The Question of the Dead Mistress

by E. J. Copperman

  “It’s an expression, Samuel,” Ms. Washburn said. Mother released the embrace, did not offer one to me because she knew I preferred to limit physical contact, and asked for Ms. Washburn’s jacket, which Mother quickly hung in the front closet. I took off my own jacket and hung it on a coat rack near the front door.

  “Of course we were expecting you,” Mother said. “You show up here every day at exactly the right time.”

  “It’s always good to see you, Vivian,” Ms. Washburn said. “Samuel and I were just discussing ghosts.”

  I had not expected Ms. Washburn to continue the conversation with my mother, and my face must have betrayed my surprise and discomfort. “Ghosts!” Mother said. “How interesting! Why did that happen to come up?”

  My father, Reuben Hoenig, appeared at the entrance to our living room having come from the den. He looked at Ms. Washburn and myself and grinned. “Look who’s here,” he said. I had discovered in the weeks since my father had reinserted himself into our family after many years that he and my mother tended to react to stimuli in very similar ways. They used the same expressions and independently offered the same thoughts with rather alarming frequency.

  This time I understood that Reuben had not anticipated seeing anyone other than Ms. Washburn and me. I nodded hello to him. My father had left my mother and me to seek financial security when I was four and had returned only recently. I was still somewhat wary of him and had told Dr. Mancuso, whom I see once a week, that I was not entirely certain Reuben would stay with my mother for any extended period of time. Dr. Mancuso had suggested that nothing is certain in life, which did not in any way make me feel better.

  “It seems Janet and Samuel were talking about ghosts,” Mother informed him.

  “Really!” My father seemed to find the subject amusing if I was reading his expression properly. “Seen any lately?”

  I thought, given Ms. Washburn’s revelation of a few minutes before, that my father’s question was somewhat insensitive. Still, I understood his skepticism since there is no such thing as a ghost. I decided against admonishing him for his remark and said nothing.

  “Come in to dinner,” Mother said. She has a talent for defusing difficult situations, which I assume she cultivated while raising a child with a personality that did not conform to the accepted societal norms.

  When Ms. Washburn is joining us for dinner, which had been more frequent an event, Mother sets the dining room table or asks Reuben to do so. That was the case this evening.

  “I thought I’d make something a little bit different tonight,” Mother said, and a small knot of anxiety formed in my stomach. People like me do not welcome change and I have an especially sensitive spot where food is concerned. I am not fond of changes in the menu, particularly at home. I consider our house a sanctuary from the rest of the world. “Don’t worry, Samuel. There will be chicken and pasta for you.” Mother, I realized, would not make a new dish without giving me significant time to process the information before the meal.

  My stomach returned to its normal state. And it was hungry.

  Mother had brought out a dish she called Chicken Paprikash, which seemed to please Ms. Washburn and Reuben. A separate platter with the baked chicken and plain rotini pasta to which I am accustomed was placed near my table setting. Normally I would be somewhat embarrassed by the special treatment, but both Ms. Washburn and Mother are close enough to me to understand my seeming eccentricities. Reuben’s opinion did not yet matter to me. I was still evaluating him.

  Meeting my father for the first time in my memory had not been an emotional experience. The circumstances required some quick action and his demeanor at the time was affected by medication he was being forced to take. Since then we had not experienced much time alone, largely because I had not sought my father out. I preferred to keep my routine as it was, and the somewhat baffling nature of my relationship with Ms. Washburn was definitely a higher priority.

  The conversation tonight veered away from ghosts for much of the dinner. In fact, it was seventeen minutes before the subject was broached again, this time by my mother, the person I would have least expected would find it interesting.

  “I assume this talk of ghosts has something to do with a question you’ve been asked, Samuel,” she said. “What’s the story behind it?” Mother does like to keep current on the doings at Questions Answered. It had been her idea I open the business and she had provided a small loan (since repaid) to secure our storefront on Stelton Road in Piscataway.

  I was not eager to delve into the realm of the supernatural so I hesitated. Ms. Washburn seemed less reluctant. “A woman came to the office and asked Samuel whether her husband is having an affair with a dead woman he dated in college,” she explained. “Samuel doesn’t want to take her question, and I don’t blame him because I don’t think he can research it objectively.”

  Mother’s eyes widened and her mouth dropped open. She had never heard Ms. Washburn or anyone else suggest I could not be trusted to answer a question because my mind was already made up on the issue. Frankly, I was somewhat shocked myself.

  “I am being objective,” I told Ms. Washburn. “There is no empirical evidence that would begin to confirm the existence of ghosts or any other manifestation of an afterlife spirit. I would be taking Ms. Fontaine’s money to answer a question that she could easily answer if she were being honest with herself.”

  Ms. Washburn did not look the least bit angry when she looked at me, which was reassuring. It is true that I could not reliably read her expression, but it was not one of irritation. “I have seen a ghost, Samuel. I am the empirical evidence.”

  Before I could dispute her claim with the point that she was at best anecdotal evidence, Mother asked, “What did you see, Janet?”

  Ms. Washburn faced her. I noticed Reuben at the other end of the table looking at Ms Washburn with particular interest. “It was when I was a teenager in Leonia, Vivian. A bunch of my friends and I were walking through a cemetery late at night. I stopped at one of the gravestones to read it. The woman who had died had the same birthday as I do. She died on that date, too, exactly a hundred years before I was born.”

  “That is an impressive coincidence,” I began.

  But Ms. Washburn stopped me before I could explain that it did not prove anything about ghosts. “While I stood there I saw her rise up out of the grave and look at me. She smiled, and then she walked off in the other direction. I wasn’t even scared, just surprised. She seemed like such a nice woman.”

  “What did she look like?” Reuben asked her. He had put his hands together and was holding them in front of his mouth. “Could you see through her?”

  Ms. Washburn considered the question and shook her head. “Not really. It was more like she was floating, but almost solid. Like she had looked when she was alive, I guess.”

  “You guess?” Reuben seemed not to believe Ms. Washburn. “You never looked up a picture of her from when she was alive?”

  “It never occurred to me,” Ms. Washburn answered. “We didn’t have internet access when I was in high school.”

  Mother shook her head, prompting Reuben to sit back in his chair and look admonished. It was interesting that she could do so much with such a small gesture. “Janet dear,” she said. “Are you sure that’s what you saw?”

  “Absolutely,” Ms. Washburn said without hesitation.

  I realized Ms. Washburn had never told me very much about her past before she married the man from whom she was now divorced. “Ms. Washburn,” I said, “the night you and your friends were in the cemetery. Why were you there?”

  “Why?” she said. “I don’t understand, Samuel.”

  “Most people do not socialize in a burial ground. What was the purpose of the visit?”

  “We were kids. We thought it would be spooky and fun. I don’t see what difference it makes to what I saw.” Ms. Washburn’s ey
es were searching mine, but I could not determine what she was trying to find.

  “Was alcohol involved in the evening?” I asked.

  The eyes narrowed. “Are you prosecuting me, Samuel?” Ms. Washburn said.

  I had not expected the question so I took a moment to respond. “I am not an attorney, Ms. Washburn. You know that.”

  “You sound like one.”

  I considered kissing Ms. Washburn to better reassure her of my affection, but my parents were in the room and I was not comfortable with the idea of doing so in front of others. Instead I said softly, “It was not my intention. I simply wanted to determine if there were factors that might have led to you having this hallucination.”

  Ms. Washburn sighed, but before she could answer me Reuben decided to insert himself into the conversation. “Just because she saw a ghost doesn’t mean she was drunk, Samuel,” he said. “She might have been on drugs. Were you using, Janet?” Sometimes my father exhibits signs that my Asperger’s Syndrome might originate genetically on his side of my family.

  This time Ms. Washburn sputtered. She faced Reuben. “Using?”

  “Don’t be silly, Reuben,” my mother said. “Shall we clear the table?”

  But Ms. Washburn was not to be deterred and neither was I. She turned toward me. “You think I was drunk? You think I don’t know what I saw?”

  “I believe that there must be an alternative explanation for what you saw,” I said. “I don’t deny for a moment that you saw it.”

  Ms. Washburn is a remarkably patient and understanding woman. She knew from having observed me over an extended period of time and under diverse circumstances that I was not trying to make her feel badly about herself or diminish her in my estimation. She knew I was not suggesting she was a bad person. But I was not accepting her account of the night in question at face value and that made her feel, if I can recall the social skills training, isolated and unaccepted. Neither of those things was true but human emotions do not always take facts into account as much as they should.

  “I get where you’re coming from, Samuel,” Ms. Washburn said. “But it still hurts.”

  “I am only trying to confirm the facts,” I told her with what I hoped was a gentle tone. “I am not passing judgment on you.”

  She lowered her head a bit. “We had been drinking,” she said. Then she raised her head again to look me directly in the eye, something that unnerves me a bit even when Ms. Washburn does it. “But that doesn’t change what I saw. I wasn’t that drunk.”

  Mother stood, her surgically replaced knee slowing her down but not making her grimace as the biological one had before she’d submitted to a replacement. “Help me clear the table,” she said to no one in particular. I stood to help her as is my habit. Ms. Washburn did not stand and that was odd; she is usually the first to help, often telling Mother not to bother.

  “You don’t believe me,” she said quietly.

  “I do believe you saw something,” I answered as I picked up dishes very carefully to avoid touching any uneaten food. “I do not agree with your interpretation. There are no ghosts, so clearly what you saw was something else.”

  I took a few steps toward the kitchen door but Ms. Washburn’s words stopped me. “Just like Virginia Fontaine,” she said. “What are you going to tell that poor woman when she comes back tomorrow expecting you to help her?”

  Reuben Hoenig stood up and removed some of the smaller items—saltshaker, napkin holder—from the table. My father assists in tasks around the house but does not volunteer for anything very taxing. He had been forcibly given prescription drugs for a prolonged period of time and was still not fully recovered physically or mentally. I had suggested he see Dr. Mancuso and he was considering the suggestion.

  “Samuel should be honest,” he said, grunting a little as he moved. “He can’t answer the question if he doesn’t believe in the premise of the question. She needs to find someone else who can.”

  “No one else is in the business of answering questions,” Mother pointed out.

  I brought the dishes I had collected into the kitchen and laid them into the sink, but I was thinking as I went. My father had a valid point, but so did Mother. Without Questions Answered, there was almost nowhere for Ms. Fontaine to turn for help, despite my belief that her problem was not one I could help her solve. I do not solve problems and I am not a psychologist. I answer questions.

  On the way back into the dining room, where I saw that Ms. Washburn had stood and was picking up drinking glasses and utensils, I realized there was one more option for Ms. Fontaine that had not been previously considered.

  “I know what we should do about Virginia Fontaine’s question,” I told Ms. Washburn.

  “You’ve already decided,” she countered. “You’re going to send her away and let her figure it out for herself.”

  “No,” I said. “I think we should tell her we will accept her question.”

  I heard Mother walk through the kitchen door behind me. She stopped at the threshold and did not continue into the room. I did not turn to look at her face so I had no idea what she might have been thinking.

  “You can’t do that,” Ms. Washburn said. She walked very close to me to get a clear path into the kitchen and it distracted me for a moment. “You don’t believe her.”

  “But you do.”

  Ms. Washburn looked at me with questions in her eyes. That is a metaphor.

  “I don’t see how that makes a difference,” she said.

  “I do,” Mother said from behind me. “Samuel is saying you should answer the question on your own.”

  Ms. Washburn looked astonished.

  five

  “Is this a good idea?”

  Ms. Washburn was sitting at her desk in the Questions Answered office and looking at me. But the question now had come from Virginia Fontaine, who sat in the client chair we had moved to the front of Ms. Washburn’s desk. And Virginia was asking me, not my associate, if our plan to have Ms. Washburn work alone on the question was legitimate.

  “It is the most logical solution,” I said. “Ms. Washburn is an experienced researcher and has worked with me for some time. She knows the methods we use and has often been instrumental in answering the question when I was stopped in my tracks.” That last sentence was possibly an exaggeration but was not untrue. “I trust her implicitly and believe that under your circumstances she will do a better and more complete job in answering your question than I would.” That was entirely honest and true.

  I think Ms. Washburn might have wiped a tear from the eye faced away from Virginia Fontaine.

  The client looked at me, then at Ms. Washburn, then back at me. “I thought she was your assistant.”

  “No. Ms. Washburn is an associate here at Questions Answered and completely qualified to answer your question. Since I am not a believer in the existence of what you would call ghosts, I am not qualified to answer your question. Ms. Washburn does not share my belief.” I did not mention that I did not consider my stance a belief but a fact. There was no utility in raising that issue again. The two women would disagree with me and we would be back where we were before I assigned the question to Ms. Washburn.

  For a moment I thought Ms. Fontaine might balk, feeling she had been “cheated” by not having the proprietor of the business serve her directly. But she nodded at Ms. Washburn and said, “That seems reasonable. What’s our first step?”

  I knew that I should focus my attention on my own work. I had given Ms. Washburn the assignment and she had, after some initial and I thought unfounded reluctance, accepted it. It was now her responsibility and not my own. But I was curious as to how she intended to attack the question because I had no ideas at all in that area. So I was looking at my own computer display to reassure Ms. Washburn she was not under scrutiny, but I will admit that I was listening to the exchange between my associate and o
ur new client.

  “The first thing is for me to look over your intake form because that will have information on it that might help me formulate a plan,” Ms. Washburn began. “Thank you for getting it back to us so promptly.” It was four in the afternoon, which I did not consider prompt, but I had determined not to intervene in any way while Ms. Washburn ran her operation.

  “Not at all a problem,” Virginia said. “I was happy to do it.” That seemed unlikely but again, there was no reason for me to mention that.

  Ms. Washburn scanned the form, one she had seen many times before. She knew where to look for pertinent information, looking past the cursory data like address and contact information. There would be time enough to enter that into our system later. She stopped at the third page, as I would have predicted she would.

  “You’ve been married for seven years but this was not your first marriage,” Ms. Washburn noted from the form.

  “That’s right. I didn’t think it was relevant but I was married briefly when I was much younger.” I glanced briefly at Virginia, who was not looking away. “My first husband, William, died very suddenly and very young.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Ms. Washburn said. I did not see why she would express regret, as she could not have had any role in the death of Virginia’s first husband. “You don’t say on here how he died.” I have discovered that sometimes a question is phrased in the form of a statement, which took me a great deal of time to recognize. I still do not understand it.

  “It was an accident,” she said. “We were living in New Brunswick. He was on our fire escape and fell off. We lived on the third floor.”

  “Oh my!” Ms. Washburn said. That is another expression I have never fully grasped. Oh, her what? That question is not answerable in my experience. “That must have been horrible for you!” It was considerably worse for her husband, I would think, but surely there was some emotional pain from the experience. “Were you there when it happened?”