The Question of the Unfamiliar Husband (4 page)

Five

I assessed the new
visitor to Questions Answered for visual information and could find very little of help. I have read all of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes stories and have found the fictional detective's observational skills, if not his annoying habit of jumping to conclusions about what he has observed, remarkable. I am endeavoring to develop my own abilities in observation without deduction, since facts are the only real tools to use in answering a question. But my efforts are still in their infancy, so I am not in any way comparable to the fictional Mr. Holmes.

People believe, because of their exposure to entertainment media, that everyone with what is considered an autism spectrum “disorder” is a savant with amazing abilities. That is not the case. We are each given talents and deficiencies. Mother says people with Asperger's Syndrome are just like everyone else. Just more.

The man who claimed to be Oliver Lewis was tall, at roughly six-foot-two, with my estimation of his weight at one hundred eighty-five pounds. He wore a two-piece business suit, bought from a department store and not custom tailored, with slightly scuffed shoes, no hat, and a bright teal tie—an indication that he had not purchased his accessory recently. Observers of fashion would remind the rest of us that teal had been considered a cliché for some years now; that was a fact I had gathered when answering a question about shoelaces.

“Ms. McInerney was here earlier today,” I answered the man. “But she did not ask me to determine whether or not you are her husband.” That was technically true. Ms. McInerney had asked me to tell her who the man in her bed might be.

“She didn't?” he asked. His eyes widened, then blinked. I looked to Mother, who mouthed the word
surprised.

“No,” I said. “I am not able to discuss the nature of a client's question with you, but that was not what she asked.”

Mother looked slightly amused but said nothing.

“That's very odd,” Oliver Lewis said.

“Is it? Should she be concerned that you are
not
her husband?” If I could somehow make Mr. Lewis betray a transgression in his marriage, I might be able to answer Ms. McInerney's question without the help of Ms. Washburn after all.

But his demeanor took on a new attitude. He stood straighter, made direct eye contact, and arranged a look of slight irritation on his face. “Of course not,” he said. “It's just that she's been acting strange lately.”

I did not point out that the correct grammar for that sentence would have been “acting
strangely
lately,” because it was not perti
nent to the question, but Mr. Lewis was incorrect. I noted it and moved on. “In what way?” I asked.

“She's been … distant.” He glanced briefly in Mother's direction, perhaps trying to signal to me that he was not aware who that woman was, or that he was not comfortable discussing his situation in front of her. I quickly introduced Mother so he would know who she was, and decided any reservations he had about her discretion were unfounded and therefore unimportant.

“Distant?” I said.

“He means she doesn't want to have sex with him,” Mother said. She seemed to be stifling a smile, although that hardly seemed an amusing situation if Ms. McInerney and Mr. Lewis were truly married.

Mr. Lewis gestured toward the client chair, so I nodded and he sat. Mother took up her work in her seat, and I resumed my position behind the Mac Pro and my desk. “It's not just … that,” he said when everyone was seated. “I know she suggested that our marriage was somehow illegitimate. I don't know where Sheila got an idea like that. She was at the wedding, after all. And we do have a valid marriage license.”

“You don't happen to have that document with you, do you?” I asked.

Mr. Lewis's expression suggested that I had asked him if he could grow a third leg. “No. Why would I carry that around with me?”

“You were coming here to ask Samuel if Sheila had asked him whether you were really her husband,” Mother pointed out. She did not look up. “It wouldn't be all that odd for you to bring the one thing that could prove your claim, would it?” Mother knows most people see her as a little old lady and think she is therefore either less intellectually adept than she once was or for some reason inherently benign. It seems to surprise them that she has a working mind and chooses to express her thoughts. I find that attitude difficult to comprehend, but I have seen it exercised numerous times.

Mr. Lewis took his time, but I could not read his face. He did not appear to be thinking of a response. “I know we're married. I see no reason I need to prove it,” he said.

That was the position he was going to maintain, so there was very little I would be able to glean by continuing this conversation. “What is it you want of me, Mr. Lewis?” I asked, as a way of terminating the discussion.

He offered a response I had expected: “I want you to tell Sheila that I'm her husband and she should stop making these ridiculous claims.”

“I'm afraid I am unable to do as you wish,” I told him. “I have a client who has asked a question. I am obligated to answer it for her.”

Again Mr. Lewis blinked, more than once. “But I just told you there's no question we're married.”

“You could have just told us you're the governor of Utah, but there's no proof,” Mother pointed out. I could tell she had taken a dislike to Oliver Lewis, although I was unsure of its cause.

Before Mr. Lewis could respond, I agreed with Mother's point, although in less colorful terms. “Even if you are not Ms. McInerney's legal spouse, you could tell me that you are,” I pointed out. “I have no reason to believe or disbelieve you at the moment because I have no factual proof for either answer.” Clearly, he would have to understand that argument.

Instead, he stood quickly and took a step toward my desk, then looked at Mother and held his position. Mother might have been holding one of her knitting needles with the sharper end pointed in his direction, although I think she was merely between rows.

“So Sheila
did
ask you to prove that I'm not her husband!” he spat. I was about to protest that she had asked nothing of the sort—because she had not—but he spoke before I could get the words out. “You're a crook, Hoenig! You tell people you can answer any question and then you take their money and you give them nothing!”

“I give them an answer,” I said, my voice probably mirroring my uncertainty in the situation. I am not well suited to emotional outbursts. “It might not always be the answer the client wants, but it is the correct answer.”

“And I say you're a con man,” Mr. Lewis countered. “I say you're the same as the storefront mediums who claim to have the line on the future and can talk to dead relatives. You take their money and you tell them what they want to hear. Well, this time you'd better back off, pal. Give Sheila her money back and stop asking questions before you find yourself in a whole lot more trouble than you can handle. Understand?”

He pointed an angry look at Mother then pivoted on his left foot and walked out of the building. I found I had some difficulty summoning my voice because my throat felt dry.

“No,” I said. “I do not understand.”

There was not much for Mother and me to say after that. She went home, knowing I would want to “muse,” as she puts it, on the events of the past few hours, and that I think better when left to myself. The truth is, I often have to remind myself of the social skills training I had after my diagnosis and my sessions with Dr. Mancuso to remember precisely why it is better to interact with other people at all.

The question Ms. McInerney had posed was an intriguing one, but I now had a very strong feeling that I should not have accepted it. Emotional entanglements between people are a source of consternation and confusion to me. I had accepted the question, I now realized, at least partially because I had assumed I could appeal to Ms. Washburn to help based on her knowledge of my difficulties with such matters. But that had not proven to be the case, and now the matter had been complicated with the arrival of Oliver Lewis, who had made some sort of threat against me and accused me of defrauding my clients. That could be a serious impingement on my business if he were able to communicate his beliefs on a broader scale, like an Internet site. It could do real damage.

After standing up and exercising twice, followed by one bottle of water from the vending machine, I had examined the problem from every possible angle and had concluded beyond any doubt that my first instinct had been correct—Ms. Washburn was necessary to the successful answering of this question.

Since her reticence to assist me was based strictly on her husband's objection to her working at Questions Answered, it had been a mistake to appeal to Ms. Washburn at all. I should have seen that immediately. A new plan of action was required, and I implemented it immediately.

After a quick check with directory assistance (a convenient service that still exists despite the dominance of Internet and smartphone technology), I dialed the phone on my desk. I was surprised to find myself a trifle nervous as the earpiece registered four rings. Then the call was answered.

“Hello?”

“Is this Mr. Taylor?” I asked.

“Who's asking?”

I had spoken with Ms. Washburn's husband once on the telephone, but did not have a clear recollection of his voice. I was fairly certain this was the same man, although they did not share a last name. I understand that is a convention some women observe after marriage while others do not. Because marriage is based on an archaic chattel system that made the woman the property of her husband, I can applaud those women who do not change their names; others do so out of a sense of tradition, which is more difficult for me to understand, but I do respect the decision.

“This is Samuel Hoenig,” I answered.

The voice on the other end made a noise that sounded like, “pwah.” Then he said, “I can't believe you're calling me.”

“I do not understand your disbelief,” I said. “You have all the evidence. The telephone rang, and I identified myself when you responded. Is this Mr. Taylor?”

There was a wispy, somewhat guttural tone to the voice. “Yes, this is Simon Taylor. What the hell do you want, Hoenig?”

“I wish to know why you object to Ms. Washburn working for my firm,” I told him simply. “I will pay her an honest wage and her work will be both rewarding and helpful to the clients we serve. What is your concern?”

“You have a lot of nerve,” Simon Taylor said. “Do you know that?”

Each human being has the same number of nerves, and the human brain has approximately one hundred billion neurons, so the number was indeed quite high. “Every person does,” I said, although I did not see the relevance to the conversation we had been having. “You have just as many.”

There was a pause on the other end of the conversation. “Let me make this clear, Hoenig,” Simon Taylor said. “I don't like you. I don't like the idea that my wife worked for you even for one day. She came very close to getting her head cut off, and I
really
don't like that. So when you call me up with your Ass Burger voice and ask me why I don't want my wife to work for you again, I get mad. So you want to know why? I'll tell you why: because of you. Is that clear enough?”

“Quite clear,” I answered. “Thank you. Now may I make my case, please?”

“I could just hang up and not answer when you call again,” he noted.

“Yes, you could. But I believe I can convince you, and as a man who appears to enjoy a challenge, I am willing to presume that you think I can't.” I had anticipated using this tactic. It was true that I had no evidence Mr. Taylor enjoyed a challenge any more than most men, but I was taking a calculated gamble. I waited for his response.

“You wanna bet?” he asked.

It would be foolish to include a wager in the equation; if Mr. Taylor thought there was a prize to be won by staying implacable, he would not listen to my argument. “There is more money to be made if your wife is under my employ,” I said. “Wagering funds on this conversation is counterproductive.”

“It's an expression,” he said, I believe wearily. It's not always easy for me to gather information about a person's mood from his tone of voice. I was not familiar with the axiom about wagering, and wrote it on a pad I keep next to my Mac Pro, so I could consult with Mother later for an explanation.

I decided to press on with my argument. “I understand your objection to the danger that Ms. Washburn met with when she helped with the question of the missing head,” I said. Then, leaving no time for him to interject, I added, “but I am committed to keeping any employee of Questions Answered, including myself, out of any physical peril, and I will immediately discontinue my acceptance of the contract if—and I consider this extremely unlikely—any such situation arises. In addition, I will guarantee to you that Ms. Washburn, should she opt to continue working for the firm as I would hope, would be able to veto my answering any future question posed if, within her judgment, there is any unreasonable level of danger. Is that an acceptable situation for you?”

There was a long pause on the other end of the line. “Do you always talk like that?” Simon Taylor asked.

I thought quickly. “There are times I try to sound like Elmer Fudd in an attempt to amuse my mother,” I said. “Other than that, this is my speaking voice.”

“You're a nut, Hoenig. You know that?”

I felt it was best not to respond. When directly challenged like that, it is my experience that I have either done something to offend the other person, or I am misreading a signal. In either case, there is no helpful response. If an apology is required, it will become evident quickly.