He rubs the back of his neck. “There’s nothing left. You had to know that. The separate bedrooms. The silence. There are things a man needs, Lucas. I’m not just talking about sex. I’m talking about love and affection. . . .” He trails off, but he’s said enough to leave me feeling profoundly ill at ease.

It’s January 1967. I am fifteen and have begun to grow my hair long. At home, I am accused of being fresh, sullen, and uncooperative. With Presidents’ Week vacation approaching next month, Dad announces that he and I need to spend some special time together. I think not, but he proposes that we go to Aspen, the mecca of American skiing.

Mom has to stay home with Alan, who won’t ski anymore. He used to, but he refused to go to ski school and thus never learned to turn. At the top of a slope, he’d aim his skis downhill and go straight to the bottom, where he’d drop to his butt and drag to a stop.

None of us saw what happened on that icy day at Bromley the year Alan turned nine. But it wasn’t hard to imagine him flying down the hill and plunking down in his customary drag-butt manner. With scant friction on the hard-packed slippery snow, he slid farther and faster than usual and smashed into the ticket checker’s booth. One front tooth was knocked out cleanly. The other had to be removed by a dentist in Manchester that afternoon. Alan hasn’t been on skis — and has been wearing a bite-plate with two false front teeth — ever since.

In Aspen, Dad signs us up for a private lesson. We’ve never skied in powder and want to learn. Our Austrian ski instructor keeps saying “Rhino.” “Rhino, we ski face of Bell Mountain.” “Rhino, you follow me.”

Dad and I are mystified. Does the instructor think Rhino is Dad’s first name? Did someone tell him that’s how all Americans begin each sentence?

This goes on all morning until we realize that Rhino means “right now.”

Rhino becomes our private joke. “Rhino, I go to the bathroom.” “Rhino, I order dessert.” Dad and I don’t talk about life back home, about me quitting tennis, not doing my chores, or doing badly at school. We just ski. It’s actually fun. Fun with Dad. A unique concept.

One day, while we’re eating lunch at the Sundeck at the top of Aspen Mountain, Dad starts chatting with an attractive woman. She laughingly says that she thought Dad and I were brothers. Dad shows his teeth a lot and converses animatedly with her. I am old enough now to recognize the heightened level of charm he saves for social occasions and flirtations with attractive women. But, hey, it’s vacation. We’re just having fun.