Death Benefits (5 page)

“You're going to look at cars? Why?”

She seems a little slow on the uptake today, for some reason. Maybe she needs more coffee. I pour a little more into her mug.

“I figure that if I work for four months, I'll have enough money to buy a pretty sweet car before I go back to school.” I don't mention that the school I'll be driving to is in Nova Scotia. She's got enough on her plate already.

“A car, Rolly…” I glare at her and she says, “Royce. How will you insure it? Pay for gas? Cars are expensive to run, and I don't want you driving some heap of junk. I'm not sure this is a good idea at all. How about just— I don't know—saving the money?”

“Right, Mom,” I say. “And I'm also going to cut my hair and buy a pinstripe suit for the Young Investors' Club annual retreat. Oh, and after that, I'm going to a Tony Robbins motivational workshop.”

“Okay, okay, I get it.” She sighs. “Maybe save a bit of it—ten percent? Make your old mother happy?”

“Ten percent, huh?” I do a quick calculation. Ten percent ought to cover my insurance costs for a year. “Maybe. Don't worry so much. I'm not gonna buy the first beater I see. Research, research, research. You know me. Remember how long it took me to choose a bike?” My bike search was legendary—almost a year's worth of
Consumer Reports
, online searches and test rides—but I hardly ride it anymore since we moved here. Too many hills. Not enough energy.

She gets up and puts her dishes in the sink. “I gotta run,” she says with a sigh. “The old coot awaits. Maybe we can get pizza for dinner.”

I feel bad that she has to spend her weekend with Arthur, but not so bad that I offer to take her place. I can't face another day with him. Monday morning will roll around soon enough, I figure.

“Take a book, Mom,” I say. “There's not much to do, unless you like CNN and MTV.”

“I'm going to take him out. He needs to do something other than stare at a television screen. I don't know how long it's been since he left the house for anything other than a doctor's appointment.”

“Good luck with that,” I say, imagining the scene: Mom wrestling Arthur in and out of the truck; Arthur berating Mom about her driving, the price of a cup of coffee, the draft from her open window, her choice of career, her parenting skills.

After she leaves, I go back to bed and try to sleep, but the stupid song I heard at Arthur's is stuck in my head:
You cut me open and I keep bleeding…
I give up trying to rest and start a load of laundry. I've got no clean clothes. Mom announced last week that since I was feeling better, I could start doing my own laundry. I've been waiting her out, seeing if she would crack, but she hasn't. The pile of dirty laundry is now about the size of a Smart car. Four loads later, I'm tired, but I can't sit still, so I drag my bike out of the garage, pump up the tires and ride it down to the beach. It feels good to be back on the bike again. I'd forgotten I had thigh muscles and that the wind feels good on my face. I ride for half an hour and then nap for three hours. When Mom comes home I'm asleep on the couch in the living room beside a pile of folded laundry. When I wake up, she smiles at me and says, “What have you done with my son?”

Five

O
n Monday I ride my bike to Arthur's. Having mono has messed with my stamina though; a couple of times I have to get off the bike and push it up a hill. When I get there, he isn't in his usual spot in front of the tv. The surface of his desk is littered with crumpled and stained paper napkins, used Kleenex, an electric shaver, two flashlights, a collection of dried-up pens, a bird's skull, a plate of congealed scrambled eggs, three dirty coffee mugs, a keychain with about a dozen keys attached, two phones (one of them a brand-new cell), his address book and his checkbook. Nothing unusual there.

His walker is in the dining room, by the piano. I search the whole main floor: no Arthur. I even go out on the deck, half expecting to see—what? That he'd climbed the railing and hurled himself onto the rocks? Not really Arthur's style. No audience. I go downstairs, yelling as I run from room to room. No response. What the hell? If Arthur has croaked, there goes my summer job and my car. He better not be dead. Not yet anyway. Just as I am pulling out my cellphone to call Mom, I hear a car start, very close by. A door that has always been locked is slightly ajar, so I follow the sound into what turns out to be the garage. In the garage is a mint-condition 1956 black T-bird. In the T-bird is Arthur.

“Holy shit!” I yell over the sound of the engine. “Dude, what are you doing?”

Arthur looks up and beckons me over. He rolls down the window and says, “Can't let the battery die,
dude
. I start her up once a week. Don't tell your mother. She took away my license, you know.”

I nod. Mom had literally wrestled the license out of his hands at the site of an accident where his car had jumped the curb and very nearly hit a little girl playing hopscotch on the sidewalk outside her house. The police who came to the scene found him parked on someone's lawn under a red maple. He was slurring his words, and at first they thought he was drunk. A breathalyzer test proved otherwise. His doctor said he might have had a small stroke or simply fallen asleep at the wheel. Either way, Arthur's driving days were over. I guess I had just assumed that the car had been sold. I'd never even seen it before today.

“That kid shouldn't have been out playing by herself,” he says. “Parents made a huge fuss. Not a scratch on her.”

“Close call though,” I say. I remember how upset Mom was, how she sent flowers to the girl's family, even though the kid was more frightened than anything else. Mom apologized to them over and over, promising that her father would never drive again.

“I don't let just anybody touch this car,” Arthur says. “A fellow from Vancouver comes over and takes care of her for me. Costs a fortune, but it's worth it. Tip-top shape, even now. Over fifty years old. Bought her off the lot, you know.”

It takes me a minute to register that he means that the car wasn't damaged in the near-accident. He doesn't give a shit about the little girl.

As if he's reading my mind, he adds, “I gave them money, you know.”

“What?”

“That kid's parents. Paid them off so they wouldn't go after me. Hope they used the money to hire someone to look after their kid—they sure weren't doing the job.”

Coming from a man who virtually abandoned his own children, this seems pretty rich.

“She's still insured, you know,” he continues, caressing the steering wheel. “I had my lawyer take care of that.”

“But you can't drive, Arthur,” I say. “No license— remember?”

He gazes up at me, and the expression on his face can only be described as crafty. Or demented. Or both.

“Maybe I can't drive,” he says, “but you can.”

I step back and hold up my hands as if he is training a gun on me.

“Whoa, Arthur. Back it up a bit. You want me to drive your car?”

“What's the matter, boy? Too much car for you? Not man enough?” I swear he cackles as he revs the engine.

“It's not that,” I say. “It's…” I don't finish my sentence, because suddenly I can't think of a single reason why I shouldn't drive this amazing car. “I only have my learners' license. I mean, I have to drive with a licensed driver and you're not…”

“I doubt whether Nina cancelled it. It's probably sitting in a drawer somewhere. You could probably find it, if you looked around.”

“So now you want me to snoop through my mom's stuff?”

“Not snoop, you pussy. Just find what's legally mine.” He turns off the engine and drags his legs slowly out of the car. “Help me upstairs,” he says. “And make me a cup of coffee.”

Getting him back upstairs is a challenge. I don't even want to think about how he got down by himself. I'll say one thing for him—he's one determined old guy. He has to use the handrails on the stairs to pull himself up. I walk behind him, like a spotter for a very feeble gymnast in the geriatric Olympics. He farts a couple of times as we ascend, which makes us both laugh.

By the time I get him into his chair, a thin film of sweat covers his face, his hands are shaking and his breath is coming in short, shallow gasps. He orders me to make him a
café au lait
, but by the time I bring it to him, he is asleep, his head lolling at an uncomfortable angle. As I prop a pillow under his neck, I notice that he misses a lot of spots when he shaves and that the crevasses (they're too big to be called wrinkles) that bracket his mouth look sore. Nothing much I can do about that, so I drink his coffee and go off in search of amusement. I'm pretty bored, and lunch isn't for a few hours. If he really does want me to drive the car, I figure I'd better check it out.

I leave the door open when I go back into the garage. I'm not worried about Arthur finding me down here; he's way too tired to navigate the stairs again. I just want to be able to hear the bell if he rings it. The garage is warm and clean. It doesn't smell like moldy sports equipment or old paint or fertilizer like our garage back home in Nova Scotia. The floor isn't oil-stained and littered with dried-up leaves and grass clippings and dirt. There aren't any empty beer bottles or stacks of old newspapers or banged-up patio furniture. There isn't even a lawnmower, which makes sense because there isn't a lawn. There is just the car, a scarred wooden workbench with some open shelving above it and a single rake.

I walk around the car, admiring its Jetson-like lines, the round windows in its removable hardtop, the whitewall tires, the word
Thunderbird
in script on the fin. 1956. Arthur would have been—what? Early-forties? I imagine him in a tuxedo and a long white silk scarf, fresh off a European tour, his hair still red, holding open the passenger door for a woman who looks like Audrey Hepburn. For all I know, he fucked Audrey Hepburn. It's entirely possible. I open the driver's-side door and slide into the seat. The interior of the car smells showroom-fresh, as if it's never been off the lot. Maybe Arthur sprays it every week with some nasty ozone-destroying new-car-smell-in-a-can. I adjust the seat so my knees aren't hitting the steering wheel; then I put my hand on the gearshift knob and my foot on the clutch. Which is when I notice two things: it's a three speed transmission, not a five like I'm used to, and the keys are in the ignition.

Theoretically, I could open the garage door and drive away. Maybe it would be worth it, even if I got busted for driving without another licensed driver in the car. Then again, if I got busted, Mom would find out and she'd be pissed beyond belief. She'd fire me and make me get a job at McDonald's. No way I'd make enough to buy my own wheels. No way I'd get back to Lunenburg. So I sit in the T-bird, fondling the gearshift and pumping the clutch. Pretty soon I've drifted into a dream about pulling up in front of my old school in the T-bird. The first bell is ringing and someone is calling my name. “Royce! Royce! Goddammit, boy. Get up here.” Oh, crap.

I take the scenic route home on my bike, enjoying the fact that I'm out on the road while everyone else is still in school. I arrive home sweaty and sore, take a shower and sit down in front of the
TV
with a Diet Coke and a bowl of nachos. It's not like I need diet drinks, but Mom thinks she does, so that's all she buys. I wonder what Arthur is watching, so I check out MTV and CNN. Lady Gaga or Larry King. Ugh. What Arthur really needs is that asshole Dr. Phil. Maybe he'd do an intervention, although it wouldn't be worth his time. Arthur isn't going to change.

After a few minutes of staring out the window, I get up and go to Mom's room. Her bed isn't made (bad Mom) and there are dirty clothes in a pile by the door. There's a stack of books on her dusty night table, along with her reading glasses and a glass of water (not scummy, I'm happy to report). I stand in the doorway, wondering where she would put Arthur's license. I pray it's not in with her underwear. I'm not going there. The most obvious place is the tiny desk that sits under the window. She has an old laptop and a printer that she uses for scheduling and billing her garden clients and piano students. Bills are in a wicker basket. There's a mug full of pens and a moldy cup of coffee on a coaster made from an old tile. The desk has two drawers. The top one is full of office supplies, the bottom one is obviously the “junk” drawer, although we have one in the kitchen too. Old rubber bands, push pins, recipe cards, take-out menus, string, a broken ruler, scissors, a pill bottle full of teeth (mine, I assume), an assortment of screws and picture-hangers, some gum, packages of photos and, lo and behold, at the very bottom, Arthur's license. Good picture. Even four years ago he didn't look as wrecked as he does now. I pocket the license, close the drawer and sneak out of Mom's room, feeling a weird combination of triumph and shame. No adrenaline rush, so I probably don't have a future as a criminal. Maybe I can point that out to Mom if she ever finds out I took the license.

The next day when I get to Arthur's, I make a big production of giving him the license, as if I had scaled Mt. Everest to get it. He simply grunts and says, “Where's my coffee?”

“You're welcome,” I say. I mess around in the hall closet while he has his coffee. There are about fifteen jackets and coats on wire hangers: a red plaid lumberjack shirt, a maroon velour leisure jacket, a classic beige trench coat, a brown corduroy jacket with leather elbow patches, tweed (lots of tweed), and an ancient, smelly Cowichan Indian sweater with a moose on the back. I slip on an awesome green leather bomber jacket circa 1972; the sleeves are too short, but the rest of it fits. I leave it on while I rummage around in a huge pile of hats on the shelf above the coats: four French berets, a grubby Tilley hat, three floppy-brimmed pastel cotton bucket hats, a tuque that matches the Indian sweater, a khaki cap with a flap to keep the sun off your neck, a suede fedora (which I put on), a tweed newsboy cap and a big straw Panama Stetson.