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?”