The Question of the Dead Mistress

by E. J. Copperman

  Ms. Washburn’s eyes looked confused. “What does that mean?” she asked.

  “Brett works in the real estate business,” Virginia repeated. “He buys houses that are run-down, fixes them up, and then rents them to Rutgers students. There isn’t nearly enough housing on campus so there are always kids looking for an apartment close to College Avenue especially, but also in Piscataway near the Busch and Livingston campuses.” Again there was the impression that Virginia had been carefully schooled in her husband’s business affairs and how to describe them.

  “Do you work outside the home?” I asked. It didn’t really bear any significance on the question being asked, but I felt it was important not to assume that Ms. Fontaine was a woman whose husband was her entire existence. That was increasingly rare according to statistical analyses I had read.

  “Yes,” Virginia Fontaine said. “I am a researcher for a pharmaceutical company in Piscataway. We live in Highland Park.” The Questions Answered office was located in the town of Piscataway, and Highland Park was a small suburb of New Brunswick only three miles from where we were sitting.

  But I wanted to conclude this interview and get on with my work. “You were saying that your husband had been acting differently than usual and said it was because of stress at his job,” I reminded Virginia.

  She nodded, which I found slightly confusing. There was no need to inform me that I had been correct and I had not asked her a question that would require such a response. I made a note on a pad I keep on my desk to ask Ms. Washburn about the gesture when Virginia had left.

  “I can’t say I stopped thinking about it just because Brett denied anything was going on,” she continued. “I mean, what man is going to confess to an affair with something as skimpy as that for evidence? So I did something I’m not very proud of doing. I looked at his phone one day when Brett was in the shower.”

  Ms. Washburn’s left eyebrow lifted, a sign she was a little surprised and possibly disturbed by what Virginia had said. Ms. Washburn was fairly recently divorced from a man who had in fact had more than one affair while they were married. With living women.

  “What did you discover?” I asked.

  “First I saw a series of text messages with his friend Peter Belson. I think they met when he went to Fairleigh Dickinson in Madison and I knew Peter from years before I married Brett. In fact, Peter is the one who introduced us. These texts didn’t seem to be that odd, but they kept talking about Melanie Mason, and Brett had told me about Melanie a long time ago. She was his college girlfriend.”

  “What were they saying about her?” Ms. Washburn asked. She had no doubt seen similar communications as part of her divorce proceedings, although I knew she had never investigated her ex-husband’s personal phone or computer records.

  “At first it was real general, just stuff about remember this time or that time. But then Brett started asking Peter if Melanie had been faithful to him when they were together, if Peter knew of anything Melanie had said about him, about Brett, after they broke up. He seemed really worried about it, almost obsessed with what Melanie might have said or felt about him, and they broke up maybe twenty years ago.”

  “Did he text Melanie?” Ms. Washburn asked.

  Virginia looked slightly startled. “No. I thought I made that clear. Melanie is dead. She died in a car crash three years ago.”

  It was late in the afternoon. If we did not conclude this business swiftly I would be unable to complete the orangutan computations before it would be time to go home for dinner. It was necessary to, as they say in the film business, “cut to the chase.”

  “So why do you believe your husband is cheating on you with the ghost of his deceased college girlfriend?” I said, perhaps with too insistent a tone, to Virginia.

  “Because she started talking to him two months ago,” she answered without hesitation.

  three

  Ms. Washburn sat down on the chair I reserve for Mother, knowing full well it was fine as long as Mother didn’t arrive, which would have been completely unexpected. Since my father had recently returned to our home, Mother was spending much less time at Questions Answered and as I stated, dinnertime was not far away. Mother would not be dropping by. I think Ms. Washburn’s move was a gesture designed to ingratiate her more with Virginia Fontaine, to bring them to the same eye level.

  “Melanie Mason spoke to your husband three years after she died?” It was Ms. Washburn’s way of clarifying the situation, getting Virginia to explain herself, which I appreciated. Virginia had an irritating habit of saying just enough to elicit a response.

  Now she nodded. “Brett doesn’t mind if I look at his emails. Sometimes he doesn’t check the home account very often and he misses things, so he appreciates my checking in. When I started seeing all the texts about Melanie, I’ll admit I was thrown off and I checked for my own purposes. And sure enough, there were emails from Brett to his friend starting just around the time Brett was getting more distant. He said he went to her grave and she talked to him. I also found a Facebook page in Melanie’s name that was still active. Brett was one of her friends listed.”

  I doubted some parts of that story (particularly the idea that her husband was content to have her look through his personal devices and his social media contacts), but I did not challenge Virginia on them. I thought it best to discuss the matters with Ms. Washburn when we were alone. Sometimes I misunderstand certain aspects of social interaction. I was not inclined to embarrass myself now. I still wanted to dismiss Virginia’s claims and move on.

  “Are you certain the emails you saw were not simply figurative?” I said. “Sometimes people say things they do not mean literally.”

  “I did some research,” Virginia answered. “I do that professionally and I understand online accounts. Brett said he heard her voice. He told at least three of his friends but not me. What does that tell you?”

  It occurred to me that with her obvious expertise in research, Virginia Fontaine might very well be able to answer her question as efficiently as Ms. Washburn and I could, but again I restrained myself from saying so. Ms. Washburn has informed me that sending clients away is bad for our business.

  “What was the content of the emails and the Facebook messages?” I asked.

  “Times, places, dates,” Virginia said. “They were clearly setting up times and places to meet. There was no explicit talk about what they’d do when they got there, but I don’t really think they were discussing Brett’s job.”

  I assumed that was a sarcastic remark although the concept is not an easy one for a person like me to grasp or recognize. If it had been meant literally, that would undoubtedly come across in the ensuing conversation through context.

  “Are you absolutely certain that Melanie Mason is dead?” Ms. Washburn asked.

  Virginia regarded her carefully. “There was a funeral, but Brett didn’t go. There were obits I looked up online. She died in a crash on Route 22 in Union three years ago. The driver of the other car was investigated for driving under the influence but they determined the accident wasn’t his fault. Seems to me if she’s not dead, she’s gone miles out of her way to make it look like she is.”

  “Besides the online communication, is there any other evidence you have that your husband is carrying on an affair with Melanie Mason?” I asked. “It would be far too easy for someone living to assume her accounts and get in touch with him that way.”

  “I followed him last week,” Virginia said, once again avoiding eye contact. “I’d seen a Facebook message from Melanie saying they should meet and he made an excuse about an eye doctor appointment and left. He didn’t go to the eye doctor. I know because I followed him in my car.”

  There were sixteen minutes before I would have to leave to have dinner with my parents. “And you saw your husband meet with a dead woman?”

  Virginia turned to face me and her expression was d
efiant. “I saw him meet Melanie Mason on a park bench near the Metuchen train station,” she said. “They got into her car and drove away and I lost the nerve to follow them. I saw her.”

  “And she was alive.” That would answer the question as asked. No, her husband was not having an affair with a dead woman. The woman was not dead. I began to calculate the amount of time we’d spend on this question and wonder whether I should reverse my previous decision and charge Virginia Fontaine for this consultation. She had not signed the client intake form.

  “No,” Virginia said. “The woman I saw was Melanie Mason and Melanie Mason is dead.”

  “I think the facts would tend to disprove that statement,” I told her. “You saw your husband get into a car with a living woman. No matter how close her resemblance to the person you might have seen photographs of in your husband’s phone or online, that was not the deceased Melanie Mason.”

  “I could see right through her,” Virginia said. “She was transparent. She was a ghost. She’s dead.”

  “I think you are mistaken or lying,” I said.

  “I’m not.”

  Twelve minutes left. There had to be some way I could get this woman to leave soon without being socially inappropriate. “Do you have any evidence that proves what you say?” I asked.

  “That is sort of why I’m here,” Virginia said. Appearing to have an idea present itself to her, she reached into her rather large purse and extracted a cellular phone quite a bit larger than the one I have. I tapped on my hip pocket to ensure that mine was still where I’d left it. It was. I worry about such things.

  “Take a look at this.” She pushed on the screen of her cellular phone seven times and swiped across it twice. Then she turned the phone around to allow Ms. Washburn to see. Ms. Washburn looked puzzled. Virginia then turned the screen in my direction.

  Eight minutes before it would be necessary to leave. I am very punctual. Ms. Washburn says I am obsessive on the subject.

  I found it necessary to stand and walk around my desk to get a better view. Virginia offered to hand me the cellular phone, but I prefer not to touch things if I am not sure they are clean. I had no opportunity to look inside Virginia Fontaine’s purse and did not want to risk it.

  Upon consideration, the image on the cellular phone’s screen was a photograph no doubt taken with the onboard camera. It showed a man, from behind, about to seat himself behind the steering wheel of a current-model Subaru BRZ. The driver’s door was open and he was standing inside the door about to step inside. The passenger door was open as well, but there was no one standing next to it or seated in the passenger seat, although the angle of the photograph made it difficult to be certain of that last impression.

  “I do not understand,” I said. “How is this proof of your claim?”

  Virginia Fontaine came close to rolling her eyes but stopped herself. “That’s my husband,” she said. I did not see how that answered my questions. “I followed him and took this picture when he and Melanie were getting into the car.”

  “But no one is getting in on the passenger side,” Ms. Washburn correctly pointed out.

  “Exactly!” Virginia spread her hands to indicate we weren’t getting it. “I’m saying I saw her there and she didn’t show up in the picture!”

  I glanced at Ms. Washburn with no doubt that my eyes were showing my complete confusion. Was this some odd neurotypical behavior that I did not understand? Her expression assured me she was feeling exactly the same way. That can be very comforting to a person like me. At least my emotions were not inappropriate.

  “That really doesn’t prove much,” Ms. Washburn said to Virginia. “What we’re seeing is a man getting into a car with both doors open.”

  “Well, why would the passenger side door be open if nobody was getting in?” Virginia’s tone indicated she was on the verge of exasperation. There were four minutes until I would absolutely have to leave this office and I could empathize, something that is not easy for me to do under normal circumstances.

  “I have no idea,” Ms. Washburn said. She slumped back in Mother’s chair.

  “Well, that’s what I’m talking about!” Virginia put her phone back in her purse and made a sound with her hands that wasn’t exactly clapping. She pushed her right hand, down, over her left palm and slapped it to make a noise. I guessed it was meant to be a gesture of triumph, but I could not determine exactly what Virginia had done to merit such a feeling. “The passenger door would never be open if nobody was getting in but you can’t see anyone in the picture. So it’s a ghost, right?”

  Two minutes. “If I say yes, will that answer your question?” I asked. I have been told that sometimes a small “white” lie is preferable to the truth if it hurts no one and accomplishes a goal. My goal was to leave. Now.

  Ms. Washburn, understanding my concern, stood up from Mother’s chair. She looked at the coat rack we have situated near the unused pizza ovens toward the back of our office space.

  “Of course not,” Virginia said. Ms. Washburn’s mouth flattened out into something almost approximating a straight line and she began to walk toward the coat rack to retrieve our jackets. “If the picture proved Brett is having an affair with Melanie, I wouldn’t have come here to begin with.”

  “Then I do not understand what you are asking,” I said. “And I must apologize, but our office hours are—”

  Virginia did not let me finish the sentence. “Mr. Hoenig,” she said, “will you find definitive proof and answer my question or not? Is my husband having an affair with a dead woman?”

  There was no time left. Ms. Washburn handed me my jacket and I let it hang on my right forearm. “Fine,” I said. “We will take you on and answer your question, but you must fill out your client intake form at home tonight and bring it back here tomorrow.” I extended the clipboard holding the form, which Ms. Washburn had left on my desk. “Is that acceptable?”

  “Yes,” Virginia Fontaine said. “Oh, Mr. Hoenig. I’m so grateful that—”

  It was my turn to interrupt her sentence. “I’m sorry, but our office is now closed. You must leave.”

  Without another word Virginia Fontaine turned and left the office. Ms. Washburn and I were not far behind her in our departure.

  On the way out Ms. Washburn looked at me. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and she won’t come back.”

  “Then we will be without one clipboard.”

  four

  “I get why you caved in, but I still think taking this question is a mistake.”

  Ms. Washburn was driving, so she knew I was uncomfortable with a prolonged conversation possibly diverting her attention. But she was watching the road intently and her hands were properly positioned on the steering wheel. I had spoken to Ms. Washburn while she drove on a few previous occasions and we had never been involved in an accident. I did not object now.

  “I don’t believe I ‘caved in,’ and I agree that this question is not something we should investigate. But the fact is we can answer it quickly because there is no such thing as a ghost, which makes the question moot as soon as it is asked. The difficult part will be convincing Virginia Fontaine to accept the factual answer.”

  Ms. Washburn was oddly quiet for a long moment, which I attributed to her concentrating on the drive. We were less than a mile from my home. But when she spoke again it was with a strange timbre in her voice. “So you don’t think there are ghosts?”

  The question surprised me. It never had occurred to me the issue was at all unsettled. I had very little time to process Ms. Washburn’s point and I knew she expected a response from me. It was very concerning indeed since we were at a new and uncharted place in our personal relationship.

  Ms. Washburn had kissed me, which I found unexpectedly pleasing but somewhat unsettling, only a few months before. And I had reciprocated by asking her if we could kiss again less than one month earlier. We
were now at a stage where we did kiss on a fairly regular basis but we had not defined our connection. I did not know if we were “dating” or if we simply expressed a type of physical affection that had no larger context.

  Writing the previous paragraph was extremely difficult for me. I sincerely hope anyone who reads it will not be offended or disgusted by its contents. It is a part of the overall story being told or I would have omitted the subject entirely.

  As it was, I did not know exactly how to respond to Ms. Washburn’s question except to answer truthfully. “There is absolutely no evidence that people have some presence in the world after they die,” I said. “Without empirical evidence there is no reason to believe such things happen, and there have been countless studies on the subject. Not one has managed to find proof of the existence of, as people call them, ghosts.”

  She was pulling the car into the driveway of my home when Ms. Washburn said, “I saw a ghost once.”

  That was a surprising statement and again I fumbled for a way to respond. We both got out of the car, since Ms. Washburn would be joining my parents and myself for dinner that night as had been previously arranged. That gave me a little time to formulate an answer to her claim. We walked toward the front door after I looked in the box on the front porch and found a few unremarkable pieces of mail.

  “I believe it might have been something else,” I suggested.

  “I don’t think so,” Ms. Washburn said as I opened the front door. I could not read her tone, and that was unusual.

  Before I could say anything else, my mother spotted us from the kitchen door and headed in our direction. Her surgically replaced knee had fully healed and her gait was a bit slower than it had been, but smoother and she was clearly not in pain as she had been. “Why look who it is,” she said as she approached.

  That too was somewhat disconcerting. “Were you expecting someone other than Ms. Washburn and myself?” I asked Mother. She had embraced Ms. Washburn, who smiled when she saw Mother.