Death Benefits by Sarah N. Harvey Page A

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.”
    â€œHow come?” I ask.
    â€œPrairie 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.”
    â€œYour sister?”
    â€œElizabeth. 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.
    â€œI’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t know.”
    â€œThere’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.
    â€œDead. 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.
    â€œI’m sorry,” I say again.
    â€œOur 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.
    â€œMom, neo-Nazis don’t usually wear orange Converse All-Stars and T-shirts that say Lunenburg Folk Festival Volunteer .”
    â€œEven so, Rolly…Royce,” she says. “You look different. Older.” Like that’s a bad thing.
    â€œYou should see Arthur,” I mutter.
    â€œWhat about him?”
    â€œUh, 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.
    â€œRoyce! 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