(1961) The Chapman Report

by Irving Wallace

  “You’re drunk,” said Paul. “Why don’t you hit the sack?”

  “Not alone, I don’t.” He pushed his chair back. “I’m going to do some missionary work, spread the gospel of Dr. Chapman, make our little slut there a statistic-“

  “Shut up,” said Paul angrily.

  Cass glared at him, then suddenly smiled wickedly. “Did I take His name in vain? Sorry, Apostle.”

  He rose and unsteadily made his way to the rear of the lounge. He picked a magazine off a chair, and then he sat down next to the girl. Stiffly, she continued to read. Slowly, Cass turned the pages of the magazine.

  Paul drained his glass. “Ready for bed?” he asked Horace.

  “I suppose so.”

  But Horace had made no move to leave. He sat staring gloomily at his drink.

  Observing the downcast look on Horace’s face, Paul waited, puzzled. “Anything wrong?”

  Horace did not reply at once. He remained immobile, except for

  his hands, one absently kneading the other. At last, he pushed his spectacles higher on the bridge of his nose and squinted through them at Paul.

  “Yes, I guess I am worried,” he said in his professorial way that sounded oddly unemotional. “I know it’s foolish of me.”

  Paul was at a loss. “Is it anything you want to talk about?”

  “Well …” He hesitated on the edge of some frontier of privacy, and then, averting his eyes, he left privacy behind. “You know I was married once,” he said. It was a flat declaration.

  Paul played no games. “So I’ve heard.” Although he had known Horace for three years, and known him well, and exchanged many minor confidences with him, he had never heard his friend discuss his marriage. Occasionally, Paul remembered, others had mentioned the former Mrs. Van Duesen, always in passing and obliquely, and Paul understood no more than that she had left her mark on the campus and departed its ivy walks filled with dishonors.

  “My ex-wife lives in Los Angeles,” Horace was saying. And then he added: “I hate her. I don’t ever want to see her again.”

  “Who says you have to see her? Los Angeles is a big city. What the devil, Horace, you were there four years ago on the bachelor survey. She must’ve been there then. Yet you seem to have survived it.”

  “That was different,” said Horace. “Four years ago she lived in Burbank. Now she lives in The Briars.”

  Paul frowned. He tried to think of something reassuring to say. “Are you positive she’s still there?”

  “She was a year ago.”

  “Well, I’d be damned if I’d let that bug me. The odds are all on your side, The Briars must be swarming with women. We’ll only be seeing a handful.”

  Horace shook his head with resignation, as one awaiting the blindfold. “I don’t like it, that’s all. I don’t like being anywhere near her. I don’t trust myself thinking of what I might do if I saw her.” He paused, and glanced furtively at Paul. “If you knew what had happened, you’d understand.” But he compressed his lips and did not reveal what had happened.

  Paul felt as useless as a good Samaritan on a foggy night. “I think you can trust yourself,” he said, “Apparently you didn’t do anything rash when you had the-when you broke up.”

  “At that time I couldn’t,” said Horace mysteriously, “But I’ve had over four years to think about what she did.”

  Again Paul speculated on the kind of scandal that could possibly embitter a man so unfamiliar with deep emotion as was Horace. He hoped his friend would say more, but he saw that Horace had beaten his way back across his frontier of privacy.

  “Well, try to put it out of your head,” Paul said lamely. But he wanted to do better than this. “If you happen to run into her, you’ll manage the situation. Hello. Goodbye. But I’ll bet you a week’s salary you don’t get within a country mile of her.”

  Horace had hardly listened. He wagged his head miserably. “I begged Dr. Chapman to take the San Francisco date instead of Los Angeles, but once he sets his mind …”

  Paul saw that nothing more could be done for his friend. Like so many males who lived alone, old maidishly, Horace had too much spare time to masticate small things and past things. His apprehension had grown out of proportion to probability, but no one would convince him of it.

  Paul pushed his chair back and stood up. “Come on, old man. Try to sleep it off. We’re lucky if we get six or seven hours, as it is. By this time tomorrow, you’ll be too damn busy to worry about anything.”

  Horace nodded without conviction, pushed himself to his feet, and came around the table.

  Waiting for Horace to precede him, Paul glanced off at Cass and the blonde. Apparently, they were already on a friendly footing. Cass had said something, and she was laughing, and she leaned nearer to him, and he patted her arm. Now he was reaching behind her to touch the buzzer, and she was saying something to him.

  The movement of the train, Paul thought. Or maybe this project. A Sex History of the American Married Female. Was she a married female? Did she have a sex history? Question. Do you feel any sexual desire at the sight of the male genitalia? Well, do you? Answer. Fourteen, per cent feel strong desire..

  Paul turned away. Horace had already gone. At once Paul remembered how someone had described Horace’s ex-wife. The someone had been a pinched and fussy dean. The word he had used was hetaera. What had he really meant? Suddenly, Paul was too tired to explore it further. He started hastily after Horace, bumping against the narrow corridor of the train.

  Far ahead, a whistle shrieked. The yellow streamliner hurtled westward into the night.

  WHEN Kathleen Ballard slowed her Mercedes in the thickening traffic of The Village Green-which always increased through the morning, as women converged on the business section to shop before lunch-and then drew to a halt beside the stop sign at Romola Place, she realized that her fantasy had been no more than a fantasy and a wish, after all.

  She had awakened early, in the gray dawn, before the sun was up, and lay very still, eyes closed but mind awake, adjusting to the day ahead and knowing that this was the day.

  The night before, the newspapers had been full of Dr. Chapman’s arrival, and Dr. Chapman’s lecture (all enlarging considerably on Grace Waterton’s press release), and several ran pictures of Dr. Chapman, But even knowing that they had arrived, Kathleen lay daydreaming of a last-minute reprieve. Perhaps something would happen to Dr. Chapman; he would drop dead of a heart attack-no, that was not fair-he would be hit by a car, and survive (after a long convalescence), and his associates would agree to cancel The Briars sampling, because they had enough material already. Or maybe it would happen another way. Each woman, individually, would feel that she did not want to subject herself to this ordeal. Each would stay away, certain that she would not be missed. In this way, at the appointed hour, no one would appear. Discouraged, Dr. Chapman would cancel the lecture and take his troupe to Pasadena or San Diego.

  When the sun was out at last, slanting through the white drapes, and her alarm sounded shrilly and she shut it off, she could hear Deirdre stirring in the next room. She sat up, almost believing there would be no lecture, and feeling sure that she need not bother to attend. Yet, after her toilet, and breakfast, and the brief trouble with Deirdre, she returned to her bedroom to remove her brunch coat and slip into her dressy beige sweater and skirt.

  Driving through The Briars, her hope of the lecture’s being canceled diminished the nearer she approached The Village Green. When she reached Romola Place and peered off to her left down

  the long, sloping street, hope vanished completely. As far as she could see, and even beyond the bend, the curbs were lined with parked cars. They were before the post office and the Optimist Club, and they filled the Junior Chamber of Commerce lot. She turned to look at the entrance to the two-story Women’s Association building. Three women-she was not sure, but one resembled Teresa Harnish-were animatedly conversing as they went inside. Two other women arrived at the entrance from opposite dire
ctions and greeted each other.

  A hom honked impatiently. Kathleen glanced up at her rear-view mirror, saw a milk truck behind her, and hastily pressed the gas pedal and swung left down Romola Place. She drove slowly, in the right lane, searching for a parking place-if she found none, she would, of course, have to miss the lecture-and then, beyond the Chamber of Commerce lot, she saw a bald man maneuver his Cadillac from the curb and roar away. Reluctantly, she made for the gaping place. She would not be missing Dr. Chapman’s lecture, after all.

  Walking uphill toward the Women’s Association building, Kathleen’s mind reached back for Deirdre. It had been one of their unhappier mornings. Deirdre was an enchantment-everyone said that she looked like Kathleen-except on those mornings when she had her spells. This morning, she had screamed and resisted dressing and, once dressed, had wet her pants, and they had to be removed and replaced. At breakfast, she would not eat, and when Olive Keegan came in the car pool auto, she would not enter it. Hating herself, Kathleen had bribed Deirdre with a package of sweet gum and a new book she had been saving for a Sunday, and, at last, the morning was placid.

  These rebellions, a week of every month, left Kathleen trembling and fearfully alone. She had several times spoken to Dr. Howland, and he, always hurried and harried, had by rote reminded her that four-year-olds needed consistency of handling (“… boundaries of behavior, they want authority, they want to know how far they can go”), and Kathleen always came away hating Boynton more for having left unfinished business, and yet knowing he would have been of no use. But maybe it was really herself. If she stopped living like a recluse-more men coming and going, the tweedy smell of men and their bass voices-it would be different. And there was Ted Dyson, but he was interested only in her and not in a four-year-old-he had no talent for children-but maybe it wasn’t men

  either; maybe it was what Deirdre wanted from her and did not get -warmth-hadn’t she been told that she had no warmth? “Kathleen!”

  She was just at the entrance. She turned and saw Naomi Shields crossing the street toward her, waving. Kathleen waited. A convertible was approaching rapidly. “Look out, Naomi,” Kathleen called.

  Naomi halted in mid-street, then looked off toward the vehicle, smiling, waiting for it to pass. The driver, a swarthy young man in a seersucker jacket, jammed on his brakes and skidded to a halt. Naomi, still smiling, inclined her head to the driver, and then paraded slowly across the bumpers to the curb. Kathleen watched the driver. He was regarding Naomi appreciatively. At last, with a sigh of regret it seemed (for his wife? his appointment? his lack of boldness?), he shifted the gear and drove away.

  Kathleen switched her gaze to Naomi. She tried to see her as the young man had seen her, and she knew at once that Naomi would always cross streets safely in traffic. Naomi’s small, compact figure exuded an almost embarrassing air of obvious sensuality. The knit dress she now wore accentuated the effect. Few women, Kathleen decided, could successfully wear knit dresses-women in their thirties, that is-and Naomi was one of the few. Her doll face, and her extraordinary breasts, Kathleen concluded, must drive men insane. Did they? Were there men? Well, Dr. Chapman would know in a few days.

  Naomi was beside her. “I’m glad I caught you, Katie. I’d hate to face that zoo alone.”

  Kathleen looked down at her and thought there was whisky in the scent of perfume. “I’m glad you could make it,” she said. She could think of nothing less banal.

  “I almost didn’t. I woke with a splitting headache. But I feel better now.” She inspected Kathleen. “You certainly look unmussed. How do you manage at this hour?”

  “Clean living, I suppose,” Kathleen said, not thinking, and then she was sorry, remembering the rumors about Naomi.

  But Naomi seemed not to have heard. She was staring at the entrance. “Imagine a sex lecture at ten-thirty in the morning.” “I suppose it does seem more appropriate to the evening.” “Oh, I don’t mean that. I think sex is fine in the morning-after you’ve brushed your teeth.” Suddenly, she laughed. “But who wants to listen to some old poop who’s over the hill?” She took

  Kathleen’s arm. “Well, let’s join the dim bulbs and get it over with.”

  Inside the large, gray inner hall, there were four tables, in a row, some yards apart, and on each a placard reading “A to G,” “H to M,” “N to S,” and “T to Z.” There were three nondescript girls, shorthand types with crooked teeth, behind three of the tables, and a tall, consumptive-appearing girl with lack-luster flaxen hair bending across one of the tables, whispering.

  “Recruitment center,” said Kathleen.

  “Draft board, you mean,” replied Naomi, too loudly.

  Apparently, the tall girl had overheard her, for now she turned, an uncertain smile on her pale face, and came awkwardly forward.

  “I’m Miss Selby, Dr. Chapman’s secretary,” she said. “Are you here for the lecture?”

  “Somebody said something about stag films,” said Naomi cheerfully.

  Miss Selby appeared bewildered. At last, she forced a smile. “You’ve been misinformed,” she said.

  “I hope we’re not late,” said Kathleen.

  “No, it’ll be another five minutes,” said Miss Selby. “The auditorium is almost filled.”

  Kathleen followed Naomi down the corridor and then followed her into the auditorium. The room, three broad windows to one side and a flag on the opposite wall, held a capacity of three hundred, and now it seemed an irregular sea of heads and colored hats. Many turned toward the door, and Kathleen smiled vaguely back at the familiar faces.

  “Let’s get off our feet,” said Naomi.

  “I promised Ursula Palmer-Ursula said she was saving a seat for me.” Kathleen searched uncertainly.

  From a row near the front, a hand was waving a pad. Kathleen stood on her toes. The hand belonged to Ursula. Now Ursula was removing the pad from her hand and holding up two fingers.

  “I think she has a seat for you, too,” said Kathleen.

  “Either that or she wants to go to the bathroom,” said Naomi.

  They started down the center aisle, Naomi walking very erect, with her large busts high, regarding her contemporaries with arch superiority, and Kathleen, warm and self-conscious.

  Ursula Palmer was in the aisle seat of the fifth row. There were two empty seats beside her. She stood up to allow Naomi and Kathleen to squeeze past her.

  “Hello, Naomi, Kathleen.”

  They greeted her and sat down.

  “Sarah Goldsmith wanted me to hold one for her, too,” Ursula said, lowering herself into the seat. She looked up the aisle. “I guess she couldn’t make it.”

  “She’s probably tied up with the children,” said Kathleen, thinking again of Deirdre.

  “Little monsters,” said Ursula, because she often forgot that she was a mother.

  Naomi poked her finger at the pad and pencil in Ursula’s hands. “Handy tips?” she asked teasingly.

  “I may write an article,” said Ursula, annoyed.

  Kathleen felt a hand on her shoulder. She turned. Mary McManus was in the seat behind, smiling. “Aren’t you excited, Kathleen?” Her narrow eyes and narrow face were shining.

  “Well, curious,” said Kathleen.

  “Hi, Mary,” Naomi called. “How’s Clarence Darrow?”

  “You mean Norman? Oh, wonderful. Dad’s giving him his first court case next week.”

  “Bravo,” said Naomi. Then she added, “What are you doing for lunch?”

  “I’m free until two. Are you?”

  “It’s a date,” said Naomi.

  Ursula held up her pad and pointed it off. “I think the curtain’s about to go up.”

  They all turned expectantly toward the barren stage. Grace Waterton was carrying a silver pitcher and drinking glass across the rostrum. She placed them carefully on the stand there. The room was hushed. Grace retraced her steps toward the wings, then halted, and descended to the pit. She started for the center aisle when Teresa Ha
rnish, her coral headband dominating the front row, beckoned to her. Grace moved toward Teresa, and they held a brief consultation.

  “If they’re talking sex,” said Naomi, “there’s the blind leading the blind.”

  Grace was making her way up the center aisle. Her hair, which appeared freshly ironed, was gray-purple, and her tiny frame seemed to peck forward. She saw Ursula and Kathleen and waved. “Any minute,” she said. “He’s just finishing his press conference.”

  As Grace continued on her way, Ursula frowned. “I didn’t know he was giving a press conference,” she muttered. “I should be there.”

  “You won’t miss a thing,” Kathleen said to her. “What can he tell them that’s new?”

  Kathleen glanced up at the barren stage again, uneasily studying the lectern and pitcher and glass and the gleaming silver head of the public-address microphone. She looked at the faces around her. Small talk and gossip had ceased. All seemed to be waiting expectantly or-did she fancy it?-fearfully. Tension seemed a solid that you could reach out and touch.

  She settled back into herself: What can he tell them that’s new?

  In the large cement dressing room, behind the velvet backdrop. Dr. George G. Chapman, wearing a dark-gray tie, white shirt, and charcoal suit, sat on the bench, arms propped back on the glass-topped table, and told the press that he was making this final appearance of the long and successful road trip an occasion on which to tell them something new.

  The reaction in the cold room was immediate. Paul Radford, sitting in a pull-up chair a few feet from Dr. Chapman, could see it on every face. There were five reporters, four men and a woman, from the local dailies and the wire services, and two photographers. They were sitting or standing in a semicircle before Dr. Chapman, and somehow, all at once they seemed to be leaning closer to him. Beyond them, Emil Ackerman, a jolly, blubbery face on a fat body that spilled over his folding chair, sat with his arms folded and legs crossed. Now he unfolded his arms and uncrossed his legs. He scratched at the lapel of his tan silk suit, and then he found a gold cigarette case, and a cigarette, his eyes never leaving Dr. Chapman.