He’s never spoken to me this honestly, this frankly before. I guess this, too, is part of the post – high school landscape. I gaze across the street at our neighbors’ well-kept houses and neatly trimmed lawns. The only sounds are cicadas and the distant hum of a lawn mower. Despite my antiestablishment leanings, this summer I’ve come to realize that this has been a good place, maybe even a great place, to grow up. In a roomy home, in a safe neighborhood with lots of space to play and a private country club. Children never go hungry here. They have their own bedrooms. Not only was Chris expected to drop out and go to work when he turned sixteen, but until he went into the army, he had to share a bedroom with a younger brother. And how many millions of kids would think he had it pretty good compared to them?

So, let’s face it, folks, I’ve had it good. Only, Rhino I can’t look at the person who made it all possible. That Presidents’ Week trip to Aspen two years ago was the last time any of us traveled anywhere together. How convenient that on the top of Aspen Mountain we should run into an attractive woman who happened to be skiing alone. How strange that the paterfamilias should suddenly decide he wanted to go listen to music. How remarkable that we should run into the same woman (alone again) at the beer hall after the paterfamilias had gotten me plastered.

And that was supposed to be our special time together? Pardon my French, but give me a fucking break.

“Is Antonia the one you went to the classic-car rally with?” I ask.

The paterfamilias does a double take, then stares at me with wide-eyed stupefaction. I explain that I saw her in the MG with him when Robin and I drove out east to catch the ferry to New London on our way to Maine.

He looks down at the sidewalk and says “We’re deeply in love” for the second time.

A cramping sensation seizes my guts. How is a son supposed to react when a father tells him he’s deeply in love with a woman who’s not his mother?

“She lives in New Jersey,” he volunteers. “So I’d probably move out there. She’s got young boys who could use a father.”

To get to the very closest parts of New Jersey takes at least an hour — more in any kind of traffic. Depending on where in New Jersey Antonia lives, the drive could take a lot longer. If he moves there, am I supposed to visit?

“What about Mom and Alan?” I ask.

“I’d make sure they’re okay,” he says. “They seem to do fine without me.”