Homeland Elegies(102)
“If you don’t want to help, then just tell me.”
“That’s not what I’m saying.”
“Well, then we need to book the tickets. On this kind of short notice, they’re expensive.”
“How expensive?”
“Um, you know, five thousand?”
It wasn’t the number that fazed me; it was his blasé manner: “What do you mean ‘maxed out,’ Dad? You have an Amex platinum. They don’t have a limit, right?”
“I don’t have it anymore,” he replied lightly.
“What happened?”
“I stopped paying. They canceled it.”
“Why did you stop paying your Amex? What’s going on?”
“It’s a long story.”
“Sultan mentioned you were having some trouble with money. He wouldn’t tell me what it was. He said you were going to tell me.” I waited; Father was silent on the other end. “Do you want to tell me what’s going on?”
His reply was wan: “No.”
“Maybe you should tell me.”
“Another time.”
“Dad—”
“I’ve done a lot for you. How much money I’ve given you over the years. No questions asked—”
“Dad—”
“Now I’m asking, and you’re behaving like I owe you something? Forget it! Just forget it!”
“It’s fine. I’ll buy it for you.”
“No questions asked!”
“Okay.”
“I’m your father.”
“I said okay.”
“Good. Thank you. How do you want to do it? I mean, if you just send me your credit card information I can book?”
“Send me an email with the details, and I’ll take care of it.”
He hesitated, then said “Fine” and hung up.
Twenty minutes later, I got the promised email. He’d lied about the departure date, which wasn’t for another three days; he’d also lied about the availability of cheaper tickets. A search online showed an ample supply on at least a half dozen flights for the date listed, most costing no more than $1,500. But Sultan was flying on Emirates into Lahore, he explained when I called him back; he needed to be on the same flight so they could travel together. I didn’t want to argue with him. I read him my credit card information, and he bought the ticket himself—$5,700 with fees and taxes.
The following day he called with more disconcerting news. He changed the date of his flight into New York. He would be in the city tomorrow afternoon. He used my card for the $250 change fee; he hoped I didn’t mind. And: Was I free for dinner? I was. Did he want to stay the night at my place? No, he replied gaily. He’d booked a room at the Plaza. They were having a special rate, and he couldn’t resist. “Did you use my card for that, too?” I asked, irritated.
“I hope you don’t mind.”
*
I don’t know how Father scored a reservation at Eleven Madison Park for a 7:00 p.m. dinner on a Thursday night. I’d only been for lunch—appropriately enough, with Riaz—at a table just a few feet from James Murdoch, his wife, and Google’s Eric Schmidt; there hadn’t been an empty table at that lunch hour, and I recalled Riaz telling me it could be even harder to get in for dinner. Somehow, Father got a table. The choice didn’t surprise me. His hankering to mark his status was as innate to him as his Punjabi accent. And in theory, I didn’t mind the notion that we were meeting for dinner at Eleven Madison Park, where a meal for two could easily set us back three bills. But why now? Why the needless luxury when he didn’t have the money to spend on it anymore? For years, I’d been hearing tales of my friends’ parents getting older, the bizarre moods, the night terrors, the disturbing lapses in memory, the peculiar new inclinations, the mottled new colors to their personalities. I assumed at least some of Father’s behavior around money was related to his advancing age. As I walked over from the subway, crossing Madison Square Park, I resolved to force the conversation with him that night. I needed to know what was going on.
But he wasn’t alone.
He was sitting in a corner at a table for four, and beside him was a woman in red. Across the room, I couldn’t tell if her hair was white-blond or white-gray, but even from a distance, her face was striking—round eyes and a long face I recognized at once from her daughter: it was Melissa’s mother, Caroline.
I could hear my heart inside my ears.
Father saw me and rose. There was something spry about his escape from the corner, something firm in his embrace that I didn’t recognize. I smelled the alcohol on his breath, but he didn’t seem drunk. “Ayad, there’s someone I want you to meet,” he said, holding my arm now, his voice quivering just enough for me to notice that he was nervous.
“Yeah, I think I got that already…”
He turned back to the table, still holding my arm. “Caroline,” he said, presenting me, “this is my son.” She stood, her small, veined fist closed tightly around her napkin, her striking face softened with a searching half smile. She reached her other hand out toward me. Her grip was warm and wet.
“It’s so nice to meet you,” she said quietly. As I began to take my place, Father lingered beside me with a vacant look. “Sikander,” she said, again softly. “You can sit down now.” The way she pronounced his name—with the proper emphasis on the second syllable and its gentle d, and all the correct proportions to the vowels, all the more striking for being spoken with an American accent—signaled an intimacy between them I couldn’t deny. She encouraged him to sit again, but he didn’t move.