I’m about seven standing next to my father while he does the dishes.  My mother’s voice shoots from the dining room, carried on a plume of cigarette smoke:  “Roy, wash the dishes.” “I am, smokestack,” my father replies, scrubbing the hell out of a pan. He hands me the pan. I start to dry it. My father looks down at me. “Have you ever heard of the Zorbonites?” he asks. I shake my head. He nods. “This is very important. See, we’re Zorbonites. So we have to know the three basic characteristics of the Zorbonite.” “I thought we were white,” I say. I’ve recently discovered that I, in contrast to every other kid in my neighborhood, am white. I found this out when a new kid on the block asked my neighbors why they played with a white kid. “Nah,” my neighbors said, “that’s Mike-Mike. He doesn’t count.” It was all very confusing. “We’re also Jewish,” my father says, pushing his thick glasses onto his nose. “And Zorbonites.” He hands me a plate. I dry it. He continues: “Zorbonites do three things that not many other people do. Do you know what they are?” “No.  Also I think you’re making this up.” He smiles. “Zorbonites see things that aren’t there. They hear the sound of silence. And, and this is one your mother is really good at, they remember things that never happened.” My mother slouches into the kitchen, a half smoked Benson & Hedges hanging from her lips. “You guys better be washing the dishes. You didn’t yesterday.” “Actually, we did,” says my father, winking at me. “Yeah, mom,” I add, “You’re remembering things that never happened. You’re a Zorbonite!” My father and I start to giggle. “You’re both pathetic,” my mother says as her teeth come out of...