By Sarah N. Harvey
Royce (aka Rolly) is having a nasty 12 months. not just has his mom dragged him around the kingdom with a purpose to be on the subject of her elderly father Arthur, a celebrated cellist, yet he is additionally improving from mono. whilst he convinces his mom to permit him end the varsity yr by way of correspondence, he is left feeling remoted and lonely, and spends his time observing television and plotting how one can come again to his associates in Nova Scotia. yet ahead of his plans might be applied, his grandfather has a small stroke. without notice Arthur wishes extra care than Royce's mom gives you and, after a few employed care aides surrender, Royce is pressed into carrier. taking care of a ninety-five-year-old—especially one as cantankerous, artful and obdurate as Arthur—is a problem. yet as Royce will get to understand the eccentric previous man—who loves the tom cat Dolls, hates Anderson Cooper and not listens to the type of tune that made him famous—he steadily involves savour that his grandfather's lifestyles nonetheless has which means. no matter if Arthur himself turns out to wish it to finish. (20110401)
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No way I’d get back to Lunenburg. So I sit in the T-bird, fondling the gearshift and pumping the clutch. Pretty soon I’ve drifted into a dream about pulling up in front of my old school in the T-bird. The first bell is ringing and someone is calling my name. “Royce! Royce! Goddammit, boy. ” Oh, crap. I take the scenic route home on my bike, enjoying the fact that I’m out on the road while everyone else is still in school. I arrive home sweaty and sore, take a shower and sit down in front of the TV with a Diet Coke and a bowl of nachos.
I gotta run,” she says with a sigh. “The old coot awaits. ” I feel bad that she has to spend her weekend with Arthur, but not so bad that I offer to take her place. I can’t face another day with him. Monday morning will roll around soon enough, I figure. “Take a book, Mom,” I say. ” “I’m going to take him out. He needs to do something other than stare at a television screen. ” “Good luck with that,” I say, imagining the scene: Mom wrestling Arthur in and out of the truck; Arthur berating Mom about her driving, the price of a cup of coffee, the draft from her open window, her choice of career, her parenting skills.
When his coffee is ready, I take it to him in the living room. He takes a sip and sighs. Could be satisfaction, could be annoyance. It’s impossible to tell. ” I ask. It’s worth a try. I could look at that view all day. ” “Oh,” I say again. I can see his point. He turns up the volume on the TV and sips his coffee. I decide that I will open the curtains an inch or so every day and see if he notices. ” I shrug. “Beats me. Mom and Marta seem to think you need help. ” I turn to go to the kitchen but stop when he lifts his coffee cup and says, “Another one of these, boy.
Death Benefits by Sarah N. Harvey