No one spoke like his grandfather. Every word perfectly formed. Every phrase melodic, every sentence composed. Even today, when Aunt Bessie from Buffalo was due to arrive, his grandfather showed no signs of anticipation. He sat in the worn, rattan loveseat in the sun room, focused on The Times . He turned the pages effortlessly, and folded each completed paper leaf the way Geoffrey’s grandmother folded sheets, the fabric smooth, the edges at precise angles. Though Geoffrey’s grandfather was within arm’s reach of the curtain that looked out on the porch, he showed no interest in peering out. Geoffrey was made to sit on the living room sofa, the place his family preferred that he wait. For Geoffrey, it was the worst of places because he had to hide his wriggling. Although it was torturous to be still, the house had somber rules. Estelle, who rented a room upstairs, set the dining table in her usual way. The clang of silverware and the thump of dinn...