In the days following Arthur’s death, all I do is sleep and hang out with Mom and Coralee. I feel exhausted and sore, as if I’ve just ridden my bike over the Rockies. All my muscles ache, my chest feels heavy, my hands are always cold, my tongue feels thick and unwieldy, like a hunk of sausage. I wonder if I’ve picked up a bug at the hospital, but Coralee says it’s grief and that it will pass. Mom calls the school and tells them I will be back soon. They are sympathetic, but one of my teachers drops off my homework anyway; it gathers dust in the living room.
It turns out there are lots of things to be done after someone dies—boring, necessary things like ordering death certificates and canceling life insurance and applying for death benefits (there are benefits?), but the only thing Mom asks me to do is come with her to the funeral home to arrange Arthur’s cremation. The funeral home is in a low, ugly modern building on a busy street. A Muzak version of “Wichita Lineman” is playing on the muted sound system in the green and tan lobby. A droopy fake orchid sits beside a brochure rack on a low wooden table. The lighting is so dim no real plant could survive. The man who greets us is short, balding and middle-aged. His plaid jacket strains over his belly, and his tie has what look like ketchup stains on it. Or maybe it’s blood. He speaks in hushed tones, as if he’s reading from a script, which he probably is. His name tag says Orville Beatty.
He takes Mom’s hand in both of his. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
Mom nods and tugs her hand away. “Thank you. This is my son, Royce.”
He nods at me and ushers us into a room where we sit around a table, and he asks questions which Mom answers in a monotone. I zone out a bit, so I’m startled when Mom and Orville stand up and leave the room. I get up and follow them into a gloomy subterranean chamber filled with coffins. Very gothic, except that “You Light Up My Life” is oozing out of hidden speakers. Creepy.
“I thought he was being cremated,” I whisper. The room is very cold. Maybe there are dead bodies nearby.
“He is,” Mom replies. “Apparently you still need to buy a coffin.”
“Bizarre,” I say. “Why?”
Orville gives me a sharp look, as if he has just realized I’m a teenager and therefore unpredictable. “It’s the law,” he says stiffly.
“That’s enough, Royce,” Mom says. “Help me choose, okay?”
“I’ll leave you alone,” Orville intones as he backs out of the room.
“Thanks, dude,” I say.
Mom and I stand in the center of the room and gaze at the coffins. Or caskets, as Orville called them. Some are lined with white satin, some have ornate brass hardware, some are polished to a high gloss, some have little Dutch doors for viewing the remains. My favorite is made of unpolished wood, wide at the shoulders and narrow at the feet, like something you’d see in a Western.
I point it out to Mom. “Maybe Arthur would like the Deadwood model. Simple, elegant, timeless. Comes complete with cowboy boots, a ten-gallon hat and a six-shooter.” She giggles and puts a hand to her mouth. “Shhh…”
“Or how about this?” I say, pointing to a cardboard coffin on the floor. “The Ikea model. Sleek, modern, biodegradable. Easy to assemble. Requires no tools. Buy now and get two for the price of one. Your family will thank you.”
“Stop it, Rolly,” Mom says. “It’s not funny.”
She’s still smiling, though, when she chooses the plainest wooden coffin in the room. “I know it makes sense to just get the cardboard one, but it seems so… undignified. Disrespectful.”
I shrug. “This one’s cool, Mom. Can we go now? This place is freaking me out.”
“Me too,” she says, “Just one more thing and then we can go. We have to choose an urn for the ashes.”
“An urn? What’s wrong with, like, a big margarine container? Or an ice-cream pail? We’re just going to scatter the ashes, right? It’s not like we’re going to put them on the mantelpiece or set up a shrine.”
“No, but—”
“So why spend money on an urn?”
“I don’t know, Royce. Don’t argue, okay?”
Turns out there are infinitely more urns than coffins: marble, wood, glass, metal or china formed into every conceivable shape and theme. Did the deceased have a hobby? Well, there’s an urn for that. Seriously, you can put Uncle Bob’s ashes in an urn shaped like a golf bag or the gas tank of a motorcycle. Aunt Betty might prefer the pink teapot urn or the brass praying hands. I want to get one shaped like a pair of motorcycle boots for Arthur (even though technically he didn’t die with his boots on), but Mom vetoes that idea, and we settle instead on a plain cedar box. Orville mysteriously reappears as soon as we make our decision. Maybe the room is bugged, and he has been listening to us in the next room. Maybe he knows from experience how long people spend choosing coffins (sorry, caskets) and urns. I don’t know what I’d been expecting—overstuffed couches, Mozart, maybe some complimentary coffee and cookies—but all Orville says when we’re done is, “Will you be paying by debit or credit card?” followed by, “The cremains will be ready for pickup in a week.”
Cremains?
Hey, Arthur, looks like you’re going to be a portmanteau.
Eighteen
I go back to school a week after Arthur’s death. I could stay away longer, but I don’t see the point. I am sad, but not distraught or anything. Mom has Coralee and Lars to hang out with, so it isn’t like I’m needed at home. Coralee is staying for the reading of the will. At some point there will be a small gathering of Arthur’s local friends, after which the three of us will scatter the ashes at Cattle Point. I’m not much use when it comes to party planning, so I leave them to it. As long as there’s food, I’ll be happy.
Dani is waiting for me at the bike racks when I get to school on Monday morning. She’s wearing a short plaid skirt and a tight striped orange T-shirt I haven’t seen before. She looks hot, as usual.
“Hey,” she says. “You ready for this?”
“Yeah,” I mumble as I take off my helmet and lock up my bike. “It’s…weird. Kinda surreal. Did I miss much around here?”
She shakes her head, and her hair falls across her face. I’m not sure, but it looks as if she’s put in some highlights. Or maybe it’s just the way the light is catching it. “Nah. The usual. Break-ups. Break-downs. Nothing major. Everyone missed you though.”
“They did?” My voice makes a humiliating squeak, like I’m thirteen again.
“Course they did,” she says. “Dumb-ass.” She turns and walks toward the school, her red courier bag slung across her body. I grab my pack and follow her into the school, feeling better than I have in days. All because she called me a dumb-ass.
The reality of how much I’ve missed and how hard I’m going to have to work sets in during my biology class. Ignoring the homework that had been delivered to my house wasn’t the smartest move I’ve ever made, but the teachers seem prepared to cut me some slack. For now. Some kids avoid looking at me when we pass in the halls, but lots of girls, many of whom I’ve never seen before, come up to me and say, “I’m soooo sorry about your grandpa. Are you okay?” Most of them touch me too— usually on the arm. I smile bravely and say, “I’m good.”
“How long you figure you’re going to be able to play the dead-grandfather card?” Dani’s friend Josh asks me after the last class of the day.
“Shut up, Josh,” his girlfriend, Taylor, says. “That’s so, like, insensitive.”
“I’m just sayin’,” Josh mutters. “No offense.”
“None taken,” I say. “I’m giving it, I don’t know, maybe a month. Then it’ll be getting old.”
Josh gives me a fist bump (for a second I think he’s going to hit me) and turns to Taylor and says, “See, he’s cool with it.” She looks at me for confirmation and I smile. I am the master of cool. And really, it’s not as if I haven’t already thought about it. It’s the kind of thing Arthur would appreciate.
“Later, dude,” Josh says. “We gotta bounce. Soccer practice.�
�
“Later,” I say.
When I get home, there is a note from Mom: she and Coralee are at the caterer, choosing food for the wake, or whatever we’re calling it. As far as I know, a wake involves a lot of alcohol and maybe some wailing. I can do without the wailing part, but some alcohol might be good. I’ve invited Dani, and I know she’s not averse to a drink or two. She’s not into getting wasted, or anything, but if Arthur’s wake isn’t a good excuse to get buzzed, I don’t know what is. With any luck, we’ll be able to grab some food and a bottle of wine and hide out in my room for the duration. I make a mental note to wash my sheets.
Arthur’s lawyer, Ms. Copeland, comes to our house for the reading of the will. I get to leave school early to attend, which is a bonus. The lawyer is about my mom’s age, but way better dressed: she is wearing a form-fitting white jacket with a skinny knee-length black skirt. Red lipstick, red nail polish, high heels, very short spiky black hair. I can see why Arthur hired her.
After introductions are made and coffee offered, she sits on our lumpy couch and starts to read the will, which begins with a lot of legalese. I am mesmerized, not by the words, but by the shape of her upper lip (she has a pronounced cupid’s bow) and the smidgen of black lace visible where her lapels meet. I am imagining what lies beneath the lace, when she speaks.
“First of all, Mr. Jenkins wanted me to point out the date this will was revised. He called me to the house in May to make certain amendments. He was completely lucid. Understood?”
She looks up at me, and I nod. She has my full attention, although I’m not sure what she’s talking about. She clears her throat and starts to read.
“To my daughter, Marta Johnson, of Sydney, Australia, I leave my house in Provence and its contents.
“To my dear friend, Coralee Hunter, of Toronto, Canada, I leave my house in New York and its contents.
“To my daughter, Nina Peterson, I leave my house in Victoria, British Columbia. The contents of the house are also hers, with the exception of the following items, which are to be given to my grandson, Royce: the 1956 T-bird, the MacBook Air and all my photo albums. There is also a letter for Royce in my safe deposit box.
“The royalties from my recordings are to be split between my daughter, Nina Peterson, and her son, Royce. Royce’s portion is to be placed in trust until he is twenty-one, or earlier for purposes of education or travel. His mother, Nina, is to be the executor of said trust.
“My Francesco Ruggieri cello is to be sold; the proceeds are to be used to establish a foundation in my name to maintain music programs in schools in rural areas. The foundation is to be managed by my daughters, Nina and Marta.
“To Kim Adams, I give one hundred thousand dollars, with the understanding that, as long as she remains in business, my grandson Royce will be given free haircuts.
“To Ben Wadsworth, I give one hundred thousand dollars, with the understanding that, as long as he remains in business, he will make suits for my grandson Royce.
“My stock portfolio is to be divided equally between my grandchildren and the foundation.”
“Jesus,” Mom whispers.
“Holy fuck,” I say. For once, nobody calls me on my language.
“Ditto,” says Coralee.
“Is all that clear?” says Ms. Copeland.
The three of us nod dumbly.
“Then I’ll get probate started, shall I?” Ms. Copeland asks. “As you know, he made you the sole executor, Mrs. Peterson, so I’ll be needing you to sign a few things over the next little while. But it’s fairly straightforward. Should all be done in a few months.”
“A few months,” Mom echoes.
“Yes. Submit any bills for the upkeep of the house to me—Mr. Jenkins left a healthy retainer. He was very thoughtful. Always kept things in order.”
“Yes,” Mom says. “I guess he did.” Except for the living will, I think.
She shows the lawyer out while Coralee and I sit and stare at each other. I can’t get my head around it all, especially the part about the car. He left it to me months ago, right after I started driving him around in it. It made no sense. I didn’t even think he liked me then. I know I didn’t much like him. Was I going to have to spend the rest of my life feeling guilty? Or could I just put it all down to the dementia, forget about it and enjoy being—let’s face it—rich? Or at least rich on paper.
Mom comes back into the room and sits down on the couch.
“He gave me the house, Royce. That beautiful house. And I wasn’t even nice to him.” Her eyes fill with tears, and she grabs a couch cushion and buries her face in it. Even in death, Arthur can make Mom cry.
“Nonsense, Nina,” Coralee says. “You moved here. You and Royce looked after him. You have nothing to apologize for.”
Mom moans something into her pillow that sounds like, “But I didn’t love him. Not the way I should have.” At least you didn’t try to off him, I think.
Coralee gets up, yanks the pillow away from Mom and smoothes the damp hair away from her face. “You did what was right with as much grace as possible, Nina. Arthur was lucky to have you—both of you. He wasn’t an easy man to love. Now, we’re all going to be rich— shouldn’t we raise a glass to our benefactor?”
Mom nods and gets up and goes to the kitchen. I can hear her getting glasses out of the cupboard, and I think I should help her, but I still can’t move. I have an awesome car, a laptop, a trust fund and a bunch of old photo albums. Not to mention the free suits and haircuts. It’s unreal.
“I meant what I said,” Coralee says to me. “You have no reason to feel bad. That wasn’t what Arthur wanted. He wanted you to enjoy yourself. Get an education. Go to Australia and get to know your cousins.”
Mom comes in carrying three wineglasses, a corkscrew and a bottle of white wine, which she holds out to me. I open the bottle and pour the drinks. We stand and raise our glasses.
“To Arthur,” Mom says, her voice and hands shaking.
“To Arthur,” Coralee and I echo, clinking our glasses against Mom’s.
And then I do something I never thought I’d do: I get wasted with an octogenarian. And my mom.
In the days before the wake, I help Mom and Coralee get Arthur’s house ready for guests. I set up rented tables and chairs, and lug cases of wine and trays of wineglasses. I vacuum the floors, sweep the deck and scrub the kitchen while Mom and Coralee fuss with flowers and food. There is no agenda, no minister, no master of ceremonies. Mom may say a few words. She may not.
My main contribution to the event is a slide show that I set up on Arthur’s—my—MacBook. I buy a cheap scanner with some of the money I earned in the summer and scan almost a hundred photos from Arthur’s albums. Then I create a soundtrack, a mix of classical music, show tunes, the Pussycat Dolls and, of course, Louis Armstrong singing “It’s a Wonderful World.” Sometimes I wonder if I imagined Arthur croaking “skies of blue,” but I know it happened. I like to think it meant something, that he was telling me he’d had a wonderful life, that he wanted me to enjoy my own “skies of blue,” that he was ready to go. Maybe that’s just wishful thinking. Maybe his last words were random and meaningless, but I prefer not to think that.
Coralee helps me identify some of the people in the pictures—friends, musicians, lovers, wives, children. She has an amazing memory for detail, often identifying a person first by an article of clothing—a fur hat, a Cardin coat, a pair of wing-tip shoes; or a place—Paris, New York, London, Toronto; or an object—a car, a fringed lamp, a red velvet chair.
Together we sift through the photos, picking out people, places or things of significance: Arthur and his long-dead siblings; Arthur playing his first cello; Arthur and Lenci in Prague; Arthur and Marta in Toronto, with Coralee in the background in a white nanny’s uniform; Arthur and Mom in Paris at a sidewalk café; Arthur in a series of vehicles—the Indian motorcycle, a red MG TC, a silver Austin Healy, a black Jaguar Mark IX, the black T-Bird. What I can’t get over is how happy he looks in
most of the pictures: his smile is broad and confident; his eyes are fringed with laugh lines. I had looked at the albums before and never noticed how much he seemed to be enjoying himself.
“He looks like a different person.” I point to a picture of Arthur on a teeter-totter with Marta. “I never met that guy.”
Coralee gazes at the picture. “I took that. We were in Caracas, of all places. It was one of the few trips we took as a family. We were very happy. These pictures remind me of something I read once: ‘The past is a foreign country. They do things differently there.’ I can hardly believe we were there, but here’s the evidence.”
“So what happened?”
“Nothing. Everything. Loss. Old age. After you hit puberty, it’s just one thing after the other until the day you die. You have some good years in your twenties, after you’ve stopped embarrassing yourself constantly and before your back goes out and your knees start to creak. And those are just the physical things. They say as you get older, your essential nature is revealed. Sort of like a balsamic reduction of the soul.”
“But not everybody ends up like Arthur. You’re not like that.”
“Like what?”
“Bitter. Mean. Angry.”
“Thank you, dear. But I have my moments. Doesn’t everyone? And wasn’t he also generous and funny?”
“I guess,” I mumble, remembering how often he pissed me off, how I resented cleaning up after him, how I coveted his car, how I wanted him to die, how his farts made me laugh, how good he looked in his tux.
Death Benefits Page 14