“This is my tie. It’s my favorite tie. He took it without asking and now it’s ruined.”
Bertram leaned close to inspect the bloody tie and said, “It’s got a lot of maroon in it already, and it’s pretty dark overall. Plus, it’s not glossy. The weave will conceal discoloration. These earth tones might even be enhanced. One thing you can do is, when you’re putting it on, you can fiddle with the knot, to hide the stains. I had a tie with water spots on it once, and I found that if I tied it just so, all the water spots would be out of sight.”
Need I say it hurt me to think of my weary, middle-aged brother standing before a fogged-up bathroom mirror, carefully, deliberately, obsessively tugging at soiled neckwear? I had a vision of him with uncombed hair and a misbuttoned shirt, his crummy tie flapping, and with bloody tissues stuffed up his nose, as he readied himself for a horrible new day.
In fact Bertram has been, on every occasion I can recall, clean, presentable, freshly shaved, and dressed in clothes that look ironed. But you never know. The lining could be out on his coat, and his pockets frayed, so that money spills through the holes. His loafers might be on third or fourth soles beneath trouser cuffs held in place with staples. On these first cold evenings in autumn, it is easy for me to imagine such decadence. Outside there is always the wind. Our rows of gaunt, denuded trees present their broken limbs as, now and then, scattered fallen leaves bluster upward in brown or reddish, swirling twisters that catch, then fling shut, loudly and abruptly, again and again, the unpainted wooden gate that opens onto the rose garden. It was, I believe, someone’s job one summer to go out and repair the latch on that gate. Nothing was ever done, and now ages have passed and no one seems to notice or much care about the rose garden gate as it slams and slams in the dark. At this point it’s just one worry among many. In strong winds the library’s windows rattle thunderously, and it seems certain they will burst and rain glass on our heads. Drafts pour in. Even with Hiram’s great fire roaring in the hearth — and with one of Clayton’s tasty whiskey cordials in hand — it is possible, in nighttime, to feel a chill, the brisk fluttering against one’s skin of subtle, icy gusts. What must it be like, in this bitter season, to inhabit the shabby tent city that covers the meadow beyond the wall? From time to time I will happen to peek out a rattling window and glimpse the trash-can fires here and there illuminating bleak lean-tos and crouched, windblown figures. Invariably I contemplate the happy fortune we in this room share; and I will offer, almost always, a silent prayer of thanks; and once in a while, in my prayers, I might name one or several of my brothers, those suffering inordinately.
I stared down at blood spilled on my hands and my tie, at the blood still trickling from Maxwell’s busted nose, and said to Bertram, “Why don’t I go see if Clayton and Rob can spare a few cocktail napkins.”
“Good idea.”
“Can I bring you anything from the bar?”
“Seltzer.”
“Not drinking tonight, Bertram?”
“Better not, I think. You know how it is.”
“Absolutely. One seltzer, coming up,” I said, extracting the stethoscope’s rubber plugs from my ears. My ears were sore from wearing them. Bertram said, “Bring me some peanuts if there are any,” and I told him I would. I coiled the stethoscope and shoved it into an outside coat pocket, then headed off in the direction of Early Modern Architecture and Decorative Arts. That’s where our bar is located.
Along the way I had to step over Virgil. He lay coiled in a ball at the edge of the carpet. His eyes were shut — tight. He must have fallen into nightmares, judging from the way his body twitched all over. I stole a pillow from a nearby chair and, gently, so as not to disturb his rest, slid it underneath Virgil’s head.
“Sweet dreams, little brother. Don’t let the bedbugs bite. But if they do, squeeze them tight, and we’ll have them for supper tomorrow night,” I recited softly to him while his hands and his feet shook.
If he did not wake in a while — if Virgil did not wake up feeling rested — we could always try, later in the evening, a moderate dosage of one or another of Barry’s intravenous medications. The night was young. I took one final look back toward Bertram, kneeling, holding Max’s head in his lap. Maxwell gazed up at his brother’s face, as Bertram, with one hand, rubbed the top of Maxwell’s head.
I turned away and stepped across Virgil and off the worn-down Bokhara, onto floorboards running the length of this room clogged with siblings prowling for seats. What a muddle. The day’s last sunlight was gone, long departed; the eastern windows were dark, and in the library’s darkness it was hard to say for sure who was who until you came close or made out the voice. This was not easy because now someone had unlocked the stereo cabinet and music was loudly erupting from speakers hooked up in the bookshelves. I’m fond of lieder but only now and then and never during the cocktail hour. The splendor of the human voice lifted in song is undeniable; nevertheless, we have in our red library enough raised voices. The familiar clamor of many spirited conversations is, in its own way, I think, a kind of music. Not that I particularly wanted to talk to anyone. I just wanted my drink. It’s always a challenge to cross this room without falling prey to some lout with an opinion about life. The best strategy is to assume an attitude of urgency, walk fast, and refuse eye contact or any intimation of recognition when your name is called. On the other hand, it’s never good to seem unfriendly. As I was saying, I wanted my drink.
That said, allow me to skip over the night’s trivial encounters, the “Hey, how are you?” conversations and other conversations nearly avoided, all the little tête-à-têtes and informalities that ensue whenever you take a stroll through our balding fraternity of blue blazers and wool cardigans, haggard faces and potbellies and yellowing teeth. What can be said about a trip to the bar?
Gusts shook the windowpanes. Gunner barked. The rose-garden gate slammed, reopened, slammed again. Our twenty golden chandeliers’ innumerable tiny bulbs blinked off then on, off then on. Their wiring is ancient and questionable, and the fuse box is overloaded and a fire hazard besides. This room always feels haunted after dark. You never know when a wall-mounted tiger will catch your eye. Suddenly, in one startling heartbeat, in a trick of failing lamplight, the tiger will seem alive. Surprise! Then you notice its pallid, gray furlessness and its blackened hole for a mouth, and the opacity of the glass “cat’s-eye” eyes. You might think then of your own hair loss, failing vision, periodontal problems. Where was that drink?
Across the room. Unfortunately, before I could set sail for the drinks table, I had to contend with Roger coming toward me in his cowboy boots. Roger swears incessantly and excitedly about things that bother him; he’s a complainer. To avoid him I had to tack left — away from the bar and toward the Life magazines. This took me past Jeremy in his agony on the purple divan. Of course I had those syringes in my coat pocket. It was not the moment for recreation with needles, veins, strange medicines. Twins in their protective swarm huddled over Jeremy, blocking him from view except for one foot sticking out between someone’s legs. “Put a couple of these in his mouth,” one twin exhorted another. Aspirin? I know I said I would not recount the night’s petty encounters and conversations. Then again, who knows what fragment of dialogue, offhand gesture, inadvertent slight, so forth — who knows what exactly will, in retrospect, turn out to have been, in some unforeseeable way, in the end, meaningful? I veered away from the purple divan and forged a path among towering open stacks. It was good to see a few readers leaning against shelves. One was Larry, and he had in his hands our well-thumbed study of salvation by foreordainment, Bartlett and Gibson’s Infralapsarianism in Everyday Life. As I passed him, he looked up from the page.