Speaking of which, the pizzas still have a few minutes to go when the door from the garage opens and Musclini enters, dressed in his tennis clothes. He’s lean, ropy-muscled, tanned, and about four inches shorter than me (which I sometimes suspect compounds his need to be the intimidating patriarch). His white alligator shirt is darkened with patches of sweat, and a white towel hangs around his neck. His face is still flushed from playing, but his short wavy brown hair is combed back to near perfection. Combing his hair is always the first thing he does after a match.

There isn’t much eye contact between us. Maybe someday I’ll ask him why, if I can figure out how to do it without eye contact. Silently, he leaves his tennis bag by the door and proceeds deeper into the house. On many evenings, I don’t see him at all (which is fine with me). If he isn’t off somewhere “working late,” he’s at the club playing tennis.

In the oven, the mini-pizza crusts have, as they say on TV, turned golden brown. It strikes me that, except for chocolate, brown is not a good color when it comes to food. Whoever came up with the “golden” bit was a genius. I call into the den and Alan appears. He used to be a scrawny kid, but now he’s chubby and round-shouldered from sitting on the floor in front of the TV all the time. I put two mini-pizzas on his yellow Superman food tray, pour him a glass of milk (soda and sweet fruit drinks are banned substances in the house of dashed dreams), and back to the den he goes. There used to be a rule that we weren’t supposed to eat in the den, but that was before the war at home went from covert to overt.

I’ve just settled at the kitchen table with the other two mini-pizzas when the squeak of tennis sneakers on linoleum trumpets the return of Musclini. He’s carrying the yellow post office change-of-address form. (Within these walls there is no privacy. My parents go into my room whenever they want. I keep my weed and condoms in a sock at the back of a drawer, where they are meant to be discovered. Hopefully that will discourage further investigation. One has to unscrew the bottom of my record player to find the pills and acid.)

“I want you to sign this.” The paterfamilias places the yellow card in front of me.

The childish instinct to obey quickly flits past, followed by the young man’s urge to resist. “I don’t get it. Am I moving to Bay Shore?”

“No.”

I await further explanation, but none follows.