Not likely. I’ve hardly ever been allowed to drive the paterfamilias’s cherished golden chariot. Heaven forbid I should put a scratch in those lustrous eleven coats of Rolls-Royce Willow Gold.

The color seems to drain from Musclini’s face before racing back to a deeper reddish hue. I expect him to veto the idea and instead suggest that I drive his business car, a green Mercury Cougar, while he drives the MG. But, amazingly, he agrees. “To the factory and back. That’s all. And be careful.”

Things in the house of dashed dreams have indeed taken a strange turn.

And speaking of strange turns: “You’re sending Alan away?” I direct the question at the paterfamilias.

His eyes dart at Mom. “It’s your mother’s decision.”

“He’s your son, too,” I point out.

Musclini straightens up and puffs out his chest. He dips his forehead forward like a bull preparing to charge. “It’s what’s been decided,” he says in a raised and deepened voice — a warning shot across the bow.

But it’s just bark. Feels like we’re back in the bathroom doorway again. “You said Mom made the decision. What about you? Do you think it’s a good idea?”

You can feel the tension in the air. You can feel Mom and the paterfamilias forcing themselves not to look at each other. The paterfamilias maintains his confrontational posture. “I . . . agreed with her.”

The kitchen grows hushed. The theme song from Get Smart seeps out of the den. The strain is unrelenting. The paterfamilias’s shoulders gradually stoop. It’s the way he’s looked the few times I’ve seen him lose a tennis match. He leaves the kitchen.

Mom glances at me with a quizzical expression.

“What?” I ask.

She smiles weakly. “I believe you’re growing up.”

I yawn and drag myself out of the kitchen and down the hall. Once again I’ve stood up to the paterfamilias. But where I might have imagined feeling proud, instead I feel insecure and wary, as if, by inserting myself into the muffled hostilities between my parents, I’ve thrown off the precarious balance we’ve lived with for so long. Now what? What happens next?

Thankfully, I’m too tired to dwell on it. The long journey, the ominous conversation with Robin, the news about Alan, the confrontation with Musclini — all compound my weariness. In my room, my mattress on the floor is in the same tousled, unmade state as when I left. Suddenly I’m so wiped I can’t be bothered to undress, other than to drop into the chair and start to tug off a boot.

That’s when my eyes travel to my desk, where a white envelope lies. The return address states:

I don’t have to open it to know what it says.

Monday, July 28