Death Benefits by Sarah N. Harvey Page A

I’m not listening to any more of your shit. Not about Mom. Not about me. People try to help you, you know? And what do you do? You insult them and mock them and make their lives a living hell. Why? Because you’re the great Arthur Jenkins? Because you feel sorry for yourself and you want everyone to feel as bad as you do?” My heart’s pounding, and my hands clench into fists. I want so much to punch him, but what satisfaction would there be in decking someone who can’t stand up without assistance? That would just make me a bully and an elder abuser, or whatever it’s called.
    â€œHow dare you,” Arthur growls.
    â€œHow dare I what? Call you on your shit? Oh, I dunno. Maybe it’s because you constantly trash my mom when she tries to help you. Maybe it’s because you call me boy instead of Royce. Maybe it’s because I’m pissed that my dad died when he was twenty-six, and I never got a chance to know him. Maybe it’s because it’s not fair that he’s dead and you’re alive. Maybe it’s because I hate living here. Pick one.” I’m breathing hard, the way I do after riding up a hill, and Arthur is staring down at his lap. I can see his ribs rising and falling; his skin is pale and saggy and flaky, like an albino elephant with psoriasis. It looks like he’s had a shower—a wet towel is on the floor by the bed—but that’s as far as he got.
    As I lean over to pick up the towel, he looks up at me, winks and mutters, “Congratulations on growing a pair.”
    I’m not sure how to respond—it would be weird to say “Thank you”—so I don’t say anything, and he doesn’t pursue it. Hard to believe that he likes it that I called him an asshole, but I have to admit that it felt good to ream him out. Really good. I pull the garment bag out of the closet, unzip it and lay the tux out on the end of the bed.
    I’m about to start putting on his shirt when he says, “Black silk socks. In the top drawer.”
    I rummage around until I find them and drop them on the floor by his feet. I notice the nails on one foot are long; on the other they are trimmed but ragged. The clippers lie on the floor by his feet. Maybe that’s what set him off—trying to trim his own nails. I don’t care. I’m not trimming his nails, and I’m not feeling sorry for him.
    He doesn’t say another word while I dress him and neither do I. We communicate by hand gestures, right down to the cufflinks and the shoes (he’s wearing the black and white Pumas). If I wasn’t so pissed with him, I’d tell him how awesome he looks, but instead I lead him to the kitchen table, tie a towel around his neck and give him his dinner. When he’s done, I help him back to his desk chair and get ready to go. The curtains are wide-open, which is weird, but I leave them alone, even when Arthur turns on the tv. If he wants my help, he can ask for it. Nicely.
    â€œSee you later,” I say. “The limo’ll be here for you at six fifteen. Don’t forget to pee first.”
    â€œI’m not six,” he says.
    â€œMight as well be,” I say under my breath.
    The tux isn’t the most comfortable thing I’ve ever worn, but it’s definitely the most expensive. And the most flattering. I was afraid the patent leather shoes would look a bit, uh, effeminate, but they rock, as does the black shirt and the burgundy waistcoat. I run my hand over my nonexistent hair, check my nose for boogers and I’m good to go. Mom, on the other hand, is still fussing around in her room when the limo driver comes to the door. His eyes bug out when he sees her. She’s wearing a tight black knee-length halter-top dress, high-heeled black shoes, dangly earrings and a sparkly red shawl. She pats her hair, which is long and full and wavy. Her fingernails are bright red.
    â€œExtensions.” She giggles.