Death Benefits (11 page)

I watch her ass swaying in her short black skirt as she walks away. I can't believe it. A hot girl just came on to me at Arthur's party, and there's no one to tell. Not my mom, that's for sure, although it looks as if at least one guy is hitting on her. Then the guest of honor breaks away from his harem and makes his way slowly toward me, a girl on each arm. He looks like a really ancient, wizened Hugh Hefner. He's grinning at me, and I realize there is at least one person I can tell.

Eleven

T
he morning after the party, Mom sleeps in. Or to be more accurate, she stays in her room with a bucket beside the bed and the curtains drawn. I stick my head in to say goodbye before I leave for Arthur's, but all she does is groan and pull the pillow over her face. Her black dress is on the floor, crumpled beside the sparkly shawl. I wonder if I'm going to find a similar scene at Arthur's, although I don't think he was drunk the night before, just happy. He fell asleep in the limo on the way home, and I had to undress him, get him to the bathroom and tuck him in while Mom entertained the limo driver by playing show tunes on the grand piano. By the time I got Arthur settled, she and the driver were singing a duet of “Some Enchanted Evening.”

When I open the door at Arthur's, the first thing I notice is a breeze coming from the living room. Now, the one thing I know for sure is that Arthur can't stand drafts. It can be eighty degrees and humid, but if he feels a breeze, he goes on a mission to find its origin and eliminate it. He wears long johns year-round. So there's no way he's opened the door to the deck to let some fresh air into the house. I start to run, wondering if there's been a home invasion, and if so, whether the MacBook is gone. Or the car. I'm momentarily ashamed that my first concern hasn't been for Arthur, who might be bleeding to death on the Persian carpet. But he's not there. Or in his chair. A dish of ice cream is melting on his desk, the
TV
is on and the door to the deck is open. Arthur is on the deck, lying in a heap beside an overturned chair and a bucket of water. He's dressed in his bathrobe, and a damp cloth is clutched in his hand. He's hasn't been bludgeoned or robbed, but instead of feeling relieved, I feel angry. I don't need this. Neither does Mom. He's done something stupid, and we'll have to deal with it. Like always.

His eyes flutter open as he tries to raise his head off the deck.

“What the fuck, Arthur,” I say. “Lie down. I'm calling an ambulance.” I pull my cell phone out of my pack and dial 9-1-1 while I run into the house for a pillow and blanket.

“What is the nature of your emergency?” the 9-1-1 operator asks. The nature, I think. The nature is… what are the choices? Stupidity, arrogance, senility, pigheadedness?

“Police, fire or ambulance,” she prompts.

“Ambulance. He's fallen. My grandfather. He's conscious, I think. Or he was a minute ago.”

She transfers me to someone else who takes my name and the address, and I go back out to the deck and slide a pillow under Arthur's head and cover him with the blanket. He is very pale, and even though I don't really know what I'm doing, I take his pulse, just to feel like I'm in control. It's racing, so I check my own, for comparison. My pulse is also very fast. I have no idea what this means, although I can't imagine it's a good thing. His skin is cold and sweaty, which strikes me as an odd combination. There's a bump the size of a Ping-Pong ball on the back of his head. It's bleeding a bit, but I don't touch it.

“The windows…,” he mutters. “Filthy.” He's slurring his words like he's drunk, but I know he isn't.

“You were trying to clean the windows? What are you—insane?”

He nods and then winces. “I'm cold, Rolly,” he whispers. “Take me inside.” Thank god I've watched a lot of
TV
: at least I know better than to move him. I get some more blankets and settle myself beside him to wait for the paramedics, who take their sweet time getting there. Or that's what it feels like anyway. When the siren whoops to a stop outside the house, I let go of Arthur's hand, which I hadn't even realized I was holding, and run to open the door. The paramedics, a woman and a man, are gentle and patient with Arthur, even when he rallies a bit and tells them to go to hell.

“No hospital,” he wails.

“'Fraid so, old son,” the male paramedic says. “That's a nasty bump you've got. Need to have it checked out.”

“Anyone you can call?” the woman asks me. “Someone who can sign him in at the hospital?”

“Call?”

“An adult? Next of kin?”

“I'm his grandson. I'll go with him.”

“How old are you?”

“Sixteen. Almost seventeen.”

She shakes her head. “Sorry. You can ride with him, but we really need an adult at the hospital.”

“I'll call my mom.” She nods and goes to help strap Arthur onto a stretcher. He's protesting, but weakly, as we make our way out to the ambulance. Mom's not picking up her cell—it's probably turned off—so I call the home number over and over until she picks up.

She sounds like she's got a mouthful of cotton balls. “Rolly…wha—?”

“Arthur fell. I called an ambulance. We're on our way to the hospital. They need an adult and…”

“Is he okay?” she asks. I imagine her sitting up in bed, clutching her head, trying to stop the bile from rising into her throat.

“I don't know. I think so, but they say he needs to be checked out. I didn't know what to do, Mom.”

“It's okay, Royce. You called nine-one-one. That's the important thing.”

“I guess.” And I did get him pillows and a blanket. “The ambulance is leaving, Mom. Will you be at the hospital?”

“I'm on my way,” she says. All traces of the giggly, tipsy woman of the night before are gone. Arthur strikes again.

At the hospital we spend hours at Emergency, waiting with Arthur in a hallway with about ten other people on gurneys. Apparently the ER is full, and Arthur's injuries aren't bad enough to get him in right away. With every passing minute, he gets more lucid and more verbal. When he finally needs to take a leak, things get nasty.

“You'll just have to use this, Mr. Jenkins. I can't let you get up.” A nurse in a pink-flowered smock hands Arthur a gourd-shaped blue plastic jug which he smacks out of her hand. It makes a lot of noise as it skitters down the hall. At least it wasn't full. Everyone is staring at us, but Arthur doesn't care. He sits up, swinging his bony white legs over the edge of the gurney. Mom and I grab him before he tries to jump off.

“Dad, please,” Mom says as we wrestle him down. “You can't get up.”

“I'm not taking a piss out here,” he roars.

The nurse reappears with another blue jug that she thrusts at Mom.

“Here's another urinal,” she says. “That's the best I can do. We'll try to get him in soon.”

“Try harder,” Mom snaps. She turns to Arthur, who is glaring at us, but immobile.

He grabs the urinal, flings the sheet back, pulls up his hospital gown, sticks his dick into the mouth of the urinal and lies back on his pillows as the stench of his piss fills the corridor. Mom gasps and whips the sheet over him, but not quickly enough. “Disgusting!” “Sonofabitch!” “Nurse!” “Put that thing away!” The corridor rings with the sound of outrage. One old lady sits up suddenly and cries, “Where? Where?” Arthur closes his eyes and smiles as a different nurse appears and wheels him into the ER, pulls a curtain around him and takes away the urinal.

“Shame on you,” she says, but she's obviously not particularly upset. I guess Arthur's dick doesn't rate very high on the grand scale of Emergency-room grossness. Arthur shrugs, as if to say, “What can you do?” and I swear she winks at him. What's up with that? He's just exposed himself in a public space, and the nurse is acting like he's adorable.

Five hours later, Arthur is finally admitted for overnight observation, and the mystery of the winking nurse is solved: she's been a big fan of Arthur's since the days when she played the cello in the National Youth Orchestra. By the time Arthur is settled in his room, Mom and I are exhausted. We don't talk much on the ride home. When we get there, we go to our rooms and sleep. I don't think I've ever been so tired, even when I had mono.

When I get up, it's getting dark and Mom is sitting at the kitchen table in a baggy T-shirt and shorts, drinking tea and talking on the phone.

“The doctors say it was likely something called a TIA. A Transient Ischemic Attack. A mini-stroke. Maybe not the first.”

I grab a Diet Coke from the fridge and sit down at the table. Mom mouths “Marta” at me and says, “Uh-huh. Uh-huh. He's being seen by a specialist tomorrow. No, I don't think they're doing an MRI. He's feeling pretty good now. They just want to watch him overnight. He would have left today if they'd let him. You know Arthur.”

Mom rolls her eyes and puts the phone on Speaker. Marta's shrill voice fills the room.

“Is he getting the best doctors, Nina? And a private room? He can afford it, you know.”

“I know,” Mom says. “There just aren't any available right now.”

“Oh, now, Nina. Surely that's not true. You just have to be more assertive. What's the hospital's number? I'll get Horst to call. You know how forceful he can be. Do they even realize who Arthur is?”

Mom snorts green tea out her nose, and I pipe up, “Oh, yeah. They know.”

“Rolly, is that you? Are you helping your mother? You're the man of the house, you know. That's what I always say to Horst. ‘Rolly's the man of the house now.'”

“Bad connection, Aunt Marta,” I say. “I can hardly hear you. We'll have to call you back.” I press the End button and look over at Mom.

“Talk about forceful,” she says. “Thanks, man of the house.”

“You're welcome. Is there anything to eat?”

The hospital calls the next day and tells us to come and get Arthur. All his vital signs are good, so I offer to bring him home if Mom will drop me off at the hospital and give me money for a cab. She's more than happy to fork over twenty bucks and head off to a landscaping job. I wish I could take the T-bird, but Mom still doesn't know Arthur lets me drive it, and I don't think this is the time to tell her. When I get to the hospital, he's sitting by the elevator in a wheelchair. He's wearing his bathrobe, and I realize he doesn't have any other clothes. On his feet are some green paper booties, but he doesn't seem to care.

“Get me out of here.”

“Nice to see you too, Arthur.” I wheel him down to the front doors, where a cab is waiting. When we get to his house and I help him in, he collapses into his chair, orders me to get him some ice cream and falls asleep before I can bring it to him. The curtains are still wide-open, and the chair and bucket he was using are still lying on the deck. He's right. The windows are filthy. I fill the pail with soapy water, add a little vinegar and get to work. The sun is shining. A hot girl gave me her phone number. Arthur is asleep. I feel happier than I have since we moved here. I hum as I scrub the glass. Maybe the worst is over. For me. For Mom. For Arthur.

I couldn't have been more wrong. Arthur has three TIAs in less than three weeks and ends up in the hospital twice, lying for hours in the ER, waiting to be examined and discharged. By now I know the warning signs: dizziness, slurred speech, disorientation and an intense desire for ice cream, preferably chocolate. The third time it happens, in late July, instead of calling 9-1-1 right away, I help him into bed and check him every hour or so, which is all they ever do at the ER anyway. Going to the ER again isn't part of my plan.

I'm meeting Dani, the girl from Arthur's party, later. We're going for a bike ride and maybe to the beach. I called her the week after the gala, and we've hung out a couple of times. I really like her, even though she's better than me at a lot of things. Most things, really. School, sports, music. She's not perfect though. For instance, she has an irrational fear of bugs—all bugs. Even ladybugs, if you can believe it. And butterflies. And she's kind of impatient sometimes. You don't want to be waiting in a lineup with her. She sighs and fidgets and rolls her eyes. She also hates vanilla ice cream and hockey. But that's about the worst of it. Anyway, going for a bike ride is the next step toward a real date, so no way do I want to be stuck at the hospital, waiting for Mom to get off work. I'm sure Arthur will be okay. He always is.

Because I need to be able to hear Arthur if he calls, I spend the day in the second bedroom, going though the photo albums. I'm looking at some pictures of Aunt Marta when she was a little girl when I hear him yell, “No!” He sounds more surprised than upset, so I figure he must be talking in his sleep and I go back to the photo album. I've reached the Coralee years and I wonder why Aunt Marta never talks about her. Maybe Marta can't forgive her for disappearing, if that's really what she did. You'd get kind of a complex, I guess, if first your mother died and then your stepmother abandoned you.

When I get up to check on Arthur again, it's almost time for me to meet Dani, but it doesn't seem right to leave him alone. He's pretty out of it. I text her and tell her I might have to bail on the bike ride. I hope she isn't pissed. My limited experience with girls is a) they hate being stood up, and b) they always assume guys are lying, even when they have no evidence. Nothing I can do about that now. Dani hardly knows me. I've told her about Arthur, but not in any detail. Don't want to scare her off. I step into Arthur's room and I can tell right away that something is really wrong. He is gray and sweaty again, and one side of his face is twisted into a grimace. He opens one eye as I approach the bed. One hand reaches for me and pulls me down close to his face. When he speaks, his voice is so hoarse and slurred I can't make out the words. I'm pretty sure he's had another stroke— a big one this time. The one all the doctors warned us about. If he dies, I might as well have murdered him. If I'd called 9-1-1 earlier in the day, he would have been at the hospital when the big one happened. They might have been able to prevent it. It's my fault. All because I wanted to go for a bike ride with a girl. I stand beside him, my mouth suddenly dry, my hands sweaty. What was it he'd said?
I' d be better off dead.
Did he really mean it? If he really wanted to die, would calling 9-1-1 now be wrong? And wouldn't we
all
be better off if he was dead? I shudder and fumble in my pocket for my phone.