The Paper Chase

by John Osborn

  It was a good answer. Even though it was not a complete analysis, or a hard question. Hart had surprised himself. He stared back at Kingsfield, concentrating on his eyes. His words were more than an attempt to solve the problem, more than an attempt to learn the law. He wanted his words to hit Kingsfield physically, like spit.

  When class ended, Hart sat still while the students around him picked up their books and put on their coats. He felt that none of them mattered, that this class belonged only to him and Kingsfield. He had the completely unrealistic idea that somehow Kingsfield had known beforehand about this day, about the preparations, about the significance of his raising his hand.

  He picked up his papers and casebooks, took a deep breath and started to leave the now empty room. Jesus Christ, he thought, this is a goddamned dance.

  8

  HART SAT on the grass at Fresh Pond. Children were playing, throwing a Frisbee. Susan had gone walking around the point. It was five and the park was clearing of people.

  The remnants of their picnic circled him. He uncorked the bottle of wine, their second and last, and filled his paper cup. It would be dark in an hour. Then they would have to go. The park guards didn’t welcome night people, didn’t know how to deal with them.

  For the last three weeks, since their first meeting, he had been with Susan almost every day. In the morning he typed his abstracts-outlines of the cases on small white sheets he pasted into his casebooks. Then he went to class. He had lunch, came back to the dorm, worked and then left to find her. Sometimes she was at home. Sometimes he would search for her in the Square, looking into the stores. Later he went back to the law school and, after dinner with Ford, worked until eleven or twelve. Then he went to Susan’s, to talk over the day and hold her. Finally, he crept home to sleep.

  Time was catching up on him; he only got four or five hours of sleep a night. The wine had gone to his head immediately, taking the edge off the growing coldness. He stretched out, supporting his head on their knapsack, balancing his wine cup on his chest.

  He knew he was burning the candle at both ends, and he knew it wasn’t like him. He kept waiting for something to check it. But nothing had come. The wine unlocked great waves of exhaustion. It made him yearn for a deep, peaceful sleep. Was it all wasted energy-trying to balance Susan and the law school?

  Law. Cases. The endless defining of irrational human actions into tight little patterns. How could he deal with others’ actions, when he had absolutely no idea of his own? What sort of pattern was he making as he moved among the great stone buildings of the law school, or along the twisting Cambridge streets with Susan?

  Susan gave him no sustenance. When he went to her apartment, or even on the picnic, he went as her guest. I’m going to tell her, he thought, I’m going to tell her that she’s going to have to put herself out.

  He felt her arm slide over his side; she lay on the ground, curled against his back. The wind blew her long brown hair over his neck.

  “Are you asleep?” she whispered.

  “No, I’m thinking. Susan, I haven’t done a damn bit of work in a month.” He fell asleep. His mind completely gave way, and he rolled over on his stomach, put his arms under his head for a pillow and slept.

  When he woke up it was dark and still. He jumped to his feet. His body was shivering, twitching. Around him were dark outlines of trees. For a minute he was lost, and then suddenly he knew. He was still in the park, alone. He looked at his watch and in a while began to see in the dark. It was nine o’clock.

  He exploded in anger. The bitch. Jesus. “That’s the way it is,” he said out loud, and started walking home.

  It took him an hour to get back to the dorm. His body was stiff from sleeping on the ground and the walk in the cold. He took off his clothes in the bathroom, got into the shower and let the steam fill up the room. He listened to conversations in the other stalls. It had been an adventure, he told himself, and that was worth something. Now he could get to work. Anyway, he was glad things were settled. He knew he wouldn’t call her, not now. He didn’t expect her to call- though he knew he’d jump for the next few weeks when the hall phone rang.

  He wrapped a towel around himself and walked down the hall to his room smiling. Ford was waiting for him.

  “What are you so happy about?” Ford asked. He was sitting on the chair, with his feet on the bed. Hart pulled Ford up by the arm and started to put a sheet on the bed.

  “I’ve been sleeping in the park. It’s great. Try it sometime.”

  “You missed a meeting of the study group,” Ford said.

  “So what.” The study group was the last thing on Hart’s mind. “Anyway, I won’t miss any more. I’m through leading a crazy life. I’m going to settle down and work. And I’m going to bed.”

  He threw the towel on the floor and got under the covers.

  “Look, man, I’ve been sleeping under the stars for three hours, and I feel like hell. Do we have to talk about the study group now?”

  Ford smiled at Hart, all tucked into his bed with the covers pulled up to his chin.

  “Kingsfield is having a party in two weeks. You got an invitation. I put it on your desk.”

  “Christ,” Hart said, and closed his eyes. “He just won’t leave us alone, will he?” He fell immediately to sleep.

  Hart woke early. There wasn’t any noise: no pages turning quietly, no water running. He pulled on his jeans and a shirt and walked into the hall barefoot. He was a spy and he crept along the corridor, pausing outside the doors, looking for little streams of light that would show someone was still studying.

  It was some kind of record. Jesus. The last person still awake, or the first one up. He walked to the door of Ford’s room and pushed it slowly open, all the time trying to achieve complete silence, but the door squeaked as it moved.

  Ford was there, lying on his back, still dressed, like a Mexican taking a siesta except that Ford’s sombrero was a law book spread out over his face, his nose stuck into the binding. It was too early to be serious and Hart started to close the book over Ford’s nose. Then Ford was up. He slept lightly and his eyes were glaring as he pivoted on his elbows and leaned toward Hart.

  “What the fuck time is it?” Ford said loudly. Hart put his hand down over Ford’s mouth and held a finger to his lips. Ford got the idea and tiptoed with Hart to the door. They peeked around the corner and saw that the hall was quiet and empty. Hart hadn’t felt so good since summer camp.

  Ford turned back to get his shoes, but Hart caught his shoulder, pulled him on and, like cats, they crept outside. There weren’t any grounds men, or police, or students, or birds. There wasn’t anything, except the huge stone buildings.

  They walked to Langdell because it was the biggest thing they could see and stopped in front of the steps leading up to the main door surrounded by stone carvings. There was no light on in Langdell, except for a spot over the door. They couldn’t see the roof. The building stretched up, the top lost in the dark.

  “That goddamned building talks to me,” Ford said, standing motionless before the steps, staring at the door. “It comforts me, it restores my soul. Even though I walk into it for class, it covers me….”

  Hart looked at him, and kept looking after Ford finished talking. For a minute he thought that Ford was really crazy, not just peculiar. Ford kept standing at attention, gazing at the library door while the sun began to come up, just the first light.

  After a while they walked away. Around the back of Langdell, a small window, in the bottom of a culvert dug next to the wall, attracted Ford. He slid into the pit and nudged the glass. The window swung open. Ford pushed himself through, hung for a second from the sill and then dropped down into the darkness, landing on the cold cement floor. Hart wavered, wondering, and then dropped down too. They both crouched in the dark, letting their eyes adjust.

  A putrid wetness lay like soft wax on the tunnel floor. Hart had visions of fungus growing out of green slime, reaching up between his fingers a
nd around his bare toes.

  “Light a match,” he said. Though Ford didn’t smoke, in college he’d got the habit of carrying matches for other people and so he lit one. It cast a small light, allowing them to see the lockers on either side of the tunnel, but no more than ten feet down the tube into the underbelly of Langdell.

  “This is our chance,” Hart said. “We can burn the whole school down.” Of course, he was wrong. They couldn’t burn Langdell down because it was made of concrete and stone. Built to last. The match burned to the end, stung Ford, and he dropped it on the moist floor where it sputtered out.

  They inched forward until they were under the library, under the middle of big gray Langdell, down in the heart of the beast, down in its soggy guts.

  A stairway led off to the right, up into the stacks. They took it, wanting to climb out of the soft, suffocating slime of the trench. Two floors up, they reached the exact center of the monolith: rows and rows of crumbling manuscripts, rows and rows of smelly Law Reviews. All arranged in tight aisles so that fat men couldn’t come down the stacks and get their books. It was quiet, calm. The mass of paper absorbed everything, sucked the noise from the night. And they couldn’t see a thing. Not only did the paper kill the noise, it also cut out every bit of light. The rays got confused trying to filter in and out and around the books set in a classic maze.

  Hart looked at his watch. The luminous dial worked in the black void. It was nearly five. Where the hell was Ford? Hart jerked around in the tight row of books and his shoulder jolted a volume. He could feel it teetering on the shelf but couldn’t see it. Its fall made a quiet noise, but set in the middle of a noise desert, it seemed like an explosion. He got out Ford’s name.

  “You stupid asshole,” Ford whispered. “I’m right behind you.”

  They waited, listening to see if their noise would set off other noises. Hart was about to make a crack about being scared of the dark, when he saw the light, just the smallest flicker, coming like a white string out of the dark, leading to the far corner of the stack. It was there, a real light, and it meant that someone else was in the library. “Ford,” Hart whispered, and Ford came up behind him, peering over his shoulder.

  “Yes,” Ford said, “a light.”

  They crept along, Ford behind putting his feet into Hart’s steps. The passage led into a long narrow corridor from which rows of stacks ran like the teeth of a comb.

  At the end of the corridor was the source: a glass door far away where the corridor took another turn.

  It was irresistible. Finally, they were outside the door. There wasn’t any name on it, but they could see the dim outline of a figure inside.

  It was getting toward five-thirty. Maybe time to go home. After all, it was against the rules to be in the stacks without a special pass. The stacks weren’t for the novice. During the day they were patrolled. Even professors from the college had trouble getting in.

  But leaving never occurred to Hart because he knew who the figure was. There wasn’t any question. The figure was pacing, moving in a circle. Hart could tell by the gestures-so ingrained in his mind that the smallest movement set off a special blast. His stomach fluttered, contrary instincts swept through him. It wasn’t a game anymore. It wasn’t fun to be climbing around the stacks. They weren’t children.

  The walker moved past the translucent glass door, circled again and Ford got nervous. Each circle brought the walker nearer the door. Ford pulled on Hart, drew him into the nearest row of books, far enough to immerse them in darkness.

  They heard the door open. Then the light went out and the door closed. They heard footsteps. A shadow passed them, moved steadily away-the steps confident, as if the walker didn’t need light, he knew the library so well.

  “Kingsfield,” Hart said. “I can tell.” The words choked him.

  On tiptoe, they retraced their route, back into the tunnel and out their window. The dawn had come, laying a sheen of light on Langdell that caught hold in the stone, making it sparkle a faint red and orange, colors they had never thought the stone had.

  Far off, on the other side of the yard, the black figure of Kingsfield walked along an asphalt path, alone and carefully. They hugged the side of the library, watching him go. Every now and then he bent down, picked up a piece of litter off the path and put it in his coat pocket. When he stopped, they could make out the chain on his vest, a golden ribbon reflecting the sun that was just clearing the trees behind them.

  After Kingsfield had left the parking lot and the sound of the car had died, they walked back to the dorm and became the first students in the breakfast line.

  9

  KEVIN ANSWERED a question. He just stuck his hand up and answered a question. He had to do it. He didn’t think about the answer, or the question, or anything.

  He had tried before. He had had the answer all right. He had been as sure of the answer as you can be of anything. But he had hesitated, and then someone else had answered the question and Kevin had sunk down into the chair cursing himself.

  He just did it, just answered. He hadn’t expected to be called on. He hadn’t thought past the moment when he would raise his hand. All he’d really wanted was just the first part: raising the hand and being recognized by Kingsfield.

  Now he was stuck because he had answered the question wrong, and Kingsfield had stayed with him, using him as a foil to bring out the truth, to show the rest of the class how “easy” it was to go wrong. Kevin was contributing. But he knew exactly the part he was playing and he was having a harder and harder time talking.

  Most of the class was bored, ignoring Kingsfield and Kevin, looking at the portraits or trying to read ahead. Leaving Kingsfield to his private battles. There were only twenty minutes left of class. Leaves were falling outside the tall windows.

  “Now, Mr. Brooks, suppose I write a contract. It says: ‘I agree for one hundred dollars to paint your car with white paint.’ Is there anything different between this contract and one which says: ‘You agree to pay me one hundred dollars, provided I paint your car with white paint.’?”

  Kevin looked at Kingsfield. What was it Kingsfield had said? He could not hold the hypothetical in his mind. His mind was outside him, looking in. He was watching himself and he couldn’t bring it all together, lock into Kingsfield’s words.

  “I’m not sure I understood it all,” Kevin said. “Could you tell me it again?”

  “No, Mr. Brooks, but I will tell you this: in the first case we have two mutual promises, the second is a condition on a promise. You know the difference between a condition on a promise and a promise? Will you tell the class?”

  Kevin knew the difference. He did his work. But he just couldn’t bring it into his conscious mind. He hated himself. But he was unable to focus on the material he had read only the night before.

  Hart was watching from his seat to the left of Kevin’s. He had witnessed the whole process. Kevin’s raising his hand had surprised him. He knew Kevin had never answered a question on his own before. And he knew Kevin was taking it the wrong way. But why had he tried to answer a question? Why had he put himself into this position? Hart wanted to do something to stop it. He had raised his hand, trying to take the burden off Kevin, but he had been ignored. Kingsfield knew a good one when he saw one. Hart wanted to talk to Kingsfield, whisper to him to stop.

  Then it was quiet in the big room. The breeze intensified, throwing a brown curtain of leaves against the windows. Hart gave up trying to save Kevin. He felt as if Kevin and Kingsfield were cutout figures against the brown background. Jesus, the wind was exciting. The first cold wind of the year. He wanted to run in it. He wished class would end.

  “Yes, I did read the materials before class,” Kevin said. “It just slipped my mind.” Kingsfield was standing on the edge of the stage, his hands on his hips, looking severe.

  Then Kevin’s voice broke. His words no longer came in an even tone. Suddenly the sentences, quiet, long sentences, began to sound like a song, turning up at t
he ends. The class heard and looked at Kevin. There was some laughter, quiet, suppressed, but audible.

  From across the classroom, Hart heard Ford’s voice coming out powerfully: “Could you give me the hypothetical over again? I didn’t understand it.”

  It was a shock, hearing the voice without the preparation of a hand, and the class was suddenly back listening.

  Kingsfield looked over, trying to identify the speaker. He looked down at the chart to get his name. In that moment, he lost the thread of the problem he was addressing to Kevin.

  “Yes, Mr. Ford, do you know the difference between a condition on a promise and a promise?” He said it quickly, wanting to assert himself over the intruder.

  10

  THE NEW TIE was four inches wide, an inch wider than the ties Hart had brought from Minnesota and a compromise. He had easily rejected the gaudy ties which covered his chest like a vest. But even this one, which was dark and under- stated, made him slightly uncomfortable. As if with it on, he could only thrust himself forward, could not possibly hide in the corners of the party.

  Standing outside Kingsfield’s house, with brightly lit porch lights and students going in through the front door, he felt untrue to himself (He should have stuck with his character, and his old ties.)

  His palms began to sweat again and he thought to himself, out loud in his mind, “Control, control, control.” He walked up the steps. The humming of voices like electric typewriters. He opened the door and walked in. A maid popped out of nowhere, took his coat and directed him toward the living room.

  At the double door he met a sea of about sixty students, clustered in groups of five, with one group, perhaps twenty people, gathered around a hidden seated figure whom he thought must be Kingsfield.