Free Epitaph for a Working ManO

starts talking to the likes of us. Why struggle against it? What’s natural isn’t out of the question, and anyway there’s no point in trying to struggle against thoughts.
    Was Father ever haunted by such feelings? I’d seldom seen him after his divorce. But if he’d started living with a woman again I’d surely have been told sooner or later. However, he might have had affairs. And why should he have chosen to tell me, of all people, about his affairs! – Then he grew older and older, and the old are not expected to have love affairs. The most old men do is keep an eye out for bosoms and legs.
    â€œThe people at the home are to be pitied if only because they live a life without endearment.” A Sophie sentence. I would never have thought of such a thing.
    Nor noticed it either, incidentally. But of course she was right. I never saw any of them hold hands as they sat beside each other in the sunshine in front of the house. Usually men and women sat on separate benches, apparently the custom here. And Father had never talked about any carryings-on: should there have been any, he would have been the last to have missed such an opportunity for teasing.
    I hadn’t noticed it, only Sophie had. Sophie notices things like that. Not for nothing did Father like her. There must have been some reason, for she had never given him particular care and attention. She’d just shown normal interest – but he had sensed her interest.
    â€œJust imagine, no body contact,” she said. “Except when they’re cleaning your bottom because you can’t do it yourself anymore.” She puffed up her cheeks and blew out: “Ugh! When I come to think that one day I myself… No, I’d rather not think about it. It’s too depressing!”
    â€œYou get used to it.”
    â€œOh you, you might! You get used to anything.”
    â€œNo choice, have I?” I said.
    â€œDon’t make such a face.”
    â€œWhat kind of face?”
    â€œThe kind that says everything’s over.”
    â€œI’ll do my best.”
    â€œYes, do that,” she said.
    *
    It had started with his lower lip. Then he had pains in his shoulders and in his neck, pain urinating, a swollen scrotum. A new spot came up near his breastbone.
    At the last consultation the hospital doctor had said he’d send a report to Dr Lätt. I asked Father if he’d asked Dr Lätt about it.
    It was not for him to ask, said Father. Dr Lätt was sure to have received the letter from the hospital and so he must know what needed to be done. Besides, he came to the home at least three times a week. If he had a prescription to give him, well, he knew his room number, he could come and take a quick look. Or was that asking too much?
    He shouldn’t be so touchy, I said.
    Who was being touchy, he retorted.
    I argued that it would be better for him to go and show them his back at the hospital now, rather than wait until October. But for that he needed Lätt: he could only get an appointment through Lätt. And as long as Lätt knew nothing he wouldn’t do anything. Why not go to see him? It was no use getting all worked up just because the man never thought of inquiring himself. Should I phone Lätt?
    He could fix it himself. When he saw him – and he was bound to see him next time he came – he’d talk to him.
    A week later he still hadn’t said anything to the doctor.
    The next time I asked he said Lätt had been in a terrible hurry, but that he’d promised to examine him.
    After another week had passed without anything happening I rang the doctor.
    I enumerated the symptoms. And now there seemed to be a secondary growth on his lower lip. That numb spot worried Father, although he didn’t show it directly. Things are as they are, I said, but we’d be glad if Father didn’t have to end up walking around with festering tumours on his mouth.
    Lätt: Oh