farts a couple of times as we ascend, which makes us both laugh.

  By the time I get him into his chair, a thin film of sweat covers his face, his hands are shaking and his breath is coming in short, shallow gasps. He orders me to make him a café au lait, but by the time I bring it to him, he is asleep, his head lolling at an uncomfortable angle. As I prop a pillow under his neck, I notice that he misses a lot of spots when he shaves and that the crevasses (they’re too big to be called wrinkles) that bracket his mouth look sore. Nothing much I can do about that, so I drink his coffee and go off in search of amusement. I’m pretty bored, and lunch isn’t for a few hours. If he really does want me to drive the car, I figure I’d better check it out.

  I leave the door open when I go back into the garage. I’m not worried about Arthur finding me down here; he’s way too tired to navigate the stairs again. I just want to be able to hear the bell if he rings it. The garage is warm and clean. It doesn’t smell like moldy sports equipment or old paint or fertilizer like our garage back home in Nova Scotia. The floor isn’t oil-stained and littered with dried-up leaves and grass clippings and dirt. There aren’t any empty beer bottles or stacks of old newspapers or banged-up patio furniture. There isn’t even a lawnmower, which makes sense because there isn’t a lawn. There is just the car, a scarred wooden workbench with some open shelving above it and a single rake.

  I walk aro
und the car, admiring its Jetson-like lines, the round windows in its removable hardtop, the whitewall tires, the word Thunderbird in script on the fin. 1956. Arthur would have been—what? Early-forties? I imagine him in a tuxedo and a long white silk scarf, fresh off a European tour, his hair still red, holding open the passenger door for a woman who looks like Audrey Hepburn. For all I know, he fucked Audrey Hepburn. It’s entirely possible. I open the driver’s-side door and slide into the seat. The interior of the car smells showroom-fresh, as if it’s never been off the lot. Maybe Arthur sprays it every week with some nasty ozone-destroying new-car-smell-in-a-can. I adjust the seat so my knees aren’t hitting the steering wheel; then I put my hand on the gearshift knob and my foot on the clutch. Which is when I notice two things: it’s a three speed transmission, not a five like I’m used to, and the keys are in the ignition.

  Theoretically, I could open the garage door and drive away. Maybe it would be worth it, even if I got busted for driving without another licensed driver in the car. Then again, if I got busted, Mom would find out and she’d be pissed beyond belief. She’d fire me and make me get a job at McDonald’s. No way I’d make enough to buy my own wheels. No way I’d get back to Lunenburg. So I sit in the T-bird, fondling the gearshift and pumping the clutch. Pretty soon I’ve drifted into a dream about pulling up in front of my old school in the T-bird. The first bell is ringing and someone is calling my name. “Royce! Royce! Goddammit, boy. Get up here.” Oh, crap.

  I take the scenic route home on my bike, enjoying the fact that I’m out on the road while everyone else is still in school. I arrive home sweaty and sore, take a shower and sit down in front of the TV with a Diet Coke and a bowl of nachos. It’s not like I need diet drinks, but Mom thinks she does, so that’s all she buys. I wonder what Arthur is watching, so I check out MTV and CNN. Lady Gaga or Larry King. Ugh. What Arthur really needs is that asshole Dr. Phil. Maybe he’d do an intervention, although it wouldn’t be worth his time. Arthur isn’t going to change.

  After a few minutes of staring out the window, I get up and go to Mom’s room. Her bed isn’t made (bad Mom) and there are dirty clothes in a pile by the door. There’s a stack of books on her dusty night table, along with her reading glasses and a glass of water (not scummy, I’m happy to report). I stand in the doorway, wondering where she would put Arthur’s license. I pray it’s not in with her underwear. I’m not going there. The most obvious place is the tiny desk that sits under the window. She has an old laptop and a printer that she uses for scheduling and billing her garden clients and piano students. Bills are in a wicker basket. There’s a mug full of pens and a moldy cup of coffee on a coaster made from an old tile. The desk has two drawers. The top one is full of office supplies, the bottom one is obviously the “junk” drawer, although we have one in the kitchen too. Old rubber bands, push pins, recipe cards, take-out menus, string, a broken ruler, scissors, a pill bottle full of teeth (mine, I assume), an assortment of screws and picture-hangers, some gum, packages of photos and, lo and behold, at the very bottom, Arthur’s license. Good picture. Even four years ago he didn’t look as wrecked as he does now. I pocket the license, close the drawer and sneak out of Mom’s room, feeling a weird combination of triumph and shame. No adrenaline rush, so I probably don’t have a future as a criminal. Maybe I can point that out to Mom if she ever finds out I took the license.

  The next day when I get to Arthur’s, I make a big production of giving him the license, as if I had scaled Mt. Everest to get it. He simply grunts and says, “Where’s my coffee?”

  “You’re welcome,” I say. I mess around in the hall closet while he has his coffee. There are about fifteen jackets and coats on wire hangers: a red plaid lumberjack shirt, a maroon velour leisure jacket, a classic beige trench coat, a brown corduroy jacket with leather elbow patches, tweed (lots of tweed), and an ancient, smelly Cowichan Indian sweater with a moose on the back. I slip on an awesome green leather bomber jacket circa 1972; the sleeves are too short, but the rest of it fits. I leave it on while I rummage around in a huge pile of hats on the shelf above the coats: four French berets, a grubby Tilley hat, three floppy-brimmed pastel cotton bucket hats, a tuque that matches the Indian sweater, a khaki cap with a flap to keep the sun off your neck, a suede fedora (which I put on), a tweed newsboy cap and a big straw Panama Stetson.

  Behind the hats are about twenty photo albums. Each one has a date range written on masking tape stuck to the cover. I pull one out: 1955–1958. The black paper is flaking and the glue behind the pictures has dried up. A picture flutters to the floor just as Arthur summons me with the bell. Before I put the picture back in the album, I examine the woman standing beside Arthur in the photo. Is she my grandmother? Impossible to know. She is tall and curvy, with dark hair in an elaborate beehive, dark lipstick and large, even teeth. I turn the photo over and see a name: Coralee. Not my grandmother then. All I know about her is her name—Bella—and that she played the violin. My mother has no pictures, no keepsakes. Nothing.

  When I get upstairs, Arthur takes in my jacket and hat. He snorts. “You look like a pimp.”

  “Thanks,” I reply, “although I was sort of aiming for low-life, small-time drug dealer.”

  “That too,” Arthur says. “Let’s go for a ride.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes—now. I’m bored. Get me a coat. One of the tweed ones. And a beret. And bring a box of Kleenex.”

  “Kleenex?” I shudder, envisioning unscheduled bathroom breaks at the side of the road.

  “Drafts make me sneeze.”

  “Right,” I say. “One tweed coat, one beret, one box of Kleenex, coming up.”

  Before we go, Arthur has to pee, brush his teeth and get down the stairs, this time with me in front of him. While he’s in the bathroom, I tape a homemade L (for Learner) sign in the back window of the car. No sense tempting fate. Even though he seems stronger today, it still takes half an hour to get him down to the car and buckled into his seat.

  He reaches into the glove compartment and pulls out the garage door remote.

  “Where to?” I ask as the door rises behind us.

  “Top Down.”

  “I thought you hated drafts. It’s not very warm out yet.” Not that I don’t want to drive with the top down. It’s just that I’d rather do it without him in the passenger seat.

  Arthur slaps the dashboard with a gnarled, liver-spotted hand. “It’s the name of a barbershop, boy. You need a haircut.”

  Six

  Instead of arguing with Arthur, I concentrate on backing the T-bird out of the garage. That’s when I discover that the car does not have power steering or power brakes or synchromesh. Or at least it feels as if there is no synchromesh when I shift. Just getting into reverse is a challenge. It doesn’t help that every time I stall or grind a gear, Arthur swears and tries to wrestle the gearshift away from me. By the time I get the car out of the garage and into the driveway, I am sweating and my heart is racing. I take a moment to try to relax before I back out into the street.

  “What are we waiting for, boy?” Arthur asks, turning in his seat and glaring at me.

  “Waiting for you to stop being a jerk,” I mutter.

  “What?”

  “Just making sure the gearshift works, Art. Don’t want to wreck your car.”

  “Easy as pie,” he says. “What’s your problem?”

  “No problem,” I say as I miraculously manage to get us out onto the street and heading down the hill without grinding, stalling, crashing, or smacking Arthur.

  “Take the ocean route,” Arthur says when we get to the bottom of the hill.

  I turn right, and we drive in silence along the waterfront. I’m starting to get the hang of the gears, and the car feels awesome. People gawk at us as we drive by, and Arthur waves at them, especially the young women.

  “Car like this, boy, you get laid all the time,” he says as we roll up to a Stop sign beside a really hot girl in a pink tank top and plaid short-shorts. She is walking a
golden retriever and she gives the car a huge smile and a little finger-waggle. I wish I believed that she’s smiling at me, but I know it’s the car. Then Arthur cranks down his window (I’m surprised he has the strength) and says, “Ditch the dog and come for a ride with us, sweetheart.” Her smile vanishes and she yanks on the dog’s leash and jogs away, calling “Pervert!” over her shoulder.

  “Good one, Arthur,” I say.

  “Pussy,” Arthur replies.

  I’ve never been to a barbershop—my mom cut my hair until I decided to let it grow—but I’m kind of expecting old guys, cigars, spittoons, scuffed lino on the floors and baseball on the radio. Top Down actually has one of those red-and-white-striped barber poles outside, but that’s the only traditional thing about it. Inside there’s track lighting, dark wood floors, black leather client chairs, a wall-mounted flat-screen TV, jazz coming out of hidden speakers, shelves of “product” and a proprietor who is tall, black and definitely female.

  “Say hello to Kim, boy,” Arthur says as she kisses him on both cheeks and does what can only be described as croon over him. He must tip well.

  I stick out my hand to shake hers. “Contrary to what Arthur would have you believe, I do have a name. I’m Royce Peterson. His grandson.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Royce,” she says. “Good-looking boy,” she says to Arthur.

  “Good genes,” Arthur says.

  “Now, what can I do for you boys?” Kim asks.

  “He needs a haircut,” Arthur says.

  “So do you,” Kim replies. She turns to me and strokes my hair. Her nails are long and red and her hand smells flowery, but with a whiff of something tangy—ammonia maybe, or peroxide. “Time for a change?” she asks me.