The sightless man is quite unlike Hiram, who lives with a body that will hardly cooperate with the simplest desires for comfort and mobility. It is true that there is dignity in the freedom to act in a material way upon one’s world. Hiram’s predictable violence is, in part, his expression of former volition. I think we all understand this.

Far down the table, down the long ranks of men facing each other, past the quiet zone and the vocal womanizers and the left-handed vegetarians, down between Bob and Albert at the foot of the oak table, far from Hiram and with an unobstructed view of glowing candelabra and steaming food trays, of silver spoons and our flushed faces beneath the radiant purple window that seems to float up in darkness behind Hiram’s wooden throne—down here, viewing all this and more from the foot of our extraordinarily lengthy table, from its other head, is our Benedict.

Some nights Benedict will bring a bit of “work” from his entomology laboratory, a living specimen, or, if we’re blessed, several, sealed in a dish. Brothers gather around to hear Benedict describe the pellucid egg sac depending from the thorax of a black beetle that displays horns and an armored casing harder and more resilient than our very own bone-china demitasse cups. If we’re really lucky, Benedict will arrange his beetles on the table and they’ll sprint from place setting to place setting. Occasionally bets are taken, favorite beetles named, finish lines drawn with mayonnaise. You wouldn’t think a bug race could be so exciting. Frequently a beetle will detour, climb into someone’s soup, and kick around awhile before drowning. This can be a tension breaker on nights when we brothers are not getting along. It’s always some twin who shouts, “Benedict, take your roaches off the table! They’re covered with germs!”

Benedict will explain, patiently, that his beetles are clean, and that roaches and humans are diseased.

“The sooner everyone sits, the sooner we’ll enjoy our first course!”

This was Jeremiah screaming at us. No one paid him much attention. Why did he bother? Mobs have a way of not hearing, and we were no exception. It was impossible in the confusion to avoid knocking into people. “Sorry, sorry,” I apologized as I shouldered my way to the sideboard. To get through to the plates I leaned against Jonathan’s back and pushed hard. This man stumbled forward, complaining, “Don’t shove.”

I lied, “I’m not shoving! Someone is pushing me! It’s a pack of animals in here!” The lights flickered off and stayed off. Everyone ceased moving, briefly, while waiting for our twenty rusted chandeliers to blink on again. During this interlude of calm I gave Jonathan’s back a sudden, severe body block. I did not see where he fell.

The lights were restored and I arrived at the plates well ahead of most others.

“Doug,” a voice near me called. I pretended not to hear and headed instead toward the oak table and our pork chops heaped in trays. Multitudes, it seemed, had conceived this idea. It wasn’t simply a question of waiting in line. There were no lines, only dense, swarming formations around the food.