The Disinherited by Matt Cohen Page A

patients’ lounge. The windows looked out over Lake Ontario. It was a clear day, but windy, and the lake was spotted with whitecaps. One of the patients came and stood beside him. He was wearing a blue terrycloth robe and smoking a pipe. His hair was carefully cut and brushed. It was silver-tipped and curled at his collar. His hands were fine and delicate. He gripped the wooden sill of the window, not supporting his weight but tense, looking out at the water, as if he had spent time at sea and the sight of the lake returned him to it.
    “Big boat went by an hour ago,” the man said. “Just before they took that fellow out.”
    “I missed it,” Erik said.
    “Can’t have people dying here,” the man said. He looked at Erik as he spoke and Erik felt that he was being somehow measured, appraised. “My wife made me come here,” the man said. “I’ve got little tumours all over my bladder. Most likely it’s cancer.” He spoke, still looking directly at Erik without taking the pipe from his mouth. “Caused by smoking, couldn’t have been anything else.”
    “I’m sorry,” Erik said. He found it difficult to maintain this conversation.
    “People die,” the man said. He was small and fine and the tone of his voice implied other languages. “They’re going to give me radiation treatments,” he said. He looked perfectly calm. He might have been discussing the weather. “What are they going to do for you?”
    “I’m not sick.”
    “But all too human,” the man said. He laughed and looked out the window. His pipe had gone out and now he withdrew it from his mouth and held it in his hand. “It’s easier to have something,” the man said. “Until you get it.” He re-lit his pipe. “They’re going to let me out for the weekend. I could sure use a drink.” The doctors had progressed down the hall and were now standing outside his father’s room, discussing the case in whispers. Erik strained to hear, but couldn’t. They decided on their strategy and marched into the room. A few seconds later Miranda came out of the room and into the lounge. Her eyes were red and she looked like she was about to cry.
    “What happened?”
    “Nothing. I guess I’m just tired.”
    “What are they doing?”
    “Just what they always do. They take his pulse and listen to his chest. Then they ask him a few questions and leave.”
    “I’ll go talk to them,” Erik said. He went and stood outside the door. They had drawn a curtain around the bed but it wasn’t opaque. He could see the doctors standing above thebed, leaning down, their shadows brushing against the curtain. One of them was asking Richard what kind of cows he kept. Richard began to explain the operation of the farm. In the middle of a sentence one of the doctors opened the curtain and they all left the room. “Excuse me,” Erik said. He positioned himself in front of the one in the most expensive clothes. “I wanted to ask you about my father.”
    “Yes?”
    Erik took the doctor by the arm and led him away from the door and down the hall a bit. “I want to know what’s wrong with him, and whether his arm will get better.”
    “There’s some damage,” the doctor said. “But not much.”
    “He can hardly move his arm.”
    “Yes, we’re going to try physiotherapy.”
    “And?”
    “We’re hopeful it will respond to treatment.” All the time the doctor spoke, he looked down at his feet as if it was some kind of error that he was not at least two feet taller than Erik. The doctor was wearing sandals.
    “He’s a farmer,” Erik said. “It’s important to know whether he’ll be able to work again.”
    “Yes,” the doctor said. “I see. Well, it’s possible but very unlikely.” He looked directly at Erik for the first time. “I’m sorry,” he said. He shrugged his shoulders. He was the same doctor who had been so angry earlier in the morning. “If he loses fifty pounds, stops smoking and takes things easy, if, that is, he survives the