(1961) The Chapman Report

by Irving Wallace

  “Yes, I do.” Paul’s voice was low.

  “I’m going to get a job. I’ve made up my mind. I have an appointment right after I leave here. That’ll keep me busy until I get married. If I just find the right man-I mean, somebody who matches me-I’ll be all right; you’ll see.”

  “I sincerely hope so.”

  She fell back against the chair and closed her eyes, and finally she opened them. She felt better all around. “Well, you’ve got to admit, I’ve fattened up the batting average for The Briars… . Any more questions?”

  There was still the last of Tuesday’s daylight left, and Naomi’s frame of mind since departing the Association building was one of unnatural excitement. The experience had been curiously stimulating and it had, in a way she did not understand, sanctioned her past conduct. Celibacy and continence seemed the lesser virtues.

  Once she arrived at the boulevard stop light and turned west, Naomi knew that she would not keep the eight-o’clock appointment with Kathleen Ballard. Filled with high resolve at noon, she had telephoned Kathleen, and after exchanging gossip about mutual friends and recounting a Dr. Chapman joke that was current, she had asked to see Kathleen. Naomi had frankly told Kathleen that she wanted a favor of her-that is, if Kathleen was still on good terms with J. Ronald Metzgar of Radcone. Kathleen had said that she was, and hoped that she could be of help. They agreed to meet at Kathleen’s house immediately after dinner.

  Naomi made one brief stop. She parked in the lot beside Dr. Schultz’s Twenty-Four-Hour Pet Hospital and asked the night attendant to release Colonel, her five-year-old cocker spaniel. Naomi had acquired Colonel as a pup, because he was the only cocker she had ever seen who did not have sad eyes. Several months before, she had put him up at the pet hospital because feeding him, cleaning him, walking him, had become too much of a chore. But today she wanted him back. While the attendant went to fetch Colonel, Naomi scribbled a check. When Colonel was brought forward, tail wagging uncontrollably at the sight of her, she felt ashamed at having neglected him so long.

  With Colonel on the seat beside her, lapping gratefully at her free hand, Naomi drove hastily home. She left the car in the garage, led Colonel into the house, and gave him some milk. While he was occupied, she hastened to the bathroom, freshened her make-up, returned to the kitchen, poured a double Scotch, and, not bothering with ice, she drank it down grimacing, and then felt warm and eager again.

  She found the red leash, hooked it to Colonel’s collar, and started for the front door with him.

  “I’m going to take you for a walk, poopsie,” she said.

  Outside, it was dark at last, and the street lights were on. Wrapping the leash around her hand, she held Colonel in restraint as she crossed the lawn to the street. There were no sidewalks in The Briars, despite the annual petitions from parents with children, and Naomi walked close to the curbing, past the hedges of her nearest neighbor, and continued down the block.

  Approaching the fifth house from her own, the Agajanian house, she slowed. The plan that had formulated in her mind, during the latter portion of the interview, was that she would stroll past the Agajanian house, and that Wash Dillon would be outside and see her, or that he would see her and come outside. And if that didn’t happen on the way going, she would stop on the way back and ring the doorbell. If Wash answered, she would say that she wanted to see him after dinner. He would understand and find a way. If Mrs. Dillon answered, or more likely one of the Agajanians, she would say that she was a neighbor and that she wished Mr. Dillon to appraise the value of a rare record collection she had taken on approval.

  She had arrived before the white colonial. Beyond the row of birch trees, she could see that the lights were on. Someone was at home. She looked about the front lawn. No one was in sight. Lest

  somebody detect her from the window, she continued her stroll with Colonel. Nearing the driveway, she heard the pat-pat-pat of a feather ball on the cement. In the illumination of the garage lights, a skinny boy was dribbling a basketball and trying to hit the hoop attached to the top of the garage.

  This was Wash Dillon’s son, she remembered, and his name was Johnny. She wondered what she should do, but then there seemed no choice. She must see Wash tonight. “Johnny,” she called. He turned, startled. “It’s Mrs. Shields.”

  He came toward her curiously, and then he recognized her. “Oh, hello.”

  “Is your father home?” “Naw. He left us last night.” ‘What do you mean?”

  “He took all his things. He had a fight with Ma and hit her. I don’t think he’s coming back.” “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know. ‘Course, he’s still at Jorrocks’ Jollities. That’s Mr. Agajanian’s nightclub.” “I know… . Well, I’m sorry, Johnny.”

  “Makes no diff. He’s never home anyway. Sa-ay, that’s a nice dog.” “Yes. Good night, Johnny.” “Good night, Miss.”

  There was no point in going further. Naomi tugged at the leash and started back.

  In the kitchen again, she pulled off her coat, threw it on a dinette chair, and opened the cupboard. There were still three cans of dog food. She opened one, emptied it into a deep dish, lured Colonel into the service porch, and then closed the kitchen door on him. He would eat and sleep. The question was-would she?

  The electric clock on the oven said seven twenty-two. She wasn’t hungry, except for Wash. She knew that there was still time to have something and drive over to Kathleen’s. But she had no desire to see Kathleen or talk about a job. Dammit, she didn’t want some dreary old job. She wanted a home with someone in it-someone. The bottle of Scotch, half filled, was beside the sink, and there was the glass. She had to think things out. She poured three shots, until the amber liquid almost came to the top of the glass, and she drank. She leaned back against the sink and drank steadily. The fluid invaded her limbs and chest and encircled her groin. The feeling was not of warmth but of heat.

  She evoked the image of Wash Dillon as she had seen him the day before yesterday, standing at the front door with the post card. It was not his shaggy hair, or death head with the face all pocked, or insolent smile, or great length of body, that she saw, but instead a towering phallus that moved at her through the mesh of door screen.

  She wondered, Do other women have such obscene visions? They must. Purity was the civilized Lie. Behind it, hid Desire and Lust. In his lecture, Dr. Chapman had said that there was nothing unique any woman could tell him, that most women did everything, thought everything, only never admitted it to anyone except to him, and that nothing you felt was truly unique. Was that what he had said exactly? She could not remember now.

  She finished the drink and tipped the bottle toward the glass again. Her hand was unsteady and some of the liquor splashed on the sink. Holding the filled glass, she felt the searing flame across her body. The pain of the fiery torture must be quenched. For a single second, she considered trying to reach the nightclub and seek out Wash. But then the searing flame was gone, and in its wake lay a charred wasteland of agony.

  She stared at the blurred glass in her hand and knew that no human being, not Wash, not anyone, could halt the agony or save what had already been devastated. There was only one course left, one measure that would end this malady that had invaded flesh and spirit. She set the glass on the sink and staggered out of the kitchen. In her passage to the bedroom, she tried to snap on the hall light but missed the switch, and finally had to return to get the light on. Blindly, she felt her way in the darkened bedroom.

  With a jerky motion, she drew the drapes together. The final privacy, she thought. She moved to the foot of the bed and methodically disrobed. The clothes, she had decided, were part of the pain, and now she wanted nothing on her skin. She kicked off her shoes. She pulled the sweater upward over her head and cast it aside. She fumbled behind, managed to unhook her nylon lace brassiere, slid the straps down her arms, and dropped it. She un-zippered her skirt and let it fall, and then removed the garter belt.

  Groping
for the edge of the bed, she found it, and sat, and quickly rolled off her stockings.

  Finally, she was naked, and now she knew that it had not been the clothes at all that were part of the pain, but her skin, her excruciating, blazing skin. Rising, she was not sorry she had undressed. After all, after all, she had come into the world this way, and this was fitting.

  She found the bathroom, and the light switch, and the medicine chest. Bottles and small boxes spilled before her hand, until she had the white container so desperately needed. Uncapping it, she shook a heap of sleeping tablets into her palm. Her desire for Nirvana, the nothingness where hurt and sorrow and guilt and regret were banished, exceeded any desire she had ever felt for a man. By twos and threes, she threw the pills into her mouth and then remembered that she required water. The glass, the water. She swallowed, swallowed. Wash it down, Wash it, Wash.

  Oh, Wash. His was a better hell, a better dying.

  Instantly, she wanted life to bargain with, and trade for dying.

  Not yet corpsehood.

  Her arm floated to the medicine chest door. Inside it, long ago, she had pasted the chart labeled Counterdoses as the practical ally in supporting a woman’s prerogative. Overdose sleeping medicines … two tablespoons Epsom salt in two glasses of water … emetic soap and warm water … Epsom … soap … Wash, wait, please, please wait …

  Once, later, she awakened. The luminous dial of the bedside clock told her it was after midnight. The hot agony had fled, and her skin was cool. She reached toward the pillow, finding the top of the spread and blanket, and tore them free. With one last effort, she climbed beneath the blanket, conscious for a moment of the softness and snugness, and then she was asleep again.

  It was after midnight when Paul Radford said good night to Dr. Chapman and made his way to the room he shared with Horace Van Duesen in the Villa Neapolis.

  He was surprised to find the big lamp on, and Horace in pajamas, propped up in bed, reading a paperback novel.

  “I thought you’d be dead to the world by now,” said Paul.

  “I slept all day. I’m trying to get myself tired.”

  Paul pulled off his tie and unbuttoned his shirt. “Boy, I am bushed.”

  “Where were you?”

  “There was a seminar at a place called the Wilshire Ebell, out toward the city. Some of the university people and a couple of analysts on the husband’s role in modem marriage. Dr. Chapman had promised to be there a long time ago, and he wanted me along for the drive. The interviews ran late, and we had to eat on the run. What a day.”

  Paul laid out his pajamas and began to undress.

  Horace put down the book. “Paul, I appreciate the way you covered for me today.”

  “Merely an investment. Expect you to do the same for me, when the time comes, and the way I feel, it will.”

  “I shouldn’t have got so drunk.”

  “We’ve been gypsying around too long.”

  “How was it today?”

  “Oh, the usual.” He tied the cord of his pajama pants and pulled on the tops. “I can’t imagine what would surprise me any more. Though, I must admit, it’s never prosaic. The last one I had today was really a dilly-an out and out nympho.”

  “You mean actually?”

  “No question. I never saw her, but Benita said she was a doll. It was really a session. I was son}’ as hell for her. Fifty partners before she was married and once a week after, besides her husband, until he caught her at it.”

  He clamped the clothes hanger on his trousers and hung them up.

  “You mean her husband caught her with another man?” Horace asked.

  “In the back yard, of all places, with some boy. The husband walked out on her cold-can’t say I blame him, except that she’s so obviously ill and needs help. She came to California and kept right on with it, even worse, though she’s trying to get herself in hand now, but she won’t.”

  Horace had been listening intently. Suddenly, he asked, “What was her name?”

  Paul, who had started for the bathroom, halted. “Name? I don’t think I-wait, yes-Shields-Naomi Shields.” He wondered at the strange convulsed look on Horace’s face. “Do you know the lady?”

  “That was no lady,” said Horace quietly, “that was my wife.”

  ALTHOUGH they had slept no more than four hours, Paul and Horace, by unspoken agreement, had risen at daybreak to avoid the others. After dressing for their third day of interviews, they had waited briefly outside the dining room of the Villa Neapolis until the doors were opened at seven-thirty. During the next half hour, except for several transient couples hastily eating their breakfasts in order to get on the road before the heavy traffic, they were alone.

  By eight o’clock, they had left the dining room without seeing Dr. Chapman, Cass, or Benita, and, relieved, they had made their way to the garage. The sun simmered in the cloudless sky like an oversized egg yolk frying. The moist grass on either side of the path was warming and would soon be dry, and Paul decided that it would be as hot as it had been on Monday. He lowered the canvas top on the Ford convertible, secured it, and then settled behind the wheel next to Horace.

  He eased the car backward out of the stall, and finally, gear in low and foot teasing the brake, he guided the vehicle slowly down the steep private road that led to Sunset Boulevard.

  At the stop sign, he glanced at Horace. “We’re a bit early. Like to take a short drive first?” “Whatever you say.”

  Paul wheeled the Ford east on Sunset Boulevard, and then proceeded at thirty-five miles an hour, slowing once as they approached the university campus (the ROTC boys were drilling smartly on the green), and accelerating again as he headed in the general direction of Beverly Hills. The speed of the open car generated a breeze, where there had been none, and the air brushed them as gently as a woman’s hand. At the Bel-Air gate, on impulse, Paul turned sharply left. “Have you ever been in here?” he asked. “I don’t think so,” said Horace.

  “You’d remember if you had. It’s exactly like a drive in the suburbs behind Honolulu.” They were on Bellagio Road, a smoothly rising, curving, asphalt roller coaster. The thick ivy and bushes bursting through the wire fences, the miles of blue and red bougainvillea and red and purple fuchsia, hid all signs of habitation. The Monterey pine trees and sycamores guarding the road were aged and massive, and gave an impression of estate and belonging, such as the self-conscious, imported date palms of Beverly Hills had never been able to imply. Paul remembered his parents and thought of how they would have looked at these trees and then talked of the Old Country. The occasional mail boxes, usually wooden and quaint, were topped by names finely wrought in iron, several of the names celebrated. In a way, the mail boxes spoiled it, for they reminded the intruder that there was human life here, not wild life, and that the sensation of forest primeval was false.

  Paul turned from the windshield to Horace, meaning to comment on the landscape, but he saw that Horace was completely oblivious to the surroundings. Horace sat slumped low, as if in a trance, arms crossed loosely on his chest, eyes staring blankly at the dashboard.

  Paul had no choice but to recall the black morning that had begun after midnight. After Paul’s disclosure of the interview with Naomi, Horace had remained on the bed, his face numbed as if by stroke, smoking incessantly, while he related the story of his marriage.

  There was, that year before Dr. Chapman, a convention of gynecologists in Madison (Horace remembered), and Horace went up from Reardon to read a paper. The convention tried to accommodate guests in every way, and among the available conveniences offered was a secretarial pool. The girl assigned to Horace announced herself as Naomi Shields. Until he met Naomi, Horace had recognized the female as only a biological necessity, an exercise quite apart from important workaday routine. He had always been certain that he was fated to live and die a bachelor.

  Naomi was something that he had never imagined a woman could be: lively, interested, beautiful, responsive. Also, and this soon pr
oved a decisive factor, she was a young woman widely desired and sought after. The fact that she had eyes for Horace alone, gave him a special status among his colleagues, and a prideful satisfaction that he had never before felt. He began to endow Naomi with a value that superseded love. (“Of course, I speak from hindsight,” he had conceded to Paul.) From the first, Naomi was prepared to give herself wholly to Horace, wholly

  and unconditionally, and it took every resource of Horace’s Catholic upbringing to restrain him from taking advantage of the love-struck girl. As it was, they were engaged merely five months (“Hardly enough to know each other,” he had told Paul) before he brought her down to Reardon and made her Naomi Van Duesen.

  From the earliest days, he enjoyed the idea of marriage. It gave him membership in a popular social group that he had not realized existed, and for the first time in his life he possessed a feeling of belonging to something more cosmopolitan, more enjoyable, more fulfilling than the faculty staff of Reardon College. The countless accessories of the nuptial state were what pleased the most: the pineapple duckling prepared at home, the frayed shirt collars turned at last, the collaborative shopping for refrigerator and blue parakeet, the addressing of Christmas cards, the continuing envy of male friends, the casino and scrabble and double acrostics together, the brassiere behind the bathroom door and the stockings drying over the tub and the toothpaste uncapped, the dividing of the Sunday paper, the buttons magically reappearing on pajamas and shirts.