Our annual summer barbecue that year was in the backyard of my Uncle Hershel’s house in Forest Hill. It was hot—a hot cloudless day that kept the adults seated under big umbrellas or under two tall bending trees. Uncle Hershel owned a radio station, had the most money and biggest backyard. Every year he offered it up for the barbeque. Still, we only went there every four years, which I was told by my grandfather was a matter of foolish pride among my other relatives who owned houses. My cousins, who were younger than me, showed signs of boredom manifesting in mischief as soon as they finished eating. Two of them were playing catch with a hardboiled egg. Another two were chasing a dog through the garden. Their parents yelled at them to stop. They did, but only until the conversations around
