Death Benefits by Sarah N. Harvey Page B

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.
    â€œRoyce, are you paying attention to me?”
    â€œYup.”
    â€œHow 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 After all, I did search her room for Arthur’s license, which, for all I know, has been revoked.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.
    â€œUh, yeah, the cab,” I tell her. “Arthur has an account.” To distract her I add, “You never told me about Elizabeth and Robert.”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œElizabeth and Robert. Your aunt and uncle.”
    â€œI don’t have an aunt or an uncle,” she says.
    â€œTechnically, no. But you could have. Arthur had a brother and a sister—they both died when they were kids.”
    Mom doesn’t say anything right away. She gets up and starts loading the dishwasher. Her face is flushed and she is chewing her bottom lip, a sure sign she’s upset. “He never talked about his childhood,” she finally says. “I knew that his parents were born-again Christians, real Bible-thumpers, and that he grew up in a little town in Alberta, but that’s about it.” Her voice is flat, and I wonder if she’s hurt that he confided in me and not her.
    â€œI think the head-shaving triggered his memory,” I say, as if that will somehow make her feel better. “His father used to shave Arthur’s head in the summer. He didn’t tell me much more. Just that his sister died of diphtheria; his brother died of rabies.”
    â€œI had no idea,” she says. She sounds sad and tired and discouraged. Maybe the tattoos will have to wait.

Seven
    T he next morning, Arthur is still exhausted. I make him his café au lait as soon as I get there, but it sits in front of him, untouched, as he dozes in his high-back chair. When he wakes up, he is disoriented for a minute, and I can see the fear in his eyes. I don’t think he knows who I am, but he knows he’s at my mercy. I could do anything: Tie him up. Rob him. Kill him, even. The laptop alone must be worth some decent coin. Ditto the car. People have killed for less. The moment passes and he picks up the cup of coffee, takes a sip and roars, “Scum!”
    For a second I think he’s referring to me, and then I realize that the milky coffee has formed a scum while he slept. I’m with Arthur on that one. Scum is revolting. I move to take the cup away from him, but he hurls it on the floor before I can stop him.
    â€œFor fuck’s sake, Arthur,” I yelp as I jump out of the way. “I can make you a fresh one.”
    For a split second, he looks ashamed of himself, but then he rallies.
    â€œClean up the mess, boy, before it makes a stain. Do you know what this carpet is worth? Pure wool. Got it at an auction in 1960. Made by Persian toddlers. They sign them, you know. See, right down there in the corner. Little initials made by little fingers. Probably got paid ten cents for the whole damn thing.”
    I get a rag and a pail of warm water and get to work on the coffee stain. He’s right about the initials. They’re tiny, and next to them is what looks like a little bird. My eyes sting when I think of some poor little kid going blind making carpets for rich people. It’s bad enough to be cleaning one.
    â€œI bought my first cello at an auction,” Arthur says as I scrub. “I was twelve. Never even heard a cello, let alone seen one. The only music I ever heard was the church choir.”
    He pauses to take a breath and