Faced with such patriarchal fury, the ingrained impulse has always been to cower and obey. But tonight the opposite reaction unexpectedly blossoms. Maybe it’s because this is ridiculous. Alan’s not a little kid anymore. Maybe it’s because I can’t stand by and let my brother be a punching bag. I’m bigger, taller, and weigh more than Musclini. What’s he going to do if I don’t get out of the doorway? Hit me with the paddle?

Musclini stops in the hallway, as if expecting me to clear the path. But something inside won’t let me. Whatever’s causing my defiance, it feels like the blood in my veins has been replaced with pure adrenaline. If I had a fuse and someone lit it, I’d probably rocket straight through the ceiling.

Breathing hard, the vessels in his reddened temple pulsing, Musclini’s expression gradually morphs from fury to something akin to stupefaction. My heart is galloping, and I’m holding my breath. I’ve never stood up to him physically before. Never thought I could stand up to him before. But strangely, while my heart knocks anxiously and my lungs cry for air, this feels like the culmination of something that’s been festering for years. It occurs to me that I might even have red-eyed Pagan’s Clyde to thank; if I managed to live through what happened in Central Park, then surely I can survive whatever my father might do, right?

Musclini tilts his head to the side, his consternation melting into something almost akin to curiosity. Is he also realizing that a balance between us has changed? That he may be the father and the boss, but his rulership by force need no longer be tolerated?

Into the space between us steps Mom, as stern as an old-fashioned schoolmarm. “Go away, Richard,” she orders.

Musclini’s tensed shoulders stoop. His eyes meet mine, and he nods as if saying, Okay, you win this round. He turns, retreats down the hall.

As Mom goes into the bathroom and opens a towel for Alan, she looks over her shoulder at me. “Thank you, Lucas.”

Alan steps eagerly into the towel, and she wraps it around his shoulders and rubs reassuringly. I wander back down the hall toward my room, feeling a spectrum of emotions: relief, incredulity, pride. What just happened, wherever it came from, wasn’t an act. It felt like it sprang from some conviction that’s slowly been germinating inside. Something that may have begun as an abstract opposition to the oppression of the masses and a faraway war but feels like it’s spread to a sense of outrage against injustice for the oppressed everywhere. Even before the floating turds, I could tell Musclini was angry about something tonight. It felt right to protect Alan. The war really has come home.

Friday, July 25