I considered. “No.” Then considered further. “Maybe.” After another moment’s thought, I said, “The noise in here is getting on my nerves.”

He nodded his head, as if in agreement, and I realized he wasn’t agreeing; his head always bobs up and down because he has no control over the muscles in his neck; it’s a neurological disorder, not unlike Tourette’s, though much milder and without the obsessive, repetitive vocalizing. Symptoms include subtle motor perseveration affecting the upper torso and, when Richard is greatly agitated, the limbs; and, though benign, this is disconcerting to watch.

Affably, irritatingly, metronomically, Richard’s head bobbed. “Don’t like the music, Doug?”

“The music is pleasant but it’s too loud. Why do those guys need to crank up the stereo like that? And Chuck’s dog is driving me nuts. Can’t he teach it to shut up? A person can’t think with that barking.”

“The dog is just excited and happy to be a dog. He’ll calm down eventually.”

“Let’s hope so for his sake,” I said, contemplating the needles and the vials hidden in my coat pocket. It would not be difficult to dispatch Gunner for the night, or, for that matter, longer.

Up, down went Richard’s head. The sight of this filled me with loathing. “Richard, I’d love to stay and chat, but I’ve got to find a vase and water for these lilies.” Already the flowers’ lengthy stems appeared to be wilting. But they weren’t wilting. They were bent, because I had gripped them tightly and crushed their stalks. I never was much good with plants. I tried cradling the crooked lilies, tenderly as if they were a child in my arms. I feared damaging the blooms. The blooms were heavy and sagged downward. What was the proper way to carry a spray of blooming lilies?

Upside down, as Parisians do! Held this way, with my arm at my side, the lilies cascaded almost to the floor. My walking style involves some rhythmic arm swinging; I had to exercise control in order not to kick the swaying petals with my shoes. I extended my right arm and held the flowers away, at an angle, thirty degrees or more from my side. My left hand I stowed in my sport coat’s outside pocket, along with the stethoscope coiled there; pliant tubing gave this hand something to keep busy with as I shuffled across the room. I had the creeping feeling, as I scouted around for a roomy vase, of a kind of theatrically extreme body consciousness—as if my affected, wary attentiveness to movement and positioning, vis-à-vis flowers, somehow invited my brothers’ stares. A bouquet invariably draws attention to its holder. Still, I felt edgy and ill at ease, when Seamus, who was eating a piece of cheese, called out, his mouth full, “Hey, Doug, you’re dragging those on the rug.”

“Fuck off, Seamus. Why don’t you help me find a vase instead of stuffing your face. What are you drinking?”

“Vodka.”

“Give me a sip.”