What, exactly, does that mean? Alan may not be a kid anymore, but he’s still the paterfamilias’s child, still living at home, going to his special school. But he won’t be going to special schools forever. What then? What happens to people like my brother? Are they sent away someplace? Mom would never allow that. So then . . . will he always live with her at home? And if something happens to Mom, then with me? It’s hard to imagine true-love Antonia taking on that responsibility when she has children of her own. So that means the paterfamilias would leave Alan in our hands. Emotionally, I guess he did that years ago. But at least he stuck around to be here in an emergency.

Now he’d really be gone.

From Mom.

From Alan.

From me.

For good.

This is the guy Mom says loves me?

So here we are on the sidewalk on a summer afternoon, talking about a future in which he walks away from his family to take over a new one. One where he feels appreciated by the new love of his life and needed by her children. All he has to do is divorce Mom and he’ll be golden.

It reminds me of the last time he asked for my blessing to do something that was important to him. When he asked if I’d mind if Rat Fink Johnny became his doubles partner. What did he expect me to say? At that point, I hadn’t picked up a racket in nearly a year. He knew I hated playing competitively. The only reason he asked was because he felt guilty and wanted me to absolve him of that burden.

It’s the same thing now, isn’t it?

He wants me to say something like I understand, Dad. Don’t worry about shirking your responsibilities to your family. Go to Antonia. After all, she’s the soul mate you never thought you’d find.

That’s not what I say. What comes through my lips is “Do whatever the fuck you want.”

I’d rather have a bottle in front of me

Than a frontal lobotomy.

It’s truly mind-blowing how many small brown glass bottles are in the medicine cabinet in Arno’s parents’ bathroom. A regular pharmacological cornucopia. A few moments ago, I was in Arno’s room listening to Blind Faith and helping him paint one side of each of his homemade acid tablets a festive violet color. Acid usually has a name (Orange Sunshine, Blue Cheer, Purple Haze), and Arno’s come up with Violet Rush. The Woodstock music and arts festival is less than a week away, and he doesn’t want potential customers thinking he’s trying to burn them with tabs that look more like aspirin than acid.