(1961) The Chapman Report

by Irving Wallace

  Now, as Peggy went into the kitchen, Dr. Jonas said, “I wonder if you’ve heard any rumors about the new clinic a group of us are opening in Santa Monica?”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “Quite interesting,” said Dr. Jonas. “What I’m telling you is confidential, until the project is announced shortly. The building is under construction right now, a beautiful spot overlooking the ocean. It’s going to be used to mend sickly and broken marriages, just as the Menninger Clinic treats mental health.”

  Paul was intrigued. “What will you do there?”

  “Well, I’m going to head it up. We’ll have a large staff of psychiatrically oriented marriage counselers. We’ll circularize the entire country, eventually. Minimum fees for help, treatment, care. It’s nonprofit. We have endowments. Then, besides the actual face-to-face work, we will undertake a broad program of education.” He smiled. “This is the road I’m taking-to the goal we talked about.”

  “It sounds too good to be true-for what it is. When do you kick off?”

  “In about four months. When the building is ready. We have

  our staff almost organized. There are still a few key openings.” He glanced keenly at Paul. “You made me an offer. Now I’d like to return the favor. Only this isn’t to buy you out. It’s to reform you. More important, we can use you.”

  “I’m damn flattered-really.”

  “Are you interested?” Dr. Jonas waited, then added, “And you’d still find time for travel-and Sir Richard Burton.”

  Paul entertained the vision briefly: solid and useful man’s work on the island of Southern California, and with time to go off and write. Yet, much as he liked the vision and the person who was creating it, the stigma of treason and traitor was stamped across the fancy. This was the rival camp. He was treating. with his leader’s enemy, a benevolent and enlightened enemy, but an enemy. Moreover, Dr. Chapman had conjured up a vision also: the shining academy in the East, devoted to sexual behavior, international in scope, bathed in wealth and fame, and himself the second in command. Dr. Chapman had not failed him yet, and he would not fail Dr. Chapman now.

  “As I said, Victor, I’m flattered,” he heard himself saying. “But I just couldn’t. Dr. Chapman has been a good friend, and generous. I’m devoted to him. More important, I believe in him.”

  Dr. Jonas nodded. “Okay. My loss. Let’s not worry it.”

  Paul consulted his watch. “I didn’t know it was this late. Five more minutes and you’ll be charging me rent.” He pushed away from the table. “I’ve got to be on deck at nine tomorrow morning.”

  “How long will this last sample run?”

  “About two weeks.”

  Dr. Jonas pursed his lips. “I sometimes think about those interviews of yours-“

  “In what way?”

  “Publication of the report is the ultimate harm-I mean, the permissive effect your data has, the sudden undermining of long-taught ideas about right and wrong, making wrong things right, because they prevail. That’s the ultimate harm. But those interviews tomorrow-” He shook his head slowly.

  “It’s all extremely clinical, like an X-ray technician busily at work.”

  “Not quite. Those women come in to see you. Sick or well, most have everything in order, properly in place, properly repressed, properly forgotten, and they function. And then you start hammering those questions. Each is a shaft, hurtled into a dark place, churning, overturning, impaling a fear. All order disappears. Like atoms triggered and bumping in wild chaos. You’ve started an uncontrolled chain of unwholesome and noxious forces. And you don’t follow through, stay with the subjects, help them put everything in place again, in an orderly if different fashion. You set off the chain reaction and then let the women go, and I sometimes wonder, Go where, to what? What are they like afterward, what becomes of them?”

  Paul was on his feet. “I’m sure it’s not so bad as all that.”

  “I hope not,” said Dr. Jonas without conviction.

  And what bothered Paul most, that one moment, was that he was without conviction either.

  IT HAD BEEN a long morning, Dr. Chapman reflected as he chewed the last of the corned-beef sandwich and sipped the lukewarm coffee in the paper cup.

  He sat at the head of the polished table, in the upstairs conference room of The Briars’ Women’s Association, and Paul and Horace sat to his right, and Cass to his left, all finishing the sandwiches Benita had brought in for them.

  Dr. Chapman watched Paul, who was reading the sports page of a Los Angeles morning paper as he ate, and he wondered exactly what had transpired between Paul and Dr. Victor Jonas.

  Dr. Chapman had waited up an hour past his usual bedtime, the night before, to hear from Paul, but near midnight, dozing off in the motel chair, he had finally given up and gone to bed. In the morning, they were all together before breakfast, and he had not wished to question Paul in front of the others. Going to their

  cars, h& had touched Paul’s elbow, and they had fallen behind and were momentarily alone. He had inquired, in an undertone, about Dr. Jonas, and Paul had shaken his head and said he did not think there was much hope there. Benita, arms filled with folders, had dashed in and interrupted, and Paul had promised to give a full account after dinner.

  They had arrived at the Association building around half past eight. The rooms, prepared the day before, were ready, and between ten minutes to nine and nine o’clock when the first three women arrived, Paul, Horace, and Cass had been in their respective sound-proof offices, waiting.

  The results of the morning’s sampling were beside Dr. Chapman’s paper plate. Six lengthy questionnaires with the Solresol answers penciled in, so that each page appeared to have been sprinkled with alphabet soup and shorthand symbols. Crumpling his napkin, Dr. Chapman dropped it on his plate and picked up the half-dozen sheets. The completeness of them, the solidity “of these sex histories, always reassured him. They gave him a feeling of accomplishment, of going ahead, of adding to the world’s knowledge. Often, at moments like this, the word immortality danced inside his head, and that gave him pleasure and, at last, displeasure (for his life was dedicated to the common weal, and personal vanity was too petty), and always he pushed it from his mind.

  He scanned the top questionnaire and went slowly through the others, interpreting the foreign language known only to the four. The answers were the customary ones, although here and there a reply arrested his attention. After several minutes, Dr. Chapman placed the questionnaires beside his plate again. “Very good,” he said. “No discards.” He glanced at his watch. It was seven minutes before one o’clock. “Well, gentlemen, back to your stations. The women’ll be here any minute.”

  Wearily, Cass rubbed his forehead. “Damn migraine,” he complained.

  “Less than two weeks to go,” said Horace. “Just think of those poor analysts.”

  Paul pushed back his chair. “It hasn’t been so bad. We may even miss it when we’re done.”

  “Speak for yourself,” said Cass. “I wasn’t built for life in a gynecocracy.”

  They started for the door.

  Somewhat winded, Ursula Palmer reached the top of the staircase. She leaned against the wall to catch her breath. Her gold wrist watch told her it was a minute before one o’clock.

  All the way from her house to Romola Place she had been thinking of Bertram Foster’s exciting offer. Fantasy had crowded fantasy: Time-“the miracle drug that has revived Houseday and doubled its circulation is California-born Ursula Palmer, a classical beauty with a salary of $100,000 annually”; Vogue-“U. Palmer, far and away the woman of the year”; Winchell-“Ursula P., hear tell, has taken over a palatial Bucks manse”; Mike’ Wallace-“and next week we have a real treat for you”; New Yorker’s Talk of the Town-“decided to drop in on the cocktail party, and we had to push through layers of celebrities paying homage to the sacred object, Truman Capote, Jean Ken, John Huston, Dean Acheson, Cole Porter, Leland Hayward, Fanny Holtzmann, the Duchess of Wi
ndsor, to find at last, behind her desk, champagne goblet in hand, that striking, brittle female publisher who …” Not until Ursula entered the cool Association building did she remind herself that it had not happened yet, but that it would and could if she kept her eyes and ears open and recorded the story properly.

  Now, composing herself, she felt a guilt pang at not having told Harold of Foster’s offer. She had instinctively avoided revealing the news, because it might create a scene. Occasionally, and in no predictable manner, Harold would redden in anger and stiffen and be disagreeable. His infrequent obeisance to Manhood. She could face such a scene, should it occur, and win, but she wanted no showdown over something that was not yet a reality. Once this interview was over, and she gave Foster her notes, she was sure that it would be settled. Foster’s childish eagerness to see the unadorned notes irked her only briefly. It was little enough, she decided. Look at all those famous actresses. At one time or another, they had been forced to display more than notes of their sex lives.

  The thought of notes reminded her of her job. She opened her purse, took out the small pad-two pages already filled with “a suburban housewife’s” feeling on the morning of The Interview-and then located the pencil. Hastily, she wrote: “Wore lace silk blouse, powder-blue skirt, because felt consciously feminine, like schoolgirl first date; left house twenty minutes nine, arrived minute early; thoughts: never talked sex anyone except husband, not even all him, can I tell to stranger-knees weak as mounted

  steps.” Her knees weren’t weak, of course, and her thoughts had not been about the interview but rather about the result of it, but these notes were what Houseday readers would expect.

  She tucked pad and pencil back into her purse, briskly turned the corner, and proceeded up the corridor. Ahead she could see a pale, angular girl, in a gray suit, waiting behind a desk that had been moved into the corridor.

  Ursula reached the desk. “How do you do. Am I late?”

  Benita Selby shook her head. “No, the other two women arrived just before you.” She inspected an open ledger. “You’re Mrs. Ursula Palmer?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ll be in office C, at the end of the hall. The interviewer is ready for you.”

  Benita Selby placed an ink check after Ursula’s name and rose. She started to the rear with Ursula following closely.

  “What’s the interviewer’s name?” asked Ursula.

  Benita seemed surprised. No one had ever asked that before. “Why, Dr. Horace Van Duesen.”

  “What’s his background?”

  “He’s eminently qualified, I assure you.”

  “I’m certain of that.”

  “He’s been with Dr. Chapman almost from the beginning. He was on the bachelor survey, too.”

  “What was his specialty before that?”

  “Professor of Obstetrics and Gynecology at Reardon College.”

  “Good God, deliver me,” said Ursula, but Benita did not see the joke.

  They had reached the office. Benita opened the door, and Ursula went inside. Ursula remembered the small room, painted aquamarine. It was here that the Association mimeographed its monthly bulletin. A large folding screen, almost six feet in height, its five panels or leaves open, divided much of the room, hiding what was behind. Ursula observed the screen closely. The upper half of each panel, inside the wooden frame, was made up of basket-woven cane, and the lower half of solid walnut. The panels were joined, top to bottom, by piano hinges, obviously to obscure any view through the cracks.

  “Your own screen?” Ursula asked Benita.

  “Yes. They were designed by Dr. Chapman and custom made for maximum concealment. Dr. Chapman studied choir screens.

  Georgian screens, even Chinese imperial jade screens, before he decided upon this. He’s very thorough, you know.”

  Ursula nodded, and inspected the dark-brown leather pull-up chair, with wooden arms, that faced the screen, and the table with ceramic ash tray beside it.

  “Right here,” said Benita, indicating the chair. Ursula settled herself in the chair, purse in her lap. As she did so, she noticed for the first time a square leather box, small and maroon, at her feet.

  She nudged it with a sandal. “What’s this?” “The SE box,” said Benita. “Special Exhibits.” At once, Ursula remembered Dr. Chapman’s reference to it during the lecture. He had said that there was a category of questions to which the subject replied after reacting to exhibits from the mysterious box. “Oh, well,” said Ursula, “as long as nothing jumps out and makes a pass-“

  “I assure you-” said Benita, distressed, but then she saw that Ursula had been joking, and she smiled foolishly. Anxious to avoid any further exchange, she went to the screen. “Mrs. Palmer is here, Dr. Van Duesen.”

  “How do you do, Mrs. Palmer,” said the disembodied, precise voice from behind the screen.

  “Hello, there,” replied Ursula cheerfully. She looked up at Benita and whispered, “What’s he got back there?”

  “He’s seated at a card table with several pencils and a questionnaire. Nothing more.”

  “No special brainwashing equipment?” “Really, Mrs. Palmer, it’s all quite simple.” “May I smoke?”

  “Of course,” said Benita, and then she added more loudly, “Well, I’ll leave you two now.”

  She went out the door, shutting it softly behind her. “Just make yourself comfortable,” said Horace’s voice. “Whenever you’re ready-“

  “In a few seconds. I’m trying to find a cigarette.” She found one in her purse, lighted it, then took out her pad and pencil and held them ready. “Okay,” she said, “I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”

  “Very well,” said Horace’s voice. “Try to answer all the questions to the best of your ability, and as accurately as possible. Take time to think. And, of course, say as much as you wish to say. If something is not clear to me, I’ll let you know. If a question is not clear

  to you, let me know. And be assured, please, that the answers I mark are put down in Solresol and will be seen by no one except Dr. Chapman and his associates.”

  “I have a poor memory,” she lied, “so you’ll have to give me a little time.” She had to allow for her note-taking. Quickly, she began to jot down her interviewer’s name and background and some of his last speech.

  “Of course,” said Horace’s voice.

  “Fire away, Gridley.”

  There was a moment’s silence. Then, evenly, without accenting word or phrase, Horace’s voice resumed.

  ‘Tour age, please?”

  “Must I? Forty-one.”

  “Your educational background?”

  “High school. Two years of junior college. I went no further because I wanted to write. I’m a writer and editor.”

  “Place of birth?”

  “Sioux City, Iowa.”

  “How long have you lived in California?”

  “We moved here when I was three.”

  “What is your current religious affiliation?”

  “Episcopalian.”

  “Would you characterize yourself as a regular churchgoer, an irregular one, or one who seldom or never attends?”

  “Umm … I’d say-make it irregular.”

  “Irregular?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fine. Now then, your marital status?”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Are you presently married?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Were you married before?”

  “Yes. Once. For three months.”

  “What was your first husband’s occupation?”

  “He wrote advertising copy when I met him. He intended to be come president of the company. He became unemployed instead He drank, slept, and read want ads through our entire marriage.”

  “Children?”

  “One. Devin. He’s all I got out of my first marriage. He’s nine teen now. Studying engineering at Purdue in Indiana.”

  “Oh, yes … Have you had children by your pres
ent husband?”

  “No.”

  “How long have you been married to this husband?”

  “Sixteen years.”

  “His occupation?”

  “Accountant. He just opened his own firm.”

  “And you say you’re a writer and editor? Are you active now?”

  “Very much so. I represent a New York magazine out here.” She was writing down his questions. Her own answers, she could fill in later.

  “Now-” said the voice.

  “Would you hold it a moment?”

  “Certainly.”

  She caught up on her notes. “All right.”

  “We’ll begin with a series of questions on your pre-adolescent period. These may be the most difficult for you to remember. You can have all the time you require.”

  Ursula waited impatiently. Who gives a damn about pre-adolescence? Not Foster, not the public, and not herself. Ursula wanted to skip all preliminaries, reach the provocative part of it, the part that guaranteed a cover line.

  “Can you recollect at what age you first masturbated to orgasm?”

  Ursula frowned. This is for Houseday? “Who ever did a thing like that?” she said with forced lightness.

  “It’s usual in pre-adolescence, between three and thirteen, and not unusual after.”

  This was ridiculous, even offensive, and at once she remembered when. Perhaps it had not been the first time, but it was the time she remembered clearly. There had been company that night, the resonant older voices from the living room, a thin wafer of light shining Through the slit of door into her bedroom, and she wide awake in her new polka-dot flannel nightgown. “I was just trying to recall it,” she said at last. “I must have been seven or eight-no, make it eight.”

  “Can you describe the method?”

  The half-forgotten memory, now high-lighted by the stark frame of maturity, repelled her. How could this immature trivia be of any use to anyone? Nevertheless, the disembodied voice had disembodied ears, and they were waiting. In a firm, businesslike tone of voice, she described what she had done at eight.