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I say, giving her shoulder a light shove. “She knows where you are.”

Apartment W
    â€œY ES?” SAYS MY FATHER .
    â€œIt’s David,” I announce through the intercom. A long silence follows.
    â€œYou’re
here
?”
    â€œYes. I have Debra.”
    â€œWhere’s your mother?”
    â€œShe let me drive.”
    â€œInto the city?”
    â€œI did fine. I’m a good driver, Dad.”
    â€œI thought she was driving.”
    â€œShould I park?” I say.
    â€œNo, no need. I have to get out of here. I’ll just get in with you.”
    EAST 70TH ST ., the sign says and underneath in small letters, EAST JERUSALEM WAY . I somehow justify my stint askidnapper with the Semitic-sounding street name. As if my mother would be relieved. Watching me from the car, I point out the sign for Debra but she’s climbing in the back. My father emerges wearing a dark suit and a reddish tie. I don’t know why he’s so dressed up.
    â€œDavid?” he says, from twenty feet away, and right behind him comes Brandi.
    â€œMarty, wait, Marty!” she screams. She’s running in heels, trying to get her enormous handbag over her shoulder.
    â€œWho’s that?” Debra says.
    â€œFriend of Dad’s.”
    My father opens the door. “Go, David,” he says. “She’s drivin’ me nuts.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œ
Drive. Punch
it.”
    â€œYou gotta wait for her, Pop.”
    â€œNo, no. She’s got other plans.”
    Too late. Brandi opens the back door and gets in next to Debra. Out of breath and wide eyed, just glaring at the back of my father’s head. “Hey, asshole.”
    â€œI explained this to you, Arlene.”
    â€œOh,
blow
it out your ear.”
    My father spins and points at her. “Watch your mouth. My daughter’s in the car.”
    They look at each other and Brandi offers her hand. “I’m sorry. Hi. I’m Brandi.”
    â€œI’m Dena.”
    â€œHappy now?” my father says. “Good, be happy.”
    â€œYou have your father’s eyes.”
    â€œDo you mind if we go have a family day now, Arlene?”
    â€œI’m not sitting on that couch all day, Marty.”
    â€œThen go to a movie. A museum. It’s New York City, for crying out loud.”
    â€œI want to be with
you
.”
    â€œIt’s a goddamn
family
day. What’s so hard to understand?”
    â€œIt’s okay, Dad,” I say. “She can come with us.”
    â€œThank you. Thank you for saying that. Finally, a nice person.”
    â€œWhere to?” I say.
    Silence.
    â€œI’ve heard so many wonderful things about you,” Brandi says.
    Debra clears her throat and sits taller in her seat. “How do you know my dad?” she says.
    Here we go. Stomach burn. I glance at my father but he’s looking out the window.
    â€œWe work together,” Brandi says.
    I see Debra nodding.
    â€œAt the Imperial.”
    Through the rearview my sister’s eyes meet mine. I put the car in drive. No one is talking. Debra sits with her hands in her lap and my father’s still sulking like a six-year-old.
    â€œWhere are we . . . uh . . . ?”
    â€œThe Queens Midtown Tunnel to the L.I.E.,” he says.“Take that to the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway and I’ll guide you from there.”
    â€œQueens?” I say.
    â€œIt’s a surprise, a family surprise.”
    â€œI wanted to see the apartment,” Debra says.
    â€œI’ll bring you back later, baby.”
    â€œIs it your father’s grave?” I ask, and he looks disappointed.
    â€œWe’re going to a cemetery?” says Brandi.
    My father turns to her. “What? You don’t like the plan now?”
    â€œYou never said a cemetery, Marty.”
    â€œYou can
wait
in the car, Arlene. The Queens Midtown Tunnel.”
    â€œWhere’s that?” I say.
    â€œJust go straight. Turn