The Question of the Absentee Father

by E. J. Copperman

  Ms. Washburn considered that and agreed. “Can we go to the Chinese Theatre on Hollywood Boulevard?” she asked.

  That seemed an odd request. “Is there some connection to finding Reuben Hoenig at the Chinese Theatre that I have overlooked?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “I’ve always wanted to see the footprints in concrete,” she said. “I’ve never been to Los Angeles before.”

  “This is not a sightseeing trip,” I told Ms. Washburn. “We are here to answer Mother’s question.”

  “Why can’t we do both?”

  Blaine brought a basket of rolls and Ms. Washburn’s diet soda along with my water. He quickly retreated again and each of us drank from our glasses, although I wiped mine with my napkin before doing so and Ms. Washburn did not. I am not a germophobe but I do not like to take chances when dealing with people I do not know personally. The person washing glasses might have been in a hostile mood.

  “Are there other side excursions you’ve been planning without telling me?” I asked when we were alone again.

  “I’d like to go on a studio tour,” Ms. Washburn answered, not realizing I was asking sarcastically because I have difficulty modulating my tone. She must have seen a pained look on my face. “If we have the time.”

  “I had no idea you were interested in the filmmaking process,” I told her. “I do not think that business will have a connection to finding Reuben.”

  Ms. Washburn chose not to follow that thread of conversation. “You know, it would make your mother happy if you referred to him as your father.”

  That seemed a strange point to bring up at this moment. “My mother is not here,” I reminded Ms. Washburn.

  She closed her eyes momentarily and leaned back in her chair. “I know, Samuel. I assume you called her when we got to the hotel?”

  That was not actually a question but Ms. Washburn’s vocal inflection implied that it was, so I responded in kind. “Mother knew the time the plane was scheduled to land and is perfectly capable of finding the airline information online,” I said. “She trusts your ability to drive a car and she knows we have a Global Positioning System device. Surely she knows we have found the hotel.”

  Ms. Washburn smiled slightly. “I’m going to take that for a no. Samuel, your mother isn’t used to having you away from home, especially at night. She’d probably like to hear your voice.”

  That made little sense to me, but I trust Ms. Washburn’s judgment on such matters so I took out my iPhone, which was in the left hip pocket of my trousers, where I keep it whenever I am awake. I considered calling Mother, then looked at Ms. Washburn.

  “It is three hours later in New Jersey than it is here,” I noted. “But Mother is probably not asleep yet. Do you think it would be jarring for her to hear the phone ring at this hour?”

  Ms. Washburn’s smile broadened a bit. “Very good, Samuel. You’re thinking about your mother’s feelings. Yes, perhaps it would be a little bit of a shock when she’s getting used to being in an empty house. Maybe you should just text her.”

  Just as Blaine was arriving with our dinners I finished sending Mother the redundant information that we had arrived safely in Los Angeles. I then devoted my attention to the food on my plate, and did not find any reason to send it back to the kitchen. Ms. Washburn had chosen the restaurant well.

  Perhaps being distracted by the dinner was the reason I did not notice until the next morning that Mother had not responded to my text.

  That was odd.

  twelve

  “Did you call her this morning?” Ms. Washburn asked as she drove the Kia Soul on Sherman Way toward Reseda. Since there were virtually no turns necessary at all until we were in Reseda, the Global Positioning System device was not making any sound and Ms. Washburn felt comfortable enough to have a conversation.

  My sensibility was slightly more nervous but I knew Ms. Washburn was confident and she was driving. I touched the iPhone in my pocket to assure myself it was there.

  “Yes. I called this morning before I texted you and I called again just before we left. Both times Mother’s voice mail came on immediately, which indicates her phone is turned off or the voice mailbox is full. No one ever calls Mother except me and her sister, Aunt Jane, so my guess is the telephone is turned off and she is not answering the landline at the house.”

  The drive would be short, even in heavy traffic. The Global Positioning System device, which I held in my right hand, was estimating it would take us three minutes to arrive at the address on Jamieson Avenue in Reseda. With the traffic, it was more likely to take eight if I was calculating correctly.

  “Maybe you should call Aunt Jane,” Ms. Washburn suggested. “Is her number programmed into your phone?”

  Our progress was slow but it was undeniable. We had moved forward by two blocks in the past three minutes. “There is a right turn coming up on Victory Boulevard,” I informed Ms. Washburn. “Yes, I have Aunt Jane’s phone number. I am not certain the situation is serious enough to call her, or that she would have information I do not have. If she calls Mother, she too will be connected directly to voice mail or reach the house phone, which is not being answered.”

  “Give it a few hours,” Ms. Washburn suggested. “Maybe your mother just didn’t charge her phone last night and she’s out shopping for groceries or something. After we check out this house we came to see, maybe you’ll have news to give her anyway.”

  The Global Positioning System device reported the upcoming turn onto Victory Boulevard, and after another minute Ms. Washburn was able to turn right. We would not be on this street long. There were more turns coming before we reached our destination. I decided not to speak until we were there.

  The side streets were less crowded, so the remainder of the drive took only one minute. We arrived at the house on Jamieson Avenue and Ms. Washburn found a parking space across the street. When we got out of the Kia Soul we were standing almost exactly at the same vantage point as the image we had seen on Google Earth.

  “The house has not been painted lately,” I noted. “The color is exactly the same as the computer image we saw.”

  “There’s a car in the driveway,” Ms. Washburn pointed out. “I’m guessing somebody is home. Shall we?” She gestured toward the house and I nodded.

  We walked across the street and up to the front door. The house was not especially notable physically; it was a one-story home with a basement, judging from the casement windows cut into the foundation. This building had not been constructed on a concrete slab, as some in the neighborhood were. There was a rather tired-looking palm tree on the right side and the left consisted of the gravel driveway and a side door. Looking inside the front window I could see no obvious movement. The semi-sheer curtains that had been in the Google Earth image had been replaced with more substantial ones so there was less visibility into the front room.

  There were also odd dark rings, small and crude, at strategic points under most of the windows. It looked like holes had been drilled there, which was perplexing.

  “I’ll ring the bell,” Ms. Washburn said. I am not given to touching doorbells, but Ms. Washburn had been attempting to break me of that revulsion. In conceding to make the move now she was sparing me an unpleasant moment. I wondered about her motivation.

  She pushed the doorbell button and we waited for sixteen seconds, not a highly unusual amount of time for someone to reach the entrance from another area of a house. Ms. Washburn and I did not speak during the interval. I was thinking about the possibility of answering Mother’s question immediately and flying home later today. Airline schedules were monopolizing my thoughts. I have not asked Ms. Washburn what she was thinking.

  When the door opened there stood behind it a woman in her mid- to late twenties. She had brown hair at shoulder length and was dressed in a plain pink t-shirt and a pair of jeans. She looked first at Ms. Washburn, then at me.
Her face looked surprised.

  “Yeah?” she said.

  I extended my hand. “Allow me to introduce—” I began.

  Ms. Washburn spoke over my attempt at a greeting. “Is this Kaplan Enterprises?” she asked.

  I halted my speech and looked at her, but Ms. Washburn did not offer a glance at all to help me interpret her intentions. I decided it was best to trust her judgment and retracted my hand.

  “What?” the young woman said.

  Ms. Washburn repeated the question.

  “You want George?” the woman asked.

  “If he’s home,” Ms. Washburn said.

  The young woman’s eyes displayed a certain vacancy and slowly she seemed to come to a response. “Oh no, he’s not home,” she said.

  Ms. Washburn’s face was betraying no particular emotion I could identify. “How about Reuben Hoenig?” she asked.

  “Who?”

  That seemed to dispel any notion that Reuben was a fixture at the house, at least not under his given name. If he had taken the name George Kaplan not only professionally but in all walks of life, it was possible he was the man the young woman claimed was not here. If not, George Kaplan, who presumably would be the man with whom Ms. Washburn and I spoke on the phone, might know where Reuben was today.

  But my chances of getting on an airplane back to New Jersey seemed to be diminishing.

  “Reuben Hoenig,” Ms. Washburn repeated. “Are you saying you’ve never heard the name before?”

  Again the young woman seemed to come to an answer gradually. “That’s it,” she said. “I’ve never heard the name.”

  This was clearly not an especially bright young woman and I would have to caution Ms. Washburn later on the danger of giving a subject an answer to a question when one wants an honest response. I leaned forward to try to establish a rapport with the young woman.

  “Reuben Hoenig is my father and I have not seen him in twenty-seven years,” I said. “Are you sure you have never heard of him?”

  People will sometimes respond to a personal plea rather than a professional one.

  The young woman snorted. “Sure,” she said. I did not understand what she meant by that.

  “Can we come in?” Ms. Washburn asked. I understood she was speaking colloquially and knew the proper question would have begun with the word may. “We were supposed to meet George Kaplan here.” That was not true unless considered from a very specific viewpoint, but immediately the young woman shook her head.

  “You can’t come in,” she said. “George doesn’t allow it.”

  “I thought George wasn’t here,” Ms. Washburn reminded her.

  Two seconds before the response. “Um, he isn’t, but he still doesn’t want you to come in.”

  Sometimes it is more difficult to defeat an opponent who is not intelligent. They tend to stick to their initial defense no matter how clearly one demolishes its logic. Unmovable in an interrogation is a position that is very hard to best.

  But Ms. Washburn simply walked into the house past the young woman and her look toward me indicated I should do the same. I followed Ms. Washburn after a moment even as the young woman said, “Hey!”

  “It’s okay,” Ms. Washburn told her. “We’re not here to bother anybody or cause any trouble. We just want to see George Kaplan and talk to him for a moment. Now, can you get in touch with him and let him know we’re here?”

  The room was very sparely furnished. There was a standing pole lamp in one corner that illuminated the room, given that the drapes on the windows allowed in very little light. There was a folding chair of the type normally reserved for outdoor activities standing next to the lamp, unfolded and unoccupied at the moment. Otherwise, the room was empty. A glance into the next room, which was a kitchen, showed only an open pizza box with no food in it. There were no utensils on the counters, no table at which to eat. The hum of a refrigerator was the only sound coming from the interior of the house, but there was the sound of another machine, possibly in the basement.

  It was quite clear that no one lived here.

  The young woman relaxed her shoulders in a gesture of compliance. “Look,” she said. “I know what you’re here for. Will you go after I give it to you?”

  “I assure you we are here to see George Kaplan,” I said.

  “People are here to see George all the time,” the woman responded. “I know what they come for, and I can give it to you. He just didn’t tell me you were coming, that’s all, or I would have been ready. Hang on.”

  Neither of us protested as she walked into the kitchen and through it to a room beyond it in the house.

  “Maybe we should leave,” I said to Ms. Washburn. “George Kaplan is not here.”

  “How do you know?” she answered. “She hasn’t told us the truth about anything. Why should we believe that part?”

  “I don’t know, but I am concerned that she went into another room to get a gun.” I had seen homes like this in motion pictures and television programs. They rarely housed happy families.

  “I hadn’t thought of that.” Ms. Washburn suddenly looked nervously in the direction the young woman had walked. “Do you think we should leave?”

  I believed that would be an overreaction but did not have the time to state my opinion because the young woman re-entered the kitchen from the back room. She was, to my mild relief, not carrying a weapon of any kind nor was she accompanied by another person. Instead, she was carrying a small package wrapped in colorful paper with a shiny blue sheen.

  “She’s giving us a present,” Ms. Washburn said. I believe she was speaking to herself.

  The young woman walked to us and extended the package to Ms. Washburn. “Here,” she said. Nothing more.

  Ms. Washburn, probably by instinct, took the package from her hand. I considered asking the young woman if the package contained drugs because I did not want to be caught with such a parcel. But my social skills training led me to believe the question would be seen as rude. It was a difficult choice to make but I remained silent. Ms. Washburn did not seem to share my belief because she held the package casually.

  “We really are here to see George Kaplan,” I repeated.

  “Oh my god!” The young woman sounded exasperated. “Look, you got what you came for. Now just go, okay?” She pointed toward the front door.

  Apparently my mention of Kaplan was also rude, although I could not discern exactly why the young woman would react in such a fashion. I looked to Ms. Washburn, who was already turned toward the door. I followed her.

  The young woman opened it with an air of impatience and we walked back out onto the suburban street. I looked at her as we stepped into the sunlight from the rather claustrophobic atmosphere of the empty front room.

  “May I give you my cellular telephone number? If Mr. Kaplan comes back, he can call me.”

  The young woman slammed the door in my face.

  I looked at Ms. Washburn. “Did I say something wrong?” I asked.

  She held up a hand palm out. “No, Samuel. That girl really just wanted us to leave and that had nothing to do with you.”

  I stood and surveyed the area for a moment because I had no immediate idea of a next move. “Perhaps we should visit the office of the neighborhood association next,” I said finally.

  Ms. Washburn nodded and we walked back to the Kia Soul. Ms. Washburn pressed the proper button on the key fob to unlock the doors and we both seated ourselves inside. I reached for the Global Positioning System device while Ms. Washburn started the engine and the air conditioner began pushing cool air through the vents, which was a bit of a relief, although the mechanical sound was an irritant.

  “What is the address of the office?” I asked Ms. Washburn.

  “In a second,” she said, reaching for the brightly wrapped package, which she had placed on the center console. “Fi
rst let’s see what kind of gift she was so anxious to give us.”

  After dismissing the notion that the package was filled with drugs, I had partially forgotten about it. My concern about committing a social faux pas had overridden my curiosity. “Yes,” I agreed. “I wonder what George Kaplan gives to everyone who rings his doorbell.”

  Ms. Washburn was already tearing the wrapping paper, which made me slightly uncomfortable. I prefer to carefully remove any adhesive tape and unfold the paper cautiously. Ms. Washburn clearly was more concerned with the outcome than the process in such cases. I made a mental note of that fact in the event I ever had occasion to give Ms. Washburn a gift.

  Almost immediately she gasped. My visual angle did not allow me a view so I asked, “What is it?”

  She turned the partially opened package toward me.

  It contained a great deal of money. From what I could see there were four stacks of $50 bills, each bearing the image of President Ulysses S. Grant. Each stack probably held two hundred bills.

  “What’s this all about?” Ms. Washburn asked.

  “It’s about forty thousand dollars,” I answered.

  “I wonder what she would have given us if she liked us,” Ms. Washburn said.

  thirteen

  Ms. Washburn dissuaded me from walking back to the home of Kaplan Enterprises and returning the money.

  “At this point, that girl thinks she gave this money to the right people,” she said. “There’s no reason for her to set off any alarms. That’s an expression, Samuel. I mean that she won’t immediately call George Kaplan or Reuben Hoenig or someone else and inform him that there are two people walking around with forty thousand of his dollars for no particular reason. She doesn’t know who we are. We didn’t give her our names.”