Homeland Elegies(92)

“I’m just asking. I want to know.”

“I mean…yes.”

“That’s what you tell your friends? When you talk about me? That I was a good father?”

“My friends?”

“Your friends—or when you write about me.”

“I haven’t written about you, Dad.”

“Not yet.—So, what? Do you say good things?”

“I mean, sure.”

“Sure?”

“Mostly. I mean, who says only good things about anything? What are you worried about?”

“I’m not worried. I want to know what you really think. About me. As a father.” His directness was disarming. “Was I okay, at least?”

“You were better than okay. I don’t wish you were any different.”

“But…”

“Sometimes I think you could have been happier.”

“I’m fine.”

“You and Mom.”

“What about us? We were fine. You don’t know everything about us.”

“I’m just saying.”

“What? What are you saying?”

“Dad. You asked me. I’m telling you—”

“Telling me what? That I wasn’t happy? Who’s happy?”

“Why are you getting mad?”

“I’m not.”

“You sound mad.”

“Well, I’m not.”

“I’m just saying, maybe you could have let yourself be happier. Then maybe you and Mom could have…enjoyed each other more. And maybe that would have been nice. That’s all I’m saying.”

“Mr. Head Shrinker,” he quipped sarcastically as he got up. He walked into the bathroom and turned on the shower. Then I saw him appear in the doorway again. He said something I couldn’t hear over the rushing water.

“I can’t hear you, Dad.”

He pulled the door shut behind him and repeated himself: “I don’t know if you realize. You have land in Pakistan.”

“Okay…”

“I’m just telling you. I want you to know. After partition with India. They gave my grandfather one hundred acres.”

“In Jhelum. Yeah, I know.”

“No, that’s the family house. Two acres, maybe,” he said dismissively. “I’m talking about a hundred in Bahawalpur. Beautiful land. Mango groves.”

“Okay.”

“That hundred was split between three sons when he died. One of those sons was your grandfather. When he died, I got sixteen acres, my sisters got the other sixteen.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“So you don’t care about your land in Pakistan?”

“It’s not my land.”

“Not yet.”

“You’re starting to freak me out.”

“Why?”

“Land back home? Are you a good father? Is there something you’re not telling me?”

“I’m telling you about your land in Bahawalpur.”

“Sixteen acres. Mango groves. Got it.”

He grunted in response, lingering a little longer at the door, his hand on the knob.

“Is there something else?” I asked. He shook his head and disappeared inside.





5.


Father was on his best behavior for the rest of the week, and his case seemed to follow suit. Three specialists took to the witness stand on Thursday, two to endorse the medical logic behind his guidance to Christine and her mother and a third who tried but was unable to effectively deny it. I sensed the jury’s disappointment at the turn things were taking, as they heard testimony that clearly challenged a bias against Father they’d already formed. On Friday morning, as Hannah predicted, Chip Slaughter announced to the court he planned to call only one witness—because Friday’s afternoon prayer was scheduled at the local mosque for shortly after twelve o’clock, and Slaughter didn’t want to be the reason the defendant missed his “Muslim worship.” The interjection caused a flurry of objections and concern, with both counselors ending up in a private conference in the judge’s chambers. But when they returned, the only consequence was a short speech from the judge about the irrelevance of the defendant’s religious views, and even the correction seemed to serve Slaughter’s ends.

Both days, a man with a huge, ruddy face and chin-length shocks of steel-gray hair kept coming in and going out of the courtroom. This was Thom Powell. To me, he didn’t bring to mind the Quaker on the box so much as some wastrel mascot of the Constitutional Convention—which is to say that Father’s whole “evil twin” thing actually did make sense. In the sickly light of the courtroom, his broad, bony face was pitted, with blotches of magenta. Father would explain to me later that Powell had been on high alert since learning of Corinne Hollander’s testimony. He’d driven up from Madison to assess whether it might not be better to pull the plug and settle, even at this point—the number would be painful—rather than risk another malpractice loss. From what I could gather of his demeanor—and the affirming, encouraging looks he traded with Hannah throughout the session—it certainly appeared to me like he wanted to keep fighting it.