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It’s his life. But we’re the ones who are saddened by it.
    Which is idiotic, in a way. We’ve got more than enough to keep us busy on our own turf.
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    He opens up the most with Vincent. Because of the Internet. They write each other all the time, send each other corny jokes and links for websites where they can find old vinyl LPs and used guitars and other model enthusiasts. Simon made himself a great friend in Massachusetts, they swap photos of their respective remote-controlled boats. The guy’s name is Cecil (Simon can’t pronounce it right, he says, See-sull) W. Thurlington, and he lives in a big house on Martha’s Vineyard.
    Lola and I think it sounds really . . . chic. Martha’s Vineyard . . . “The cradle of the Kennedys,” as they say in Paris Match.
    We have this fantasy where we take the plane and then go up to Cecil’s private beach and we shout, “Yoo-hoo! Darling See-sull! We are Simon’s sisters! We are so very ahn-shahn-tay!”
    We picture him wearing a navy blue blazer, with an old rose cotton sweater thrown over his shoulders, and off-white linen slacks. Straight out of a Ralph Lauren ad.
    When we threaten to dishonor Simon with our plan, he tends to lose some of his cool.
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    â€œHey, are you doing it on purpose or what?”
    â€œWell how many coats do you have to put on, anyway?” he says eventually.
    â€œThree.”
    â€œThree coats?”
    â€œBase, color, and fixer.”
    â€œOh . . . ”
    â€œBe careful, and at least warn me when you’re about to brake.”
    He raises his eyebrows. No. Correction. One eyebrow.
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    What can he be thinking when he raises his right eyebrow like that?
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    We ate rubbery sandwiches at one of those freeway rest stops. It was revolting. I’d been plugging for a plat du jour at one of the truck stops but “they don’t know how to wash the lettuce.” True. I’d forgotten. So, three vacuum wrapped sandwiches, please. (Infinitely more hygienic.)
    â€œIt may not be good, but at least we know what we’re eating!”
    That’s one way of looking at it.
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    We were sitting outside next to the garbage dumpsters. You could hear “brrrrammm” and “brrrroommm” every two seconds but I wanted to smoke a cigarette and Carine cannot stand the smell of tobacco.
    â€œI have to use the restroom,” she announced, with a pained expression. “I don’t suppose it’s too luxurious . . . ”
    â€œWhy don’t you go in the grass?” I asked.
    â€œIn front of everyone? Are you crazy?”
    â€œJust go a little bit further, that way. I’ll come with you if you want.”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œI’ll get my shoes dirty.”
    â€œI don’t think so, the time it will take you . . . ”
    She got up without condescending to answer.
    â€œYou know, Carine,” I said solemnly, “the day you learn to enjoy having a wee in the grass, you’ll be a much happier person.”
    She took her towelettes.
    â€œEverything is just fine, thank you.”
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    I turned to my brother. He was staring at the cornfield as if he were trying to count every single ear. He didn’t look too great.
    â€œYou okay?”
    â€œI’m okay,” he replied, without turning around.
    â€œDoesn’t look it.”
    He was rubbing his face.
    â€œI’m tired.”
    â€œWhat of?”
    â€œOf everything.”
    â€œYou? I don’t believe you.”
    â€œAnd yet it’s true.”
    â€œIs it your work?”
    â€œMy work. My life. Everything.”
    â€œWhy are you telling me this?”
    â€œWhy wouldn’t I tell you?”
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    He had his back to me again.
    â€œYo, Simon! Hey, what’s going on? Don’t talk like this. You’re the hero of the family, in case you need reminding.”
    â€œWell, yeah, that’s kind of the problem . . . the