The Question of the Unfamiliar Husband (3 page)

I nodded and explained my dilemma. “I find myself wondering if I will be able to answer this question,” I said after explaining the circumstances. “It might require an understanding of areas in which I am less than proficient.” At that moment, a thought struck me which must have affected my facial expression again, because Mother asked, “What?”

It seemed the most logical thing in the world, so I was amazed I hadn't thought of it before. “There is only one way to attack this question,” I told her. “I must get in touch immediately with Janet Washburn.”

Mother smiled, but her tone did not communicate any joy that I could detect. “Oh boy,” she said.

Three

“We've been through this
before, Samuel.”

Janet Washburn sat in the living room of her modest suburban house in Cranford, New Jersey, and looked at me with an expression I read as stern. Mother, who had driven me to Ms. Washburn's home only after some discussion, was drinking the lemonade Ms. Washburn had offered, and which I had declined. Lemonade is simply water with lemon and sugar in it, and not a very healthful drink.

“That is precisely why I am asking you to come back to Questions Answered,” I responded. “You understand how I work, and you complement me very well.”

Ms. Washburn had been my associate for only two questions, both of which revolved around the same matter. The arrangement had absorbed only parts of two consecutive days, but I had been impressed with her ability to keep me focused and to interpret for me aspects of the question that I would have had trouble noticing or understanding on my own. I had asked her to stay on with Questions Answered on a permanent basis, but Ms. Washburn's husband had been in opposition to the idea, she had told me, suggesting the work would be too dangerous.

“I'm not reminding you that we've been through the situation before,” Ms. Washburn said now. “I'm saying that we've had this conversation, where you ask me to come back and I say no, at least four times before today.”

It was true. There had been, in fact, five times in the past three months when I had reiterated my offer of full-time employment to Ms. Washburn, whom I had considered invaluable in answering the question of the missing head. Each time I had done so, she had declined, although Mother often said she believed Ms. Washburn's refusals to be reluctant, based on facial expressions and body language I had not noticed or interpreted accurately.

“This time is different,” I argued. “I am asking for your help with only one question, one that I believe might be outside my own abilities. I need you because you understand both the interaction between people and my own thought process.”

Ms. Washburn nodded but did not meet my gaze, which I was making a point to aim at her face. “I'm aware that your Asperger's makes some things more difficult for you, Samuel, but you know perfectly well that with the proper amount of concentration and determination, you can handle yourself just fine without me.”

Mother, who had taken up knitting a scarf in the armchair, did not look up. “I've been telling him the same thing, Janet dear,” she said. “You know how he is when he gets an idea in his head.”

To be fair, Mother has a somewhat different view of the relationship between Ms. Washburn and myself than my own. She believes I harbor some romantic feelings for Ms. Washburn and is disturbed by the thought, since Ms. Washburn is indeed a married woman. I have denied having such feelings, often and emphatically, but Mother is not to be dissuaded when she thinks she has noticed something in me.

“The idea in my head is that you can be of the utmost assistance on a question that might pose a special challenge to me on my own,” I told Ms. Washburn, not directly acknowledging Mother's comment. “You can earn some money, which I imagine you would welcome, and I will maintain my reputation as well as an unblemished record of answering all questions posed. What is the disadvantage to doing that?”

Ms. Washburn drew in breath slowly and let it out at the same pace. This appears to be a way for people to either gather their thoughts before responding, or to quell emotions they would prefer not to express, such as irritation. I asked Mother later which this was, and she indicated it was the former.

“The disadvantage is that my husband is still opposed to my working with you,” Ms. Washburn said after the pause. “He still believes that your work is too dangerous, and after what happened—almost happened—last time, I can't say I disagree. I'm sorry, Samuel, but the answer is still no.”

Mother put her knitting in her bag, drained the rest of the lemonade with a satisfied gulp, and stood. “I'm sorry we bothered you, Janet,” she said. “Thank you so much for the lemonade.”

It was odd for Mother to give up her seat and make such remarks when the conversation was clearly not yet concluded, but her thinking is not always immediately clear to me.

“There is no danger in this question,” I told Ms. Washburn. “We are simply trying to determine the identity of the man claiming to be Ms. McInerney's husband and his motivations for doing so.”

Ms. Washburn looked at me, then at Mother, then back at me, but she was squinting, as if I were very far away and difficult to see. “You don't recognize the potential for danger there?” she asked.

I confessed that I did not.

“Suppose this guy Lewis really is some sort of con artist and we ruin his plans by exposing him,” Ms. Washburn went on. “Suppose he gets mad at us for doing that. Do you think a man who imposes himself on a woman, gets her drunk and marries her or pretends to marry her, that kind of a man would simply stand up, pat his hands and say, ‘well done, you got me'? You think there is no element of danger at all? Come on, Samuel. You're a very intelligent guy. Is that scenario, as you'd put it, at all likely?”

If her concern really was that of physical danger, I could accommodate that provision. “I will see to it that Mr. Lewis never knows you are involved in answering the question,” I said. “When anyone asks, you will be known as Ms. Baroni, a graduate student in neuropsychology who is”—and here I probably winced at the word—“studying me for her capstone project. Your real name will never be mentioned.”

Mother, apparently taken by surprise, stopped and put her hand to her mouth. She seemed to consider the possibility.

But Ms. Washburn was having no such thoughts. “No, Samuel,” she said. “I'm simply not going to tell Simon that I'm going against his wishes on this. I'm sure you can find someone else who can help you at least as well as I can.” She looked at Mother. “Vivian?”

That seemed to startle my mother. “Oh no, Janet. I couldn't. My knees wouldn't allow it. And besides, it doesn't look good for a man to have his mother following him around in his business.” She held her hands up as if trying to stop any words Ms. Washburn might say from getting too close. “I'm not a candidate for the job.”

“Neither am I,” Ms. Washburn insisted. “I'm flattered, Samuel, honestly. But I'm not that special and I'm not the only person on the planet who can take notes and run interference for you. Why not place an ad on Craigslist or something?”

“My needs are very specific,” I answered, having considered the question before. “It's not the kind of thing a person finds on an Internet site. That seems to be the place to get rid of unwanted furniture and used pool tables.”

This was proving to be a difficult problem to solve. I needed Ms. Washburn's help, but I was unable to convince her that the situation made her participation necessary. I decided, without a great deal of consideration, to try another tactic.

“Have you been working as a photographer?” I asked. Ms. Washburn had been a newspaper photographer whose job had been downsized not long before we met. I had originally agreed to answer her question—which was a fairly simple one, as it turned out—in exchange for some photographic work.

She looked away. When I do that in conversation, it is because I am not fond of looking at the faces of others. But I have observed, and this is borne out in the literature, that such a move can also be a signal that the person looking away is somehow embarrassed.

It had not been my intention to make Ms. Washburn uncomfortable; indeed, my thought had been to try to get her to take some photographs in connection to the question being asked. But her face reddened a bit and she had a different tone to her voice when she said, “No. Not since we saw each other.”

That would have seemed to be the perfect opening for my gambit of asking for photographs during my investigation of the question, but now I was unsure what effect the inquiry about her work might have had on Ms. Washburn. I hesitated for a moment.

“Well, I'm sure Samuel could use some pictures when he's looking into this fake husband,” Mother said.

Her words had an electrifying effect on the room; my head snapped in her direction, wondering if somehow she had discerned what I was planning to say. But Ms. Washburn's reaction was even more pronounced. Her eyes narrowed and her right index finger went to the tip of her nose.

She was considering.

“It would be helpful,” I decided to add. “I believe some photographic proof of whatever findings I make would increase the voracity of my answer and validate its certainty.”

Ms. Washburn thought longer. This time she scratched her nose, which I am informed is a “tell” for those who play poker that the player is uncomfortable, perhaps with the cards he or she has been dealt. She opened her mouth slightly, drew in a breath, and stopped. Then she turned toward me and smiled what I am sure was a very friendly smile.

“No,” she said.

Four

My mood when Mother
and I arrived at the Questions Answered office was not ebullient. I had tried every logical argument and even some devious tactics to lure Ms. Washburn back to work, and she had refused, consistently citing her husband's disapproval as the key point in her reasoning.

“You must explain it to me, Mother,” I said, checking the phone answering device—I do not own a cellular phone because I am concerned that I might lose one if I did—which showed no new messages. Business at Questions Answered was sporadic most of the time, but for the past few weeks had been very slow indeed. Paying this month's rent on the storefront was going to be a bit of a dilemma if I did not answer Ms. McInerney's question quickly. “I do not understand why an intelligent woman like Ms. Washburn would allow a stranger to dictate her actions.”

Mother looked at me with an expression that indicated I had said something odd. “A husband is hardly a stranger, Samuel,” she said. “He is the closest friend a woman can have, someone to whom she opens up about her entire life and all her feelings. He is a partner. In a marriage, the idea is to have the other person's welfare in mind ahead of your own.”

I thought about suggesting she ask Ms. McInerney about the closeness of a husband, but I realized my client's situation was not one that represented the norm. “Ms. Washburn's husband does not appear to have her best interests in mind, or he would withdraw his objections to her working at Questions Answered,” I countered.

In all honesty, I should confess that I considered using my mother's marriage to my father as an example of a rather one-sided relationship, but I have learned through a great deal of experience that my father is not a topic my mother enjoys discussing, even as she will defend him in conversation no matter what argument I might bring. Besides, my parents were not the point in question.

“Every marriage is unique,” Mother said with what she intended to be a gentle tone. I have come to recognize most of her inflections, although those of most others are still a challenge for me.

“I don't see how that is relevant.”

“The one thing you can always know about someone else's marriage is that you don't know anything about someone else's marriage,” Mother said. Her words seemed an aphorism, but I didn't recall ever hearing them before. Before I could ask, she added, “We can't know what kind of arrangement Janet and her husband—what is his name?—have. For all we know, she is perfectly happy letting him make that kind of decision for her. What you have to do, Samuel, is forget about Janet—no, I don't mean that literally. You need to stop thinking you'll convince her to come back and work here and focus on the alternatives that are possible. What are those?”

It is not atypical for Mother to ask me a question in order to distract me from a topic she thinks is occupying my thoughts too heavily. The tactic often works, as it did in this case.

“The most obvious choice is for me to answer the question on my own, as I have done with all the others except the two Ms. Washburn assisted on,” I said. “I believe that is not a viable option, since my skills lie in areas opposite from those this question requires.”

“Do you really believe that, or is that just something you were telling yourself as an excuse to contact Janet again?” Mother asked. Mother believes me to be more devious than I am.

“It is documented,” I told her. “Interpersonal relationships are most difficult for those of us with Asperger's Syndrome. Understanding those dynamics is certainly among my most telling weaknesses. I will need someone to keep me focused on the nuances and point out their meanings. I am not without ego, Mother, but I do know my strengths and my deficits.”

“So. Other options?” Again, she threw the ball into my court, an expression I struggle with, since the court for any game is a communal one, not belonging to just one player.

I thought, and found myself pacing the room. “I could try to find a permanent replacement for Ms. Washburn, but that would require a very specific skill set, and could take considerable time. It is unlikely I could find and train another associate soon enough to answer this question promptly.”

“Janet just walked in the door one day as a client,” Mother reminded me. “It was a stroke of luck. Maybe there are more people who could help you that way than you think.”

I dismissed that; the serendipity that brought Ms. Washburn to Questions Answered was undoubtedly rare and could not be willfully duplicated. I shook my head. “The time factor is still too pressing,” I said. “There is no time to hold auditions.”

“So what does that leave you with?” Mother asked.

I was becoming impatient with the way she was forcing me to work through the problem. It was frustrating and forced me to consider alternatives with which I was not comfortable. “I could ask you, but I'd prefer not to.”

Mother looked slightly startled. “I would turn you down,” she said.

“Would you?”

“Yes. This isn't my kind of work, and I meant what I said to Janet about not having your mother follow you through business activities.”

I was about to counter with the obvious assertion that Mother's statement had only reiterated my need to coax Ms. Washburn back to Questions Answered when the door opened and a man walked into the office. He was large, solid but not overweight, with dark hair that had been slicked straight back on his head. He bore no facial scars I could see. His eyes were dark brown and wide, and he gave off a somewhat blustery demeanor. Both Mother and I looked over, not startled exactly, but at least a little taken off-guard. I do get some walk-in business, but usually the person with a question will call first and the in-person consultation will take place at an appointed time.

People with Asperger's Syndrome tend to dislike surprises.

My first reaction was to ask the man to leave, but that has been my initial reaction to virtually everyone I have ever met, so I have had to learn to squelch the impulse and allow each new acquaintance to be evaluated individually. It is not easy to do, but my work with Dr. Mancuso has helped.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” I said to the man. “I am Samuel Hoenig.”

His face did not show any expression I could discern, but he nodded in my direction. “I'm Oliver Lewis,” he said. “I believe my wife Sheila came here to ask you if I am really her husband.”