The Disinherited (29 page)

“Oh these doctors,” the night nurse would say. “They know what they’re doing. My husband’s brother studied to be a doctor for two years but he had to drop out. Too hard on his nerves.” Richard fastened up his robe and went out into the hall. Mr. Zeller was already standing by the tray, nibbling the crusts off toast. It was a habit that didn’t make him very popular. There were hardly any patients. It had been that way for weeks. The nurses said that it was strange, that it was the least business they had had for five years. Two women down the hall were getting varicose veins stripped. Every second morning, plastic vases filled with flowers were placed outside their door. There was a double room occupied by two patients overflowed from the eye section. One was getting cataracts removed. The other was having a cornea transplant. He spent all his time reading, a patch over the affected eye. Except for a man who was waiting for a kidney, Richard Thomas and Norman Zeller seemed to have the only serious illnesses.

While Richard Thomas was confined to his bed, Mr. Zeller had never actually stepped right inside the room and visited him. It was as if it would be an unnecessary indignity for
Richard Thomas to be seen in the moment of his temporary inconvenience. He would stand in the door and say hello, exchange greetings with Richard Thomas’s other visitors, move down the halls, exchange greetings and complaints with the conspiratorial intensity of the dying. The other patients all stayed in bed to eat their night-time snack. Richard and Mr. Zeller would often eat theirs together, in the lounge, staring out the plate glass window at the cars going up and down the lake, at the invisible water, at the occasional person who could be seen walking along the lake at night. “No one in this town walks,” Mr. Zeller would say. “They would rather stand at the corner and die waiting for the bus.” While the courtyard was quiet, the wind was still strong, battering steadily against the big windows, whistling across the open area between the hospital and the lake. “There was a warning on the radio,” Mr. Zeller said. Richard couldn’t imagine where he had come from, this time, any time, with his faintly European accent, his secretive wife, his ornate and ridiculous walking stick that somehow reminded him of Simon Thomas, of something Simon Thomas would have wanted to have had if he had seen it. Maybe he would need one himself now, for getting around the farm. It would have to be stout: knotted and utilitarian. He had a sudden picture of his two hands, each one wrapped around a cane, his whole weight forward, the veins swelled out like bark. Mr. Zeller moved like Simon too, with that air of deception. But there was something he lacked, something vaguely turned in and unlived. He was standing beside Richard now, his pipe in his mouth and his shoulders hunched forward. “Quite a storm,” Mr. Zeller said. “If we were at sea.” He was sucking on his pipe, not noisy and greedy like Simon but still, the rattle was there, beneath everything. “If you don’t mind me asking,” Mr. Zeller said. “What were you thinking about just now, when that curious look passed across your face?”

“I was thinking about my father,” Richard said. “He smoked a pipe too.”

“Ah yes,” Mr. Zeller said. “You also remind me of my father. He was a big man, like yourself.” Standing at the window they could see the revolving red light of an ambulance moving
along the lakeshore, turning in at the hospital. At first the siren was muffled by the wind, but then it was carried to them, sharp and piercing. “Most likely indigestion,” Mr. Zeller said. “Most people who die of indigestion do it after supper.” He rapped his cane on the window. “My father was an interesting man,” Mr. Zeller said. “He believed that he would be healthy forever if he drank two quarts of water first thing in the morning.” The cart had arrived at the lounge. Mr. Zeller went and helped the nurse carry in the small trays of tea and toast. Richard was wondering what was happening with the person who had been brought to the hospital by the ambulance, whether it was some sort of indescribably hopeless and bloody mess or whether it was something simple, a broken leg or a lost toy. The rain burst suddenly, startling them all, exploding in a thick spray against the window, loud and heavy, overwhelming the conversation Mr. Zeller and the nurse were having, bringing them to the window to stand beside Richard. Now the lights of the cars were washed away, there was nothing visible except the layers of rain on the window, the reflection of the room. Mr. Zeller had one hand on the couch, gripping it like a rail, his face tense and worried, as if he really thought he might be swept to sea. A flash of lightning opened up the night: they could see the cars, the lake, the other buildings of the hospital turned a strange blue-grey colour. Then an explosion of thunder as the lightning flashed again, this time rising in long jagged streaks from the lake, lighting only itself and the large black-petalled clouds that answered it. The lights of the hospital flickered briefly.

“We’ve got our own generator,” the nurse shouted. There had been no noise for her to compete with; her voice filled the lounge, an empty red balloon. “We’ve got our own generator,” she repeated, quietly. The tail end of her sentence was wiped out by another thunderclap, more lightning from the lake, closer, near the shore, rising in a wide yellow sheet. The lights went out. The sheet stretched to fill their whole field of vision, a glowing supernatural wall. It made the night transparent; they could see the cars, lined up and stopped along the lakeshore, the lawn stretching a dull metallic green from the hospital to the road, the lake slate grey, splitting apart at the shore. Then it
all slowly blackened, fading as if the world no longer existed but was only a retreating imprint on the eye. The lights went back on. The rain swept against the glass, soft and rushing, everything draining away. The nurse went to her cart, opened and closed the shiny drawers, put away the paper napkins, the leftover plastic-packaged marmalade and jam. Richard was sitting on a couch, the cup in his hand, his head bent over, letting the steam from the tea rise up into his face. For a moment, with the lightning, he had felt his body again, as if the energy was discharging into his bones, snapping him straight and young, felt his body as it had been forty years ago, bones, muscle and flesh, supple and fluid, showing Miranda the farm for the first time, his balance sure and poised, watching her try to adjust her feet to this uneven ground that slanted the body in a different direction with every step, the opposite of the prairies and the pavement of the city, seeing her assess all the impossible things that had already been done to this land, that would have to be done, the million-year-old rocks with their long deep splits, their cupped mossy areas, their immovable surfaces twice the area of a house. Yes, it must be an accomplishment to have made something out of this. But she said nothing about this gigantic conquest, only walked through the pasture with him, crouching to pick out weeds and wildflowers, bringing them back to Simon who didn’t know what to do with them, finally laid them on the table so she had to find a jar for them herself. The bruises from the intravenous tube had spread and dissipated, covering the entire back of his hand, from knuckles to wrist, yellow with tinges of blue, a small red spot in the centre where the needle had been inserted. There was still thunder but it seemed further now, low rumbles that were felt as much as heard. The nurse walked up and down the hall, peering in the rooms to make sure none of the patients were frightened. There were no more hesitations in the electrical system and standing at the edge where the lounge and the hall joined, Richard could hear the sounds of television sets, of toilets flushing now that it was safe to get out of bed. Norman Zeller was still looking out the window, his face pressed to the glass, pipe put down or forgotten on the wooden sill, walking stick hooked beside it.

“Well,” Richard said. They could hear another ambulance, moving slowly through the night. It wouldn’t have been so bad up at the farm, away from the lake. The first couple of years after Brian had gotten back he had been afraid of storms, especially lightning; when it started he would come and stand at Richard and Miranda’s door, waiting for Richard to come for him. If Richard didn’t get up, they would find Brian there in the morning, sitting asleep by the door. But most of the time Richard would wake up too, and they would both go downstairs, light the kerosene lamps. In those days, even in the lamplight, Brian’s scars still showed, flaming pink birthmarks. They would sit at the kitchen table, have something to eat and drink. Richard showed him how to play checkers and they would set up the board and make their moves while the house rattled and shook, the most noise of all being made by the rain on the tin roof, a thousand drops a second Richard would say, not knowing, wishing Brian would actually try to understand the rules and get on with the game. Brian would sit with his chin propped up in his fists, staring blankly at the board. With each series of lightning and thunder he would jolt awake, his body shaking in harmony with the sudden noise and light. His face would remain calm and immobile, as if the fear was a sensation which was out of control, but, fortunately, disconnected from any other part of his consciousness. Sometimes, unaccountably cruel, Richard Thomas would shake Brian’s shoulder to wake him up, tell him it was his move. He would watch Brian’s face as it moved from nightmare to checkerboard, the features thick and willing, uncomprehending, watch and be disgusted with the stupidity of this non-Thomas creature who was stronger and more capable than his own son, who had made friends with some strange boy and then almost burned to death with him, for something to do.

Mr. Zeller still stood at the window. The rain was gentler now, relaxed. “This reminds me of the tropics,” Mr. Zeller said. He picked his pipe off the sill and re-lit it, blew a stream of thick white smoke from his mouth, waved the pipe in some vague gesture of palm trees and equatorial skies. He went and sat beside Richard on the couch, administered milk and sugar to his
tea. “Cold tea,” Mr. Zeller said. “It paralyzes the kidneys and strains the bladder. You know that when they take you apart, afterwards, your stomach is tanned like leather from all that tea. It’s the tannin that does it, they say, tannin, you know, the same stuff they use for tanning leather.” Mr. Zeller sighed, his mouth closed, smoke coming out of his nostrils in long delicate curls. “Yes,” Mr. Zeller said, “I like your son very much. Perhaps that is because you remind me of my father. Were you ever psychoanalyzed?”

“No.”

“Yes. Well. Perhaps it is not so common among farmers in this country.”

“I don’t think so,” Richard said. “There was my father’s half-brother who was in an asylum.”

“Ah yes.” Mr. Zeller had the bowl of his pipe cupped in the palms of his hands. He rubbed it meditatively, sighed again. “They say that some of the world’s great geniuses can be found in institutions,” Mr. Zeller said.

“Well,” Richard said. “I never thought of it.”

“Most people don’t.”

“No.” Richard held his toast above his tea, hoping to warm it. The butter had soaked through, and the toast was congealed rather than dry. But the tea was cold too. He gave up and ate the toast as it was, hungry now, feeling that there should be something lying ahead, after the storm, some activity that would demand something from him.

“Well,” Mr. Zeller said. “Your son will be successful. You will be proud of him.” Mr. Zeller’s words evoked in Richard a picture of Erik making his triumphant return to the farm, driving a huge black car, the body of the car festooned with ribbons and paper streamers, covered with trophies he had bought at some second-hand shop — old war medals, tails, stuffed mounted heads, whole carcasses thrown across the long black hood; Erik stepping out of the car and bowing, the cape and clothes too small for him, rented, his ankles and wrists showing bare, sticking out of the black silk cloth. The matador in the movie was absolutely graceful. It would never have to be said that his clothes were handsewn, that his victims lived their
entire lives in anticipation of his final caress, achieved their own grace only at his pleasure, so, victor and victim they were joined for one brief moment. But only for that moment. Afterwards, in the scene at the café, there was no sign of the bodies of the dead, simply the young man surrounded by the beautiful women who wished to be near him. Perhaps he was secretly bothered by varicose veins and perspiration. When they moved in for the close-up at the end he seemed at first perfectly young and smooth, his black hair carefully sculpted to his tanned skin, his teeth white and even, smiling shyly at a lady who leaned close to him and whispered something, toying with his drink, like the bull, everything about to die for him the same way, over-ripe and waiting so that he needed only to apply the final touch, the coop de grass as old Mark Frank used to call it when they were killing chickens, then closer and it was possible to see the flash of gold in his smile, teeth that had already fallen, the nervous movements of his hands on the glass, waiting for the moment when he could go straight to the bottle, the sly way he ignored the ladies, not shy or bashful, but only reluctant to disclose that his whole act travelled with him all the time, lived with him in a covered wagon which he drove about the country all summer long, giving Sunday exhibitions of his talents.

“I made a decision last night,” Mr. Zeller said. “I decided to donate my body to medical science.” Mr. Zeller always wore red leather slippers. His first pair had been old and worn, caricatures of men’s slippers that had been chewed by innumerable generations of dogs and children, turned maroon from age and sweat. But his new ones were suede, brought to him by his wife, discreetly packaged in a box covered with wrapping paper and bows. “My wife knows how to keep a secret,” Mr. Zeller had said, when Richard had asked him once about the way his wife snuck up and down the stairs, never using the elevators, always coming at unpredictable early morning times, wearing outrageous hats and veils. “She’s a television personality,” he explained. “Out of work. She was a child star.” His slippers were new, his hair silver-white and carefully cut. “My wife always said that my eyes were very beautiful,” Mr. Zeller said. “I thought that someone might want my eyes. You know.”