And was quiet again.
Hands twitched a little. Chest rose and fell. One foot kicked its mate.
For a moment no one seemed ready to make a move. Men near Max watched him. A few raised eyebrows, nodded my way; whispers were passed. Barry clutched his head — the doctor seemed disoriented. Kevin in a low voice said, “Here you go, Barry,” and handed Barry his glasses, which had landed unharmed over by General Non-fiction C — E.
And I could hear other sounds in the room. Max’s hard breaths, and the creaking made by old floorboards underfoot as, one after another, brothers shuffled to left or right, little by little opening a path between the love seat and the place where Max lay bathed in light and sweat.
Fielding did not miss a beat. He whirled his camera to shoot up this impromptu corridor of many brothers fanning backward to make way for — for what? Virgil raised hands to shield eyes from the high-wattage brightness suddenly pouring in on us. For my part, I hate appearing in Fielding’s motion pictures, no matter the occasion. There always comes a time when we have to sit around on folding chairs and watch the things, and someone always has to pop corn, and Fielding always has to solicit comments on the effectiveness of his work, and this is not enjoyable; it’s rude.
Now Fielding was motioning to us — to me, actually — with his free hand, making a directorial “steady now, walk toward the camera” gesture.
“Shall we?” I said to Virgil.
“You go. Max wants you.”
“I’d appreciate it if you came with me.”
“Do I have to?”
“No. It’s up to you. I’m inviting you to join me, if you’d care to.”
“What do you think he meant when he said, ‘The God is within us’?”
“He said, ‘The God is among us.’”
“‘Among us’?”
“I believe that’s what Max said. We’ll have to ask him, won’t we? Let’s find out how Max is feeling, then we’ll sit somewhere quiet.”
“Can we get something to drink?” Virgil asked.
“You bet.”
“Because I’m very thirsty, Doug.”
Getting up from the love seat was difficult. Virgil had trouble. It was a matter of leverage. The love seat was low and our knees were high. We made a false start in which Virgil dug his fist into my ribs as I tried pushing until something hurt in my back and Virgil foundered. Light from Fielding’s handheld camera flashed around us; the light threw colossal human shadows, the shadows of brothers, onto far walls. Larry stepped directly into the camera’s sights; his enlarged likeness spanned shelves and windows almost to molding level. Daniel’s likeness flickered hugely across the room, a monster en route to the door where, at that moment, Albert entered, as the blind will, tapping, with his retractable cane, a route among the furniture legs. “Good evening, gentlemen,” Albert said without moving his head. Fielding rotated the camera to follow Daniel steering Albert carefully past Max, and toward his, Albert’s, usual chair beneath the caribou heads with ears missing.
Fielding’s light fell on Virgil and me again, and this was nauseating because we could not manage to rise from the love seat; it was hopeless, everybody staring at Virgil climbing across my lap.
“Don’t.”
“Stop.”
“Wait.”
“Stop.”
“Don’t.”
“Wait.”
Luckily Tom came over to help. Tom seized Virgil’s arm and hauled him off me. Shame at this gathered in Virgil, who mumbled, “What do you know, couldn’t stand up, must be getting old or something, thanks, Tom.”
“No problem.”
“Yes, thank you,” I said to Tom, who, perhaps for Virgil’s benefit, said, “These antique chairs were built for smaller people, weren’t they?”
“Sure were,” I agreed.
“If you ask me, I think we ought to clear this place out and refurnish. Fix up these floors, knock out a few skylights,” said Tom.
“Hmn,” I said.
“I mean, the colors in here. What’s so great about red? You know, studies have shown that colors have significant effects on mood. Did you know that?”
“I think I did.”
“And red is, I’m not sure what exactly it is red supposedly does.”
“Violence and aggression,” I said.
“Is that right?”
“Of course in heraldic symbolism red is frequently associated with the monarchy.”
“Interesting.”
“As is purple. Here we see the three-way connection between secular power, the impassioned genitals, and the spilled blood of the Lord drunk by the faithful as Communion wine.”
“I guess that’s true,” said Tom in the bright light from Fielding’s camera. Fielding was becoming impatient; he peeked from behind the viewfinder and mouthed the words Come on. Max on his back heaved in oxygen. A short distance away Barry sat on the floor and clutched his head. Virgil beside me shivered and said, “Doug, I don’t feel so good. Will you check my temperature?”
“Okay,” touching my palm to his wet forehead. He was hot. “You’re fine,” I told him. But in the light he looked horribly unwell with his blue-white skin the color of a shaved puppy. Moisture emitting from him beaded up on his head where his hair was thinning at the crown. Openmouthed he looked about.
I understood then that he was growing sicker and might not live much longer.
The light beckoned. Fielding’s hand kept waving. I got a supporting hold on Virgil’s arm and off we went toward the wide center of the room, toward our Max. Brothers stood in a file on Virgil’s left, and in another line on my right; behind were more with necks craned. Several along our way acknowledged us. Vaughan nodded and Eric motioned with his hand, a barely perceptible greeting. Phil, standing in line beside Gregory, whispered, as we passed, “Hey, Doug. Hey, Virgil.”
“Hello, Phil,” I said.
“Philip,” whispered Virgil.
“Gregory,” I then said.
“Doug, Virgil, hello,” replied Gregory, and Virgil also nodded. Frank said:
“Boys.”
“Frank,” we said, going by.
Angus leaned in close as we walked past. “Doug, I need my belt sander back.”
“Right. I keep forgetting. Sorry.”
“Whenever you get a chance,” Angus said as Walter, next in line after Angus, remarked obnoxiously, “Hey, Doug, are you still trying to figure out where we all come from?”