I have been standing in the queue at the car hire desk at JFK for 45 minutes, while my three sons smoke outside. I’m exhausted and angry, but not as angry as the guy directly behind me, who is about to explode. At regular intervals he shouts something like “This is ridiculous!” but I have not acknowledged him in any way because I don’t want to feed his rage.
When I finally get my turn at the counter, the woman takes my licence and credit card and then tells me they don’t have any cars. I am dumbfounded by this.
“But I booked a car,” I say. “I already paid for a car.”
“It’s going to be a two-hour wait,” she says.
“Hold on,” says the guy behind me. “Did she just say they don’t have any cars?” I ignore him. Even though we’re in the same predicament, I don’t want to be on his side.
“I can’t wait for two hours,” I say to the woman. I’m about to explain that I’m in the US to visit my 102-year-old father, who I have not seen for over a year, but I can tell from her expression that my personal situation will not concern her. Her place of work is in meltdown. She’s been disappointing people all afternoon, and she’s getting good at it.
“If I cancel the booking, can I get a refund?” I say.
“Not from us,” she says.
“This is fucking crazy!” shouts the man behind me.
I pick up my bag and walk to the next car rental kiosk along, where there is no queue at all; just a man and a woman seated behind a counter, both smiling serenely.
“I’m sorry if this is a weird question,” I say to the man. “But do you have cars?”
“Yeah, we got cars!” he says. “Please see my colleague!” He points to a woman sitting next to him. I take two side steps in her direction.
“How can I help you today?” she says. I ask her the price a day of a midsize vehicle. Her answer makes my eyes water.
“OK,” I say after a long moment. “I’ll take it.”
The drive to Connecticut takes about an hour. I’m a little apprehensive about seeing my father for the first time in a year because my siblings have warned me he’s beginning to forget names, and is sometimes obliged to describe people he knows well in order to identify them. In a recent conversation with my sister he referred to my brother as “the angry guy that lives here”. I’m not looking forward to finding out how he sums me up.
We cross the state line, reaching my sons’ favourite stage of this familiar journey: the sign indicating the exit ramp for the village of Mianus.
“You are now entering Mianus,” says the oldest.
“Welcome back to Mianus!” says the youngest.
“It’s actually pronounced my-annis,” I say, pointlessly.
“You are now leaving Mianus,” says the middle one.
By the time we arrive the sun has set. My brother, his wife, their three boys, my sister and her husband are all at the house. My father comes out of his bedroom – the one my brother fixed up for him off the kitchen so he doesn’t have to use the stairs eight times a day. It’s clear he recognises me, and I’m not asking him if he knows my name. It’s a reunion, not an exam.
“You made it!” he says.
“Sorry we’re late,” I say. “They didn’t have any cars.”
My father is frailer than when I last saw him; he uses a cane, hanging on to the furniture with his free hand as he progresses. But he gets where he needs to go – in this case the living room, where everyone is now gathering.
The cousins, ranging in age from eight to 28, immediately start playing a video game on an enormous television. My father and I sit on the sofa and smile at one another. He is very deaf, even with both his hearing aids in, and the noise level in the room has already reached a point where I can barely follow the drift of the conversation.
It’s an awkward moment. My father has just woken up from a nap to a house teeming with people, and I have brought three near-identical adult grandchildren to add to the confusion. I can’t say anything to him that he could possibly hear under these conditions. He seems overwhelmed, and it feels like my fault.
My father cranes his neck forward, and beckons to me with a crooked finger. I slide closer and put my head next to his. Above the din, he speaks directly into my ear.
“At least it’s easy to tell which one I am,” he says.
