“Leash that animal!” someone shouted in the direction of Chuck’s assigned seat. This chair was unoccupied because Chuck had taken himself and a bottle of Scotch off to a corner table shared by Leon, Bennet, and Saul.
Displaced brothers roamed at large. The twins were assembled, predictably, in their line of eight. Clay, Seth, Vidal, Gustavus, and Joe had been orphaned from their seats. Young Jeremy’s place was free; this boy remained on his back on the purple divan, eyes closed, recovering from Fielding’s assault earlier in the night. That fight seemed, to me, like something that had happened ages before. But it had been a recent event. What time was it anyway? I didn’t dare ask. As I believe I’ve mentioned, a question like that can start a brawl. Seth and Vidal hurriedly ran around the foot of the dinner table, grabbed the chairs left vacant by Samuel and Scott. The triplets, off chasing bats, lost their places to Ralph, Lewis, and Rod. Noises everywhere were getting louder. Gunner the Doberman’s eyes glistened, watery. Frank looked unhappy. Our pork chops were disappearing fast. A man’s voice beside me said, “It’s past ten o’clock.”
I’d not realized I had asked. Surely in all this chaos it would be easy to speak out unknowingly, to utter, in an offhand way, one’s thoughts — and be overheard. I said, “Oh, we always eat so late,” and watched uprooted men race frantically around the oak table, this way and that like competitors playing musical chairs. Many carried plates.
Periodically, one would say, “You’re in my seat,” or, “Pardon me, is this chair taken?”
One after another, the roving men dropped into places. Joshua with his long kitchen matches leaned across the table at its middle — squeezing, sideways, between Foster and Andrew — to light candles. Wine carafes traveled from hand to hand until drained. You could tell which men were already finishing second or third glasses. They were the most voluble. They wore inscrutable, wide smiles on blushing faces, and their voices, when shouting greetings down the great length of the table, rang out ecstatically. “I love you, man! You’re my brother!” Lewis hollered to Denzil, and Denzil, returning that toast, cried, “You’re my brother, too, and I love you like one!”
Meanwhile the dog paced behind chairs, excited and hungry. “Here, doggy,” a voice called, and before anyone could object, a pork chop was hurled through the air at Gunner. The chop flew upward in a spiraling arc, up into the high darkness and out of sight above the chandeliers, then straight back into vision as it fell into the light at Gunner’s feet and landed with a plop on the rug where the dog seized it between wet teeth.
Practically everybody was eating. The menu was braised pork chops, peas (not canned peas), scalloped potatoes in a dill sauce, a delightful squash-and-eggplant casserole, wild rice for the vegetarians, dinner rolls in those foil trays, and a lettuce and cucumber salad. Dessert was a surprise and I was hoping as always for coconut cake. I’d not yet loaded my plate. Someone at the table struck his glass with a knife blade, and this meant time for before-dinner announcements.
Ping. Ping.
Brothers looked up from plates. Kevin put down his glass and the butter knife he’d rapped it with and began, “I have a brief announcement. Can I have your attention? Excuse me? I’d like to make an announcement? There will be a meeting tonight after supper, of brothers concerned about water damage and falling plaster in the library. As some of you may know, a slow drip, directly over Philosophy of Mind, has recently waterlogged and destroyed seventy to eighty percent of Cognitive Theory. Additional roof leaks are causing runoff and resultant buckling along many stretches of wall, as well as structural deterioration throughout the ceiling. We can expect worse with snow, which, I might add, is predicted for later this evening.”
He sat. There was audible mumbling up and down the table’s length. The loss of Cognitive Theory was news to me. Another knife pealed against another wineglass, and it was Andrew speaking this time. He stood at his place among the left-handed vegetarians and said, “Some of us got talking a while ago and decided the best thing we could do with the money we’ve raised for the people in the meadow is invest it. We’re currently exploring high-yield bond issues and longer-term fund packages that offer security and growth. If the market remains vigorous and donations continue at the present rate, we could be managing a very solid trust within, say, five to seven years. This will allow us to assist the needy without depleting capital.”
Assenting nods followed. “Good idea” and “That’s thinking, Andrew” were typical comments.
Next it was Henry’s turn. Henry got up and said, “I will set up chessboards in the usual place by Sociology and Urban Studies and regular players can have their coffee there if they want, since it is getting late. Just a note for any new players who might be interested in the ancient, manly game of chess. As some of you already know, our brother Paul has been on a lucky streak”—knowing laughter at this from several chess players—“and we very much need some genius to come around and knock him off the top of the ladder. A couple of tips. Don’t waste the clock, and think twice before trading queens because Paul’s endgame is hard to beat. Anyone interested in trying is more than welcome.”
“No one will beat me!” boasted Paul, and the chess players laughed again, and then Frank stood at his place and said, “I don’t think I could beat Paul at chess, but I’ll gladly take his money at poker.” This naturally brought on more laughter from different locations around the table. It felt good to hear all this laughing. Frank went on amiably, “We’ll ask those of you sitting at the smaller tables to please bus your plates after dinner and get the hell out of the way so we serious gamblers can get down to business.”
“Fuck off!” shouted a voice from one of these tables. It was Chuck, apparently well into his Scotch. It was not clear whether Chuck intended humor. Chuck’s exclamation had an aggressive, uncomfortable, borderline quality. The man had a problem with alcohol. Someone should help him. Frank, tight himself, wisely elected to avoid trouble with a fellow drunk. Frank chuckled, “Ha ha,” and sat quickly in his chair.
After Frank’s announcement came Tom’s, also about some game or other. More announcements followed Tom’s, and these as well were about games: dice, baseball, hearts, our usual pastimes, and also one I’d never heard of called ground war, canceled due to the harsh weather outdoors. Finally it was Seamus’s turn to speak. He’d gotten his food and made it, against great odds, all the way to his seat, far off near the head of the table. He stood up and — sleepily, I thought, or drunkenly; he was weaving from side to side — mumbled, “Listen up. Half-hour shirts-versus-skins play drill. Later tonight. Damn those bats. Cold in here. So cold. Football players huddle together for calisthenics at the black sofa after dessert and coffee. Oh.”
He collapsed backward into his seat. Seamus’s head drooped forward and he sank down, as if dragged over by its weight, and fell easily asleep, passed out with his head resting on the table. No one spoke.
After a brief time Seamus lifted his head and appeared to gaze around. He pushed back his chair, got up, walked slowly off into the stacks.
I seized this moment of wordless silence to make my own announcement. Let me say right now that my message to my brothers was entirely unplanned, yet completely heartfelt, and, I might add, important for them to hear. Before speaking, I waited for Seamus to disappear into Poems and Plays of the Restoration. Once he was safely out of sight I cleared my throat; I stood straight (shoulders loose so that air could fill my chest), relaxed my diaphragm — reminding myself not to hyperventilate while talking — and said, “Genealogy is more than a system for cataloging descent. The genealogical tree is a living organism. It is a living, breathing tree, and the limbs of this tree are human lives, hardier than any wood. The bonds joining lives, life after life, reach across time. And human bonds are always emotional creations. The student of human births and deaths will experience, perhaps as a distant and unaccountable memory, the traces of very old affections, all the joys and disappointments that have forever bound people together in families. Who has ever visited a grave site; who has lingered in that silence among graves and not felt a chill travel down the spine? Am I alone among my brothers in these sympathies for the perished?”