Benedict seemed to think. His face had a troubled look. He seemed to be thinking quite hard. Finally he shook his head and said, “The rose garden? In bloom? Are you sure, Doug?”
“Well, things do get blurry with the passing years,” I admitted to Benedict after a moment.
Benedict drank again from his wineglass. I said to him, “Where did you get that?”
“There was a carafe. It’s probably empty by now.”
“Damn.”
“You can have some of mine if you want,” Benedict said, offering his glass. “I don’t like to drink too much red wine because it gives me a headache. It affects me in my work the next day.”
“How is your work going?” I asked him as I accepted the glass with its mouthful of claret in the bottom. It was a small amount and I couldn’t imagine that Benedict really wanted me to drink only some wine and pass the rest back. Or did he? If I finished Benedict’s wine — and I had not been invited, expressly, to do this — it might be rude. On the other hand, there was no point in drinking only half, because this would not be enough. Should I finish Benedict’s wine? Should I leave a polite amount? I stood still and gazed down into the glass and contemplated this problem. As a result I did not hear what Benedict was saying about his current experiments with beetles. So I wasn’t certain, exactly, what he was referring to, when he announced, “In many respects, they’re a lot more like us than we realize, Doug.”
“Who are?”
“The invertebrates.”
“Right. Yes. I see.” Obviously Benedict referred to the crowd all leaning together, swaying left then right while watching the fight at the dinner table. The fight was breaking up. One brother was hauled to his feet while another, already standing, supported by many arms, walked slowly to a soft chair. A third lay motionless on the floor, and a nearby fourth — it was hard to be sure at such a distance but it looked like Henry or, more likely, Stephen — stood bent over at his waist, hands clutching his stomach in the archetypal posture of a man who has been kicked. I clutched Benedict’s glass by its crystal stem. The wine looked good, too good not to polish off. My mouth tasted like clay and my jaw felt tight. My heart pounded quickly and irregularly, and my hands trembled. I lifted the glass to my mouth. The glass shook in my hand. I drank without spilling; the wine was dry, and its bouquet lingered in the glass. I held the liquid in my mouth, letting it soothe my mouth. Then I swallowed and the wine became a warming stream that trickled down my throat. This warmth spread outward, into my chest — it felt like a warm little bomb splashing in my heart, sending shock waves through the blood. Right away my heart’s pounding diminished. The muscles in my jaw relaxed. My shivering hands fell still again, as I said:
“Ah.”
Remembering starlings and games, I peered up at our broken ceiling. There was the face. It seemed to watch over me and my brother sharing a glass. Smoke from other brothers’ between-course cigarettes ascended in white clouds around the face; the smoke blew this way and that in the wind, and it looked as if this smoke had billowed out from the face’s mouth and from the blunt end of that cigarette-like ceiling beam that ran between vaults.
The face, smoking, became lifelike. Changing shadows cast by moving lights animated it, gave it expressiveness — the face appeared to scowl, then grin. It appeared to open its mouth, as if preparing to speak. Seeing this, I listened hard.
I heard the Doberman’s teeth gnawing bone. I heard the wind rushing in, blowing more manuscript papers from a writing desk. I heard the soprano singing and close to a hundred men’s bass, baritone, and tenor voices talking and arguing. I heard cutlery, our forks and knives scraping plates; and I heard chair legs scuff the floor as someone pushed back his chair to stand and stumble off to the bathroom. I heard cursing.
Listening harder, I heard water dripping, minuscule drops falling from the ceiling, splashing our books in the unlit stacks. I heard the twenty golden ropes, creaking under their burdens of chandeliers. I heard Donovan urging Hiram to “Take your time and chew your food,” and I heard a triplet’s tennis racket smash a flying black bat.
That’s a sickening noise.
The dripping water splashed. My neck felt sore from looking up. I did not want to turn away from the speaking mouth. A light fixture swung and its bulbs flickered, and in this instant the mouth on the ceiling opened wide and smoke appeared to pour out, a vast, poisonous exhalation. Someone had lit a joint! That familiar dope aroma smelled delicious. The fact is, I’ll take a puff of marijuana late in the evening.
The mouth opened, more smoke poured out, and a voice I had not heard since childhood said:
“Stop drinking so much! You’ll destroy yourself and everyone you care for! Do you want to end up a drunk? Do you want to die a drunk?”
“What?” I said.
But the face had vanished. I had to wait a moment for the lights to swing back into correct position, for shadows to line up again, for the smoking mouth to continue talking.
“What do you want from me, Dad?” I asked the ceiling. Everywhere, my brothers ranged around. I noticed several serious fellows staring at me, watching me watch for the return of the wrathful face. “Come back! Tell me what to do!” I called into the air as, one more time, at their great height, our twenty chandeliers swung along their arcs and the long shadows swept across the ceiling. The lights aligned, and the great brown water stain, so far away, became, once more, the face.
My hands had begun shaking again. I could feel, deep in my neck, the beginnings of a tension headache. The syringes in my coat pocket were pressed hard against my chest. Everything was moving and spinning. Our fire blazed in our fireplace. Sounds echoed wildly. I heard the sinister grinding made by the Doberman’s teeth chewing that bone. I heard whispers from my brothers nearby. Snowflakes blew in through open windows and I felt like laughing. There was an acrid smell of wine; a few violet drops remained pooled in the glass in my hand. Drink it? Give it back? Drink it? Give it back? Whom was I kidding? The mouth on high opened to say its words. I was sure I could almost, almost, hear those words. “Father has something to say!” I shouted at my brothers. The soprano sang German, the dog barked; and the smell of marijuana grew stronger and stronger in the room. “Pass that joint, brother,” I cried loudly to nobody in particular. Then I hoisted the glass and drank the wine. I hadn’t even gotten a pork chop, and that dog had eaten a big one. Nevertheless, I was laughing.
How good it felt to laugh. The laughter came in magnificent waves. It wasn’t as if anything seemed particularly funny. Where, for instance, was my plate? I must’ve set it on an empty chair. This made me laugh. Small accidents were happening everywhere I looked. Brothers hurt in falls or fights were piling up on sofas and recliners, and our room had begun to resemble one of those wartime hospitals set up in a crumbling manor house. Someone on a chaise moaned, another voice called for water, and Samaritans made rounds, puffing up cushions and administering cordials. This always happens around midnight. Pretending injury is a good way to get a drink in this house.
“Oh! My foot! My foot!” I cried. No one seemed to hear. I hopped up and down to create the impression of a muscle cramp or sprain. I bent over, reached down, and made a show of massaging the calf of my left leg. I peeked up to see if anyone had noticed. I stood, wobbled lamely, shook out the “bad” leg, and made a terrible grimace, a face showing pain. None of this drew any attention. I hobbled a few steps and leaned heavily on a chair back, said to the nearest man, “Lester? Can you help me?”