The Question of the Absentee Father Read online

  “Mother,” I said, “the shadow on that curtain is barely even recognizable as to gender or gross physical characteristics. You have not seen Reuben Hoenig in twenty-seven years, so you have no idea how he has aged. There is no discernible facial information in this photograph. And even if we could determine that the figure is indeed your husband, the image was taken at least a year ago and probably less recently. We have no reason to believe that Reuben Hoenig, if he was at that address when the picture was taken, would still be there.”

  “That’s him,” Mother insisted, as if her certainty were enough to disprove all the arguments I had just made. “That’s your father. Now you need to go to California and help him, Samuel.”

  Ms. Washburn, who had not attempted to influence the conversation at all, made a small choking sound.

  Because my personality traits indicate some aspects of an autism-spectrum disorder, it is something of a given that I do not travel. Routine and a comfortable reliance on predictability are very important to me. Travel removes all of that and replaces it with random happenings, a complete loss of control over one’s personal situation, and surroundings that are not at all familiar and can contain virtually any danger or discomfort. I had never been inside an airplane. I had been inside airports only to escort Mother when she was traveling. I had never left the state of New Jersey other than to go to New York City on rare occasions and once to travel into Pennsylvania, an experience I found very disquieting.

  “I see no reason to go anywhere,” I told Mother. “You asked Ms. Washburn and me to find Reuben Hoenig’s address. I do not believe we have verifiably accomplished that goal, but if you are willing to accept this house as an answer to your question, I will accede to your wishes. However, there is no practical reason for me to travel away from home. That will not verify the address. I have been asked no other question.”

  Mother’s eyes brightened and I saw her reach into a pocket on the apron she was wearing, but I held up a finger to stop her because I had seen her do something very similar before.

  “Please don’t reach for some money and ask me a second question, Mother,” I said. “You know the rules I have set up for Questions Answered, and I can’t ignore them even for you.”

  Her face dimmed. Her shoulders slumped. I thought she might start to cry, the last thing I would ever want to cause.

  “Samuel,” Mother said, “I don’t think you understand exactly how important this is to me. The letter says your father has gotten himself into some kind of trouble and he believes he might never be able to communicate with us again. I won’t allow that. I won’t allow it for me, I won’t allow it for your father, and I won’t allow it for you. I’ve gone too long without making it an issue; you should know your father. It’s my fault you don’t, and now that there’s a crisis it’s time to correct that problem.”

  I had sat in a chair to Mother’s left and taken her hand, a gesture she usually finds comforting in some way. But I could not agree to her terms now because they simply made no sense. “There is no evidence that Reuben Hoenig is in crisis,” I said.

  “Why won’t you call him your father?” she asked, her voice distressed.

  “Because I have never felt like I had a father,” I told her. “It is true that biologically he fits that description, which I assume because you have told me it is so and I have no reason to disbelieve you. But you raised me, Mother. You have been my family. Reuben Hoenig has never attempted to contact me. I feel nothing for him. And the letter you received does not change that fact. Indeed, your assumption that there is some dire situation into which he has fallen is not borne out by the words he wrote. He simply wrote that you should not expect to hear from him again. It is possible that he does not want to have any further contact.”

  Mother shook her head violently. “I will not believe that. Something is desperately wrong and you need to fly out there to help him.” She turned to make direct eye contact with me, which I had been trying to avoid. “I know him, Samuel. It’s true that you don’t, so you need to rely on my instincts because you have no facts. I’m aware of how difficult it is for you to think about flying three thousand miles across the country.” (The actual distance is 2,452 miles as estimated by the Federal Aviation Administration.) “But this is family and family has to be important. You’re strong, Samuel. You’re capable of more than you think you are.” Rather unfairly in my view, she turned toward Ms. Washburn. “Janet, convince him. You understand, don’t you?”

  Before she could answer, I said, “Please don’t ask Ms. Washburn to take sides between us in an argument, Mother. It is not fair to her.”

  I think Ms. Washburn looked relieved.

  “You’re right. Do you see how upset I am, Samuel? I would never do that to Janet if I was thinking straight.” Mother closed her eyes tightly, perhaps in an attempt to fight off or to conjure tears; it was difficult to know which. “Do you see?”

  Clearly, I could see. My vision was unimpaired by what had been said. But I was at a loss to decipher Mother’s meaning here. “Do I see?” I repeated to her.

  “That this is very important to me.”

  “Of course I am aware of that,” I answered. “You have made it quite clear. But if you feel there is some problem with Reuben Hoenig and only by going to California can it be fixed, surely you should be the one to go. You know him and you obviously have an emotional stake in the matter that I lack.” It was the obvious and most factual analysis of the situation.

  Somehow these truths eluded Mother. She looked as if I had insulted her. “You know I can’t do that, Samuel,” she said in a low voice. “My health won’t permit it.”

  Mother’s heart problem in the past had been very disturbing for me, and it had taken two years before I was willing to leave her alone in the house again. But since that time I had seen her regain her strength and return to the level of activity she had known before. Indeed, she now made sure to walk at least a mile every day to maintain aerobic fitness and was more careful about her diet than before she had been hospitalized. So to hear her say now that her health was again an issue stopped me from replying as I processed the information.

  “Your health,” I said.

  “Oh, I’m all right,” Mother said. “But my knees aren’t going to stand up to a trip to Los Angeles and I’m not as young as I used to be. Even if I could get out there, if there’s some kind of situation your father has gotten into, what could I do?”

  I was having some difficulty understanding what it was Mother expected me to do if I were to travel to the Los Angeles area and find Reuben Hoenig. Perhaps she felt that if he was in some physical danger my training in tae kwon do might be an asset, but I had not kept up my training and could not be considered at all a master of the form even when I had kept current.

  “What could I do?” I asked. “I research questions, Mother. I am not a bodyguard.”

  “Samuel.” My mother’s word sounded more like a moan.

  Ms. Washburn drew a breath, causing Mother and me to instinctively look in her direction. She shook her head. “This is a family matter,” she said. “It’s not something I should be involved with.”

  If she was not interested in voicing an opinion I would support that decision, but Mother looked at Ms. Washburn and said, “You are family, Janet. Say what’s on your mind. Nobody will think ill of you.”

  I was not sure how Mother could predict what anyone would think, but it was equally difficult to imagine a circumstance under which I would think badly of Ms. Washburn, so I did not question or argue. I looked at Ms. Washburn.

  “We’ve done everything we can from here, Samuel,” she said. “We need to go to California.”

  I had not expected that pronouncement. I’m sure my facial expression was exhibiting surprise, because Ms. Washburn again put her hand on mine as if to calm my rising emotion. She was misreading the situation; I was not becoming upset because
she had disagreed with my assessment.

  I was realizing two things: First, that now I would probably be traveling to find Reuben Hoenig more than 2,400 miles away, which was exactly what I had not wanted to do.

  Second, Ms. Washburn was including herself on the trip. Perhaps I was going to North Hollywood, California, but in my discomfort I would continue to have a familiar face at my side.

  But that second point was not strongly registering in my mind yet. I was simply picturing the difficulties of traveling and they were not pleasant ideas for someone like me to face.

  I looked from Ms. Washburn’s face, which was concerned, to Mother’s, which was guardedly hopeful, if I was interpreting it correctly. What I was about to do would require meticulous planning and an unusual amount of courage on my part, which is not something I often find myself needing to display.

  “Very well,” I said. “We will go to California.”

  Immediately I began to regret the decision.

  ten

  When the public address system, which seemed unnecessary since the woman speaking into the microphone was less than ten feet from us—announced our flight was ready to board, I did not move.

  Ms. Washburn stood up and reached for the tote bag she always uses to carry her laptop computer. The bag was now overstuffed with extra items she would not need on a normal day. She had added extra toiletries, a small pillow, an eyeshade, a book, a change of undergarments (a piece of information I would have been more comfortable without), and three protein bars. “They don’t feed you on the plane anymore,” she had told me.

  I knew that fact, having spent the past three days reviewing and researching airline and hotel procedures and searching for facts that might have made this excursion unnecessary. I had unfortunately found none of the latter and now Ms. Washburn and I were sitting in Terminal C at Newark Liberty International Airport. To be more accurate, Ms. Washburn was standing and I was still sitting.

  I was wishing this were a normal day.

  “It’s okay, Samuel,” Ms. Washburn said quietly. “Air travel is statistically much safer than car travel.” That fact did not bring me solace; I have accepted the necessity of automobile travel but have never become comfortable with it. I do not drive a car, but now I wished I could pilot an airliner. Ceding that level of control was a terrifying thought. I wondered if I could sit in the cockpit with the captain to observe his technique and all safety measures.

  That was a joke.

  “I am aware of the statistics,” I said. Against my will, I stood up and picked up the small backpack I had taken for the plane ride. After having consulted various sources for the size of a bag to place under the seat in front of a passenger I had purchased the backpack, which fit the parameters of 19 inches wide by 9.5 inches tall as specified by the airline Ms. Washburn had selected for us to use.

  Having consented to this trip—while still believing it was unnecessary and ill-advised—I had suggested taking at least two months to research the air travel involved and the area in which Ms. Washburn had booked two hotel rooms near Reseda but actually in Canoga Park, California. Given the reportedly deplorable state of mass transportation in the area, Ms. Washburn had secured a rental car reservation for the three days we would be in Southern California. I had agreed to no more than that amount of time, concluding that if we were unsuccessful in finding Reuben Hoenig in three days, the problem would not be one of time but attributable to a lack of reliable data.

  None of this planning held any comfort for me. The idea of being that far from home for that long a period of time was frankly terrifying, and more than once I had considered informing Mother that I would not make the trip. I even thought of letting Ms. Washburn go alone and monitoring her progress by phone and computer, but that seemed somehow cowardly and I did not voice the suggestion.

  I submerged myself in the best possible preparation for what I felt was a doomed expedition. The size of the baggage allowed was only the beginning. While a passenger is also entitled to have one suitcase of 9 inches by 14 inches by 22 inches that can be stored in what the airlines refer to as an “overhead compartment,” I had chosen to pack one wheeled bag Mother kept in our basement for her sporadic travels. I had never needed it before. It was larger than the overhead bag specifications, which would require me to pay the airline a fee to store the luggage while I was on the flight. That seemed an odd thing for which to require payment but there are no airlines making this flight that would waive the fee so I paid it and planned to pack strategically.

  Given that this was not a leisure trip, I made sure the backpack I purchased could reasonably store my MacBook laptop computer. I would need more than my iPhone after reaching California and was not comfortable with Ms. Washburn’s notebook computer for both of us. That was the first thing I packed.

  In accordance with the advice given by a number of websites, I also packed toothpaste and a toothbrush in special cases I obtained at the local drug store. Then I put the cases inside a sealable plastic bag to ensure there would be no leakage in or out. One small bottle of shampoo, under the 3.4-ounce limit allowed by the Transportation Security Administration, was also well sealed and placed in a separate plastic bag.

  The front pocket of the backpack held my driver’s license and my passport, despite the fact that we would not be leaving the country on the flight. If for some reason Ms. Washburn and I found it necessary to travel to Mexico to find Reuben Hoenig, the passport would be essential. I considered that an unlikely possibility but one must plan for unlikely possibilities when traveling so far.

  Online sources also recommended a change of underwear, which I did not pack in the bag to accompany me in the passenger compartment. If my suitcase was not brought with us to Los Angeles, a lack of proper undergarments would not be my first priority. Those can be purchased in any city. I would be considerably more concerned about such items as the laptop computer, which holds all my personal data, the passport, and the water bottle, which I had brought to the airport empty and filled from bottles of spring water I had purchased after passing through the security checkpoint.

  That itself had been a major source of anxiety for me. If I had been called for a “random search,” as the Transportation Security Administration terms it, I do not think I would have been able to contain my anxiety. I had been careful not to wear a belt or carry any coins or metal objects with me when leaving for the airport. The passenger in line ahead of me, a middle-aged man in a Los Angeles Dodgers t-shirt and cargo shorts, had been required to empty all his pockets and had then been probed with a metal-detecting electronic wand after passing through the metal detector. A very unpleasant beeping noise, which caused me to cover my ears with my hands, had resulted from his stepping into the device, and an employee of the Transportation Security Administration had run the electronic wand over the man’s body, which caused him to look confused and made me break out in a cold sweat. The sunglasses he had hung on the round collar of his shirt had proven to be the trigger for the beeping and the man was allowed to go on his way.

  I was very grateful that no such sound was emitted after I passed through, put my hands up as instructed, and was scanned by a fluoroscope to prove I was not carrying anything not permitted onto the plane. Ms. Washburn, the next passenger after me, was also not “flagged” for any special treatment.

  Now at the gate, I took a very deep breath. This was the moment I had been dreading, although other passengers seemed to have been virtually uncontained in their anticipation. Ms. Washburn looked at me. “It’ll be fine,” she said. “Come on. Everybody’s getting ahead of us in line.”

  I stood still and looked at her. “Aren’t our seats reserved?” I asked. “Why is it important to be on the plane sooner?”

  Ms. Washburn smiled. “Yes, our seats are reserved,” she said. “But the overhead bins aren’t, and there won’t be room for our bags up there if we don’t get on right away. Don’t
worry, Samuel.” She held out her hand.

  I did not take it. “I don’t have a bag to put into the overhead bin,” I reminded her. “You go ahead. I’ll join you shortly.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “I’m not sure you will.” The hand gesture was repeated. “Come on, Samuel.”

  There was a short discussion after which we boarded the plane. The inside of the aircraft was extremely cramped and narrow, two things that do not appeal to people like me. I think Ms. Washburn noticed my breathing becoming shallow and frequent. She looked up at my face as I followed her down the aisle toward our seats.

  “You’re white as a sheet, Samuel,” she said. “Are you all right?”

  “I don’t think so. Perhaps we shouldn’t go.”

  She avoided smiling, but I believe it took some effort. “Nice try.” Ms. Washburn opened the overhead bin above our seats and found it full with other passengers’ baggage. The thought of mingling my belongings with so many strangers’ made me feel relieved I had not brought anything to store in there. Ms. Washburn sighed. “No place to put this one.”

  She walked down the aisle a bit farther and found an open bin where she stored the bag she had brought. “Is that ethical?” I asked when she returned to the aisle containing our seats. “Now some other passenger will have no storage space.”

  “It’s the rule of the jungle on an airplane, Samuel,” Ms. Washburn answered. “Do you want the window seat or the one in the middle?” She gestured toward the row.

  “This is my first time on an airplane,” I reminded her. “I do not know which is better, but I am fairly sure it will not help me to see clearly out the window as we travel.”

  “Some people find the middle seat a little confining,” Ms. Washburn warned. “Will that bother you?”