My father comes up for a visit.  My mother is in Israel visiting with my brother. The summer is halfway over, and I don’t want it to ever end. My father looked uncared for. He is lost without my mother. I immediately feel guilty that I’m not home to take care of him, but he insists he’s fine. I get the afternoon off, and we go into town for lunch. He shows me the last letter from my mother, and I promise to write her that evening. I explain that work keeps me very busy, but I agree it’s not a good enough excuse.

“And I have a new boyfriend,” I say.

“A new boyfriend?” my father says. “What happened to Julian?”

“Julian?” I say as if I’ve never heard his name before.

“Yes, you must remember him. The boy you’ve been dating for almost two years.”

“I remember him, but I still want to introduce you to Frankie when we get back to camp.”

“Sure.”

On the way back, we’re both quiet. I have to work the dinner shift, and it’s almost time for me to set up my tables. My father waits outside the dining hall while I go in to get Frankie. I see that he’s already set my tables. I call out to him from across the dining room. He’s unloading a dolly. A cigarette is behind his ear. He’s wearing his usual tee shirt. His arms glisten with sweat. I have the urge to tell him we should just go, run down to his room and hide from everyone. At the sound of my voice, he looks up, smiles, and beckons me closer.

“My dad’s outside,” I say. “He has to leave soon. I’d like you to meet him.”

Frankie kisses me on the cheek. I inhale his scent; my pulse quickens.

“Thanks for setting my tables,” I say.

“Anything for you,” he says. “Give me ten minutes. Let me unload these boxes and get a shirt.”

I find my father reading the Daily News. There’s a slight breeze.

“Come,” he says. “Let’s walk a little.”

We walk down the path from the dining room. I link my arm through his. Before were halfway down the path, I hear Frankie call my name. As I turn, I catch my father’s expression as he takes in his first look at Frankie. Something like surprise, but more, crosses my father’s face. Frankie is walking toward us, buttoning his shirt. It’s short-sleeved, so it’s impossible to miss his muscled arms. It’s also impossible to miss his gold crucifix, especially as the sun catches the thorn of crowns on Jesus’ head, making it glow in the bright light. My father looks and then looks quickly away as if he has seen an accident.

 “Dad,” I say. “This is Frankie. And Frankie, this is my dad.”

They shake hands. An awkward silence follows.

“Frankie is from New Jersey,” I say.

“Is that so?” my father says.

Frankie shifts from foot to foot. He places a flat palm on either side of his head and pushes his hair back. Because I know Frankie, I know it’s a nervous gesture, but it makes him look tough, nothing at all like the boy I know. I want to tell my father how hardworking and smart Frankie is. I want to show my father that Frankie is curious and fair-minded with the sort of decency that I know they share. And I want to reassure him that Frankie is the sort of boy he could trust to take care of his daughter.  But instead, I say nothing.

“Well,” Frankie says. “I’d better get back to the kitchen.” He puts out his hand again, and my father takes it, unhesitatingly, but without his usual warmth. “It was nice to meet you Mr. Applebaum.”

“Likewise,” my father says.

I see how he sizes Frankie up as he walks away.

“He’s a nice boy,” I say.

“I’m sure he is,” my father says.

I walk him to the car, promise again to write my mother, and promise to be smart—being “smart” means so many things, but mostly it means, don’t do anything stupid.

“Did you like him?” I say. “Did you like Frankie?”

“I met him for ten minutes, Sonja. Not even. What do you want me to say?”

I don’t answer even though I know what I want him to say. But I also know that what I want just isn’t possible. I want him to say that it doesn’t matter that Frankie isn’t Jewish, or that we come from two such different worlds that we would have never found each other in the places we lived.  I know there is something important about the fact that we found each other at this place, at this point in time, and I want my father to see it too. I want him to tell me that nothing matters more than love. And I want him to free me from my history. The worst part is that I understand why he doesn’t, why instead he says, “And leave this boy out of it when you write to your mother. No reason to worry her.” He kisses my cheek. “Besides, Sonya, it will be over in a few weeks.”

I nod. I don’t know what hurts more—the fact that he calls Frankie “this boy,” or that he says it will all be over in a few weeks. I want to shout at my father that “this boy” has a name. I want to tell him that it will never be over, but I know better than to speak that way to my father, so instead, I say nothing.

 

 One night, just days before the summer ends, Frankie tells me that I have to learn to live in the present. It’s a conversation we have had all summer and to which we return again and again.

“Our love is all that matters now,” he says. “Why can’t you believe that?”

I want to believe him. I want to be able to live in the moment the way he does, but I know I never will. I can’t. Just like I could never marry a boy like Frankie. I knew I could never marry a shaygetz. But I could love him forever.