Oh, for the old days of secrets when family scandals were solidly tucked away from children, dusted off briefly to be spoken to adults in hushed, metered codes. When their voices dropped to whispers, the air thickened, like the minutes before a thunderstorm. You had to stay alert to catch

Genevieve’s difficul­ties, Leon’s situation, what happened to the girl, they never got over it.

And who exactly was Rini and why did she have everything out? 

I was nine when the young woman arrived at the side door of our rental house carrying a small red suitcase. She was pretty and gray‑eyed, with a wide smile.  She wore a short, flared coat over a dress and instantly asked for my father, whom she referred to as “uncle.” After my mother welcomed her into the kitchen, my father appeared, they spoke in low voices, something about a bus from New York, and then my mother informed me the woman would sleep over and need my bed for the night. Ha!  I’d spotted the ripest plum at the top of the tree.  Out of reach, certainly, but the craving for sweetness made it worth the scramble up.  Shortly after we  kids were banished to my brothers’ room, I crawled out of the lower bunk and sneaked just inches from the slightly cracked door leading into the dining room. My parents sat around the small table with the woman, by the glow of the light in the fish tank, talking.  Something about my older cousin Don. And Italy. And music. And the baby. I stood until my legs ached. My father got up and said something like, I wish we could help. Or maybe he said I’m sorry we can’t help.  When I slipped back into bed, I lay for a long time staring at the dark ceiling. On the other side of the wall I could hear the pregnant woman with the red suitcase moving about in my room. Finally, she settled in, and the house grew very quiet. Passing car headlights briefly swept the wall illuminating the darkness ever so briefly. Desire consumed me.