Saturday, October 9, 1965.

There they were as our guests, accepted and accepting.

—T.S. Eliot, Four Quartets.

I was an eleven-year-old seventh grader. My parents had been

invited to a get-together that night—a birthday party for my
father’s sister, Rose. She was turning sixty-five. My father, who
was born in 1906, had five older siblings as well as a younger
sister. Aunt Rose was the eldest.

My sister’s boyfriend, Eddie paid a visit to our house after dinner

and spent the evening. My sister and Eddie were eighteen years
old, college freshmen, who started dating months before. My
parents assigned me a task, “You be their chaperone.” Perhaps
this was the first time they were alone together at our house for
the evening. My parents rarely went out on weekends. With his
James Dean-esque leather jacket and cigarettes, and apparent
academic apathy—he embarked on college only under his uncle’s
persuasion—Eddie seemed mildly menacing.

That evening my sister and Eddie relaxed in the living room,

while I retreated to the adjoining indoor porch, where I watched
an old television. At one point Eddie showed me a trick using
match sticks. At about ten p.m. I fell asleep. It was a dereliction
of my appointed duty, I suppose, but I was in store for adventure
the next day.