Death Benefits

by Sarah N. Harvey

  “Dress up,” he advises them as we leave. “No baggy jeans, no camo, no obscene T-shirts.”

  They nod and smile like bobble-head dolls. Really cool bobble-head dolls in three-hundred-dollar kicks.

  “See you later, dude,” they chorus. One of them gives Arthur a fist bump which almost knocks him over.

  “Nice boys,” Arthur says as we drive away.

  The closer the gala gets, the grumpier Arthur becomes. When we go for our final tux fittings, he complains about everything: the cost (too high), the fit of his pants (too tight), the temperature in the shop (too low). Mr. W. is patient, but I can tell he’s happy when we leave. The gala is on a Sunday, and the plan is for Mom to get Arthur ready for his big evening. We have to be at the hotel by seven, so Mom’s supposed to come home around five to do whatever it is she needs to do before she goes out. A limo will pick Arthur up at six fifteen and then swing by for us. Simple enough, except that Mom phones me at three o’clock and tells me that Arthur has barricaded himself in his room. Whenever she tries to get him to let her in, he bellows, “Send the boy.”

  “Can you come over?” she asks.

  “Jeez, Mom. What for?” I ask. “He’ll just yell at me too. Or throw shit at me. No thanks. He’ll get over it. Anyway, I was just going out.”

  “Where?”

  “Car dealership.”

  “Oh, Rolly,” she sighs. “Couldn’t it wait?”

  I’m actually not even dressed, and I haven’t done much all day other than sleep and eat and watch tv. I thought about checking my Facebook page, but I’m not sure I want to know what my buddies back home are doing. Probably not hanging out with demented old men, that’s for sure. My friends and I used to joke about getting out of Lunenburg right after high school. Going to the big city—Halifax or Toronto or Vancouver. They probably think I’m lucky—I got out early. I try to imagine what I would say if I wrote to anyone now.

  Hey, I’m babysitting my grandpa for the summer. I had mono so I’m not going to school. I shaved my head. I’m getting a bespoke tux. Your buddy, Royce.

  For all I know, they’ve forgotten my existence. What’s that saying? Out of sight, out of mind. I have no hard evidence that absence makes the heart grow fonder. When I first got to Victoria, I talked to my buds a lot, spent a lot of time on Facebook, but as time went on it sort of withered away—on both sides. I had nothing to say, and I didn’t want to hear about the latest camping trip or how one of them had scored with Peaches.

  I sigh and tell Mom I’ll be over as soon as I can.

  When I get to Arthur’s house, Mom is sitting on the deck staring out to sea. There’s no actual furniture on the deck, so she’s just sitting cross-legged, with her back against the house. I sit down next to her and she says, “This is ridiculous.”

  I nudge her a little bit with my shoulder. “Yup.”

  She nudges me back and says, “What’s wrong with me?”

  “Uh, Mom? It’s not you. He’s nuts. You’re fine.” She starts to speak, but I cut her off. “Yeah, I know. He’s not, like, certifiable or anything, but for practical purposes— for our purposes—it’s easier to just think of him as nuts. That’s what I do. Keeps the expectations low. In five minutes he’ll probably be telling me to go away and begging you to come back.”

  I get up and pull her to her feet.

  “But why today, Rolly? His big day. All I was doing was trying to help him get dressed.”

  I shrug. “Who knows? Maybe he’s scared.”

  “Scared? Arthur? He loves being the center of attention. He’s made a career out of being the center of attention.”

  “Yeah, but…”

  “But what? You think you know him better after spending a few weeks with him?” Mom stomps into the kitchen and grabs her purse and keys. “Fill your boots,” she says as she heads for the door. “I’m getting my hair done; then I’m going home for a bubble bath and a glass of wine. See you later.”

  The front door slams and I hear the truck start. It’s not like Mom to freak out, and I wonder what Arthur said to her, what button he pushed. There’s no sound from his room, and I’m tempted to let him stew for a while, but it’s getting late. I need to get him organized so I can go home and get ready myself.

  I bang on his door and yell, “Open up!” The door swings away at my touch and reveals Arthur in his black Jockey shorts, sitting on the edge of his bed.

  “It’s about time,” he says. “Your mother’s useless. Always has been.”

  Suddenly I’m tired of being levelheaded Royce. The good kid. The obedient son. I hate looking after Arthur. Right now, I hate Arthur.

  “You’re an asshole,” I say. “Just so we’re clear. I’m here to help you get ready, but I’m not listening to any more of your shit. Not about Mom. Not about me. People try to help you, you know? And what do you do? You insult them and mock them and make their lives a living hell. Why? Because you’re the great Arthur Jenkins? Because you feel sorry for yourself and you want everyone to feel as bad as you do?” My heart’s pounding, and my hands clench into fists. I want so much to punch him, but what satisfaction would there be in decking someone who can’t stand up without assistance? That would just make me a bully and an elder abuser, or whatever it’s called.

  “How dare you,” Arthur growls.

  “How dare I what? Call you on your shit? Oh, I dunno. Maybe it’s because you constantly trash my mom when she tries to help you. Maybe it’s because you call me boy instead of Royce. Maybe it’s because I’m pissed that my dad died when he was twenty-six, and I never got a chance to know him. Maybe it’s because it’s not fair that he’s dead and you’re alive. Maybe it’s because I hate living here. Pick one.” I’m breathing hard, the way I do after riding up a hill, and Arthur is staring down at his lap. I can see his ribs rising and falling; his skin is pale and saggy and flaky, like an albino elephant with psoriasis. It looks like he’s had a shower—a wet towel is on the floor by the bed—but that’s as far as he got.

  As I lean over to pick up the towel, he looks up at me, winks and mutters, “Congratulations on growing a pair.”

  I’m not sure how to respond—it would be weird to say “Thank you”—so I don’t say anything, and he doesn’t pursue it. Hard to believe that he likes it that I called him an asshole, but I have to admit that it felt good to ream him out. Really good. I pull the garment bag out of the closet, unzip it and lay the tux out on the end of the bed.

  I’m about to start putting on his shirt when he says, “Black silk socks. In the top drawer.”

  I rummage around until I find them and drop them on the floor by his feet. I notice the nails on one foot are long; on the other they are trimmed but ragged. The clippers lie on the floor by his feet. Maybe that’s what set him off—trying to trim his own nails. I don’t care. I’m not trimming his nails, and I’m not feeling sorry for him.

  He doesn’t say another word while I dress him and neither do I. We communicate by hand gestures, right down to the cufflinks and the shoes (he’s wearing the black and white Pumas). If I wasn’t so pissed with him, I’d tell him how awesome he looks, but instead I lead him to the kitchen table, tie a towel around his neck and give him his dinner. When he’s done, I help him back to his desk chair and get ready to go. The curtains are wide-open, which is weird, but I leave them alone, even when Arthur turns on the tv. If he wants my help, he can ask for it. Nicely.

  “See you later,” I say. “The limo’ll be here for you at six fifteen. Don’t forget to pee first.”

  “I’m not six,” he says.

  “Might as well be,” I say under my breath.

  The tux isn’t the most comfortable thing I’ve ever worn, but it’s definitely the most expensive. And the most flattering. I was afraid the patent leather shoes would look a bit, uh, effeminate, but they rock, as does the black shirt and the burgundy waistcoat. I run my hand over my nonexistent hair, check my nose for boogers and I’m good to go. Mom, on the other hand, is still fussing around in
her room when the limo driver comes to the door. His eyes bug out when he sees her. She’s wearing a tight black knee-length halter-top dress, high-heeled black shoes, dangly earrings and a sparkly red shawl. She pats her hair, which is long and full and wavy. Her fingernails are bright red.

  “Extensions.” She giggles. “Who knew? And look at you. My little boy…all grown up.” I bow, and she giggles again.

  The limo driver clears his throat, and Mom blushes. I offer her my arm as we go out. The limo is huge and we sit facing Arthur, who is huddled in a corner, looking miserable. No one speaks as we drive to the hotel. When we get there, everything changes. Suddenly Arthur is the life of the party, and Mom is whisked away by a woman who is already a little bit drunk and a whole lot silly. Me? I stand behind a potted palm and watch the show, which is mostly well-dressed people getting drunk on free booze and listening to a bunch of speeches about how great Arthur is. The guys from the clothing store turn up wearing suits and shades and a lot of bling. No camo. No baggy pants.

  I’m thinking about going over to talk to them when one of the catering staff, a really cute girl whose name tag says Dani, comes up to me with a tray of appetizers and says, “I know you. You’re in my math class. Or you used to be. There was a rumor going around that you were in jail.”

  Jail? Talk about an undeserved reputation. I will myself not to blush as I answer her. “I had mono.”

  “Oh, yeah? My friend had that. Totally sucks. When you coming back?”

  “Um, I don’t know. September, I guess.”

  “What are you doing here?” she asks.

  I take one of the appetizers off the tray, hoping to keep her with me a few minutes longer. I point to Arthur, who’s surrounded by laughing women. “He’s my grandfather.”

  “You’re kidding me. He’s, like, ancient. Way older than my grandpa.”

  “Yup.” I grab a shrimp roll and stuff it in my mouth. “He’s ninety-five.”

  She smiles as she stares at Arthur, who is now sitting in a wingback chair with a martini in one hand, holding court. “Sweet shoes. He’s sort of cute, for an old guy. Must run in the family.” She looks straight at me, her brown eyes bright, and this time the blush rises to my cheeks.

  “Awww, that’s so sweet,” she says, putting down the tray and whipping a pen out of her apron pocket. She writes a number on my palm, which I pray isn’t sweaty. “Call me. We should hang out.”

  I watch her ass swaying in her short black skirt as she walks away. I can’t believe it. A hot girl just came on to me at Arthur’s party, and there’s no one to tell. Not my mom, that’s for sure, although it looks as if at least one guy is hitting on her. Then the guest of honor breaks away from his harem and makes his way slowly toward me, a girl on each arm. He looks like a really ancient, wizened Hugh Hefner. He’s grinning at me, and I realize there is at least one person I can tell.

  Eleven

  The morning after the party, Mom sleeps in. Or to be more accurate, she stays in her room with a bucket beside the bed and the curtains drawn. I stick my head in to say goodbye before I leave for Arthur’s, but all she does is groan and pull the pillow over her face. Her black dress is on the floor, crumpled beside the sparkly shawl. I wonder if I’m going to find a similar scene at Arthur’s, although I don’t think he was drunk the night before, just happy. He fell asleep in the limo on the way home, and I had to undress him, get him to the bathroom and tuck him in while Mom entertained the limo driver by playing show tunes on the grand piano. By the time I got Arthur settled, she and the driver were singing a duet of “Some Enchanted Evening.”

  When I open the door at Arthur’s, the first thing I notice is a breeze coming from the living room. Now, the one thing I know for sure is that Arthur can’t stand drafts. It can be eighty degrees and humid, but if he feels a breeze, he goes on a mission to find its origin and eliminate it. He wears long johns year-round. So there’s no way he’s opened the door to the deck to let some fresh air into the house. I start to run, wondering if there’s been a home invasion, and if so, whether the MacBook is gone. Or the car. I’m momentarily ashamed that my first concern hasn’t been for Arthur, who might be bleeding to death on the Persian carpet. But he’s not there. Or in his chair. A dish of ice cream is melting on his desk, the TV is on and the door to the deck is open. Arthur is on the deck, lying in a heap beside an overturned chair and a bucket of water. He’s dressed in his bathrobe, and a damp cloth is clutched in his hand. He’s hasn’t been bludgeoned or robbed, but instead of feeling relieved, I feel angry. I don’t need this. Neither does Mom. He’s done something stupid, and we’ll have to deal with it. Like always.

  His eyes flutter open as he tries to raise his head off the deck.

  “What the fuck, Arthur,” I say. “Lie down. I’m calling an ambulance.” I pull my cell phone out of my pack and dial 9-1-1 while I run into the house for a pillow and blanket.

  “What is the nature of your emergency?” the 9-1-1 operator asks. The nature, I think. The nature is… what are the choices? Stupidity, arrogance, senility, pigheadedness?

  “Police, fire or ambulance,” she prompts.

  “Ambulance. He’s fallen. My grandfather. He’s conscious, I think. Or he was a minute ago.”

  She transfers me to someone else who takes my name and the address, and I go back out to the deck and slide a pillow under Arthur’s head and cover him with the blanket. He is very pale, and even though I don’t really know what I’m doing, I take his pulse, just to feel like I’m in control. It’s racing, so I check my own, for comparison. My pulse is also very fast. I have no idea what this means, although I can’t imagine it’s a good thing. His skin is cold and sweaty, which strikes me as an odd combination. There’s a bump the size of a Ping-Pong ball on the back of his head. It’s bleeding a bit, but I don’t touch it.

  “The windows…,” he mutters. “Filthy.” He’s slurring his words like he’s drunk, but I know he isn’t.

  “You were trying to clean the windows? What are you—insane?”

  He nods and then winces. “I’m cold, Rolly,” he whispers. “Take me inside.” Thank god I’ve watched a lot of TV: at least I know better than to move him. I get some more blankets and settle myself beside him to wait for the paramedics, who take their sweet time getting there. Or that’s what it feels like anyway. When the siren whoops to a stop outside the house, I let go of Arthur’s hand, which I hadn’t even realized I was holding, and run to open the door. The paramedics, a woman and a man, are gentle and patient with Arthur, even when he rallies a bit and tells them to go to hell.

  “No hospital,” he wails.

  “’Fraid so, old son,” the male paramedic says. “That’s a nasty bump you’ve got. Need to have it checked out.”

  “Anyone you can call?” the woman asks me. “Someone who can sign him in at the hospital?”

  “Call?”

  “An adult? Next of kin?”

  “I’m his grandson. I’ll go with him.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Sixteen. Almost seventeen.”

  She shakes her head. “Sorry. You can ride with him, but we really need an adult at the hospital.”

  “I’ll call my mom.” She nods and goes to help strap Arthur onto a stretcher. He’s protesting, but weakly, as we make our way out to the ambulance. Mom’s not picking up her cell—it’s probably turned off—so I call the home number over and over until she picks up.

  She sounds like she’s got a mouthful of cotton balls. “Rolly…wha—?”

  “Arthur fell. I called an ambulance. We’re on our way to the hospital. They need an adult and…”

  “Is he okay?” she asks. I imagine her sitting up in bed, clutching her head, trying to stop the bile from rising into her throat.

  “I don’t know. I think so, but they say he needs to be checked out. I didn’t know what to do, Mom.”

  “It’s okay, Royce. You called nine-one-one. That’s the important thing.”

  “I guess.” And I
did get him pillows and a blanket. “The ambulance is leaving, Mom. Will you be at the hospital?”

  “I’m on my way,” she says. All traces of the giggly, tipsy woman of the night before are gone. Arthur strikes again.

  At the hospital we spend hours at Emergency, waiting with Arthur in a hallway with about ten other people on gurneys. Apparently the ER is full, and Arthur’s injuries aren’t bad enough to get him in right away. With every passing minute, he gets more lucid and more verbal. When he finally needs to take a leak, things get nasty.

  “You’ll just have to use this, Mr. Jenkins. I can’t let you get up.” A nurse in a pink-flowered smock hands Arthur a gourd-shaped blue plastic jug which he smacks out of her hand. It makes a lot of noise as it skitters down the hall. At least it wasn’t full. Everyone is staring at us, but Arthur doesn’t care. He sits up, swinging his bony white legs over the edge of the gurney. Mom and I grab him before he tries to jump off.

  “Dad, please,” Mom says as we wrestle him down. “You can’t get up.”

  “I’m not taking a piss out here,” he roars.

  The nurse reappears with another blue jug that she thrusts at Mom.

  “Here’s another urinal,” she says. “That’s the best I can do. We’ll try to get him in soon.”

  “Try harder,” Mom snaps. She turns to Arthur, who is glaring at us, but immobile.

  He grabs the urinal, flings the sheet back, pulls up his hospital gown, sticks his dick into the mouth of the urinal and lies back on his pillows as the stench of his piss fills the corridor. Mom gasps and whips the sheet over him, but not quickly enough. “Disgusting!” “Sonofabitch!” “Nurse!” “Put that thing away!” The corridor rings with the sound of outrage. One old lady sits up suddenly and cries, “Where? Where?” Arthur closes his eyes and smiles as a different nurse appears and wheels him into the ER, pulls a curtain around him and takes away the urinal.