One summer while I’m still at Stanford, I call to ask the Doctor’s Wife if I can bring a friend. My friend Namazzi is from Uganda by way of Deerfield and Stanford. Her three brothers are scattered around New England and Europe at boarding schools. She has a long neck, her hair is twisted into tiny inch-long braids, she has a wide nose, and is very beautifully, evenly, deep dark brown in the way that hardly anybody is evenly anything. Her grandmother’s uncle was the king of Uganda.
“You invite whoever you want. We’ve had all kinds come here,” the Doctor’s Wife says, unimpressed when I tell her Namazzi’s family history.
That summer we also spend a few days working on the dock, replacing the planking near the cabana. Namazzi works along with the rest of us, wielding a hammer.
“Oh, we’ve even had royalty visit,” I hear my grandmother say casually, a couple of years later.