“Ball those tight!” Hiram screeched at Donovan crumpling Sunday newspaper sections, lobbing these into the grate.

Hiram is ninety-three and universally despised for his many humiliating cruelties.

“Examine the flue!” he commanded Donovan, loudly enough for everyone in the family to overhear. And now Stephen quickly approached, head lowered and arms fully extended before him with hands cupped as if bearing something disagreeable, which, on arriving at the red-brick fireside, he flung away—a scatter of powder and detritus that clouded the hearth and the air around it with granular smog.

Immediately Hiram seized his walker by the handles and clattered backward, fleeing grime.

“Oh, my shoes, look at my shoes,” he cried as a second cargo of glass and dust and, also, several large, knife-edged porcelain fragments, carried by Maxwell, made uneasy passage toward that end of the room. We all watched in horror as Max tacked around furniture and the extended legs of semireclining men. Everything was an obstacle, and Max seemed, with each wavering, anxious footfall, on the verge of keeling over. He vaulted an ottoman that appeared suddenly in his path. He kicked up rug corners. The rugs were ancient and valuable, tattered to a point near disintegration—but never mind, the real worry was that Max would do something grievous with that serrated porcelain he was brandishing in every direction. “Oh! Oh!” Hiram hollered as Max cleared the big Persian carpet, hit the hardwood, lost his balance completely, and flew into a run/slide/stagger across the floorboards toward him, toward Hiram clutching the walker with fists speckled brown by age. Max’s arms thrashed, and it appeared he would crash into our eldest brother and cut off his head. But Hiram cowered down and used the waist-high, wraparound frame of the walker as a protective metal barricade. He lowered his head between bent elbows, thrust the walker before him, braced for collision—he’d once played sports! Now he showed admirable form, letting the walker absorb the initial impact, before recoiling from the main force of Max’s oncoming midsection with a sideways feint-and-parry maneuver that would’ve been nice to watch on instant replay, it looked so effortless.

Max veered away. Hiram shook his fist—in anger it seemed, actually pain. He’d suffered an injury to the wrist, so easy to do at his advanced age. Now he clasped this brittle hand and crumpled over—automatically, self-protectively, in the manner of a man who’s hammered his thumb. He shook out the hand and he made a face. Of course Barry came from wherever he was sitting to have a look. Barry’s a caring physician and a loyal brother. He gives us all plenty of complimentary medical counseling, as well as phoned-in prescriptions for tetracycline or a refill of antidepressants. If the complaint requires a specialist’s care, he’ll offer a referral.

Barry flexed Hiram’s wrist, massaged, tenderly, the hand and bony forearm. He swiveled the joint. “How’s this? This? How about here? Okay? No? Hurt? Sorry.” And so forth, as the old man grimaced.

Max in the meantime continued to weave. He still held that porcelain. What was he doing? Warding off an invisible enemy? No one dared approach him. It looked as if he might do serious damage after all.