At last, the expected sensation-skin peeling before the scalpel, she thought, lacerating, lacerating, but soon healing, soon healing-and she was grateful because the sensation was now bounded, now limited, now familiar, now known. Her body recoiled and recoiled from the rhythmical beat, but it continued interminably, unceasingly, until the searing agony was joined by pleasure, so that agony and pleasure were one and the same, and at last her hands grasped his back. “I love you, Horace,” she murmured.
But later, it was done, and she felt limp and victorious, even in this defeat. For she had always given, as she told the man behind that foolish screen, and tonight he had given, but she had not. The pleasure of this dominated any other pleasure she had known.
She turned her head on the mattress and looked off. Wash was buckling his belt.
He saw her and grinned. “You’ll do, kid. Want a drink?”
She shook her head. “Take me home.” She started to rise, but he came to her and pushed her down gently. “Not so fast,” he said. “It’s not polite to eat and run.” She lay back, weak and groggy, and watched as he went to the door and opened it. Through the doorway, the mingled sounds of clattering chips and indistinct voices came to her.
Wash called off. “Okay, Ace-you’re on.”
Suddenly, a stranger came through the doorway-not a stranger, but the Roman face with curled hair. Shocked, she reached for something to cover herself, but there was nothing but her hand.
“Sa-ay now,” said the Roman face.
Wash formed the lipless smile. “Bardelli, tonight you are a man.”
Bardelli began to remove his shirt. Naomi sat up. ‘What do you think I am?” she shrieked at Wash.
She tried to swing off the bed, but Wash caught her by the shoulders and pressed her backward. She flayed at him with her fists, until he grabbed her forearms and pushed her flat.
“Guess you didn’t make her happy,” said Bardelli. “Too much fight left.”
Naomi tried to scream, but Wash stifled it with his arm. “Come on, you old bastard,” he called behind him. “This is a tiger.”
Unable to move her arms or cry out, Naomi thrashed her legs wildly. But someone pinned them down, and above Wash’s arm she saw the Roman face with curled hair, and in a moment the curls were on her face and the garlic mouth on her mouth. She twisted and squirmed, and once she saw Wash grinning from the door, and after that she saw only the Roman face. She kicked him, and he grunted, and smashed his palm across her face. She sobbed, and tried to bite, and again felt the sting of his big hand, and after a while, she stopped fighting, and he stopped slapping, and she let him handle her as he would a rag doll.
Again, it was interminable, the stitching pain, the cramped pain, the savage violence of it accompanied by a door somewhere opening, closing, opening, closing, and far away voices entreating Bardelli to get on with it, get on with it, and the Roman face hung from above like a contorted lantern, curls greasy and wet.
And when it was done, she could not rise. No will on earth could make her lift her racked flesh. And now the victory of not giving was no victory at all. She lay panting, her huge pointed breasts heaving, her eyes staring and waiting. Her innards had been scooped hollow of resistance, and she lay prostrated, staring and waiting.
The door opened and closed, and there was laughter, and there was the thick nose and the chewing jaw and hands on her breasts and thighs on her thighs … Lavine, Lavine … and now the black one, Sims not Nims, Sims she had learned at last, and shutting her eyes, she remembered there had been one like this one before-when?-the bartender, the intellectual who read so many books and told her that the race problem in the South stemmed from the psychotic fear white men had that, black men were better endowed… . Sims, don’t, Sims, until she screeched hoarsely … and when she opened her eyes, it was no longer. Sims but a pimpled flour face twitching … and during this, she sank into unconsciousness… .
When she opened her eyes, she was upright, propped upright between Wash and Sims, who was driving. Both windows were open, and the wind was cool as a brook. “You all right?” Wash was asking. “We’re taking you home.” She looked down and saw that someone had dressed her. Real gentlemen, real gentlemen-for a lady fair.
“Now don’t go flipping on us,” Wash was saying. “Any ol’ sawbones will tell you five’s no worse than one. What little girls got don’t wear out. Only listen, honey-you’re-well, you got to be careful-one of the boys, he-you’ve been hurt a little-but nothing serious, nothing at all. Hey, Sims, over there, pull up there.”
She felt the car swerve, and jarringly halt, engine idling. Wash opened the door. “We’re letting you off a few doors away, honey, in case somebody’s waiting up.” He offered to help her out, but she didn’t move. “Lend a hand, Sims.” Together, pulling and pushing, they maneuvered her out of the car. Wash propped her against a tree. He pointed off. “That way, honey.” He offered his mock smile and inclined his head. “Thank you for the evening.”
After the car had gone, she remained against the tree. At last, she stretched a leg, to see if it would move, and she saw that her stocking was below her knee, torn and stained.
She began to run, stumbling forward, sobbing and running.
When she reached her lawn, she collapsed, dropping in a heap on the cool, moist grass, wailing uncontrollably.
But then she heard footsteps on the pavement, muffled on the grass, approaching swiftly. She tried to stop crying, and lifted her head, expecting a policeman and finding herself not at all surprised that it was Horace who was beside her, saying something she could not understand, before she shut her eyes and brain to all sensibility.
AT TEN MINUTES after eight on Thursday morning, Kathleen Ballard, in answer to Paul Radford’s urgent summons of almost an hour earlier, arrived at Naomi Shields’ house and was admitted by Paul.
The reason for the emergency was still not clear to Kathleen, except that Paul had said on the telephone that Naomi had been on a date with some hoodlum, had been mistreated, had been put to bed by her doctor, and that a friend or neighbor was needed to stay with her until the registry found an available nurse.
Although Kathleen was not a close friend of Naomi’s, and saw her infrequently (the last time had been the occasion of Dr. Chapman’s lecture at the Association), she had responded immediately. Her private feelings about Naomi had always been ambivalent: at once a secret kinship for another who had been married and was now husbandless, and a secret discomfort in the presence of one whose unrestrained sexuality(if all those terrible stories were true) had become standard parlor gossip in The Briars. Now, for Kathleen, another element had been added. She had met Horace at lunch yesterday and learned that he was formerly Naomi’s husband, and because she liked Horace (and, in fact, everyone and everything associated with Paul), she was compelled to look upon Naomi as an official member of the new circle into which she had been drawn.
“How is she?” Kathleen asked as she entered Naomi’s attractive but obviously decorated Chinese-modern living room, and realized with surprise that it was unfamiliar to her.
“Dozing,” said Paul. “She was heavily sedated last night. She’ll be all right.” For a moment, he enjoyed Kathleen’s morning face.
Conscious of his eyes fixed upon her, Kathleen lifted her fingers to her cheek. “I must be a sight. I hardly had time to make up.” She glanced off worriedly. “Is there anything I can do for Naomi?”
“Nothing, for the moment, except standing sentry,” said Paul. “I can’t tell you how grateful we are, Kathleen. Horace and I don’t know Naomi’s friends. We didn’t know where to turn.” “You did the right thing.” “What about Deirdre?”
“I dropped her at school on the way and left a note for Albertine to watch for the car-pool auto at noon and stay on until I returned. Have you had breakfast?” “I don’t remember.”
“You’ve got to have something. Let’s find the kitchen.” There were neither eggs nor bacon in the refrigerator, and the bread in the
white metal box was several days old. Dirty dishes filled the sink. Kathleen dropped two slices of bread in the toaster, prepared coffee, and then washed and dried several dishes. As she worked, Paul settled himself on a dinette chair with a grunt and explained what had been happening.
Several times, since Horace had learned Naomi lived in The Briars, he had called upon her, but not once had he found her home. Last night he had tried again, and when again she was not present, he had parked before her porch, determined to await her return. After midnight, she had appeared on her lawn, drunk and mauled. Horace had carried her inside, revived her, learned the name of her physician, and called him. The doctor had come at once, and had . reported that, except for requiring three stitches, her injury was
mainly psychic. He had recommended that she be placed in a sanitarium and be given intensive psychiatric treatment. He had left the names of several analysts, and by daybreak, Horace, exhausted and confused, had telephoned Paul for his advice.
“What could I tell him?” Paul said to Kathleen as she served the buttered toast and coffee. “We’re strangers out here. And, knowing what I know of Naomi, it was something you just don’t play by ear. Of course, Dr. Chapman has the best medical connections, but Horace and I agreed that this was something we had best leave him out of. He’d have immediately worried about the newspapers. This was strictly Horace’s personal matter, to be handled as quietly as possible. Then I remembered Dr. Victor Jonas.”
Kathleen, seating herself across from Paul, remembered Dr. Jonas, too. Paul had spoken of him with affection on one of their first dates.
“And even though, technically, he was Dr. Chapman’s adversary, I knew Naomi’s problem was in his area and that he could be trusted. So I called him from the motel and explained the situation, and I met him here. And then I called you.” “Is Dr. Jonas here now?”
“In the back, talking to Horace. I told Horace to accept whatever he has to say.”
There was little to add. They drank their coffee in silence. Kathleen remembered the time when her sister had been in the hospital to have her adenoids and tonsils removed, and after the surgery, while her sister was in the recovery room, she and her parents had gone down to a cafeteria and had sat in the early morning drinking coffee, and it had smelled like this. But then, placing it in time, she realized that it must have been her parents’ coffee that smelled like this. She would have had milk.
They heard footsteps, and Dr. Victor Jonas came into the kitchen. Paul tried to stand, but Dr. Jonas kept him down with a hand on his shoulder, acknowledged the introduction to Kathleen with a warm smile, and decided that he would pour himself some coffee. Consciously, Kathleen had to cease staring at him: his rumpled hair and suit, and the prow of a nose, made him seem so unprofessional and eccentric.
“Horace just went to look in on her,” said Dr. Jonas as he brought his coffee to the table and sat. “I think he understands what must be done.”
“Is there hope for her?” Paul wanted to know.
“Maybe,” said Dr. Jonas.
Paul and Kathleen exchanged a glance, he perturbed, she perplexed, for they had expected the usual confident social platitude which ranged from “of course” to “where there’s life, there’s hope.” Paul had momentarily forgotten, and Kathleen did not yet know, Dr. Jonas’ habit of candor.
‘What does that mean?” asked Paul.
“Psychiatrically, there’s every likelihood that this thing can be cured. It’s really in their own hands, more in Horace’s, I’d say. If she’s to be helped, she’s got to understand that she can be helped, that this is an illness, the symptom of a deeper illness. But since she is the one afflicted with a wish to self-destruction, she’ll need a hand. So-that puts it squarely up to Horace. He’s got to know that she’s not depraved but sick. Not so easy for him. He’s educated, oriented, but there’s an enemy, and that’s his old religious upbringing. If he decides that he wants her, that she’s worth saving for himself, then he’ll come around. And he can bring her around. Then I have the place for them and the man. In Michigan. It wouldn’t be too far for him.”
“Have you actually seen cures in cases like this?” Paul asked.
“Of course. I told you, nymphomania’s a symptom of something that can be healed. Reach down, touch it, treat it, and there’s no more reason for nymphomania.”
Kathleen felt the inner tremor of shock and hoped she did not show it. That word, always the word in a joke or rental novel, had now a frightening quality, for it was real, and Naomi, sedated, was real. Suddenly, Kathleen recalled the gossip and shuddered. The stories were true. But how could any woman behave that way? But then, he had said, she could not help it, she was helpless, she was ill.
‘What are the causes?” Kathleen found herself asking.
Dr. Jonas finished his coffee. “They vary. In this case, from the little I’ve heard, I’d guess she wasn’t much loved as a child.” He felt his pockets for the corncob pipe and found it. “I’m oversimplifying, of course. But this hypersexuality could be one means of trying to get that love now, as an adult. But it doesn’t work, you see-no man, no hundred men, can give her what her parents failed to give her twenty-odd years ago.” He filled the pipe and lighted it. “I tried to explain this to Horace. I told him she’d grown up without tenderness, security, authority, without the feeling of having been a person of value, and so the problem grew as she grew, and then she
tried to run away from it by this endless series of unsatisfying episodes with other men. When I was through, Horace said, ‘You mean, it’s not just sex she’s looking for; you mean, she doesn’t want all those men?’ and I told him no, she doesn’t. In fact, underneath, she’s deeply hostile toward men. That may have opened his eyes a little. And it’s true.” He looked at Kathleen and welcomed her again with a shy but reassuring smile. “Analytic treatment can help fill in what has been missing. It can make her learn who she is, and why, and that she is a person of value. It will restore her identity. These suicidal sexual episodes will cease.” He shrugged. “It’s up to the two of them.”
After a few minutes, Horace, wearily rubbing the bridge of his nose with the hand that held his glasses, appeared. He glanced at the three around the dinette table with a blank expression. Kathleen tried to smile, and at last Horace recognized her and greeted her.
“She’s still sleeping,” said Horace, “but she seems restless.”
“Naturally,” said Dr. Jonas. “That wasn’t exactly a picnic last night.”
Horace looked at Kathleen. “It’s good of you to come, but maybe I’d better be here until the nurse arrives. In case Naomi wakes up. I think I’ll call Dr. Chapman and have him take over for me.”
Horace found the Association number in his billfold, and then telephoned. He got Benita Selby on the other end and explained that he might be detained and wondered if Dr. Chapman could manage for him until noon. He listened then, nodding at the phone, seeming sadder than before, and finally said that he and Paul would be on hand for the first interviews.
Returning the receiver to the cradle, Horace faced Kathleen. “Well, they can’t spare me,” he said. And then, to Paul, “Apparently Cass is down with the flu again, so Dr. Chapman’s taking his list.”
“Don’t worry,” said Kathleen. “I’ll look after her.”
“If she wakes up,” said Horace, “explain that I’ll be here right after work, by six-thirty, if possible.”.
Kathleen nodded. Paul and Dr. Jonas stood up. “I think she’ll sleep most of the day,” Dr. Jonas said to Kathleen. “You might look in every once in a while, to see if she’s comfortable.”
There was a mournful canine wail from the maid’s room. “Christ, the dog,” said Horace. “I forgot.” He looked helplessly about. “Who’s going to take care of it?”
“I will,” said Dr. Jonas promptly. “My boys can care for the dog
until Mrs. Shields is on her feet.” He disappeared briefly through the service porch and then returned with the grateful
cocker spaniel in his arms.
Kathleen followed the men to the front door. After Horace and Dr. Jonas had gone out, Paul lingered a moment.
“Special thanks,” he said to Kathleen. “I’ll call you at noon to see if everything’s okay. May I see you tonight?”
“That would be nice.”
“Dinner?”
“I won’t have you leaving California flat broke. A hamburger at a drive-in would suit me fine.”
Paul smiled. “You’re not the type, but whatever you say.”
“Are you sure you know what type I am?”
“Pheasant under glass and caviar with a sprig of Edelweiss.”
“Sometimes, yes. But also hamburger with a sprig of grass roots.” She wrinkled her nose. “Have a good day.”
After she had closed the door, she went into the hall, tiptoeing as she sought Naomi’s room. Finding the bedroom, she peered inside. The shades were drawn, and the room was in semi-darkness. Naomi lay with her head resting on her curled arm.
Turning away, Kathleen had an image: a creature from her private mythology, from the neck up an angel, from the neck down, a strumpet. Quickly, she was ashamed of the image and banished it.
In the overdecorated living room, surveying the pieces, she realized that what had at first seemed studied chic, now appeared garish. The fine old Chinese porcelain lamps were not genuine but cheap San Fernando Valley copies, and the vases were not cut crystal but pressed glass. Suddenly, she felt ashamed for these discoveries, as if caught peeking into private drawers when the owner was away. Because she didn’t care about other people’s furnishings anyway, because she had no such snobberies, only the knowledge of what was tasteful and what was not, she turned from the pieces and sought a book.
In a few minutes, she had found a rental-library mystery and decided that it would help consume the morning. Arming herself with cigarettes, matches, ash tray, she made herself comfortable on the thick sofa, crossed her legs, carefully put her heels on the coffee table, and attempted to read. But it was difficult. Her mind had fastened on Paul Radford.
(1961) The Chapman Report Page 32