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Sunday afternoon lineup, Jack had shaved his head with an electric razor. By then sharp things were locked away—no straight razors for our boy Jack—but my father heard a thump, and it was enough to lurch from the blanketed chair and race up the stairs where he found Jack passed out on the floor of his room, blood leaking from his crumpled body. Jack had shaved his head, wrapped a belt around his neck and pulled it as tightly as he could, then begun to shave his tongue.
    My father yanked the belt open and Jack gasped air.Blood covered his chin and puddled on the floor. My father carried all six feet of his boy down the stairs, hollering for my mother the whole time.
    Ellen , he yelled, the car! Jack, Ellen!
    And my mother was, by now, trained to whir into motion at the sound of that tone, at yet another terrifying act of this boy of hers, this creature who had come whole out of her womb but was coming apart here, in the world. She had the car running and ready to go in no time at all.
    When I arrived at the interrupted house, lined up neatly against the bedroom wall were his boxes. In front of them an unmanicured pile of Jack’s ginger-colored curls moved in the breeze from the door, his blood pooled and dried a path to the hall and I knew I was home.
    14.
    I had a lover who was jealous of Jack. Of course you are jealous , I whispered late in the night, a cacophony of crickets and june bugs keeping us company under trees and a fat, shiny moon. Who wouldn’t want to be touched like that?
    That’s not what I meant, you understand, what I meant was connection. Connection inspires jealousy. But my poor lover was unconvinced. He’s with me all the time , I whispered, even here with you, under this moon. But that’s no reason to be jealous. Yes, Jack is everything to me but I love you too .
    It was the wrong thing to say.
    15.
    In the beginning there was Jack and then Erin. God spoke to Jack and Jack spoke to Erin and to the world. When the things became too much, Jack tried to blot them out but eventually he couldn’t and they destroyed him. The things. The voices. God.
    And I was the first disciple of Jack. The truth he harbored, the light in him—I followed it.
    In the hospital, Jack was observed. They monitored my brother and consulted each other about his voices. It’s the voice of God , I told them. Jack says . But I stood by myself and the doctors clustered, and Jack, in traction, was with the voices in a glassed-in room.
    Apparently God had wanted Jack to tell us something and he refused. Jack had stood on the top of the cathedral roof. It was a chilly day, clear-skied and vibrant and from up there he could see the Connecticut River, the hospital and homes on the hill beyond. He could see the Portland bridge and the cars along the highway. He was surrounded by air on three sides, the spire of the church behind him. God wanted to chat and Jack had had enough. He was crying. He stood with his arms outstretched and his head back.
    No! he shouted. I don’t want anymore . He waved his fist in the air and yelled: I don’t want anymore! I am not your servant! I’m not!
    He was loud and fierce up there on the church. Below, people gathered in the street to see what the noise was about. It was about an argument between my speck of a brother and the Great Almighty who’d been plaguing him for so many years.
    Leave me alone! Jack bellowed. One more thing and I go! He was sobbing, you could hear him from the street. Leave me alone or I fly! No more!
    That was the last thing: No more! Then Jack howled and crouched and the crowd, who’d been too captivated by the noise to act, suddenly moved like a great wakening beast, murmured and scattered, sirens howling in the distance. But Jack was quiet. Just crouched and flung himself in an airy and graceful swan dive off the roof.
    He did not fly.
    He was broken, but lived.
    He landed on a couple from the mall and they were a cushion.