Death Benefits (20 page)

“Typical,” Mom says. “Ornery until the end.” We continue to stare at the blob, and just as I am about to point out that I have lost all sensation in my right arm and really need a shower, a small wave, probably from a passing boat, sweeps the blob and the flowers into the channel, where it begins to move out to sea, still remarkably intact.

“Goodbye, my love,” Coralee says.

“Goodbye, Dad,” says Mom.

“Later, dude,” I say. “Gotta go. I'm freezing.”

I run to the parking lot, the plastic bags dripping in my hand. I can't wait to get out of the wind. There is a garbage can beside the car, and I stop to dump the bags, figuring Mom isn't watching. Wrong again.

“Don't throw them away, Rolly,” she yells from the shore. “I'll recycle them.”

I pretend not to hear her, but I swear I can almost hear Arthur's raspy voice as I shove the bags deep into the garbage can: “What the hell are you doing, boy? It's too drafty in here. Get me a
café au lait
.” I laugh and run back to help Coralee over the rocky ground.

The day I pass my road test and graduate from Learner to Novice, I take Dani out on a real date: flowers, dinner at the Marina restaurant, a movie of her choosing and a post-movie toast to Arthur at Cattle Point. Not enough to make me drunk, but enough to bring tears to my eyes. I tell Dani it's because I'm not used to drinking whiskey. In reply, she kisses me and whispers, “Sure, Rolly. Whatever you say.” After that…well, let me put it this way: Arthur would have been proud of me.

When I get home from the date, I decide to finally read the letter Arthur left me. It's on top of my bookshelf next to my favorite picture of him, the one where he's on his Indian motorcycle. Coralee had it enlarged and framed for me before she left. She also gave me an antique print of an artichoke, with an inscription on the back:
Arthur Jenkins, circa 2010
. The letter's been gathering dust ever since the lawyer had it couriered over from the bank. Mom has asked about it a couple of times—she's more curious than I am, it seems—but she hasn't pushed it. Maybe she's upset that she didn't get a letter too. Not much I can do about that.

I'm not sure why I haven't opened it. No, that's not quite true. I'm afraid it'll be like one of those horror movies where a corpse reaches out from the grave and pulls the dim-witted but good-looking hero into hell. I'm afraid that Arthur has listed all my faults: my selfishness, my stupidity, my lack of musical talent, my inability to make a perfect
café au lait
, my lamentable virginity. I'm afraid he will say that his will, at least as far as I am concerned, was his final joke, that he never meant for me to have anything. That I don't deserve it. I'm afraid that I will believe him.

The envelope is plain, white, legal size. Nothing remarkable. Nothing to be afraid of. My name is printed on the front in shaky capital letters. The letter—actually it's more like a note or a memo—is written on lined yellow paper and dated the week before his first stroke. The handwriting is atrocious.

Dear Royce,
Take care of your mother.
Take care of the car. Always fill it with Premium.
See the world.
Get laid.
You did a good job. Thank you.
Arthur

I turn the letter over—there is nothing on the back. I read it again. The words are blurry.
You did a good job
. I put the letter back in its envelope and place it next to the photograph. For once, I'm happy to let Arthur have the last word.

Acknowledgments

Many thanks to my editor, Bob Tyrrell, as well as to the rest of Team Orca, particularly Andrew Wooldridge, Teresa Bubela, Dayle Sutherland and Kelly Laycock.

I benefited from the insight and experience of many patient friends, who read various incarnations of the manuscript and offered their impressions and suggestions. Sarah Gee, Leslie Buffam and Tabitha Gillman were early readers; Maggie de Vries, Kit Pearson, Monique Polak and Robin Stevenson weighed in later on; and Amanda Adams gave me valuable medical information. Sarah Mnatzaganian of Aitchison/Mnatzaganian Cellos in the UK graciously answered my questions about old cellos.

I would also like to thank my father, John Edgar Harvey, who died in 2008 at the age of ninety-five. He did not “go gentle into that good night,” and thus provided the inspiration (but not the model) for Arthur.

SARAH N. HARVEY
is an editor and the author of
Puppies on Board, The Lit Report, Bull's Eye, Plastic, The West Is Calling
and
Great Lakes & Rugged Ground
. She lives in Victoria, British Columbia. This book was inspired by her experience caring for her aged father.