I feel drained. It’s not only due to lack of sleep and residual stress from losing Odysseus and being searched at the border. The dread I feel regarding Robin weighs heavily.

Back in the kitchen, Mom is wrapping the sandwiches in tinfoil. They’re sending Alan away? It’s the clearest sign yet that life in the house of dashed dreams has entered crisis mode, that it’s gotten to a point where they don’t want Alan to witness whatever’s going on. Despite the fog of fatigue, I think back to a time when there was hope that with special schooling and tutoring, Alan would someday get up to speed. Back before Dad’s faithlessness became a fact of family life. Back when Mom used to love to take us to Jones Beach. When she was sometimes lighthearted and capable of unexpected laughter. When, even on the days she drove Alan to and from the city, she managed to put dinner on the table.

“How is she?” Mom asks.

I’ve never spoken to her about my relationship with Robin. When I tell her that Robin’s okay, she nods doubtfully, the way people do when they know they’re not getting the whole story.

“Does she know you’ve been rejected by Goddard?” she asks.

“Yeah, she knows.”

“And,” Mom says next, “what about the draft?”

“Under control,” I assure her. That couldn’t be less true, but between Alan and Dad, she has enough grief. Besides, after the phone call with Robin, I’m not sure I give much of a damn. That letter she said she’s going to write sounds ominous. Feels like I’ve been found guilty; the only question now is what the sentence will be.

This would be the moment when the door from the garage opens and the paterfamilias enters, wearing a white Lacoste tennis shirt and cream-colored tennis shorts. His face and arms are tanned except for the ring of pale skin around his right wrist where he always wears a sweatband.

He contemplates the prodigal son and her tormented ladyship. His expression doesn’t change. He could be looking at cardboard cutouts. I realize it’s been a long time since I’ve seen my parents in a room together. Unless you live in a castle, it takes effort to accomplish that.

“What happened?” the paterfamilias asks.

Guess he noticed that I’m home a day early and Odysseus isn’t. I deliver my report regarding the demise of der Wagen.

“You’re going to need a way to get to work.” He looks at Mom. For an instant, I wonder if he’s going to suggest that I use her station wagon. But Mom’s eyes narrow in warning.

“He can use the MG,” she says.