Did I present such a sorrowful picture? It is true that I slouch a bit. I try not to hunch over, but I’m not getting any younger, and my shoulders ache after a wintry night sitting in a straight-backed library chair, straining my eyes over water-stained property deeds, blurry date-of-death certificates, illegibly written ships’ registries. When I get up, I’m bushed and I stoop. I don’t think my hair is that bad. My hair is naturally fine and growing thin on top, it’s a fact, and for this reason I leave it long on the sides—just below the ears. Don’t get the wrong idea. I don’t wear a “comb over.” There is nothing more vulgar on a mature man than a comb over. I brush my hair in the morning and, after that, pretty much let it fly where the wind blows it. My clothes, I admit, are a few seasons out of date. What about this? I’ve never followed fashion and I don’t trust men—I’m thinking of the twins with their colorful, expensive matching sweaters—who heed the latest styles. It may be that this particular outfit of mine—navy corduroy jacket with patch pockets, my worsted wool “duck hunting” trousers with their frayed and grimy cuffs, clothes I’m comfortable wearing—would seem, to a bystander, small and rather tight, possibly even constricting. I admit I have recently put on an inch or two around the middle. Like I said, I’m not getting any younger. Of course, midbody weight gain will naturally force a garment to shift. These coat sleeves could be let out. It probably would not hurt to have a tailor cut down the lapels. I suspect that Hiram would have had less to say about my general appearance and demeanor if there had not been so much blood—Maxwell’s blood—staining my tie and shirtfront.

I said to Hiram, “The fact that I haven’t shaved this week means nothing. I only want to help. I want everyone to get along. I want us all to be happy again.”

How did this sound? Woeful? Tender? I should explain that, in spite of antipathy toward our eldest brother, toward his more hateful manifestations, it was still not uncommon—and I believe this has been true for each of us in our relations with the man—to hope for some kindness or gentleness, even a hint of his admiration for the odd opinion or sentiment, whatever. You see, in his presence we felt like children, children caught in precisely those worst moments of growing up, those times of clear and terrifying appreciation of one’s utter smallness in the world; and this smallness is excruciating to feel in adulthood because it is a form of regression and therefore humiliating. For this reason, and in spite of mean feelings—in spite of everything—we all craved our aged brother’s esteem.