I looked back toward Seamus and saw that he was swaying in place, as if he were himself a kind of tall, old, bare tree, windblown and bending forward precariously with head down. His eyes were shut or almost shut; their lids fluttered. Backward Seamus leaned. His feet—in supple brown shoes—remained anchored. That glass was in his hand. It might’ve been wise to reach out and take this empty glass before Seamus let it drop, but Seamus’s arms were waving, and once this begins it is best to avoid disturbing him because reckless arm gestures mean he is fast asleep on his feet and may not respond nicely to touch. An episode like this can last a few minutes or several hours, during which time Seamus, for reasons no one understands, will attempt to pick his way across the room through open stacks to the bathroom.

“Seamus is asleep again,” I whispered to Arthur passing by on the long march toward the bar. Arthur turned to James, next in line, and advised him, “Seamus is asleep. Watch out.”

In this manner word went out and Seamus was given leeway to swing his arms wildly. The sight of this filled me with guilt for all the things I could not put right simply by loving my brothers as they tottered about or collapsed to the library floor. Max, for one, had not budged from his spot on the carpet. There he was on his back with arms flung out and with shoes half on and half off. The blood had dried and Max was resting comfortably, watched over by Bertram waiting patiently for me to bring him a seltzer.

Close by was Virgil. Virgil had drawn himself into a cozy ball around that embroidered pillow I’d given him earlier. I could not see whether he was trembling. He hugged his pillow and looked contented.

Not so our Barry. Barry’s whole head was bruised. He made intermittent, quite loud gurgling noises. His glasses had settled unevenly across the ruby bridge of his nose. Coins had spilled from Barry’s trouser pockets and were scattered brightly around on the carpet.