Sarah N. Harvey - Death Benefits

Death
Benefits

SARAH N. HARVEY

Death
Benefits

ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

Copyright 2010 Sarah N. Harvey

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Harvey, Sarah N., 1950
Death benefits / written by Sarah N. Harvey.

Issued also in an electronic format.
ISBN 978-1-55469-226-2

I. Title.
PS8615.A764D42 2010 JC813.6 C2010-903589-5

First published in the United States, 2010
Library of Congress Control Number: 2010929078

Orca Book Publishers is dedicated to preserving the environment and has printedthis book on paper certified by the Forest Stewardship Council.

Summary: Royce is pressed into service as caregiver for his ninety-five-year-old grandfather and gradually comes to appreciate the cantankerous old man.

Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

Design by Teresa Bubela
Typesetting by Nadja Penaluna
Front cover image Zoomstock/Masterfile
Back cover image by Dreamstime

www.orcabook.com
Printed and bound in Canada.

13 12 11 10 4 3 2 1

For Lynne

Contents

I cant take it anymore.

My mom is on the phone in the kitchen. I think she is crying. Or else her allergies are acting up again. Either way, she sounds miserable. She blows her nose vigorously as she listens to whoevers on the other end. I stop halfway up the stairs from the basement. I could easily slip back down to my room or sneak out the basement door, but something in her voicedesperation tinged with anger, muddied by snotkeeps me on the fourth stair from the top. That and the fact that shes obviously talking about me. Again.

Hes impossible, Marta, she says. Absolutely impossible. Doesnt have any friends. Sleeps all day. Watches TV all night. Never showers. Refuses to cut his hair. Pushes his dirty dishes under the bed or stuffs them in drawers with his dirty underwear. Im at my wits end.

I want to leap into the kitchen and say, Hey! Its only two oclock. Im up. Ive had a shower. Im dressed. And I never put dirty thingsdishes or underwearin drawers. I leave them on the floor. And when were you in my room anyway? I have standards. Low ones, but still. She shouldnt be talking shit about me. Its true I havent cut my hair for three years, but I wash it every couple of days. Its very fine and super straight, just like Moms. Youd think shed be a bit more sympathetic. And now shes complaining to Marta, whos probably not surprised to hear that her poor fatherless nephew is turning out so badly.

Marta is my auntmy moms half sister. Shes at least sixty to my moms thirty-eight, and shes lived in Australia for years. Mom says she went as far away as she could without sacrificing a country club membership. Aunt Marta comes back to Canada once in a while, but she hasnt visited us since we moved across the country from Lunenburg, Nova Scotia, to Victoria, British Columbia. We came here to be closer to my grandfather, whos ninety-five. He was a famous cellist, back in the day, and he never lets anyone forget it. Marta calls him a monster of self-regard. Mom says hes just understandably self-involved, being so old and all. I dont know anyone else that old, so I dont know whether old age always goes hand in hand with rampaging egotism. From what I can gather, hes always been that way, so my guess is that its not an age thing. Its just Mom trying to put the best possible construction on a shitty situation, like she always does.

I dont know what to do, she says now. I need to find somewhere for him to go. Soon. Otherwise Im going to have a breakdown. I mean it, Marta. Cart me away to the bin. Put me in a straitjacket. Give me a lobotomy. I dont care. At least Id get some rest.

Somewhere for me to go? Whats she talking about? I hate it here, but the only place I want to go is back to Lunenberg. I mean, I cant help it that Im home all the time. I got mono right after Christmas, and by the time I was feeling better, school was about to close for spring break and then Easter. Id missed so much school that I was able to convince Mom to let me finish the year by correspondence. And yeah, Im alone a lot. Back home I had a few really good friends, guys I grew up with, but hereno one. Not yet anyway. Mom says its early days, but shes wrong. I just dont have the energy for a social life. Or the interest. Even before I got mono, I couldnt muster up any desire to go to a movie, say, or a hockey game. Not that anyone asked. So the days slip by. A little schoolwork, a little TV, a little music, a lot of sleep. Some food, preferably microwavable. I dont have meals with my mom. Even when I was little, I hated eating with other people. I hate seeing all that half-chewed crud when they talk or laugh. Nobody has any manners. My mom used to laugh and call me Little Lord Fauntleroy. Now she sighs and turns away from me as I stomp downstairs with my dinner.

Its not like shes around much anyway. In spring and summer shes usually out the door by eight oclock at the latest, working in other peoples gardens until early afternoon. She comes home, has a shower and eats something before her piano students start arriving at about three. Some nights the Bach-bashing goes on until nine oclock. Mom snacks in between students. She eats standing up, staring at her reflection in the window above the kitchen sink. If I stood beside her, this is what I would see: one tall, pale, bony person (me); one short, tanned, wiry person (her). Same stringy hair, same brown eyes, same wide mouth. Same great teeth, but you cant see mine because Im not smiling. Different noses. Mine is a beak. Hers is small and veers slightly to the right when she smiles. Apparently I have the Jenkins nose, whatever that means. On weekends she works in our garden and practices the piano. And now she says she cant take it anymore and she wants to get rid of me. Harsh.

I know we cant afford anything fancy, Mom is saying. It just has to be clean. Shes silent for a minute, her fingers playing a fugue on the placemat. She always does that when shes anxious. Plays Bach on a phantom piano. Maybe Aunt Marta is suggesting that I be shipped off to a detention center or something. Except I havent done anything criminal. Yet. Mom says, Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Maybe youre right. No, I dont think hes drinking a lot. I do all the shopping and he never asks for wine or anything. Yes, I suppose he could call one of those Dial-a-Bottle places.

Drinking. Right. Im sixteen. I have no friends. I have no money. The only alcohol in the house is a bottle of Kahla that my mom occasionally spikes her after-dinner coffee with. I drank some once and it almost made me puke. Give me a beer any day. How would I get drunk? Even if I wanted to, I just cant be bothered.

I dont know about drugs. I dont think so. Mom sounds dubious. I never see any of the signs. As if she would notice if I was stoned. I used to smoke up with my buddies back homewed come back to my place all chatty and hungry, and she was so happy that I had friends over that shed make us brownie sundaes or blueberry pancakes. I have no idea how to score here, and it wouldnt be any fun alone anyway.