Homeland Elegies(101)
Over the next few hours, I monitored the story’s developments from back at my place in Harlem. Sure enough, the attacker was Muslim, an immigrant from Uzbekistan approaching the end of his Saturn returns. He’d rented a truck in Passaic, New Jersey, around an hour before driving it into Manhattan, where he killed eight and injured eleven. According to pundits, he was the second mass-murdering Muslim immigrant to come into this country on what was known as the Diversity Immigrant Visa lottery, the other being the Egyptian shooter who attacked an El Al counter at Los Angeles International Airport back in 2002. We were told our beloved Halloween parade was to proceed as scheduled that night, though not before the governor took a moment to sing the city’s praises and remind us how truly exceptional we were, which, of course, was why we’d been attacked, a sentiment shared by the mayor, who added to the usual formula about the attack’s cowardly nature only that it was “particularly” cowardly. Ever since Susan Sontag was pilloried for suggesting, in 2001, that coward surely wasn’t the right word for men who fly themselves into buildings, I knew it was better not to be too bothered by this habitual misuse of a word whose actual meaning was never relevant to the situation at hand. When people are in pain, they don’t always mean what they say.
I’d left a message for Father shortly after getting home earlier that afternoon, but it wasn’t until much later that night that he rang me back. Or his phone did. When I picked up, Sultan was on the other end. He was calling from somewhere in public, and it wasn’t easy to make out what he was saying over the surrounding din.
“Got your message, beta. Thank you. We were worried when we heard the news.”
“Yeah, I’m fine. I mean, I wasn’t that far from it this afternoon.”
“Tragic. Just tragic.”
“I know. —So how’d it go in court today?”
“That’s actually the reason I’m calling.” I thought I heard concern in his voice.
“What happened? Did it not go well?”
“No, no. It went fine. I mean—so what happened, after the session, they heard the news about this attack near you—your father’s attorneys, well, the guy with the long hair, who’s in charge…”
“Thom Powell…”
“I don’t know his name. Your father calls him Quaker Oats—”
“Same guy.”
“They made a new offer to settle with the patient’s family. And the family accepted.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No, I’m not. Your father’s lawyer explained to me they were in a similar situation before because of an attack that happened in the middle of the trial.”
“Yeah. It was San Bernardino. Hannah told me about it.”
“Well, they didn’t want to take a chance on a repeat.” On my television screen, local news flashed once again through a montage of smartphone clips shot in the aftermath of the attack. Bike parts and other debris were strewn along the green path, as were the dead bodies.
“Is he there?” I asked. “Can I talk to him?”
“He’s upset. I don’t blame him. Now it’s in the database for everyone to see. But the good thing is—it won’t hurt him. He’s at the end of his career. And maybe this is just the extra push he needs to finally get out.”
“Are you with him? Can I talk to him?”
“Yes, I’m with him. I’m not sure it’s the best time.”
“Where are you guys?”
He hesitated before saying: “A casino not too far from the hotel…”
“Yeah, I know where it is,” I said, disheartened by the reliability of my father’s new dysfunctions. “Okay, well, I’m around. Whenever he wants to call.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll keep an eye on him. And I’ll make sure he calls you tomorrow.”
*
The rest of what happened for my father transpired in rapid succession: barely a week after the malpractice settlement, Sultan’s ninety-two-year-old mother fell in her Lahore bathroom and broke her hip. Indebted, he said, to Sultan for his visit and seeing an opportunity to put some healthy daylight between himself and what had just happened in La Crosse, Father decided he was going to join his friend for his trip back to Pakistan to deal with his mother’s situation. In order to do so, though, he would have to resign his position at Reliant effective immediately. Leaving when there was still time on his contract would mean losing his retirement bonus, but so be it. At seventy, he was already a year into the maximum Social Security retiree payout, roughly $3,600 a month. It was time to start a new chapter. Father explained all this on the phone in a tone that was now delighted, now defensive, as if he were hoping for my encouragement but expecting my censure. His tone and the jumble of ill-advised options all started to make more sense when he finally got to what I gathered was the real reason for his call: “Sultan’s flight is leaving day after tomorrow. I want to be on it with him. The only thing is…”
“What?”
“My credit cards.”
“What about them?”
“Maxed out.”
“Yeah? What’s going on with you and your money, Dad? Everything okay?”
“Why?”
“You’re the one calling to ask me to buy you a ticket.”