How to persuade Virgil to go along with this. Virgil’s aversion to health-care paraphernalia is well known. Getting the doctor’s bag would not be simple. It was possible that I could release my grip on Virgil’s arm, then violently wrench Virgil’s hands free from my own, cast him off and abandon him, so to speak. How often had I promised myself, on these evenings of ours, a sabbatical from Virgil’s clinging? But things are never so simple. We seem, Virgil and I, always to find one another. It is true that he craves sympathy. I imagine his anxiousness, his frailty, his bleak and misanthropic outlook, as intimations of a sophisticated personal style—Virgil’s Artful Guardedness—evidence not of weakness but of thwarted vitality: Virgil’s will to thrive masked by a public demeanor of hopelessness, inadequacy, emotional and moral dereliction. And I imagine, probably wrongly, that if I just push him, if I goad him in the right way and with the appropriate insistence, he will forswear this deception and fight his way through the range of his adult feelings, whatever they may be, rage, disgust, elation, gratitude; and, in gratitude, become the kind of person I need and want him to be, the kind of man I most desire for fellowship in this room peopled with loud, assertive types—a genuine and strong ally.

Tonight he was looking more and more sickly. His proximity was becoming stifling. I longed to break loose from him. If I did, if I left Virgil unattended, he would very likely fall dizzily to the floor, and if he did not fall down, he would certainly run away and lock himself in the rare-book room, and I would have to come after him and talk sweetly to him through the door, and then I’d want to beat the crap out of him.

“I want your help,” I told him.

“What for?”

“To do something.”

“What?”

“Will you help me?”

“It depends.”

“Oh, come on, Virgil. I’m begging you. Christ. Jesus. I’m standing here holding on to you all night, keeping the bad spirits away, taking your temperature, being a friend. Do me a favor already.”

“All right.”

“We’ve got to get that doctor’s bag. It’s right over there. See it?”

“Wait a minute, Doug.”

“Let’s get the bag,” tugging him toward the mahogany coffee table with leather satchel underneath, Virgil in tow but frantic.

“What are you going to do, Doug? Doug, what are you going to do?”

“Nothing.”

“Don’t you want to check on Max?”

“He’s sleeping.”

“Max isn’t sleeping. His eyes are open. Look. He needs you.”

“We’ll check on Max in a minute. Now come on,” yanking Virgil by the arm—hard.

“You want to give me an injection. Don’t stick me, Doug. Please don’t stick me,” he whimpered. We were all tangled up with each other. My feet stumbled over his. He said, “Doug, I’m thirsty. I’m so thirsty.”

I felt it important to hurry. Things seemed critical. Virgil’s face wore a bad color. “Just a little farther, Virgil. Cooperate with me. Fortitude. I know you have it in you. Don’t disappoint me, Virgil, and I’ll bring you a drink.”