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.

“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.