The oldest one and I are sitting in traffic on the Van Wyck Expressway, a few miles from the airport, listening to local radio reports of travel chaos as New Yorkers rush to leave the city. In the ad break, the owner of a security firm warns of an increase in burglaries during the holidays, before wishing everyone a happy Thanksgiving on behalf of his family and staff.
“It gets better up ahead,” the oldest one says, consulting his phone. “Then it gets worse again.”
When we arrive at my father’s house in Connecticut, the sun has not yet set, and my brother is raking leaves. He and his wife and their three children - a seven-year-old and three-year-old twins – live with my father, who is 97.
“You made it,” he says.
My brother was critical of my decision to travel on a day notorious for apocalyptic traffic, and seems disappointed I was not more delayed.
Because my father is hard of hearing, he is not always privy to logistics, but the surprise he affects at seeing me is, I’m pretty certain, a joke. He tells me there are rumours going around that he was seen at the bank looking shabby. “I was unshaven and I had my old coat on,” he says. “I didn’t know we had to get dressed up to go to the bank now.”
“I didn’t know anyone still went to the bank,” I say.
He knits his brow and presses his lips together, an expression that means: what?
The next morning, I wake early because of jet lag. Downstairs, I find the oldest one is still asleep on the sofa, with a duvet over his head and the twins sitting on his back and watching TV, each with a waffle in one hand.
I have been charged with cooking the turkey, but my brother also has a list of chores to be tackled – a window blind installed, heavy items of furniture moved – that do not strike me as Thanksgiving-specific. Later on, my sisters turn up, and we try to configure the table to seat nine adults and three children. At about the time the turkey is due to come out of the oven, my Aunt Gladys arrives.
“Where’s your father?” Aunt Gladys asks.
“He’s getting dressed,” I say.
One of the twins runs by, dressed as a shark.
“Joan Schrieber saw him at the bank looking shabby!” she says.
“I heard,” I say. “Do you want a drink?”
“I’ll wait,” she says.
Eventually, my father comes down the stairs in a bright blue top. As he turns the corner into the living room, my aunt seizes my forearm. “I want that sweater burned,” she says.
“I told him to get rid of that,” my sister tells me.
My father looks at me, knits his brow and presses his lips together.
“They hate your clothes!” I shout.
He holds out both arms and looks down. “I’m trying to brighten my plumage,” he says.
“Uh-huh,” Aunt Gladys says. “I’ll brighten his plumage.”
“And you need a haircut!” my sister shouts.
“Burn it!” Aunt Gladys says.
The next day, we all go out for lunch. I drive my father there and back, but as soon as we arrive home, he gets into his own car and heads out again. I watch from the window, wondering if I was meant to stop him. Twenty minutes later, he returns.
“Where did you go?” I ask.
“To get a haircut,” he says. “But they were closed.”
I hand him a bag.
“What’s this?” he says.
“Gladys came by with it while you were out,” I say. He reaches in and pulls out a sweater: cable knit, dark grey.
Later that evening, my father is presented with a new and expensive coat – an early Christmas gift purchased by all of us – and told to put it on. He seems confused, as if he’d missed some kind of vital briefing for a formal ceremony, but he does as he’s told, even when he’s made to twirl.
“To replace your old one,” my sister-in-law says.
My father looks down at the coat, knits his brow and compresses his lips. “It’s too bad Joan Schrieber didn’t spot my shabby car,” he says.
