Death Benefits (6 page)

Behind the hats are about twenty photo albums. Each one has a date range written on masking tape stuck to the cover. I pull one out: 1955–1958. The black paper is flaking and the glue behind the pictures has dried up. A picture flutters to the floor just as Arthur summons me with the bell. Before I put the picture back in the album, I examine the woman standing beside Arthur in the photo. Is she my grandmother? Impossible to know. She is tall and curvy, with dark hair in an elaborate beehive, dark lipstick and large, even teeth. I turn the photo over and see a name: Coralee. Not my grandmother then. All I know about her is her name—Bella—and that she played the violin. My mother has no pictures, no keepsakes. Nothing.

When I get upstairs, Arthur takes in my jacket and hat. He snorts. “You look like a pimp.”

“Thanks,” I reply, “although I was sort of aiming for low-life, small-time drug dealer.”

“That too,” Arthur says. “Let's go for a ride.”

“Now?”

“Yes—now. I'm bored. Get me a coat. One of the tweed ones. And a beret. And bring a box of Kleenex.”

“Kleenex?” I shudder, envisioning unscheduled bathroom breaks at the side of the road.

“Drafts make me sneeze.”

“Right,” I say. “One tweed coat, one beret, one box of Kleenex, coming up.”

Before we go, Arthur has to pee, brush his teeth and get down the stairs, this time with me in front of him. While he's in the bathroom, I tape a homemade
L
(for
Learner)
sign in the back window of the car. No sense tempting fate. Even though he seems stronger today, it still takes half an hour to get him down to the car and buckled into his seat.

He reaches into the glove compartment and pulls out the garage door remote.

“Where to?” I ask as the door rises behind us.

“Top Down.”

“I thought you hated drafts. It's not very warm out yet.” Not that I don't want to drive with the top down. It's just that I'd rather do it without him in the passenger seat.

Arthur slaps the dashboard with a gnarled, liver-spotted hand. “It's the name of a barbershop, boy. You need a haircut.”

Six

I
nstead of arguing with Arthur, I concentrate on backing the T-bird out of the garage. That's when I discover that the car does not have power steering or power brakes or synchromesh. Or at least it feels as if there is no synchromesh when I shift. Just getting into reverse is a challenge. It doesn't help that every time I stall or grind a gear, Arthur swears and tries to wrestle the gearshift away from me. By the time I get the car out of the garage and into the driveway, I am sweating and my heart is racing. I take a moment to try to relax before I back out into the street.

“What are we waiting for, boy?” Arthur asks, turning in his seat and glaring at me.

“Waiting for you to stop being a jerk,” I mutter.

“What?”

“Just making sure the gearshift works, Art. Don't want to wreck your car.”

“Easy as pie,” he says. “What's your problem?”

“No problem,” I say as I miraculously manage to get us out onto the street and heading down the hill without grinding, stalling, crashing, or smacking Arthur.

“Take the ocean route,” Arthur says when we get to the bottom of the hill.

I turn right, and we drive in silence along the waterfront. I'm starting to get the hang of the gears, and the car feels awesome. People gawk at us as we drive by, and Arthur waves at them, especially the young women.

“Car like this, boy, you get laid all the time,” he says as we roll up to a Stop sign beside a really hot girl in a pink tank top and plaid short-shorts. She is walking a golden retriever and she gives the car a huge smile and a little finger-waggle. I wish I believed that she's smiling at me, but I know it's the car. Then Arthur cranks down his window (I'm surprised he has the strength) and says, “Ditch the dog and come for a ride with us, sweetheart.” Her smile vanishes and she yanks on the dog's leash and jogs away, calling “Pervert!” over her shoulder.

“Good one, Arthur,” I say.

“Pussy,” Arthur replies.

I've never been to a barbershop—my mom cut my hair until I decided to let it grow—but I'm kind of expecting old guys, cigars, spittoons, scuffed lino on the floors and baseball on the radio. Top Down actually has one of those red-and-white-striped barber poles outside, but that's the only traditional thing about it. Inside there's track lighting, dark wood floors, black leather client chairs, a wall-mounted flat-screen
TV
, jazz coming out of hidden speakers, shelves of “product” and a proprietor who is tall, black and definitely female.

“Say hello to Kim, boy,” Arthur says as she kisses him on both cheeks and does what can only be described as croon over him. He must tip well.

I stick out my hand to shake hers. “Contrary to what Arthur would have you believe, I do have a name. I'm Royce Peterson. His grandson.”

“Pleased to meet you, Royce,” she says. “Good-looking boy,” she says to Arthur.

“Good genes,” Arthur says.

“Now, what can I do for you boys?” Kim asks.

“He needs a haircut,” Arthur says.

“So do you,” Kim replies. She turns to me and strokes my hair. Her nails are long and red and her hand smells flowery, but with a whiff of something tangy—ammonia maybe, or peroxide. “Time for a change?” she asks me.

I shrug. “Maybe. What do you think?”

“Definitely,” Kim says, leading me over to a shampooing station and draping a zebra-print cape over my shoulders. I lean back and close my eyes as she wets my hair and massages shampoo into my scalp. Her breasts are only inches from my face. It doesn't take long before I am deeply grateful for the voluminous cape covering my lap. When she is finished, we make our way over to a cutting station where I adjust myself surreptitiously while Kim assembles her tools and combs my hair. Arthur has taken up residence on a white leather couch and appears to be asleep.

“So…what were you thinking?” Kim asks.

“I wasn't. Arthur was.”

“Arthur.” She laughs. “What a character.”

I nod at myself in the mirror as she runs her fingers through my wet hair. Her lips are pursed and she is frowning slightly, as if my hair is confusing her somehow.

“Take it all off,” I say. I have no idea why I've grown my hair this long, and I have no idea how I know it's time to cut it off. I just do.

“You sure?”

“Yup. All of it. I want to see what my skull looks like.”

“Just what I was thinking,” Kim replies. “You have a beautiful skull. Let's get it out of hiding.”

It doesn't take long. And as it turns out, I do have quite a shapely skull. She has left a bit of fuzz—for girls to touch, she says, although I have my doubts about that. I run my hands over the fuzz and stare at myself in the mirror. I look completely different—older, for sure, and tougher.

Arthur wakes up with a snort and glares at me.

“You joining the army, boy?”

“Oh, Arthur,” Kim says. “Stop your nonsense. He's gorgeous. Just look at that shape.” She glides her hand over my fuzzy head and gives a small shiver. “Gorgeous,” she repeats. “Your turn now,” she says as she helps Arthur to the shampoo station.

“Why don't you get yourself a coffee next door, Royce?” Kim says as she snugs the cape around Arthur's scrawny neck. “Just tell them to put it on my tab.”

I nod and go to the coffee shop, where I'm pretty sure the barista, a guy about my age, is flirting with me while he makes my drink. It's not my scene, but even so I take it as confirmation that I've done the right thing. It's weird to feel the air on my scalp. Exposed, but also free. Free of what, I'm not exactly sure.

When I get back to the shop, Arthur is bald. Totally bald. No fuzz even. Shaved to the skin. Shiny. And grinning from ear to ear, which is almost as scary as his bald head. His teeth aren't exactly white. The term
death's-head
comes to mind.

“Holy shit, Arthur,” I say.

“Holy shit, indeed, Royce,” he says. “Where's my coffee?”

“Coffee?” Was I supposed to get him a coffee? I can't stop looking at his head. And mine. Side by side in the mirror I see something even scarier than his bald head: a family resemblance. My head is the same shape as his, from my wide, high forehead right down to a couple of prominent bumps at the base of my skull. Our noses are identical—the Jenkins beak. I run my hand over the back of my head and he cackles.

“Bonking bumps,” he says.

“What?”

“They're called bonking bumps—the ones at the base of your skull. Size does matter. I had a girlfriend who believed in phrenology. We tested her theory—often.”

Kim rolls her eyes and helps him out of the chair. He pats her ass, and she winks at me and says, “Runs in the family, then, does it?”

Who knew an entire head could blush? Or that a wink could be so welcome?

When we get home I give Arthur his lunch, and he sleeps for nearly two hours. When he wakes up, he is beyond grouchy. His head is cold and he insists on wearing the Cowichan tuque. He's also convinced that I shaved his head (and my own) while he slept. He has no recollection of going to Kim's shop or of telling her to turn him into a cue ball. He doesn't believe me when I tell him he let me drive the car.

I give up trying to persuade him otherwise and focus on calming him down with ice cream and bad television. He's branched out lately to watching reruns of
Little House on the Prairie
on some oldies cable channel. I'm in the kitchen putting his dinner together when he announces, “My father shaved our heads every summer.”

“How come?” I ask.

“Prairie summers were hot. Blazing hot. We spent most days in the swimming hole. Naked and bald, swinging from ropes. Girls weren't allowed. My little sister had long red ringlets and petticoats. Our mother wouldn't let her play with us. She was supposed to be learning to be a lady. It wasn't fair, but we boys didn't care.”

“Your sister?”

“Elizabeth. She died of diphtheria when she was ten.”

This is the first I've heard of a sister. I'm having a hard time with the idea of Arthur swinging from a rope at a swimming hole; it's even harder to imagine his sister, doomed to an eternity of embroidery and watercolors.

“I'm sorry,” I say. “I didn't know.”

“There's a lot you don't know,” he says. “I had an older brother too. Robert. Bobby. He was Mother's favorite. She didn't much care for me.”

I totally get why she felt that way. “What happened to him?” I ask.

“Dead. Got bitten by a neighbor's rabid dog when he was thirteen. In those days there was no cure.”

I don't know what to say. If Mom knows any of this, she has never told me.

“I'm sorry,” I say again.

“Our father shot the dog. Almost shot the neighbor too. Would have if my mother hadn't stopped him.” He gives a short bark of a laugh before he turns back to the tv. I wonder if he still misses them—Elizabeth and Bobby—or if most of the time it's as if they never existed. I don't know which is worse—forgetting your siblings or never having them in the first place.

That night, Mom freaks out when she sees my hair. Or lack of it. After years of telling me to get a haircut, she claims I've gone too far and that I look like a skinhead. A neo-Nazi. A thug.

“Mom, neo-Nazis don't usually wear orange Converse All-Stars and T-shirts that say
Lunenburg Folk Festival
Volunteer
.”

“Even so, Rolly…Royce,” she says. “You look different. Older.” Like that's a bad thing.

“You should see Arthur,” I mutter.

“What about him?”

“Uh, he's bald too. Balder than me. Totally shiny. Once you get used to it, it's kinda cool. Literally. His hat collection's coming in handy.”

I laugh and Mom says, “You think this is funny? You're supposed to be looking after him, Royce, feeding him and keeping him clean and safe. Being responsible. Not letting him shave his head. What's next? Tattoos? Piercings?”

The minute she says it, I'm planning our next outing. Me and Arthur at the tattoo parlor. It's weird, the word
parlor
. The only time you ever hear it now is with the word
tattoo
, but I bet Arthur's sister had to sit in the stuffy parlor while Arthur sailed through the air at the swimming hole. I'm so stoked on the idea of getting tattoos on my bonking bumps—my initials, maybe?— that Mom has to yell at me to get my attention.

“Royce! Your grandfather has dementia, you know. Diminished capacity. His decision-making is compromised. Do you understand what that means?”

I nod. Diminished capacity for what? Sex? Probably, although he still talked a good game. Food? Yeah. Driving? Definitely. Walking? Yup. Personal hygiene? Undoubtedly. Cello-playing? For sure. But he wasn't dead yet. Not quite. He still had a huge capacity for leering, inappropriate touching, bad
TV
, ice cream, coffee, mockery and insult.

“Royce, are you paying attention to me?”

“Yup.”

“How much did the cab cost?”

I am about to tell her I drove the T-bird, when I realize that she's in no mood to see it as a convenience rather than an illegality. I doubt whether she'll ever be in the mood. After all, I did search her room for Arthur's license, which, for all I know, has been revoked. I'll have to tell Arthur to keep the whole driving thing under his hat. Ha ha.

“Uh, yeah, the cab,” I tell her. “Arthur has an account.” To distract her I add, “You never told me about Elizabeth and Robert.”

“Who?”

“Elizabeth and Robert. Your aunt and uncle.”

“I don't have an aunt or an uncle,” she says.

“Technically, no. But you could have. Arthur had a brother and a sister—they both died when they were kids.”