Death Benefits

by Sarah N. Harvey

  “Francesco Ruggieri detto,” he says, “il Per, Cremona, 1673.”

  I don’t know how to speak Italian, but I can figure out what it means: Ruggieri made the cello in Cremona, Italy in 1673. “Cool,” I say, even though the name doesn’t mean anything to me. I’ve never seen anything that old though. “So, Frankie,” I ask the cello, “what brings you to these parts?”

  Arthur snorts. “Frankie.”

  I’m on a roll, so I continue the game.

  “What’s that you say, Frankie? You’re a bit chilly? I can fix that.”

  I close the case and run to the hall closet. When I come back, I place one of Arthur’s navy-blue berets on Frankie’s hard head, and I wrap a long red scarf around his neck. I wish I had a Gauloise for him, but I guess smoking and three-hundred-and-fifty-year-old wood don’t really go together.

  “Maybe you could come for a ride with us sometime,” I say to Frankie. “Arthur’s car is awesome.” I turn to Arthur. “Whaddaya say, Arthur? Should we show Frankie the town? Take him out for dinner? Go to a movie?”

  “He’s already seen Prague, New York, London, Berlin, Tokyo and Paris. What would he want with this rinky-dink place? Crumpets and tea?” Arthur swivels away from Frankie and grunts. “Is it lunchtime yet?”

  “Sorry, Frankie. Duty calls,” I say as I stand him up next to the piano and pretend to introduce them. “This is Wilhelmina Bosendorfer. You can call her Billy. She’s a lot younger than you, so if you’re anything like your owner, you should hit it off.” I lift the cover off the piano’s keys and run my fingers over the white keys. “Nice glissando, huh, Frankie?” I say with a leer. I don’t play the piano, but you can’t live with a piano teacher without picking up a few things.

  “You should hear Frankie’s portamento,” Arthur says.

  “What’s a portamento?” I ask. “Sounds like a cross between a portmanteau and a pimento.”

  Arthur grunts. “You probably don’t even know what a portmanteau is.”

  “Tanzania,” I reply.

  “Tanzania?”

  “Tanganyika and Zanzibar. It’s a portmanteau— you know—when two words blend to make a new word. Like brunch. Or Brangelina. Or mimsy. I’m not a complete dolt, you know.”

  “Mimsy?” Arthur says.

  “You know, miserable and flimsy, as in ‘All mimsy were the borogoves, and the mome raths outgrabe.’ That’s Lewis Carroll. Mom used to read it to me.”

  “I know who Lewis Carroll is, boy. Alice in Wonderland. Through the Looking-Glass. First books I ever read outside the Bible, my schoolbooks and the Eaton’s catalogue in the outhouse. I went to school in Edmonton when I was fourteen, and someone had left a copy of Alice in my room at the boardinghouse. I read it from cover to cover the first week I was there. That was before anyone knew old Lewis was a bit of a pervert. Guess who my favorite character is.”

  I stare at him and try to remember the details of a book I haven’t read in ten years. There are a lot of characters to choose from, and a lot of them are pretty wacky, as I recall. That old song comes into my head: One pill makes you larger and one pill makes you small and I remember my mom telling me that people used to think that Lewis was a bit of a stoner, the evidence being the hookah-smoking Caterpillar who advises Alice to eat the mushroom he’s sitting on. I have no idea if Lewis was a perv or a stoner or both, but I’m pretty sure Arthur’s favorite character isn’t Alice or Humpty Dumpty or even the Mock Turtle. Then I’ve got it—the Red Queen. She and Arthur have a lot in common. Bad temper, paranoia, delusions of grandeur.

  “Off with his head!” I yell, but he just frowns and shakes his head.

  “Try again.”

  He’s nuts, so I suggest the Mad Hatter.

  He shakes his head again.

  “The Cheshire Cat? Tweedle-dum? Tweedle-dee? The White Rabbit?”

  He cackles after every suggestion and finally says, “Give up?”

  I nod and he starts to recite “You Are Old, Father William,” which has at least eight verses. He remembers every word, ending with a resounding “Be off, or I’ ll kick you downstairs.” This from a man who couldn’t tell you what he had for breakfast.

  “Very impressive,” I say. “I should have known your favorite character would be a cranky old man who can balance an eel on the end of his nose.”

  “Damn skippy,” he replies.

  Eight

  Things settle into a comfortable, boring pattern over the next few weeks: I ride my bike to Arthur’s every morning, he yells at me for being late or sweaty or stupid or all three, I open the curtains another inch, make him his café au lait, watch a bit of TV, make lunch, play some solitaire at the kitchen table, put his dinner in the microwave and ride home along the scenic route, which is longer but more interesting than the main roads. We take the T-bird out once a week and drive the same route I bike every day. Arthur often falls asleep in the car, like a fussy baby, and I drive around town until he wakes up and yells at me that he needs to go to the bathroom. If we were characters in a movie, Arthur and I would go on a road trip together and I would learn important life lessons from him and he would benefit from my joie de vivre. Like that’s gonna happen. Even so, I cast the movie in my head: Arthur will be played by Kirk Douglas. The part of Royce Peterson will be played by Shia LaBeouf or maybe one of the Twilight dudes.

  One day I drive all the way out to Sidney and back while he sleeps, just to see what it’s like to drive the T-bird on the highway. It’s amazing, but I’m glad to get back to town and let my blood pressure return to normal. If I hadn’t had Arthur with me, I might have been tempted to continue past Sidney to the ferry terminal, slide up the ramp into the ferry’s metal maw and be on my way.

  One afternoon, sick of solitaire and really restless, I decide to look at Arthur’s photo albums, which are decaying in the hall closet. I carry them to the unused upstairs bedroom, where I lay them on the bed and arrange them in chronological order. They start in 1929, when Arthur was fourteen, and go up to 2006. Nothing from his childhood in Alberta and nothing from the last four years. Each album covers a period of three to five years. Two albums are devoted to reviews and two are jammed with concert programs. They’re all bound in dusty black leather, except for two small velvet-covered books—one blue, one red—labeled Marta and Nina. I place all but the first album on the bookcase. Then I make myself comfortable on the bed with 1929–1932.

  The first thing I notice is that the dates on the cover are wrong: the first few pages are full of pictures of a preadolescent Arthur with an older boy and a younger girl. Bobby and Elizabeth. The girl has ringlets and a bow in her hair. She is also a little blurry, as if she can’t keep still for the camera. In every photo, Arthur gazes adoringly at Bobby, who has a wide grin and freckles and often carries something: a rifle, a hoop, a dead gopher, a stick, a ball. In one picture, they are all standing outside what looks like a real teepee. In another, Arthur is in a small sled being pulled by a big dog. Happy childhood, right?

  But a family portrait tells another story. A stern-looking man with a long beard stands with his hands clamped on the shoulders of a plump young woman, who is seated, holding a baby in a long white lace dress. The woman appears to have recently swallowed a mouthful of vinegar. Elizabeth is seated at the woman’s feet, looking as if she is about to cry. The boys stand one on each side of their mother, hands clenched at their sides. No one is smiling. There might as well be a cross-stitched motto on the wall behind them: Spare the rod and spoil the child. I wonder what happened to the baby. Arthur only mentioned Bobby and Elizabeth. Maybe he has forgotten the baby’s existence. For some reason, I find this really upsetting, to think that someone can evaporate like that.

  A couple of blank pages follow the family portrait, and then it really is 1929. The scene shifts to a city that I assume is Edmonton. Arthur shoveling the sidewalk outside a run-down house. Arthur standing stiffly beside an elderly man in a fur-trimmed coat, a fur hat and leather gloves. Arthur is wearing hand-knitted mittens
, a wool cap and a threadbare coat. He looks cold but happy. The old man has his hand on Arthur’s elbow—he’s either guiding him or leaning on him; it’s impossible to tell which. Is he Arthur’s cello teacher? A family friend? His landlord? A few pages later, I get my answer. A yellowing newspaper clipping dated 1931 features a photograph of the two of them. The caption under a photograph says: Arthur Jenkins with his mentor and teacher Laszlo Polgar. The headline reads: Homegrown Prodigy Wins Prestigious Award. The article goes on to say that Arthur has won a scholarship to study in London with a woman named Guilhermina Suggia. No one I’ve ever heard of, but what do I know? According to the article, she was a pretty big deal. She had a fling with Casals and she is described as “bohemian, unpredictable and temperamental.” Just up Arthur’s alley.

  The rest of the album is devoted to pictures of Arthur in London. At first he looks bemused and hungry and a bit scared—he’s really young to be so far from home— but by the time I turn the last page, he’s got a tux, a car (an MG, I think) and a woman who could be the volatile (and much older) cello teacher. Things are looking up.

  I’m about to move on to 1933–37 when the phone rings, which is weird. Arthur’s phone hasn’t rung once in all the time I’ve been here. If my mom wants to talk to me, she calls my cell, and no one ever calls for Arthur. Not when I’m here anyway. I wait to see whether Arthur is going to answer it, but when it keeps ringing I sprint to the living room and grab the phone off his desk. Arthur ignores it and me. He’s watching Little House again and apparently the goings-on in Walnut Grove are pretty riveting.

  “Hello,” I say into the phone. “Jenkins residence.”

  “Is Arthur Jenkins there, please?” a woman’s voice asks.

  “May I say who’s calling?” I ask. For some reason I think I need to screen Arthur’s calls, or should I say, call.

  “This is Catherine Ramm. I’m a producer with the CBC in Toronto. We’re recording the concert soon, and I’d like to interview Mr. Jenkins for our pre-concert programming.”

  “What concert?” I ask. Arthur swivels in his chair and glares at me. He makes a throat-cutting gesture, which I take to mean that he doesn’t want to talk to Ms. Ramm.

  “The concert at Roy Thompson Hall. He’s known about it for a year.” She pauses. “To whom am I speaking?” Ms. Ramm is starting to sound a bit peeved, and Arthur is shaking his head so vigorously his tuque flies off.

  “I am Mr. Jenkins’ personal assistant,” I say. “Royce Peterson. Mr. Jenkins is unavailable at the moment. I will have him return your call. Your number?”

  Ms. Ramm sighs and rattles off a number, which I write down on a dirty napkin.

  I hang up and say, “What concert, Arthur?”

  Arthur is still glued to the tv; Mary is leaving Walnut Grove to go to a school for the blind. I reach over and swivel him around to face me.

  “What concert?” I repeat.

  He tries to turn back to the TV, but I’ve got a good grip on the back of the chair.

  “Let go of me, boy,” he growls.

  “Nope,” I say. “Not until you tell me about this concert.”

  “Damn people,” he mutters.

  “Who?”

  “Promoters. Still trying to make a buck off an old man. There’s a letter here somewhere. Let go of the damn chair, and I’ll find it.”

  I let him turn the chair so he can get into his desk drawer. He pulls out a handful of mail, which he tosses at me. I sort through unopened bills, flyers for house-painters and requests for donations from three political parties, a public television station (as if ) and a local homeless shelter. At the bottom of the pile is the letter from Catherine Ramm.

  “Happy now?” he asks. “Bloodsuckers. Why don’t they leave me alone?”

  “Maybe because you were one of the greatest cellists of the twentieth century?”

  He snorts and holds up his hands, which are shaking. The joints look swollen, his thumbs stick out at odd angles and his fingers are like claws. “The operative word in that sentence is were. You think I want people to see me like this?” He brandishes his hands at me. “Pathetic.”

  I’m not sure if he means he’s pathetic or the people who want to honor him are, but the letter is very clear: There’s going to be an all-star concert at Roy Thompson Hall to celebrate the airing of a CBC radio documentary on the life and times of my grandfather. The organizers are aware that Arthur can’t travel, so they’ve arranged a gala event here at a fancy downtown hotel: white tie and tails, local celebrities, musicians, politicians. Which means speeches. And cameras. I wonder if any of the people putting this thing together has ever met Arthur. If they could see him now, glowering at the TV in his stained sweater and tattered slippers, they might think twice about the whole deal.

  “Did you agree to go?” I ask.

  “Maybe,” he grunts, “a long time ago. That damn woman wouldn’t let it go. I talked to her for hours, gave her names of people to talk to. You’d think they’d leave an old man in peace.”

  “What did you think—they’d forget about the guest of honor?”

  He shrugs. “Who wants to see a smelly old man who can’t play a note?”

  “Well, I guess they do,” I say, picking up the phone. “But I’ll tell her you can’t go to the party or do the interviews. I’m sure she’ll understand. I mean—you are old.”

  Arthur darts out of his chair like a cobra from a snake-charmer’s basket. He whips the phone out of my hand, sits down hard and hits Redial.

  “I’ll do the interviews next week,” he tells the woman from CBC.

  “Call my tailor,” he says to me when he’s off the phone. “We’ll need new tuxes.”

  “We?”

  “You and me, boy. And your mother will need a new dress. My treat. And tell her to have her nails done. Her hands are a disgrace.”

  That night I have dinner with my mother. After watching Arthur eat, it doesn’t seem so bad to eat with someone who chews with her mouth closed, uses a napkin, rarely drools and doesn’t call me “boy.”

  “You know about this concert thing?” I ask her over our pasta.

  “Yes,” she says. “But I didn’t realize it was coming up so soon. They’ve been working on that documentary for years. Don’t you remember them coming to the house in Lunenburg to interview me?”

  I shake my head. In Nova Scotia I was always off with my friends, skateboarding, playing video games, riding my bike. I didn’t pay too much attention to what my mom was doing as long as there was food in the fridge and hot water for long showers.

  “Anyway,” she continues, “the documentary should be good. I checked it all out before I let Arthur sign off on it. Lately I’ve been wondering if it was a mistake to say yes in the first place though. He was pretty angry with me for interfering, but I didn’t want anyone to exploit him.”

  As if. She should be worried about Arthur exploiting them. Why does everyone treat him like his brain’s as feeble as his body? I mean, yeah, sometimes the cogs slip, but most of the time he knows exactly what’s going on. He just doesn’t like it very much. I know how that feels.

  “The documentary makers talked to a lot of people who knew him in his heyday,” my mom is saying. “Apocalyptica is playing at the concert, at Arthur’s request. Should blow the roof off Roy Thompson Hall!”

  “Apocalyptica?” I say. “What’s that?”

  She cocks her head and smiles. “Wow. For once I know something you don’t. Apocalyptica is a Finnish band that plays the music of Metallica and Slayer on cellos. Apparently they listened to Arthur a lot when they were classical music students in Helsinki, and they got in touch with him a while ago. Sent him some CDS. Now they’re going to share the stage with a Chinese child prodigy and a string quartet from Italy. Should be fun, don’t you think?”

  I shake my head. “Arthur is a piece of work. First he refused to talk to the woman from CBC, and now he’s setting up interviews and getting me to call his tailor.”

  “His tailo
r?”

  “Yeah. New tuxes must be procured. And you need a new dress, apparently. His treat.”

  “A new dress?”

  “And a manicure.”

  “Why?”

  “’Cause I guess we’re his dates, and we need to look good. Got a problem with that?”

  She laughs and runs her hands through her hair. “Think he’d spring for a cut and color?”

  “No problem,” I say. “I am his trusted personal assistant, after all.” I peek under the table at her feet. She’s wearing gray woolen work socks and ancient Birkenstocks. “And get a pedicure while you’re at it. And maybe some new shoes.”

  “You’re a funny boy, Rolly,” she says.

  “That’s Royce to you, ma’am.”

  Nine

  A couple of days later, Arthur’s phone rings again. This time it’s a reporter from the local paper. She’s heard about the upcoming concert and documentary, and she wants to interview the great Arthur Jenkins. There will be a photographer too.

  “When would be a good time?” the reporter asks.

  I want to laugh and say, “Never,” but instead I take her number and promise to call her back when I’ve talked to Arthur, who yells at me for putting her off.

  “You idiot,” he roars. “Set it up for tomorrow.”

  To piss him off, I call her back and ask her to come in a week. Not that Arthur will remember when she’s coming. Defying him just gives me a rare moment of satisfaction. The day before the reporter and photographer are due, Arthur and I go back to Kim for a buzz and, in Arthur’s case, a shave. After she’s run the clippers over my head, I lie on the white leather couch, watching her apply hot towels to Arthur’s face and wishing I could think of a good reason to ask her to shave me as well. Unfortunately, I’ve been stuck in fuzz mode since I was fifteen, and I only shave every few days, which is kind of okay, since shaving is a pain in the ass. If I ever do get some serious facial hair, I’ll probably let it grow, just to see what happens. I’m not holding my breath though. Mom says Dad grew a mustache once, but it was made up of about ten long hairs. She made him shave it off.