![]() ![]() They became part of the family, and after about fifteen years of doing this, we had gotten used to a shower of postcards and gift packages not only around Christmastime but all year long from people who were now totally devoted to our family and would go out of their way when they were in Europe to drop by B. Summer residents didn’t have to pay anything, were given the full run of the house, and could basically do anything they pleased, provided they spent an hour or so a day helping my father with his correspondence and assorted paperwork. During the winter months, when we were away in the city, it became a part-time toolshed, storage room, and attic where rumor had it my grandfather, my namesake, still ground his teeth in his eternal sleep. For six weeks each summer I’d have to vacate my bedroom and move one room down the corridor into a much smaller room that had once belonged to my grandfather. Taking in summer guests was my parents’ way of helping young academics revise a manuscript before publication. This, the very person whose photo on the application form months earlier had leapt out with promises of instant affinities. Then, within days, I would learn to hate him. With a gruff, slapdash Later! Meanwhile, we’d have to put up with him for six long weeks. You watch, I thought, this is how he’ll say goodbye to us when the time comes. His one-word send-off: brisk, bold, and blunted-take your pick, he couldn’t be bothered which. No name added, no jest to smooth out the ruffled leave-taking, nothing. Then, almost without thinking, and with his back already turned to the car, he waves the back of his free hand and utters a careless Later! to another passenger in the car who has probably split the fare from the station. ![]() It might have started right there and then: the shirt, the rolled-up sleeves, the rounded balls of his heels slipping in and out of his frayed espadrilles, eager to test the hot gravel path that led to our house, every stride already asking, Which way to the beach? This summer’s houseguest. Suddenly he’s shaking my hand, handing me his backpack, removing his suitcase from the trunk of the cab, asking if my father is home. Later! I shut my eyes, say the word, and I’m back in Italy, so many years ago, walking down the tree-lined driveway, watching him step out of the cab, billowy blue shirt, wide-open collar, sunglasses, straw hat, skin everywhere. It is the first thing I remember about him, and I can hear it still today. ![]() It sounded harsh, curt, and dismissive, spoken with the veiled indifference of people who may not care to see or hear from you again. I’d never heard anyone use “later” to say goodbye before. “Later!” The word, the voice, the attitude. ![]()
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January 2023
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