Benedict will explain, patiently, that his beetles are clean, and that roaches and humans are diseased.
“The sooner everyone sits, the sooner we’ll enjoy our first course!”
This was Jeremiah screaming at us. No one paid him much attention. Why did he bother? Mobs have a way of not hearing, and we were no exception. It was impossible in the confusion to avoid knocking into people. “Sorry, sorry,” I apologized as I shouldered my way to the sideboard. To get through to the plates I leaned against Jonathan’s back and pushed hard. This man stumbled forward, complaining, “Don’t shove.”
I lied, “I’m not shoving! Someone is pushing me! It’s a pack of animals in here!” The lights flickered off and stayed off. Everyone ceased moving, briefly, while waiting for our twenty rusted chandeliers to blink on again. During this interlude of calm I gave Jonathan’s back a sudden, severe body block. I did not see where he fell.
The lights were restored and I arrived at the plates well ahead of most others.
“Doug,” a voice near me called. I pretended not to hear and headed instead toward the oak table and our pork chops heaped in trays. Multitudes, it seemed, had conceived this idea. It wasn’t simply a question of waiting in line. There were no lines, only dense, swarming formations around the food.
In situations like this, my football experience can come in handy.
I tucked my warm, empty plate securely under my arm, extended my other arm in front of me — locked at the elbow for ramming strength — put my head down, and rushed forward into the assembly.
The first person I hit was Raymond. He was turned away from me, and I took full advantage with a stiff-arm blow to the rib cage. This knocked the wind from his lungs and Raymond’s plate from his hands. The crashing plate drew attention and I was able to sidestep quickly between Topper and Vince. I had to go low and almost sacrificed my balance but fortunately came up against Paul and used him as a backstop. Paul held on to his plate but fell away against Dennis, and that left a clear path with no visible obstructions except Albert and Mongo. It is my feeling that you can’t tackle a blind man. And Mongo is too big for me to hit effectively, though he is slow. I ran toward him, a straight-on course, like open-field running, then at the last second feinted hard to the left, dodging him. It felt good, very good, to give Mongo the fake. I believed at this point that I was unimpeded. I hadn’t counted on Richard. Richard stepped out from behind Michael and Abraham. He got directly between me and the food. His head was shaking, up and down, up and down, the way it does. I wanted to hit him. If I did, I might be chastised for running over a person who has nerve damage. I ran in place while considering what to do. I could smell the pork chops and their aroma was superb. I decided that Richard was, after all, a man, and could weather blows. I inhaled a deep breath and charged in hard with an elbow aimed low at his kidneys. However, I lost my balance and this time saw no alternative but to take the dive. I was less than five yards short of the table. It had been a good forward rush and I felt all right.
“Doug.”
It was the voice from over near the sideboard. It was Seamus’s voice. He was awake. He said, “Nicely run, Doug. You took a nasty spill but you kept possession of your plate. That’s the kind of spirit that wins games.” He offered me his large hand. “It’s good to see you getting in some practice for Sunday’s game against the Episcopal Ministers.”
“We can beat those guys,” I said. Seamus observed, “That’s one serious carpet burn you’ve got there, Doug. I hope that’s not your throwing arm.”
He was right. My forearm was red from my fall. This wasn’t, luckily, my throwing arm. As soon as I became aware of its redness, I felt pain.
“How did you hurt your face, Doug? You look like you’re going to have a shiner around that eye. You didn’t smack a chair, did you?”
“I got kicked.”
“Bad luck,” said Seamus. “Who kicked you? We’ll get him on the team.”
“Hiram.”
“Hmn. Hiram was an excellent ball carrier at one time, but he’s too frail for contact sports now.” These words were followed by silence between us, respectful contemplation of the sage man’s gridiron days, I suppose. Finally Seamus announced, “We’re all going to grow old and die.”
Why bring this up at dinner? I asked my brother, “Do you feel you’ve lived a good life so far? I mean, if your time came, if you had a terminal illness, or fell from a height, do you think you would feel proud of the things you’ve said and done?”
“Yes,” he announced, then appeared to deliberate. “And also no. Kind of yes and no. Same as everybody.”
I stayed quiet. After another moment Seamus said something I could not make out above raucous dining noises. This racket of men eating was made louder by the acoustic properties of the room. The high ceiling vaults throw echoes in every direction. It can be difficult, when forks and knives are ringing out against plates, to determine direction and proximity of sounds, especially voices, which seem to bubble up for an instant, excitedly declare something unqualified by any context—“I know everything there is to know about the rotator cuff!” I heard one exclaim, and another asked, “Seriously, though, what did Maxwell mean when he said, ‘The God is above us’?”—then recede again into the muddle and roar, our party in full swing.
“Did you hear that?” I asked Seamus.
“What?” the man asked.
“That echo?”
We listened, but the sound — it was the hushed noise of someone crying, softly, softly — had faded. Seamus said, “See if you can get in three sets of twenty wind sprints before Sunday’s game, Doug.”
“Will do.”
I wanted to hear the crying again. That sound didn’t come back. A black bat darted quickly through the air over the oak table, pursued to table’s edge by a triplet lunging over place mats with his net. People weren’t sitting in their assigned seats. The Doberman barked again — he’d emerged from the stacks and was pacing anxiously around chairs. Apparently he’d spied the bat. A voice in the crowd suggested opening windows for the bat, or bats, to fly out of. Brothers put down plates and went to do this. Several tall windows were painted shut, but most were not. One near the head of the table was unlatched, then raised, with difficulty, by Brice. He had to struggle to budge it. The window sash was warped; going up, rotted wood scraped in the ancient frame. Other windows went up in the same rough way, and winds swept into the library. The winds blew manuscript pages from a table near the African masks. These papers sailed up into the room, and the dog, excited, saw them and ran in circles, around and around below soaring white sheets, eyeing them as they drifted, huge confetti fluttering down, page after page settling around Gunner on the floor.
It was that time of evening when things start going wrong and it’s every man for himself.
“Dinner’s getting cold!” Jeremiah shouted at the men raising windows. The dog, smelling meat, left papers on the ground and trotted, head up, across the room to our table.