Mary McManus went out on the cement patio where her father was still poking at the heating charcoal in the brick barbecue grill. Nearby stood the portable table, the layers of thick red steak, separated by wax paper, piled majestically high. Mary watched a moment and then sat on the edge of a checkered lounge.
“Put one steak back in the freezer,” she said. “Naomi can’t make it.”
“You’re sure Norman won’t come down?” Harry asked without turning.
Mary was faintly irritated with the way the question had been posed. Unaccountably, she felt like bickering. “It’s not a matter of ‘won’t come down’; he can’t, he doesn’t feel well-don’t you ever feel that way?”
Her father spun about and blinked at her. “Aren’t we a little touchy about semantics tonight?”
“I just thought you wanted to say it that way.” She hesitated. “I’m sorry. But he did come home with an awful headache, Dad. You should know; you drove with him. He was sure a nap would get rid of it, but just now he said he felt no better. He doesn’t want to throw a wet blanket on the party.”
“It seems to me he’s getting more than his share of headaches
lately-for a healthy, strapping young man. Why don’t you get him to see a doctor?”
“He insists he’s all right. They go away.”
Harry Ewing grunted, seemed lost in thought a moment, pursed his lips, absently wiped his hands on the comical chef’s apron, and walked slowly to the lounge across from Mary.
“Did he tell you we had a talk today?”
Mary raised her eyebrows. “No.”
“We did. About his new assignment.”
“New assignment?”
“Remember-Sunday-I told you I was cooking up something extremely interesting?”
Mary nodded eagerly.
‘Well, we’ve decided to tackle those Essen people on the pre-fab patent case. We’re going into the German courts. I’m shipping Norman and Hawkins off next month.”
“To Germany?” Mary clapped her hands with delight. “It’s one place I’ve always wanted to-“
“No, Mary,” Harry Ewing said quickly, “not you. He’ll be up to his neck there. No place for wives. I told Hawkins he couldn’t take his missus, and I can’t show partiality to Norm because he’s my son-in-law. It would be demoralizing, bad precedent.”
Mary’s delight had given way to somber concern. “How long?” she asked.
“Who knows? Those court things drag on. And there’s a good deal of preparation to be done on the scene with our German”
“How long?” she persisted.
“Oh, four months-at the most six.”
“Without me?” Her tone was ominous.
“Look, Mary-“
‘What did Norman say?”
“Well, I will admit he didn’t take too kindly to it. I wanted to keep this from you. But he was most disappointing. I reminded him that, family or no, he was still an employee. No preferential treatment. It was an important job, and I expected him to do it.”
“But will he do it?”
“He’d better. He said he’d talk it over with you. ‘It’s up to Mary,’ he said. I’m depending on you to pound some sense into that boy. I’m through coddling him.”
Mary sat rocking her body on the lounge, staring at her father in an odd, new way.
Harry Ewing met her gaze, then exhaled. “Well, the steaks-” He began to leave.
“You want us apart, don’t you, Dad?” Her voice held no harshness, merely understanding. “Are you crazy?”
“I think you even want him to fail-” “Mary!”
“Yes.” She stood up. She started inside. “Where are you going?” Harry Ewing called after her. “To give Norman my answer.”
She climbed the stairs gradually, giving herself time to adjust to the new decision, like an ascending deep-sea diver surfacing slowly against the changing pressure.
Upstairs, she moved to the bedroom, opened the door, closed it behind her, and turned the key.
Norman, lying on the bed, on his back, arms behind his head, staring at the ceiling, now watched her. She went to the foot of the bed.
“How’s your headache?” “I never had a headache.”
She nodded. “That’s what I thought. Norman, he told me.” “Deutschland uber alles?” “Not uber alles-I told him.” “Oh?”
“Not uber us.”
She kicked off her shoes, and crawled on the bed, and lowered herself beside him. “Norman, I love you.” “Ditto.” “Just you.”
He examined her face warily. “Norman-” “Uh-huh?”
“I want us to have a baby.”
He lifted himself to an elbow. “When did this happen?” “It happened.” She tried to smile. “We can travel when the baby’s grown up.”
“You mean it, don’t you?” ‘With all my heart.”
He reached out for her, and she went into his arms, cuddled close to his chest.
“When?” he asked softly. “Now, Norman-now.”
Miss Wheatley, the special, a large masculine woman with down on her upper lip and a severely starched nurse’s uniform, had appeared at six-twenty, and Kathleen had rushed home to assist Albertine in feeding Deirdre and to change for dinner.
Paul had picked her up at eight, and, instead of hamburgers, they had driven east to an Italian restaurant on the fringe of metropolitan Los Angeles. Although no Angeleno, and especially no native of The Briars, would have been caught dead in that unlovely business part of the vast city after work hours (except for the Philharmonic season and the New York plays), Kathleen had remembered the restaurant as charming, from a visit once paid to it with Ted Dyson.
The intimate, candlelit room, decorated with hanging Chianti bottles, made them feel near and private. They had ordered minestrone and lasagne, and consumed great numbers of breadsticks and a greater quantity of red wine. They had talked a long time of Paris-she had visited it with her family in the summer between high school and college, and he during weekends from the job in Berne-and she had remembered “Just Tell the Driver ‘Sank Roo Doe Noo’” and he had remembered the chansonniers in Le Lapin Agile, and both had recalled the view from the Sacre-Coeur.
They had returned to The Briars slowly, reluctantly, through the balmy night, conversing less, and self-conscious for being so close and yet so far apart.
Now they were parked in the darkness of Kathleen’s driveway.
He looked at her: the achingly delicate profile, the full scarlet lips, the blouse draped from her breasts, the silk skirt outlining her thighs.
She turned her head and looked at him: the wonderfully creased and lived-in face.
“Kathleen,” he said.
‘Yes,” she said, almost inaudibly.
The moment was understood by both. Without thinking further, he did what he had not yet done. He drew her to him, and as she shut her eyes and parted her lips, his mouth found her lips. The kiss was long and electric. For a moment, he released her, both breathless, and when he sought to bring her to him again, closer, his arm went fully around her back and his hand came to rest on her breast, cupping it fully. Before he could withdraw it, for it had been accidental, she stiffened in his arm and wrenched free. The moment was ended.
“Kathleen, I didn’t mean it.”
“It’s all right.”
“I didn’t know-I was-I wanted you as close to me as possible.”
How dreadful, she thought, to force such an apology. Her swift anger had turned away from him and inward. Here she was, an adult female of twenty-eight, married once, inviting tenderness, love, desiring it from a man she had imagined in every high-school dream, and yet reacting, behaving, as no juvenile teenager, no gauche or frightened adolescent, would behave. But then, as a female, she was a fraud, and now he would know it, at last. There could be no recovery. She, not Naomi, she more, needed the analyst. What had Ted Dyson called her?
His troubled face. She was so ashamed. “Paul,” she said with difficulty, “I didn�
�t mean-“
The vestibule lights went on, and in the glare, they both started. She swerved in the seat. The front door was open, and Albertine stood behind the screen, craning her neck, peering toward them.
“Mrs. Ballard?” she called.
Kathleen hastily rolled down the window. “Is anything wrong?”
“There’s been two urgent calls for your gentleman friend. One not five minutes ago.”
Paul leaned across Kathleen toward the open window. “Who was it?”
Albertine consulted the pad in her hand. “Mr. Van Dooten.”
“Horace,” said Paul.
“He said to watch for you and have you call the motel.”
Paul frowned. “Must be something wrong.”
He jerked the handle of Kathleen’s car door and shoved it open. She stepped out, and he followed her. They hurried into the house.
In the study, Paul dialed the motel and asked for Mr. Van Due-sen. He waited, and at last Horace came on. “Hello?”
“It’s Paul.”
“Thank God! Listen-Naomi’s gone off; we don’t know what the hell’s happened to her.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Naomi-she ran away. The nurse went to the bathroom around nine, she says-and when she got out, Naomi was gone. Her car, too. The nurse didn’t know where to turn.” “Were you there?”
“That’s just it, I wasn’t. I was stuck with Chapman until about nine-thirty. When we broke up, I phoned to ask Naomi if she wanted anything before I came over. That’s when I found out. The most I could get straight was that she blew her cork, because I wasn’t there with her when she woke up. I guess she figured I was letting her down.” “Forget it. You know she’s not very rational right now.” “That’s what worries me. I’m worried sick. I don’t even know where to start looking. Maybe she went to some friend’s place. That’s what I’m hoping. Ask Kathleen about her friends.”
“All right.” But something else had occurred to Paul. “There’s another possibility-” “What?”
“I’m not sure. I’ll tell you when I see you. Look, Horace, sit tight. I’ll be right over. We’ll hunt for her together.”
After hanging up, Paul explained to Kathleen exactly what had taken place. Kathleen knew none of Naomi’s close friends, except Mary McManus, if Mary was a close friend. Immediately, Kathleen telephoned the Ewing residence. Harry Ewing answered the call. He sounded distant and cotton-mouthed. He said Mary couldn’t come to the phone because she was asleep, and he had seen nothing of Naomi Shields. Undiscouraged, after she had finished with Ewing, Kathleen remembered that Naomi had once mentioned her father in Burbank. She tried information, learned there were several Shieldses in Burbank, and took all their numbers. The second proved to be Naomi’s parent. He was gruff, unpleasant, and said he had not seen his daughter in months.
After this rebuff, Kathleen had one more idea. She telephoned the agitated, defensive Miss Wheatley and ordered her to search Naomi’s kitchen and bedroom for an address book or list of personal phone numbers. After five silent minutes, Miss Wheatley returned to the mouthpiece empty-handed. She had been unable to produce an address book of any kind. Firmly, Kathleen told her to remain where she was, in case Naomi returned, and, if Naomi did return, to contact Horace Van Duesen at the Villa Neapolis at once.
During all of this, Paul had hovered restlessly nearby. Now Kathleen set down the telephone and confronted him. “Well,” she said, “I guess I have struck out.” Paul nodded grimly. “There’s one more longshot.” “What’s that?”
“The nightclub where she got herself picked up last night. It’s out on Sunset Boulevard. Horace knows the name.” “Why on earth would she go back there?”
“If she wanted to kill those men, that would be logical. But maybe she wants to have them again, and kill herself. That would be abnormal, but for her, in her present state, perfectly logical. Don’t you see? Perverse logic. Indulging the self-destroying death wish.”
“I can’t believe it.”
“She despises herself, Kathleen,” he insisted. “This would be the ultimate flagellation. Anyway, we’ll know soon enough.” Kathleen trailed him to the living-room door. “Paul-“
Hand on the knob, he waited.
She hoped to explain about that moment in the car, that she hadn’t meant it, that she cared for him, but now it seemed too callous and trivial in the light of Naomi’s disappearance. Still, she supposed, it must always be like this with everyone: you set the human brain on a track marked sorrow, but it does not always stay there. What did people really think during a funeral? She recalled the rites around Boynton’s grave, before the coffin was lowered.
“Paul … I … I hope you find her. And look out for yourself.”
He nodded solemnly.
Suddenly, blindly, she ran to him, finding his cheeks with her hands, then standing on tiptoe to kiss him. This was wrong, too, she supposed, staying the Minute Man from his emergency, but, . dammit, dammit, she was as lost as Naomi. For a moment, as their lips met, her instinct was to lift his hands from her hips and place them on her breasts. She wanted to do it, boldly, to show him that she had not meant her earlier prudery, to assure him that she was as warm as any woman alive. But what surprised her most was her dominating emotion: she wanted to do it because the flesh of her breasts strained for his touch. She held the desire and held it, but a cold paralysis gripped her, and then the kiss was ended and it was too late.
At last, she was sorry to have delayed him. “You’d better hurry. Let me know if you have any luck.”
“I’ll call you in the morning.” For another moment, he stared down at her. “You know what? You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever known.”
And he was gone.
She leaned against the closed door and thought the cliché But beauty’s only skin deep, and my hidden ugliness is deeper, much, much deeper, the greater part you cannot see, below the surface like an iceberg, like a lump of dough in a buried coffin.
Sitting at the ringside table in the noisy, smoky nightclub, only half aware of the gliding shadows of dancers before her eyes, Naomi Shields wondered why she was not drunk.
She had consumed six, seven, eight gin somethings, and her head was clear; she was sure it was clear. True, the knifing pain of the stitches had dulled, and the hurt of Horace’s absence had numbed. But the clarity of her original desire had not blurred: to be impaled on a cross, on a bed, until she bled to death and found peace, at last.
The music had ceased, and now there remained overhead the shrill cacophony of human voices. A tall presence loomed, then lowered itself to eye-level in the chair across. The beloved, pocked death head. The lipless smile. Here, the Reaper, beloved Reaper, to wrap her in a shroud.
“How’s my honey child?” Wash was asking.
“I’m tired of waiting,” Naomi said.
“You don’t want to wait?”
“No. Now.”
He shook his head with admiration. “You’re something, honey.”
“Now,” she repeated.
“You know, you’re getting me excited. Maybe it can be arranged. You really want ol’ Wash, don’t you?”
She wanted calvary, the purge of pain, and the final nothingness. She nodded.
“Okay, honey, you got me.” He rose to his feet.
“Not jus’ you,” she said. “All.”
Wash whistled under his breath. “Christ.”
“All-” she insisted.
“Okay, honey, okay. Come on. Let’s get the show on the road.”
He helped her from the chair and led her across the slippery
dance floor. As they passed the bandstand where several of the boys were relaxing, smoking, he held up his hand, joining forefinger and thumb in a circle. He opened the side exit and started her along the edge of the parking lot beside the kitchen. “My car’s behind there,” he said, “all by itself.” “Where you taking me?” “Nowhere, honey. I got a nice private backseat.” She heard a motor b
ehind, and stopped, and looked off toward the bright area nearer the street. The car was an MG. An attendant was holding a door open, and a girl stepped out. Her face was indistinct at the distance, but she was young, patting down her taffeta and petticoats, and holding her corsage of camellias, and her escort was young and straight. Later, at her door, they would kiss, and tomorrow she would build a dream house, a dream life, a dream universe of happiness. “Come on, honey. I got it bad now.”
Naomi stared at the hideous death head, and suddenly the revulsion filled her throat. She was alive, a living entity, and all around, all around, were the living, the fresh, clean, alive living, and they were the race to whom she belonged, they and not this gruesome skeleton. “No,” she said. “Come on.”
“No, not in the car. What do you think I am?” She pivoted uncertainly and tried to move away. Wash’s hand was on her arm and she winced. The lipless smile was gone. “You’re my girl, an’ you’re coming with me-so let’s not have any trouble.” Dignity, dignity. “Let go of me,” she said archly. “Look, honey, no little bitch is getting me hepped up, and taking a powder. This is the big leagues, honey. We deliver. You’re going with ol’ Wash-and the boys, the boys, too. I’m not letting them down for nothing.”
“I’m sick,” she said suddenly. “You can’t hurt somebody who’s sick.” “You’ll be sicker if you give me any more trouble.” He wrenched her violently after him and hastily dragged her toward the corner of the kitchen and the shape of the vehicle in the blackness beyond. Off balance, she stumbled after him, choking, trying to find her voice. She fell to her knees on the gravel. As he pulled her upright, she tore free. She tried to scream but felt his hand smashing across her face.
She sobbed. “No, Wash, no-“
(1961) The Chapman Report Page 35