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 di
d 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.”
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 pertinent 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.
The Question of the Unfamiliar Husband Page 3