(1961) The Chapman Report

by Irving Wallace

  She set her drink on the tea table and then went around the table to the sofa. She held out his glass.

  “Hi, oasis,” he said thickly.

  Bending toward him, she could smell the liquor on his breath. He had been drinking before he arrived, that she knew, and this was the fourth she had served him.

  He accepted the drink with his left hand and suddenly grabbed her wrist with his right.

  “Come on, Katie-sit down beside me.”

  “Not now, Ted. I’ve got the dinner-“

  “To hell with the dinner. Let’s talk.”

  Her stance was awkward, bent forward, her wrist clamped in his hard hand.

  “All right,” she said. “For a minute.”

  He released her, and she sank into the sofa. As she did so, the narrow skirt slid above her knees. Frantically, she tried to pull it down, but then saw that he was grinning at her, and that this was a ridiculous prudery. She settled back and found that his arm was behind her and his drink, somehow, on the table.

  He drew her to him, and, with reluctance, she permitted it.

  “Cozy,” he said. “You fit nicely.”

  “I hope so,” she said, but felt his hand close on her arm and heard her heart quicken. “You wanted to talk,” she added.

  “Not much. Just a little.” He focused on her woozily, and she did not like his face so close. “What gives with you, honey?” he asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Maybe you got a secret life I don’t know-but the way you been, it’s not normal.”

  That word again. It struck her like a spear.

  “Who says I’m not normal?” she wanted to know angrily.

  “Now, don’t get sore. I just mean the way you act. Like one minute you want to be friendly, and then the next you don’t. You torching for Boy?”

  “You know better than that.”

  “Last time I was here, I wanted to stay, wont way. You brushed me.”

  “You were drunk.”

  “Not that drunk. You mean, if I weren’t drunk you could love me?”

  “People don’t talk about that.”

  His eyes were strange. “Maybe that’s what’s wrong-I talk too much.”

  “I didn’t mean that.”

  “Or maybe Boy’s in the way, and we ought to kill him off for good tonight.”

  She felt his breath on her cheek. “Right now,” he whispered.

  He drew her roughly to him and pressed her head into the cup of his arm with his free hand, and put his lips on hers.

  It was inevitable, she knew. It was what she had planned and dreaded. Now it was here. It was normal, and maybe if she didn’t

  think, didn’t think, let go and floated, let go to his lips and hands, maybe then she would soon be normal, too. His lips were wet and bitter, and he was breathing into her, and feebly she tried to respond, pressing her mouth to his, reaching to touch his neck.

  For a moment, their mouths were apart. “Good girl-good,” he muttered. He kissed her again, and she received it, eyes shut, feeling herself being maneuvered against his chest, feeling his hand on her back searching for and finding the zipper. “My girl-good girl,” she heard in her ear, and wanted to fight, and still did not, but knew that he was pulling her down on the sofa, and that her dress was loose, and that he was stretched beside her.

  She moaned, hating herself for hating this, and he mistook the sound for passion. Excitedly, he fumbled at the bodice of her black dress.

  “Ted,” she said, “Ted-“

  “Easy, honey-in a minute.”

  She tried to wriggle away from him. “No, Ted-don’t-“

  “I want you, honey-I want you-“

  “Ted, listen-“

  But he wouldn’t listen. She reached for his wrists, and held them, pushing them from her with all her strength.

  “Honey, you need me-“

  “I don’t! Now, stop it!”

  Astonished by her vehemence, he relaxed his assault and stared down at her, not moving.

  “You were begging for it all night,” he said viciously. “What’s got into you?”

  “Not you or anybody!”

  He showed his teeth. “That’s good whore talk.”

  Confidently, he reached for her loose dress again, and she slapped him stingingly. He recoiled, falling backward, gripping the tea table to keep from dropping to the floor. He straightened himself, and by then she was sitting up, closing her dress.

  “What kind of creep are you,” he said savagely, “leading a man on-

  “I didn’t mind kissing, but when you try to treat me like one of your cheap call girls-“

  “You mean only call girls give out? What’s with you, anyway?”

  “There’s nothing with me!” She felt the edge of hysteria in her voice, and she wanted to cry.

  “I’ll say there’s nothing. Boy, oh, boy-nothing at all; frigid as an icicle.”

  Her voice broke. “Get out!”

  “You’re damn right I will.” He stood up, patting his hair. “Honey, you’re going to have to phone mighty soon if you want me or anyone for a return engagement-because if it’s later, you’re going to be a pitiful dried-up bag.”

  “Goddam you, get out!”

  “Sure, sure.” He shook his head and started toward the door. “I’ve heard of frigidity, but I never had a date with a deep freeze.” He opened the door and turned. “Poor old Boynton. Now I can understand; I don’t blame him for shacking up with all those other babes!”

  “You bastard-“

  She had the heavy glass ash tray in her hand, but before she could throw it, he was out the door and gone.

  She had sat on the sofa, legs curled under her, for a long time, chain smoking and staring into space. She had reviewed this night, a hundred other nights, her entire life, and never had she felt more helpless.

  At last, as the disaster receded and the grinding process of remembrance wearied, she got to her feet, made her way into the kitchen, and turned off the oven. She had no stomach for food and decided to prepare for bed and read until she was sleepy.

  Mechanically, she had begun to sort the food that might be salvaged and put it in the freezer when the doorbell sounded. For a moment, she was gripped by the fear that it might be Ted, abject and apologetic. She hesitated. The clock read twenty after eight. Then something told her that it would not be Ted, now or ever.

  She went to the entry hall, snapped on the front lights, and opened the door.

  A tall man, strange to her, holding a green wallet, stood diffidently behind the welcome mat.

  He smiled. “I hate to break in on you like this, Mrs. Ballard, but we know each other, even though we haven’t met.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know you,” she said impatiently.

  “I’m Paul Radford. I’m one of Dr. Chapman’s associates.”

  “Dr. Chapman? I don’t understand.”

  “I know this is irregular, but-“

  Suddenly, the expression on her face showed amazement, and then indignation. “We know each other? You mean-were you the one who interviewed me this morning?”

  He nodded. “Yes. This isn’t customary, of course, but I was afraid you’d need your wallet. I found it on the floor after you left.” He opened the screen and handed it to her. Coloring, she hesitated, then took it. Avoiding his eyes, she busied herself opening it. “Yes, it’s mine,” she said finally. “I suppose I should thank you, but I won’t.”

  The apologetic smile left his face. “You’re annoyed?” “Don’t you think I have the right to be?” she said heatedly. “I only went through with that stupid interview because I was told it was the right thing and because I was assured it would be anonymous. Now, the first thing I know, I have the interviewer in my house.”

  “Well, not quite. If you’ll let me explain. It’s still perfectly anonymous. I haven’t the least memory of-“

  “I think it’s absolutely wrong. Your conduct is inconsiderate, unforgivable-the effrontery of it. I
can’t tell you how much it distresses me. Having you here staring at me, after all you’ve heard-it makes me feel unclean.”

  For a moment, taken aback by the cold anger in the lovely face, Paul was tempted to tell her that he knew nothing about her from the interview, except that she had lied. Instead, trying to understand that all of this was a part of what had happened at the interview, too, he said, “I’m sorry I’ve upset you. I can’t tell you how sorry.” “Why did you come here then?”

  He hesitated, considering what he would like to say and what he should say. Suddenly, he didn’t care. “I saw your picture in the wallet,” he said. “I guess I had to know if you really existed. I can’t explain it any more than that. It was wrong, and I hope you can forgive me. Good night.”

  He turned on his heel and walked swiftly, in long, uneven strides, down the circular driveway.

  Kathleen did not move from the doorway. She watched him until he had disappeared into the night and her anger had turned into shame. She had once looked up the word frigid. It meant wanting in

  warmth or ardor. It meant more, too. To her, it was the ugliest word in the English language.

  After a while, she shut the door. She went into the bathroom and took a sleeping pill. At least, she did not dream.

  BENITA SELBY’S JOURNAL. Friday, May 29: “… my table in the corridor of The Briars’ Women’s Association. Right now it is ten after ten in the morning. I can’t believe this will soon be over. I view the end with mixed emotions. On the one hand, I will miss the excitement. On the other, I will be relieved, for it has been an arduous fourteen months. This is our fourth day of interviewing here, and that means we have nine days more, seven of which will be devoted to work. I had a long letter from Mom this morning. Her arthritis is worse. Everyone seems to be on edge. I drove in with Dr. Chapman, who is the one exception. He is always nice, but Cass was awful. He could be so attractive if he weren’t so sarcastic. He wasn’t friendly this morning. He had a headache, and I told him it was smog. He made some taunting remark about my journal, and I told him if it weren’t for journals where would we be. I pointed out Philip Hone, Samuel Pepys, the Goncourt Brothers, Stendhal, and Andre Gide. That silenced him, except Dr. Chapman said he hoped I was being discreet, for we have enemies, and I reassured him. More and more, I feel this journal will be a wonderful record of an historic period in modern science. By that I mean, it will serve to humanize Dr. Chapman, if this is ever read.

  “When we arrived, Horace and Paul were already here. Horace was a million miles away, as usual, and Paul was definitely upset

  about something. Usually, Paul is good-natured, but everyone must be allowed an off day. I signed the first three women in at nine, and they are there now. There were two telephone calls. The first was the publicity director of a movie studio inviting Dr. Chapman to lunch in honor of a picture being made about unmarried teenage mothers, to which he said no because it was undignified but told them he would be willing to address the producers’ guild on sex and censorship, to which they agreed-oh, this sentence, when will it stop?-anyway, it will be arranged. The second call was from a young lady requesting me to give Paul a message. She said she would like to meet him for lunch at The Crystal Room at a time convenient to him. I told her twelve sharp was the best time. She said to call if he could not make it. She had a beautiful voice, like Margaret Sullavan and others. Her name is Mrs. Ballard. What would Paul be seeing a married woman for??? …”

  When Paul arrived at The Crystal Room, he saw that she was seated alone in a mauve booth, beneath a glittering chandelier, smoking and toying with a match folder. For a moment, he stood inside the entrance behind a group of new arrivals watching her. His first judgment had not been wrong. She was exquisite. The anger of the night before had given way to curiosity, to that, and to a sense of adventure as well.

  He advanced toward her booth.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Ballard,” he said.

  She lifted her head quickly. “Hello.” She seemed relieved. “I was positive you’d stand me up. I wouldn’t blame you if you had.”

  “Surely you didn’t believe I would.” He sat down across from her.

  “Anyway, I’m glad you came.”

  He smiled. “I’d have made book that I wouldn’t see you again.”

  She flushed. “You understand, I don’t usually call strange men and make dates-“

  He was about to tease her but saw that she was too anxious.

  “… but when I awoke this morning, I realized how horridly I had behaved last night. I kept worrying-that poor man, what must

  he think of me-“

  “He thought you were a determined wallet-loser, and you hated

  to have it back.” “That was what troubled me most,” she said. “You had only

  tried to do me a favor.”

  “That’s not quite true, Mrs. Ballard.”

  She stopped, and gazed at him, and he was aware of her silken lashes and Oriental eyes. “I don’t understand,” she said.

  “I was doing myself a favor. You see, you were right last night. I won’t let you torment yourself. It was unethical of me, an investigator, to seek out a subject. Normally, I would have behaved with propriety. I would have turned the wallet over to Miss Selby-our secretary-and she would have telephoned you, and you would have come by and picked it up. It would have all been very correct and sterile, untouched by human hands. But it so happened that I had to open your wallet to learn who owned it. I saw your picture. I had to see you. Those are the facts. So it is you, not I, who deserves the apology.”

  She furrowed her brow, averted her gaze, and stared down at the silver service. She thought, What is he saying? Why is he telling me this? Then she remembered. He interviewed me, and during the interview he heard all those lascivious details, and he thinks I’m sex mad, a push-over.

  He frowned, observing her. He had believed that she would take his frankness for flirtatious fun, but now he saw that he had troubled her. He thought, What is she imagining? Does she think I’m trying-my God, that idiotic interview-she must think I’m using it to—

  An elderly waiter, in red and blue uniform with brass buttons, was standing over them. “May I get you something from the bar before lunch?”

  Paul looked from the waiter to Kathleen. “Will you join me?”

  “I believe I will. Martini.”

  “Make rhat two, and very dry,” Paul told the waiter, who wrote the order and was gone.

  Paul turned his attention back to Kathleen. “Mrs. Ballard,” he said quickly. “I think you may have misunderstood me, and it’s offended you-“

  “No.”

  “If you imagine, even for a second, that anything relating to the interview had anything to do with my calling upon you-well, I assure you, that is not so. To be perfectly honest, there have been so many interviews, I find it impossible to sort them out. I wouldn’t remember if you’re the nymphomaniac, the lesbian, or the lush.”

  She smiled at last. “The lush,” she said.

  “Of course. I should have spotted it-the blotched cheek, trembling hand, the slight stagger in your voice-and the cluster of diamonds spelling AA.” “Where did you say you lived-Baker Street?” For a short time, the colloquy remained suspended at that level, formal, inoffensive, unengaged, but brought down to the two of them, finally, face to face, by the appearance of the Martinis.

  “Well,” he said, lifting his drink toward her, “to you-for making another day possible.” She imitated the gesture. They sipped. “This is strong,” she said. “Frightened by an olive at an early age.” She laughed.

  Both were suddenly aware that they had nothing to say to each other-or else everything. She knew nothing of him, personally, and wondered if it would be bold to ask, and he knew more of her, and knew he could not ask. ‘Were you always in this kind of work?” she wanted to know. “No; just a few years. I used to be a teacher-and writer of sorts.” “What made you give it up?”

  “I’m tempted to be flipp
ant. If I were, I’d say an interest in sex and money. My downfall. But that’s not so, really. I think I was flattered by the opportunity to work under Dr. Chapman, to be on the inside of something so important. I suppose, in some secret place, I still think of myself as a writer-there’s no such thing as an ex-writer-and I like to believe all this will one day be useful. When I’m old and tottering about Monte Carlo on a small pension.” He paused and considered what he would say next. “There’s another thing I’ve never articulated. Until now, I’d guess it’s been subconscious. But it’s poking to the surface. I think I always felt that by being in this work, finding out about others, I’d find out something about myself.”

  “Have you ever been interviewed-the way you interview others?”

  “No. All the sampling on the bachelor survey was finished when I came in. One of my colleagues was interviewed by Dr. Chapman and, of course, the doctor interviewed himself.” “Is that possible?”

  “I would say it’s impossible-except for Dr. Chapman. He’s a remarkable man.” “I thought his lecture was impressive.” “It always is. He’s adept at that sort of thing. No, I meant as a human being. He’s solid and single-minded. Dedicated. It’s good to be around a man like that when everything around you seems uncertain, unsolved, flying off in every direction. He’s been a fine example.”

  “I’m surprised you would need one,” said Kathleen. “You seem … sure of yourself-I mean that in a nice way.”

  Paul smiled. “Facade,” he said, “like everyone. Inside, there are too many corridors and turnings, and we’re all apt to get lost sometime.”

  “Yes,” she said solemnly.

  “What I was trying to say before was-well, here I am-thirty-five, a bachelor. It surprises me; it was not what I had always dreamed-“

  “Perhaps you’ve never been in love.”

  “I’m sure I have, several times, in different ways. At each age, you are in love in a different way. It’s like spinning a roulette wheel. If you’re lucky enough to land on the right number, you have the right way, you win. Anyway, I thought that sitting behind that screen, listening, learning, might make me a lucky one. I’m not sure now. It sorts out a lot of things, but the deeper confusion isn’t touched.” He finished his drink. “Maybe you’re right, though. Maybe I’ve never been in love. Maybe I’ve been afraid.” Thoughtfully, he rotated his empty glass.