Death Benefits (4 page)

I position his walker next to the chair, swivel him around and grasp his forearms to try to pull him up. It's the first time I've been this close to him, and it's not a pleasant experience. He is skin and bones under his grubby old-man cardigan, and he smells pretty funky. I don't even want to think about the origin of the smell. There is dried drool on his chin and big flakes of dead skin rest on the collar of his plaid shirt. Tufts of hair are growing out of his ears. I pull slowly on his arms, and he staggers to his feet, swearing at me as he grabs the walker's handles.

“I'll have bruises tomorrow,” he mutters as he begins the trek to the bathroom. “Even that cow Mavis knew how to get me out of my chair.”

I put my hand out to steady him as he passes, and he swats at me with one arthritic claw. When he loses his balance and starts to fall, I grab him under the arms and set him upright again, surprised at how heavy he feels. Deadweight, that's what it's called.

“Get your hands off me,” he grunts.

“No problem,” I reply.

It's going to be a very long summer.

Somehow I make it through the next five hours. Watching the old
TV
downstairs, napping in the monk's cell. Every time I find a show I want to watch or I nod off, he rings the bell and yells for me. He wants a drink, he wants food, he wants his nail clippers, he wants a list that he swears is posted on the refrigerator, he wants a particular pen. Everything I do is wrong. The drink is too cold or too hot or too sweet or not sweet enough. The grilled cheese sandwich I make him for lunch is too brown and has too much cheese. The soup is lumpy. The nail clippers are dull. The list is nowhere to be found and the pen has run dry. Except for trips to the bathroom, he sits in his chair, staring at the
TV
. He flips back and forth between CNN and MTV. He hates all news anchors, especially the female ones, but he's a big fan of the Pussycat Dolls.

When he says, “I'd like a piece of that,” I'm pretty sure he's not talking about Nancy Grace. He leans forward in his chair to get a closer look at a blond woman in thigh-high stiletto boots, fishnet stockings held up by a black lace garter belt, sequined short-shorts and a silver bustier. She's totally hot, in a skanky sort of way. I agree with Arthur—I, too, would like a piece of that, but I'm not about to share that with him.

“They look like hookers,” he chortles. “Cheap hookers. No class. But you wouldn't know about that, would you, boy? Still a virgin, I bet.”

Wouldn't you like to know, old man, I think. No way I'm telling him that the furthest I got was a blow job from Georgia (“Peaches”) Millman last year at my going-away party. Peaches and I grew up together. We lived on the same street and went to the same school. Her best friend was dating my best friend. She was like her nickname: round and juicy and sweet. We hung out all the time, usually with other people, but sometimes we'd cut class and come back to my house and watch movies and make out. I wish I'd had a chance to make our relationship official, although I'm not really sure how you do that—cheap jewelry, red roses, a candlelit dinner and a romantic movie? None of that felt right, so I did nothing other than try to get her to take off her bra. Maybe the blow job was Peaches' way of sealing the deal. Even if it wasn't, it was pretty effective. She was one of the main reasons I wanted to get back to Lunenburg, even if I had to hitchhike. There was nothing for me here. Unless you counted a cranky, shriveled-up old man.

Arthur swivels his chair to look at me and, maybe it's my imagination, but I think he winks at me before he turns back to the tv. Winking freaks me out. Always has. Mom says that when I was little I had night terrors about someone I called The Winking Man. Come to think of it, he kinda looked like Arthur. I shudder and try to think about something else. I wonder whether Arthur was still a virgin when he was my age. In 1931. Hard to imagine. According to Mom, he was a musical prodigy with a mane of dark red hair, which he wore in a style she calls leonine. In other words, long and swept back from his face, like Charlton Heston as Moses or Kenny Rogers circa 1980. His eyes are a very pale acid-wash blue, with a dark ring around the iris. His hair is still long but it's faded to the color of melted orange sherbet, and it's so greasy I can see comb marks in it. I run my hands through my own hair and vow to wash it as soon as I get home.

By the end of my workday, the sink is full of dirty dishes, and I can smell the garbage under the sink. I risk pulling the kitchen curtains back and cracking open a window, but he feels the draft, even two rooms away.

“Shut that window, boy,” he yells. “You trying to kill me?”

Fortunately he can't see me nod. I follow the instructions Mom has given me: I put his frozen dinner in the microwave so he can nuke it later. I'm supposed to set the table, but I figure he can wash a knife and fork. At two o'clock, Mom phones to say she's on her way.

“Gotta go, Grandpa,” I say. “See you tomorrow.”

He grunts. “Don't call me Grandpa, boy. Makes me feel old.”

I stare at him. He's ancient. Wrinkled, stooped, gnarled. Forgetful, rude, smelly. How could he feel anything but old?

“Well, don't call me boy, then,” I say. “I'm not your slave. And don't call me Rolly either. My name's Royce.”

We glare at each other for a moment. I can think of a lot of things to call him, none of them complimentary. I hear Mom honk, and as I turn to leave, he says, “Call me Arthur.”

“Okay,” I say. “Arthur it is.”

He grunts again, and I'm outta there.

Four

I
spend the first week of my servitude watching reruns, burning sandwiches, eating ice cream and snooping. When I find a full bottle of Scotch in the back of one of the kitchen cupboards, I take it home with me. Arthur is enough to drive anyone to drink. I wish it was beer, but, as Mom always says, beggars can't be choosers. I also find cans of soup with expiration dates from before I was born, and bottles of soy sauce from the Ming dynasty. One morning, when I'm rooting around in the extra bedroom upstairs, I discover a state-of-the-art (for 1970) Bang & Olufsen stereo system under the bed. In the cupboard, under some old blankets, are boxes and boxes of
CDS
, cassettes and
LPS
, many with Arthur's photograph on the cover. A lot of them are still factory sealed. Even though I know he was famous, this is the first time I realize just how famous he was. He recorded with people even I've heard of: Yehudi Menuhin, Pablo Casals, Yo-Yo Ma. And now he listens to rap and hip-hop and the Pussycat Dolls, for fuck's sake. You'd think it would be torture for someone like him. When I think about it, I realize that there is nothing in the house, besides the piano, that would give away the fact that a musician lives here. No photographs, no instruments, no mementos from his travels. He might as well have been an accountant. Or a hit man. That's more Arthur's style.

Before I have a chance to put the stuff back in the cupboard, the bell rings and he yells for me. I go into the living room, where he has muted the
TV
and sits glowering at his twisted hands, as if they are responsible for his current sorry-ass state.

“I need a shower,” he announces.

I've been dreading this moment. I have no idea what to do, or how much help he requires—Mom's instructions were vague. “Just follow his lead,” she said. Like we're doing the tango. I get him out of his chair, and we totter down the hall toward his bedroom, which has an adjoining bathroom with a walk-in shower.

When I try to come into the bathroom with him, he brushes me away as if I were a mosquito.

“This is as far as you go, boy. Just stand outside the door in case I fall. And bring me some fresh towels. No one ever changes the towels. It's like drying yourself with a sheet of plywood.”

I find some clean towels in a hall cupboard and pass them in to him. In a few minutes the shower starts, and I stand outside the door, praying that he doesn't slip on a bar of soap. Mom will be pissed if he gets hurt. After a while, I get bored and start looking around the room, which is illuminated by a single bug-encrusted ceiling fixture. There are dirty clothes everywhere. Mom hasn't said anything about doing laundry, so I don't touch them. There are bottles of pills on the bedside table—Valium, Dulcolax, Tylenol, low-dose Aspirin, Synthroid, a multivitamin—and numerous glasses of scummy water. I'm considering boosting the Valium when Arthur comes out of the bathroom in a gray flannel bathrobe. His hair is dripping onto the collar of the robe, which isn't tied shut. I get a quick flash of scrawny white thighs and a caved-in chest before he turns away from me and struggles with the belt. Maybe this is how it all started with Lily, although I doubt he'll be asking me to sit on his lap.

“Clean clothes,” he barks. “Get me some clean clothes.”

I find socks and underwear in a dresser drawer; shirts and pants are hanging up in the closet. He shoos me away as he sits on the bed and pulls up his briefs. While he dresses, which takes a really long time, I try to figure out how much money there is in a jar of change on his dresser. He has trouble with his socks, but there's no way I'm going to risk slitting my wrists on his gnarled toenails, and I'm not about to suggest a session with the clippers. After a few minutes of struggle, he tosses the socks on the floor and jams his bare feet into his toeless slippers. Then he towels his hair a bit and runs a filthy black rat-tail comb through it.

“Ever wash that comb, Arthur?” I ask.

“None of your business, boy,” he replies as we make our way back to the living room.

“We had a deal, Arthur. Remember? About my name?”

“I'm old, but I'm not an idiot, Royce,” he says. “I remember. Now get me some ice cream.”

By the end of the first week, I've explored most of Arthur's house. My most significant discovery is a brand-new MacBook Air, which I find in his desk drawer one afternoon when he's in the bathroom. There's only one file on the hard drive: a document entitled
Me
. The document is blank. Hard to believe Arthur has nothing to say on that topic.

When Mom picks me up on Friday, she comes in to say hello to Arthur, who is ensconced in his usual place, watching Anderson Cooper on CNN.

“Faggot,” he yells at the screen. “I knew your mother. Gloria Vanderbilt. Skin and bones. Married that bastard Stokowski.”

“Hey, Dad,” Mom says. “Royce looking after you okay?”

Arthur turns away from the screen and grimaces at me. If I didn't know better, I might almost think it was a smile. Mom calls Arthur's smile an endangered species— as dangerous and elusive and powerful as a snow leopard or an angel shark and so rarely seen as to be mythical.

“That's good then,” Mom says, as if he has spoken.

“See you Monday, Arthur,” I say as I pick up my pack in the kitchen. “Your dinner's in the microwave.” I start toward the door, anxious to get away from him and get my money from Mom, but his voice stops me before I reach the door.

“You don't care, either of you. I'm just a nuisance, an old, used-up, useless piece of garbage. I'd be better off dead.” His voice has a quality I haven't heard before— self-pitying, needy.

“Oh, Dad,” Mom sighs. She's still in the living room, and now she's crouching beside his chair, stroking his arm. “You know that's not true. I'll be here tomorrow. Maybe we can go for a drive. Get a coffee and sit by the ocean.”

He shakes his head sorrowfully, as if to say, “What's the point?” and I want to scream at Mom, “He's playing you. He's fine. It's a guilt trip.” She's always telling me how manipulative he is, how he always gets his own way, but she still buys into it. Like the time he told her he was having chest pains so she wouldn't go away for the weekend with her friend Carol. Turns out he needed his house cleaned because some old girlfriend from Budapest was coming to stay. Mom swore she wouldn't fall for his bullshit again, but I guess old habits die hard.

“We'll talk about it tomorrow,” Mom says. “I'll be here bright and early. Okay?”

She straightens up and leans over to kiss him on the cheek. He pulls away, and she ends up kissing the air and patting his shoulder.

“Bye, Dad,” she says.

“Later, dude,” I call from the door.

Arthur picks up the remote, switches to MTV and cranks the volume. A woman's plaintive voice follows us out the door. “
You cut me open and I keep bleeding…
” I wonder if that's the way Mom feels.

When we get to the truck, Mom tosses me the keys. I hop into the driver's seat. As I do up my seatbelt, I look over at her and see that she is crying. Again.

Way to go, Arthur.

I start to tell her that Arthur's an asshole, but she waves my words away.

“Just drive,” she mumbles. “I'll be okay.”

We drive home in silence.

Saturday morning arrives and I wake up early, which is a piss-off, since I don't have to get up. I try to go back to sleep, but I can hear the shower running upstairs, and a few minutes later the fridge door opens and closes. Mom is up and on the move. I'm now awake enough to be hungry, so I head upstairs. Mom's at the kitchen table, sipping coffee and reading the Saturday
Globe
. She looks up as I come into the kitchen.

“It's Saturday, you know,” she says. “You're not on duty.”

I nod and pour myself a coffee, just to be sociable. With enough cream and sugar it's almost drinkable. I actually prefer the taste of tea, but it's not exactly the beverage of choice for sixteen-year-old guys. I stand leaning against the sink, wondering if there are any waffles in the freezer.

“Couldn't sleep,” I tell her. “Thought I'd check out some cars today.”

“Cars?”

“Yeah, you know? Four wheels, seats, internal combustion engine.”