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.

Ping. Ping.

Brothers looked up from plates. Kevin put down his glass and the butter knife he’d rapped it with and began, “I have a brief announcement. Can I have your attention? Excuse me? I’d like to make an announcement? There will be a meeting tonight after supper, of brothers concerned about water damage and falling plaster in the library. As some of you may know, a slow drip, directly over Philosophy of Mind, has recently waterlogged and destroyed seventy to eighty percent of Cognitive Theory. Additional roof leaks are causing runoff and resultant buckling along many stretches of wall, as well as structural deterioration throughout the ceiling. We can expect worse with snow, which, I might add, is predicted for later this evening.”