Death Benefits (10 page)

“Black shirt or white, young sir?” he asks.

“Black?” I say. I've seen guys at the Oscars doing the black-on-black thing and it looks pretty cool, especially with a shaved head.

“Excellent choice. Excellent choice. Flat front or pleats?” He gestures at the pants.

“Flat front. Definitely flat front.” Even I know pleats are for geeks and old men.

“Very good. Very good. Double vents or single?” This time he points to the back of the jacket.

“Single, I think. More streamlined, right?” I'm kind of getting into it now, imagining what I'll look like in my bespoke tux. A young James Bond? A total asshole? It could go either way.

“Yes, yes, quite right. And peak lapels on the jacket, I think. Yes, peak lapels.”

I have no idea what peak lapels are, but I figure Mr. W. knows what he's doing.

“And what about one of those?” I ask, pointing at one of the mannequins, which is sporting a blood-red vest.

Mr. Wadsworth glances at Arthur, who nods.

“A waistcoat. Splendid.” Mr. Wadsworth smiles and pats my arm, leaving a perfect imprint of his hand. “Perfectly splendid. Silk and wool blend for the suits, Mr. Arthur?” Mr. W. scuttles over to the wall of fabric, scrambles nimbly up a wooden ladder, grabs a bolt of material, clambers down and drapes the fabric over Arthur's lap. He's kind of like one of Santa's elves on crack. Arthur caresses the fabric as if it's a woman's hair and nods his approval again.

Mr. W. rubs his hands together and coughs when he inhales the resulting flurry of chalk dust.

“Your turn, Mr. Arthur,” Mr. W. announces. He goes through the same measuring process with Arthur, producing an eerily accurate drawing in less time than it takes to take a leak.

Arthur decides on a white shirt, pleat-front pants and no waistcoat. I choose patent leather dress shoes, but Arthur declines shoes, mumbling something about his bunions. We make an appointment to come back for a fitting; Mr. W. promises that the tuxes will be ready in plenty of time for the gala event. “We'll put you to the front of the line, Mr. Arthur,” he says. “Front of the line.”

We're almost home when Arthur says, “Where did you get those shoes?”

“Which shoes?”

“The ones you're wearing.”

“These?” I lift my foot off the gas. I'm wearing red Adidas, but I can't imagine why he cares where I bought them.

“Uh, downtown,” I reply. “At a store downtown.”

“Take me there,” he commands.

“Why?”

“I want some to wear with my tux.”

“You want Adidas? For your tux?” I turn toward downtown, wondering if this is the dementia talking or what.

“I want to be comfortable. And stylin'.”

“Stylin', Arthur?” He really is watching too much MTV.

“Just drive,” he growls.

It's pretty weird taking your ninety-five-year-old grandfather into a store that caters to dudes in baggy low-rise jeans, vintage track jackets and unlaced skate shoes, but Arthur's all over it. Gone is the bloody-minded crank I have to put up with. In his place is a sprightly old hipster, oozing charm and good will. Within five minutes, he's got the owner fitting him for shoes and another guy showing him funky T-shirts, while I skulk behind a display of Baby Phat jeans and enormous rhinestone-encrusted handbags. By the time we leave, he has two new pairs of shoes (yellow Adidas and black and white Puma hightops), a Stussy camo hoodie, a pair of Oakley sunglasses and two new friends whom he's invited to the gala.

“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.”