The Question of the Absentee Father

by E. J. Copperman

  “Hi, Patty. It’s nice to meet you. And what is your name, Patty’s husband?”

  Ms. Washburn shook her head quickly, indicating I should not introduce myself as Samuel Hoenig, which would have been my first reflex, but I was in no need of reminders. “I am Paul,” I said quietly and quickly. The Paul McCartney song “The Night Before” was playing on the Help! album at that moment.

  “Hi, Paul. Now, to bring you up to speed, let me give you the skinny on what I was telling your lovely wife.”

  There were so many things wrong with that statement I did not know where to begin. My speed was not going to increase or decrease based on the man’s statement. There is no such object as a “skinny.” Ms. Washburn was not actually my wife, although the bogus Kaplan could not have known that. And there was no way for him to know without using a video feature on the phone whether she was in fact physically attractive or not according to societal standards.

  “Yes, please do,” I mumbled.

  “It’s all about speculation,” Kaplan said. “It’s about making a lot of money. I can’t guarantee anything, but I can tell you about some clients who have more than doubled their investment in a matter of days.”

  “And what we’d do is buy advertising time?” Ms. Washburn said. “That seems strange because we don’t have anything we want to advertise.” She looked at me and I nodded back. I understood the scene we were playing. I am not comfortable pretending to be someone other than myself, but playing a version of myself with a different name was only mildly bothersome. It helped that Ms. Washburn was, by necessity, doing most of the talking on our end of the conversation.

  I did my best to avoid talking directly to her, however, because I was not certain how a husband would address a wife. I knew it would be wrong to call her Ms. Longbow.

  “That’s right,” the man answered. “You’re not buying to advertise anything for yourself. You buy the time from us and then sell it to a list of clients who do have something they want to get in front of a lot of people. You charge whatever you want for the time, which means you can make as much money as you want.”

  There were so many flaws in that plan it was difficult to know where to begin. “Is that legal?” Ms. Washburn asked. “It sounds too good to be true.” It did not sound good at all to me, but her eyes held a hint of mischief, indicating she knew what she said was not true. I assumed it was what the false Kaplan would want to hear.

  That proved to be true. “It’s perfectly legal,” he said, although I would later find out the practice was legal only in some states. “We even supply you with a list of clients we know will be interested in the time slots you buy from us.”

  Ms. Washburn’s mouth twitched. She was trying to decide what to do next.

  I said, “Why don’t you sell them the time slots yourself ?”

  Ms. Washburn shook her head slightly, but it was too late. Perhaps she was concerned that my voice would be recognized, but it was also possible I’d said something inappropriate. It is hard for me to know.

  “We have so much volume we’d have to hire too many salespeople,” the man said. The answer was practiced; he’d obviously heard this question many times before. Clearly he was now lying. “Frankly, we use you as a sales staff and let you set your own salary based on the rates you charge your clients.”

  “And what is your rate of markup?” I asked, now forgetting I was playing the role of Paul Longbow (unless Ms. Washburn’s character had not taken her husband’s name when they married). “What do you pay to buy the time slots and how much do you charge for them?”

  Ms. Washburn closed her eyes. I knew now that I’d made a serious error. I felt my jaw tremor and I bit hard on my lips. I felt my right hand begin to move back and forth rapidly.

  “Who is this?” Kaplan asked. “Are you … is this …?” There was another pause. “Don’t call here again.” He disconnected the call.

  I felt my eyes roll up and my hands clench into fists. I’d acted so stupidly that I had forfeited the interview and ruined Ms. Washburn’s cellular phone number to call the man back again.

  Then I felt her touch my right hand. I looked down and her hand was on mine. “It’s okay, Samuel,” she said. “We weren’t going to find out much more anyway.”

  I kept looking at the hand. My anger with myself subsided and was replaced with the thought that this might be a good time to suggest kissing again.

  Instead, my mother texted me with the news that dinner was ready.

  eight

  Ms. Washburn stayed through dinner, which I served at our dining room table. Mother’s knee was clearly causing her more pain than usual so I insisted she sit at the table and allow me to serve. Mother does not like to cede that much control under normal circumstances, but tonight she did not argue.

  We told her about our findings and the second phone call with the man who had pretended to be my father earlier in the day. Mother listened as she ate, roast beef and baked potato. There was also broccoli, which I dutifully took onto my plate.

  “This is very confusing,” Mother said. “This man is pretending to be Reuben, but under the name George Kaplan, and he’s trying to sell advertising time he’s already bought so that you can sell it to someone else?”

  “I doubt he expects any of his buyers to sell the television and radio time they have purchased,” I said. “If it was sellable he would no doubt be able to make a profit on the time slots himself. This is a way for this man, whomever he might be, to sell off a product he knows is worthless and trick innocent investors into believing they have a chance to become wealthy.”

  “That shouldn’t be legal,” Mother said, shaking her head. “But what does it have to do with finding your father, Samuel?”

  I finished chewing the bite of food I had taken (I abhor watching people speak with food in their mouths) and said, “If Reuben Hoenig is involved in the scheme, and if it is illegal in the state of California, it is possible he had some reason to think he would not be able to contact you again.”

  Mother blanched. “You think someone might kill him?” Her voiced sounded choked.

  “Of course not,” Ms. Washburn said in what was intended to be a soothing tone.

  But that wasn’t accurate. “It is not possible to be certain about either possibility,” I told Mother. “We do not yet know enough about the people involved and how desperate they might be. He might be in danger. But he might not. There is no way to be sure at this moment.”

  Mother looked concerned, which I supposed was predictable but not necessarily rational. She lowered her eyebrows in thought and cleared her throat. “How close are you to finding his address?” she asked.

  “It has proven to be elusive,” I admitted. “We know he was, at least, in the North Hollywood area but the addition of a man falsely claiming to be Reuben Hoenig has complicated matters. Ms. Washburn and I need to dig deeper into public records to find his current location. And that hinges on the assumption that he is now using the name George Kaplan, which is not confirmed.”

  Again it seemed to take a moment for Mother to process what I’d said. “So what are you prepared to do?” she asked.

  This confused me. I knew Mother understood my methods because she had seen them at work many times, long before I had opened the Questions Answered office. She was not asking about how I collect data and come to a conclusion. She seemed to be making some other point through her question.

  I looked at Ms. Washburn, who had sat back in her chair and was watching Mother’s face. She looked slightly surprised and a bit worried, if I was reading her expression correctly.

  “Mother,” I said, “are you questioning the effort Ms. Washburn and I are investing in your question?”

  “Oh, no,” she answered. “I believe you’re trying as hard as you can.” That was something of a relief, as I would least want to disappoint my mother more than any other clie
nt. “But I am questioning your motivation.”

  Ms. Washburn’s attention shifted quickly toward me.

  “My motivation?” I asked. “You believe that this question carries a lower priority than most in my mind? I assure you that is not the case. I am treating this question as I treat every question I have been asked since I opened the Questions Answered office.”

  Ms. Washburn nodded. “That’s right, Vivian,” she said. “Samuel has been acting exactly as he always does when we have a question: He’s very serious about finding the right answer.”

  Mother wiped her mouth with a napkin although I could see nothing on her lips that required removal. She leaned forward with her elbows on the table and her hands, clasped in front of her, supporting her head.

  “That’s just it,” she said. “I would think this question would be special. I expected that you wouldn’t treat it like any other job you’ve been offered. I would think that finding your father would have some importance to you beyond just answering a question I asked.”

  Any number of impulses were coming to me simultaneously. I had to process conflicting and confusing thoughts. Why would Mother expect me to change my methods for a question when the ones I always used had been almost uniformly successful? Had I done something to suggest I would deviate from my normal pattern inadvertently? Was I actually trying not to answer the question for some reason? I felt the manifestations of what Mother calls a “meltdown” coming on: head shaking, fingers flailing, hands flapping at my sides. I was blinking and found it difficult to stop.

  “I didn’t mean to upset you,” Mother said.

  Ms. Washburn, seeing my state of agitation, stood and walked to my side. She put her hand on my upper arm, which focused my attention and stopped some of the larger “stimming” actions. I felt my mood slightly dissipate. Even in that moment I saw Mother watching and looking directly at Ms. Washburn’s hand. Her gaze moved to Ms. Washburn’s face when she spoke.

  “Vivian, of all people you should know that Samuel attacks a question the same way because that’s how his mind works. The circumstances of the question don’t factor into his choices.” Ms. Washburn pulled her chair toward mine and sat next to me, but when she saw that I was regaining control of my body, she removed her hand from my arm. “I don’t understand why you’d think he would act differently.”

  Mother’s face, which showed concern, forced itself into a smile. She looked at me. “I’m sorry, Samuel,” she said. “I didn’t mean to accuse you of anything. I’m very upset about this whole business with your father and I’m anxious for something to happen quickly. I don’t think it’s your fault. Do you understand? Can you forgive me?”

  I pondered her questions. I did understand the words Mother was saying, but doubted they represented the point of her asking. She wanted to know if I could empathize with her emotions, and I was not sure that would be possible. The second question was easier to answer so I addressed it first.

  “I see nothing to forgive,” I said. “You have done nothing intentionally to hurt my feelings. You do not need forgiveness, Mother.” I looked at Ms. Washburn and nodded my thanks. I could tell she understood. She was becoming the only person I knew—including my mother—with whom I could communicate nonverbally.

  “Thank you, Samuel,” Mother said. “I didn’t mean to question your methods. I’m sure what you’re doing will help find your father. But if this Kaplan man is a dead end, what is there left to do?”

  I will confess that I took a certain amount of pride in the fact that it was Ms. Washburn who responded. I have done my best to include her in every aspect of the Questions Answered business and that meant showing her how I go about researching a question. So when she could analyze and plan the next steps before I could speak, I felt she had absorbed what she’d seen exceptionally well.

  “Kaplan isn’t a dead end,” she told Mother. “Just because we couldn’t keep him on the phone doesn’t mean we can’t find the address of his business. That could give us a jumping-off point. And we have some other leads.”

  I reached into my pocket to confirm that my iPhone was still there and it gave me an idea. “Mother,” I said, “you can help us with this question, at least in ensuring that we have been correct about one assumption. Would you mind listening to something?”

  Mother’s eyes narrowed in puzzlement. “What can I do?” she asked.

  I held out the phone. “I was recording some of the conversation Ms. Washburn and I had with the man who identified himself as George Kaplan. You can tell us whether it is indeed my father’s voice.”

  Mother blinked. She did not move, thinking. “Go ahead,” she said.

  Ms. Washburn looked at me but I could not read her expression. This seemed like the most obvious of tasks; I would play the recording and Mother could confirm what we already suspected. But I am empathetic enough to understand that there was an emotional charge over the situation even if I could not identify it.

  I negotiated to the application and played the section of recording. “Hi, Patty,” the man’s voice said in a surprisingly clear tone. “And what is your name, Patty’s husband?”

  Mother held up her hand, palm out, almost as soon as the first word was played. She shook her head. “That’s not your father,” she told me.

  “You are certain?”

  “Absolutely. I’d know his voice, especially over a phone, and that wasn’t it.” Mother let out a long breath as if relieved. I could not imagine what she might have found so upsetting that she had to brace herself, but that she was releasing pent-up tension was palpable.

  “Did you recognize the man’s voice?” Ms. Washburn asked. It was the very question I was about to pose.

  Mother shook her head again. “I’ve never heard that voice before.”

  “Very well,” I said. “We have eliminated one possibility.” I put the phone back in my pocket and patted it again.

  “Samuel,” Mother said quietly, “we need to find your father soon. I think something is very wrong and he needs our help.”

  It occurred to me that there had been many times Mother especially could have used some assistance from my father and did not receive it. But there was no point in arguing with her when she had her mind set the way it was now. My mother can be a very stubborn woman when she believes the reason to be important.

  “I understand your desire for a prompt answer,” I said truthfully. I did understand Mother’s concern but I did not share it. That would not have an impact on my efforts to answer the question. “But there is no shortcut that will provide us with an address more quickly.”

  Ms. Washburn was clearly doing something with an application on her phone. I did not distract her and assumed she would make her actions clear when the time was appropriate.

  “I think what I need to see from you is some passion for the project,” Mother said. “I know how you feel about your father but he is still your father.”

  That did not seem to make much sense. “He has always been my father in the biological sense,” I said. “You can’t expect me to harbor warm emotional feelings for someone I barely remember. I haven’t seen Reuben Hoenig in twenty-seven years.”

  “Neither have I,” Mother said. I was aware of that fact and did not see its relevance.

  Luckily Ms. Washburn interrupted the conversation. “I have an address on Kaplan Enterprises,” she said. “It’s in Reseda. From the Google Earth image I’d have to say it’s located in somebody’s house.”

  She turned her phone to show me the photograph taken for the Google Earth project, which claims to document virtually every area on the planet. Reseda seemed like a very working-class community from the image, with a one-story home centered in the viewer. It was brown with a stucco exterior and a bare area where the lawn would have been, but it was devoid of any vegetation at all.

  “That is Kaplan Enterprises?” I asked, although
it was fairly clear Ms. Washburn had been making that point. It was somewhat surprising that a business would have its headquarters in this structure, but there was certainly no physical limitation on the kind of commerce Kaplan had claimed to be conducting. There would be no need for the extra cost of office space.

  “That’s it,” Ms. Washburn said. “Assuming the address is right, but I’m betting it is.”

  “May I see?” Mother held out her hand and Ms. Washburn passed the phone to her. Mother examined it carefully. Ms. Washburn turned it to a horizontal position to maximize the size of the image. Mother looked at it closely and her expression became even more serious than it had been until now. “Is it possible to see this bigger?” she asked.

  Ms. Washburn and I passed a somewhat confused look but the tote bag Ms. Washburn keeps with her was handy and she extracted her laptop computer from it and turned it on. After the computer had successfully booted up its software applications, she navigated to the proper page, which took two minutes and sixteen seconds. No one said a word while she did her work.

  “Here,” Ms. Washburn said, turning the notebook computer’s screen toward Mother. “Do you see something that makes a difference?”

  “Yes,” Mother said. I stood and walked toward her, standing behind her chair to see when she pointed at the screen. Ms. Washburn did the same. She indicated a spot in the home being displayed, in the front window. There was a dark silhouette behind a sheer white curtain.

  “That’s your father, Samuel,” Mother said.

  nine

  The idea that Mother could identify, through a grainy image on a computer screen taken through a curtain and seen only in shadow, the figure of a person—I could not even definitely say it was male—as my father was illogical. But I could not convince my mother of that fact.

  “I recognize him,” she said firmly. “I know that man and I know what he looks like. That’s your father. You know where he is.”

  Since that would have seemed to end the business of answering Mother’s question, I could have agreed with her, written down the address and moved on to my next client. But the argument was so deeply flawed that I did not feel comfortable doing so.