It was that time of evening when things start going wrong and it’s every man for himself.

“Dinner’s getting cold!” Jeremiah shouted at the men raising windows. The dog, smelling meat, left papers on the ground and trotted, head up, across the room to our table.

“Leash that animal!” someone shouted in the direction of Chuck’s assigned seat. This chair was unoccupied because Chuck had taken himself and a bottle of Scotch off to a corner table shared by Leon, Bennet, and Saul.

Displaced brothers roamed at large. The twins were assembled, predictably, in their line of eight. Clay, Seth, Vidal, Gustavus, and Joe had been orphaned from their seats. Young Jeremy’s place was free; this boy remained on his back on the purple divan, eyes closed, recovering from Fielding’s assault earlier in the night. That fight seemed, to me, like something that had happened ages before. But it had been a recent event. What time was it anyway? I didn’t dare ask. As I believe I’ve mentioned, a question like that can start a brawl. Seth and Vidal hurriedly ran around the foot of the dinner table, grabbed the chairs left vacant by Samuel and Scott. The triplets, off chasing bats, lost their places to Ralph, Lewis, and Rod. Noises everywhere were getting louder. Gunner the Doberman’s eyes glistened, watery. Frank looked unhappy. Our pork chops were disappearing fast. A man’s voice beside me said, “It’s past ten o’clock.”

I’d not realized I had asked. Surely in all this chaos it would be easy to speak out unknowingly, to utter, in an offhand way, one’s thoughts—and be overheard. I said, “Oh, we always eat so late,” and watched uprooted men race frantically around the oak table, this way and that like competitors playing musical chairs. Many carried plates.

Periodically, one would say, “You’re in my seat,” or, “Pardon me, is this chair taken?”

One after another, the roving men dropped into places. Joshua with his long kitchen matches leaned across the table at its middle—squeezing, sideways, between Foster and Andrew—to light candles. Wine carafes traveled from hand to hand until drained. You could tell which men were already finishing second or third glasses. They were the most voluble. They wore inscrutable, wide smiles on blushing faces, and their voices, when shouting greetings down the great length of the table, rang out ecstatically. “I love you, man! You’re my brother!” Lewis hollered to Denzil, and Denzil, returning that toast, cried, “You’re my brother, too, and I love you like one!”

Meanwhile the dog paced behind chairs, excited and hungry. “Here, doggy,” a voice called, and before anyone could object, a pork chop was hurled through the air at Gunner. The chop flew upward in a spiraling arc, up into the high darkness and out of sight above the chandeliers, then straight back into vision as it fell into the light at Gunner’s feet and landed with a plop on the rug where the dog seized it between wet teeth.

Practically everybody was eating. The menu was braised pork chops, peas (not canned peas), scalloped potatoes in a dill sauce, a delightful squash-and-eggplant casserole, wild rice for the vegetarians, dinner rolls in those foil trays, and a lettuce and cucumber salad. Dessert was a surprise and I was hoping as always for coconut cake. I’d not yet loaded my plate. Someone at the table struck his glass with a knife blade, and this meant time for before-dinner announcements.