Kim is doing her crooning thing again, and she kind of dances around as she works, singing snatches of the song that’s playing on the sound system when she isn’t telling Arthur to keep still and stop talking. Her ass is high and round and encased in some shimmery fabric that reflects the light from the spot lamps above her. It’s kind of mesmerizing, like watching a disco ball when you’re stoned, at least until Arthur roars, “Stop looking at her ass, boy, and get me a coffee.”
I leap to my feet and run next door, catching a glimpse of my tomato-red head as I zip past one of the mirrors. Behind me, Arthur sniggers, and Kim tells him he’s a naughty boy. By the time I come back with his coffee, she’s removed the towels and is shaving him with long, slow strokes of a straight razor. His eyes are closed, and she gestures to me to put the coffee down on a side table.
“He’s drifting off,” she says. “Tomorrow’s a big day for him.”
I nod and take a sip of his coffee.
“He’s fond of you, you know.”
I snort and the latte goes up my nose. When I can speak again, I mutter, “You could have fooled me.”
Kim stops shaving and points the razor at me. “And you’re fond of him too.”
I shake my head. “It’s just a job. Good money. Believe me, there’s no love lost.”
“You’re wrong,” she says, returning to Arthur’s face. “Dead wrong.”
I shrug and pick up a GQ magazine to see if there are any tips on what to wear with a tux, but I can’t stop thinking about what she said. I watch her wipe the shaving cream off Arthur’s face. She sings, “You’re the top, you’re the Coliseum. You’re the top, you’re the Louvre museum.” When his face is clean, she massages his head in languorous circular motions.
When she gets to the end of the song, Arthur belts out, “But if, baby, I’m the bottom, you’re the top.” I have to admit, at moments like this, yes, I’m fond of him. I laugh as Kim leans over and kisses Arthur on the cheek. “You got that right, honey,” she says.
“You know it,” he growls.
I roll my eyes and read an article on Bond girls while Arthur settles the bill and bids Kim goodbye. She gives me a hug as we leave. “Remember what I said,” she whispers in my ear.
I nod dumbly, overwhelmed by the heat rising from her body, the smell of her perfume, the sticky touch of her lips against my ear. Then Arthur “accidentally” rams me with his walker, grins evilly and says, “Oops—sorry.”
Right, Kim, I think. He’s so fond of me.
When I get to Arthur’s the next day, he’s still in his room and he’s in a foul mood. Big surprise. He’s obviously flipping out about the interview, but he won’t admit it. He’s sitting on the bed in red long johns. The bed and the floor and every available surface are strewn with clothing.
“Where is it?” he snarls.
“Where is what?” I reply.
“You know what I mean. The suit. The Armani.”
“You’ve got an Armani suit? Cool,” I say. “And no, I didn’t take it. Not much call for an Armani suit in my world, Arthur. And anyway, you’re not my size.”
“Then it must have been that maid, that Lily person. Probably took it and sold it.”
I stick my head into the closet, which is almost empty except for a bunch of wire hangers, some ancient shoes and a dark heap in the farthest corner, behind where I found Frankie. I crawl in and pull out the missing Armani, dusty and wrinkled, like its owner.
“You got a shirt to wear with this?” I ask.
Arthur shrugs and points at a pile by his bare feet. “Might be one in there.”
I find a clean pale blue button-down shirt in the pile and take everything to the kitchen before I go in search of the ironing board and iron. Arthur follows me in his red long johns and sits at the kitchen table while I search the house. No ironing board. No iron. I’m about to stuff everything in my backpack and race home when he says, “In there, boy,” and points at a narrow cupboard in the breakfast nook. I open it and find a built-in wooden ironing board with an iron on a recessed shelf behind it. Very ingenious. Arthur wheezes with laughter.
“You should have seen yourself, boy. Running all over the house.”
“Jesus, Art,” I mutter. “Do you have to be such a prick?”
At this point, I don’t care if hears me. I’m not getting paid enough to put up with his shit. Actually, I am, but that’s not the point. I’ve just spent half an hour turning the house upside down while he watched. It’s possible he only just this second remembered where the ironing board was, but I doubt it. He’s smiling as he pushes the walker over to his big chair and parks himself in front of the TV while I iron his suit. The iron doesn’t have a Teflon coating or any steam vents; I put it on the Wool setting and hope for the best. When I apply the iron to the suit pants, it smells like the time I left my mittens on the woodstove when I was five. Almost burned the house down. But I still kind of like the smell. It reminds me of winter in Nova Scotia. Here on the West Coast it’s all Gore-Tex and Polarfleece, which probably smells like burning tires when it catches fire.
I’m working on the shirt’s cuffs, which are tricky, when Arthur yells, “Where’s my coffee?”
“Cool your jets, Arthur,” I yell back, wondering if this is how mothers feel when they’re trying to get something done and their kids won’t shut up. If so, why isn’t there more infanticide? How does anyone stand the constant demands?
The interview is scheduled for eleven o’clock, which gives me two hours to make his coffee, get him cleaned up and put the suit on him.
I hang the shirt and suit on a wooden hanger, pick out some socks and a tie and make him his coffee. By the time I bring it to him, he’s asleep in his chair, looking like a giant, ugly, bald baby in red sleepers. I cover him up with a plaid mohair blanket, and while he sleeps, I take the coffee to the extra bedroom and settle down on the bed with 1933–1937. When Arthur rings the bell half an hour later, I’ve drifted off with the album open to yet another picture of Arthur standing by yet another car with his arm around yet another woman. As far as I can tell, from the age of about eighteen on, all Arthur did was play the cello, drive and fornicate. If the photos are any indication, he excelled at all three.
Getting him ready for the interview and photo shoot involves a lot of patience (on my part) and a great deal of swearing and flailing (on Arthur’s part), but by the time the doorbell rings, he’s back in his chair, looking clean, sane and almost handsome. If he’d lighten up a bit—lose the frown, try smiling—he’d actually look pretty good. I usher the reporter and photographer—both women— into the living room and a miracle takes place. Arthur stands up, unassisted, and makes his way around the desk to greet them. I notice that he’s keeping one hand on the desk for support, but that doesn’t stop him from kissing each woman’s hand instead of shaking it. He’s positively courtly as he invites them to sit down.
The reporter, a short, stocky middle-aged woman with heavy black glasses and straight gray hair, drags a kitchen chair up to the desk, takes out a small tape recorder and sets it on the desk. She pulls a laptop out of her bag and sets it up as the photographer, who is younger and a whole lot hotter, wanders around the room, looking a bit bemused. Or maybe she’s just trying to figure out the best angle to shoot Arthur from. It’s definitely a challenge. When she catches me staring at her ass, she smiles and mimes taking my picture as the dreaded blush stains my cheeks.
“Café au lait, ladies?” Arthur asks as he creeps back to his chair. “It’s absolutely no trouble at all. Royce here is at your command.”
He waves his hand at me, and they both smile and nod.
“Three cafés au lait, coming up,” I say. I catch Arthur’s eye as I turn to leave the room. He winks and gives a tiny shrug, as if to say, “What can you do?”
When I come back with the coffee, Arthur is talking, and he doesn’t stop for about an hour. The reporter asks a few questions, but mostly she just lets Arthur ramble while she taps away at her lap
top. The funny thing is, Arthur almost seems to be interviewing her. By the time he says he’s too tired to continue, he’s found out that the reporter’s nickname is Midge, she has two grown children (one in rehab, one a lawyer), she’s divorced and she loves dachshunds. I’m not sure how this happens (I’m distracted by the photographer’s stiletto boots and the fact that when she squats I get a glimpse of the tattoo on her lower back: it looks like a swordfish or maybe a narwhal), but by the time Midge shuts off the tape recorder, she and Arthur are acting like old friends.
The photographer, whose name is Bettina, asks Arthur to come and sit by the window to be photographed. As he heaves himself up and shuffles over to the chair she has positioned for him, she yanks the curtains open—all the way. I expect Arthur to freak, but he doesn’t say a word, just lowers himself into the chair and stares out to sea as Bettina snaps, fusses with the camera and snaps some more. Arthur sits patiently, talking to Midge in between shots.
“Beautiful woman, my first wife,” he says. “Met her in Budapest just after the war. Voice of an angel. We came back to Canada together, but she never stopped missing her family. Her country. She died giving birth to Marta. I didn’t know what to do.”
Tears form in his eyes, and Midge reaches over and pats his hand. I want to say, “He let other people raise her—that’s what he did,” but I keep my mouth shut. I realize I’m not actually sure who looked after Aunt Marta, but I doubt it was Arthur. So I’m blown away by what he says next.
“I took a year off the concert circuit after Marta was born,” Arthur says, as if in reply to my unspoken comment. “But I needed to be earning money, so I hired a nanny to travel with me and look after Marta. When Marta was five, I bought a house in Toronto, and the nanny, Coralee, moved into it with Marta. I came home as often as I could, but I didn’t see Marta as much as I should have. I know that. Coralee and I got married in 1958, but once Marta went off to university, we divorced. I was never home, and Coralee wanted a child of her own. Haven’t seen her in years. She must be almost eighty now. An old lady. And Marta…she says she doesn’t even remember the years of touring with me. All she remembers is her private school and Coralee.”
“I’m sure you did your best,” Midge says. I stifle a snort. Arthur nods solemnly. Bettina keeps snapping.
Arthur’s eyes start to droop, and suddenly I want to get these women out of the house. I want Arthur back in his old clothes, sitting at his desk watching Little House. I want to go back to the photo albums and find pictures of Aunt Marta and Coralee.
“He’s toast,” I say. “I mean, I think he’s done as much as he can.”
Midge and Bettina nod and start to collect their things as I help Arthur back to his chair behind the desk. Before they leave, Midge and Bettina crouch down, one on each side of Arthur (allowing me a closer look at the tattoo—definitely a narwhal) and thank him for his time, for his generosity, for his story. He smiles as they kiss his papery cheeks.
“I’m going to write a book, you know,” he says, his voice low and slow. “The story of my life.” He taps his bald head. “It’s all up here. Every bit of it. Haven’t forgotten a thing.”
Midge nods and puts her business card on his desk. “If you ever need any help…,” she says.
“That’s what I’ve got him for,” Arthur says, pointing at me. “Him and a MacBook.” He chortles at the look on my face, which must be a combination of surprise, dismay and grudging admiration. I remember the empty file named Me. He’s totally conned Midge and Bettina into thinking he’s a great human being, and now he thinks he’s going to con me into helping him write the fantasy version of his life and times. No way. I didn’t sign on to be a ghostwriter. Just a babysitter.
Ten
The day after the interview, Arthur and I drive to his tailor to get fitted for our tuxes. The shop is basically two rooms on the main floor of a shabby old house in Oak Bay. The front room is the showroom and fitting room. Floor-to-ceiling shelves hold bolts of fabric, and a bunch of well-dressed, blank-faced mannequins stand at attention along the back wall. The back room is a workroom, full of sewing machines, cutting tables, ironing boards and half-constructed suits. There is no sign outside, no cash register, no overhead lighting, no sales associates, no mood music. Just one ancient gnome-like man in a dusty suit with a tape measure and a piece of tailor’s chalk, and three silent old guys in the back room, hunched over their work. I half expect Tiny Tim to pop out and say, “God bless us, every one.”
“Mr. Wadsworth and I go way back,” Arthur says as I ease him into a wingback chair, the only furniture in the room. “He used to make suits for British royalty, isn’t that right, Ben?”
Mr. Wadsworth nods gravely. “Long time ago, Mr. Jenkins. Long time ago. Savile Row, it was. Been here for almost fifty years now.”
“Ben followed his heart. Didn’t you, Ben?” Arthur says. “Married a Canadian nurse after the war. She wanted to come home, so he came with her.”
Mr. Wadsworth smiles. “And I’d do it again,” he says to me. “Yes, I’d certainly do it again. Got away from all that pomp and circumstance, didn’t I? No royalty here, just good fellows like your grandfather. Always a need for a beautiful bespoke suit, even in the colonies.”
He wheezes out a laugh and advances toward me with his tape measure, a little cloud of chalk dust following in his wake, like Charlie Brown’s friend Pigpen.
“Bespoke?” It sounds like something to do with bicycles, which can’t be right.
“Made to measure, my boy. Made to measure.”
“Oh.”
“Stand still, stand still,” he says as he wraps the tape measure around my neck. I gag a little, and he mutters, “Sorry, sorry,” and moves on to my chest. After each measurement he says a number twice before he moves on to the next measurement. Waist, shoulders, arms, hips, inseam (gross), crotch (even grosser), outside leg, thigh, knee, ankle. There may have been more, but he goes so fast I can’t keep track. When he’s done, he asks me my age, weight, height and whether I am right- or left-handed, repeating every answer twice after I say it. Then he scurries into the back room and reappears a few minutes later with a notebook open to an amazing sketch of me—front and rear views—with all my measurements in all the proper places. I swear it takes him less than five minutes and it even looks like me. Me in a single-breasted tuxedo, that is.
“Black shirt or white, young sir?” he asks.
“Black?” I say. I’ve seen guys at the Oscars doing the black-on-black thing and it looks pretty cool, especially with a shaved head.
“Excellent choice. Excellent choice. Flat front or pleats?” He gestures at the pants.
“Flat front. Definitely flat front.” Even I know pleats are for geeks and old men.
“Very good. Very good. Double vents or single?” This time he points to the back of the jacket.
“Single, I think. More streamlined, right?” I’m kind of getting into it now, imagining what I’ll look like in my bespoke tux. A young James Bond? A total asshole? It could go either way.
“Yes, yes, quite right. And peak lapels on the jacket, I think. Yes, peak lapels.”
I have no idea what peak lapels are, but I figure Mr. W. knows what he’s doing.
“And what about one of those?” I ask, pointing at one of the mannequins, which is sporting a blood-red vest.
Mr. Wadsworth glances at Arthur, who nods.
“A waistcoat. Splendid.” Mr. Wadsworth smiles and pats my arm, leaving a perfect imprint of his hand. “Perfectly splendid. Silk and wool blend for the suits, Mr. Arthur?” Mr. W. scuttles over to the wall of fabric, scrambles nimbly up a wooden ladder, grabs a bolt of material, clambers down and drapes the fabric over Arthur’s lap. He’s kind of like one of Santa’s elves on crack. Arthur caresses the fabric as if it’s a woman’s hair and nods his approval again.
Mr. W. rubs his hands together and coughs when he inhales the resulting flurry of chalk dust.
“Your turn, Mr. Arthur,” Mr. W. announc
es. He goes through the same measuring process with Arthur, producing an eerily accurate drawing in less time than it takes to take a leak.
Arthur decides on a white shirt, pleat-front pants and no waistcoat. I choose patent leather dress shoes, but Arthur declines shoes, mumbling something about his bunions. We make an appointment to come back for a fitting; Mr. W. promises that the tuxes will be ready in plenty of time for the gala event. “We’ll put you to the front of the line, Mr. Arthur,” he says. “Front of the line.”
We’re almost home when Arthur says, “Where did you get those shoes?”
“Which shoes?”
“The ones you’re wearing.”
“These?” I lift my foot off the gas. I’m wearing red Adidas, but I can’t imagine why he cares where I bought them.
“Uh, downtown,” I reply. “At a store downtown.”
“Take me there,” he commands.
“Why?”
“I want some to wear with my tux.”
“You want Adidas? For your tux?” I turn toward downtown, wondering if this is the dementia talking or what.
“I want to be comfortable. And stylin’.”
“Stylin’, Arthur?” He really is watching too much MTV.
“Just drive,” he growls.
It’s pretty weird taking your ninety-five-year-old grandfather into a store that caters to dudes in baggy low-rise jeans, vintage track jackets and unlaced skate shoes, but Arthur’s all over it. Gone is the bloody-minded crank I have to put up with. In his place is a sprightly old hipster, oozing charm and good will. Within five minutes, he’s got the owner fitting him for shoes and another guy showing him funky T-shirts, while I skulk behind a display of Baby Phat jeans and enormous rhinestone-encrusted handbags. By the time we leave, he has two new pairs of shoes (yellow Adidas and black and white Puma hightops), a Stussy camo hoodie, a pair of Oakley sunglasses and two new friends whom he’s invited to the gala.
Death Benefits Page 7