The Paper Chase

by John Osborn

  Hart decided he hated the boy. The guy was being superior because he and Ford weren’t studying.

  “Well, I think I can give you a definite no to the first question,” Ford said. “You see, this guy and I are both queer.”

  “Come on,” the boy said, “that’s the excuse everyone in the dorms gives; we’ve got to get together.”

  “And about the birthday party,” Ford went on, “I don’t even know who Vorgan Temby is.”

  “Professor Temby.” The boy glanced at Hart for support. “You know, he teaches torts. He teaches you. Look, you don’t have to give, unless you want your name on the card.”

  “Oh,” Ford said, “so that’s the way it is. What do you think?”

  “I think I want to think about it,” Hart said. “I hate Professor Temby.”

  “I hate him too,” the boy said. “You should make peace with people you hate.”

  “Not by giving them presents,” Ford said. “We’ll think about it.”

  A round face pushed through the open door.

  “I’m not intruding on anything am I?” Toombs said.

  “Come on in,” Hart said, and the boy backed out, giving Toombs room.

  “It’s nothing,” Toombs said. “There’s just a telephone call for Hart. I thought he might want to take it.”

  “Why not?” she said.

  Suddenly Hart was cool, the man for the situation.

  “Oh, hello Susan,” he said.

  “I like them,” she said. “It’s not very original, but at least they weren’t wilted. Would you like to play?”

  “I’d like to talk,” he said.

  “We’ve already talked. I thought we might actually do something. You know, I don’t want to sit around the apartment looking intense.”

  “I’d still like to talk.”

  “All right, forget it. Maybe we’ll bump into each other in the Square.”

  The phone was silent, but she hadn’t hung up. His strength faded.

  “All right, I’d love to play,” he said.

  “Good.” He could almost see her smiling. “Meet me at the bridge. We can walk on the other side of the river. It’s quiet.”

  He hung up and went to his room to get his coat.

  “We’ll never get in,” he said. The fence was fifteen feet high. Beyond it he could see the football practice fields.

  “When I was in sixth grade, we had this club. We snuck into football games. Did you do things like that?”

  “We rang doorbells and ran,” Hart said.

  After two hundred yards, the fence turned right and a row of trees pressed them against it. When they’d gone twenty yards past the bend, she turned and started through the trees.

  “This is how we got in, but you’ve got to promise not to tell. All right?” He followed her away from the fence. They broke through the trees. An access road, plowed, shone in the moonlight. She slid down into a drainage ditch next to it.

  The pipe in the ditch was about four feet high. She crouched down on the level ice floor and waddled in like a duck.

  “Look,” he called after her, “I’m not going into this goddamned thing.” His words echoed back to him from the dark.

  “I don’t care what you did in first grade.” He couldn’t hear any answer and he stuck his head into the pipe.

  “Can you hear me?” he called. “Susan!” Again, he heard his echo. He slid in like a Russian dancer, his arms wrapped around his knees.

  After about thirty yards, the pipe ended in a concrete box. He felt for the top.

  “You can stand up,” she said from above. “Half of you is already out of the drain.” He put his hands down and lifted himself onto the freezing stone floor.

  “All right,” he said, coughing out the grit he had filtered through his mouth.

  “Where is this?”

  “Can you wait thirty seconds?” she said. “And don’t tell me when you guess.”

  Moonlight came down on them from holes high above and illuminated stone pillars that stretched up where he couldn’t see. They were climbing and the wind was blowing around them. A freezing wind that carried fine particles of ice. He drew the string on his parka, pulling it tight around his waist.

  She stopped in an archway ahead of him. Beyond her he saw the shoulders of the football stadium, curling around on either side and then stretching out in a straight line toward the Charles River.

  They were in the center of the half-circle, halfway up in the stone stands. Out the end, at the gate of the horseshoe, he could see the red chimneys of the Harvard houses. The wind swept in from the right side, coming down the stands, reversing and passing out over the football field, picking up the snow and tossing it on the seats. The moonlight made the ice pellets shine like glass beads as the wind dropped them down.

  “Do you hear that?” Hart said. The wind whistled like a child blowing over a bottle. “It sounds like there are people here.” ‘

  ‘I’m sure dopers use this place. And cats. I think someone is watching us now, plotting,” she said.

  A beer can bounced along the left side of the field and, carried by the wind, flew up over the retaining wall, landing in the lower stands.

  “I’m freezing,” he said, sitting down on the nearest seats, inviting her to wrap up in his coat.

  “Don’t you want to explore? We could climb to the top. You can see everything from up there.” She was still standing in the archway.

  “I want to talk,” he said. “Besides, you must have explored this place, with other boys, since the first grade.”

  She sat down beside him in the stand.

  “It was the sixth grade. Sixth grade. Why the hell can’t you just do things?”

  “I am trying to do something,” he said into the wind. “I’m trying to make sense. For Christ’s sake, what’s wrong with that? I just want us to get together.”

  She stood up, her hands in her pockets, and swung around so that she was looking down at him.

  “One time, when Father was out of town and I was living in the house alone, I called up my aunt and asked her over for dinner. I told her it was probably the only time I’d ever be able to entertain her in style. She said, ‘How sad, I always dine in style.’ I didn’t come here because you sent me flowers. I can always buy flowers. Hart, I could buy you. Maybe I already have.”

  “Eat shit,” he said.

  She laughed.

  “At least that’s more likable than trying to kill us out on the ice.”

  He’d lose her either way. If he did nothing, the summer would finish them.

  “Hart,” she said, “I like you. I really do.”

  “Then why the hell can’t we love each other?” he shot back. “I can’t live this way. I need to be organized. I need a way of living I can rationalize. This way, I spend half my time worrying. I can’t work. I can’t sleep. I’m going to flunk all my courses. I won’t pass.”

  “Christ,” she said, “you’re the kind of person who can’t help but pass. You’re the kind the law school wants. Do you think anyone cares about the robots? The law school hates the guys who regulate their studying habits. The law school got them without trying. The law school wants you: the earnest ones. You’ve got class. The law school wants to suck out your Midwestern class. You can’t flunk. That’s why I’m worried about you.”

  “We could do things together,” he moaned, “help each other, make plans, live in a sane way.”

  “Hell, show me something I can’t buy in Langdell,” she snapped. “Show me someone who doesn’t kiss my father’s ass. You’re like a dog: you grovel or attack on command.”

  She backed away, toward the end of the row of seats. The darkness began to swallow her, blend her into the black stone of the stadium.

  “What do you know about law school?” he called after her. “You’ve never been there. You couldn’t get through a year at Radcliffe.”

  “You were born for the married students’ dorm,” she said from the dark. “You were born f
or a dating bar.”

  And then she was gone. He felt her go. He became part of the concrete: a leftover from the last football game. The solitary fan, waiting for spring. He’d sit all night. They’d find him in the morning, frozen.

  “SUSAN.”

  He stood up and screamed. Looking out, he saw nothing but the empty stands and the snow. She would be through the pipe, walking home.

  “Susan,” he said, just loud enough to lift the word around him into the wind. He wondered what it was going to be like to cry.

  “Did you think I was going out through the tunnel alone?” she said from the darkness behind him. Her hand brushed his shoulder.

  28

  DOWN IN FRONT, the students who raised their hands battled out a question of law for Kingsfield. It was as though they were one person, their minds one mind. Hart made a point, and then sat back, watching the others move around his assertion, cutting off the loose edges. He was locked into the graceful movement of the argument.

  Above them, Kingsfield regulated, nodding approval, and every now and then, when enthusiasm overcame logic, taking possession of an irregular thought and squashing it.

  The discussion was close to resolution. Its lines were about to converge when Kingsfield stopped them. “All right,” he said, “that’s enough.” He looked down, unbuttoned his coat, pulled out his gold watch and checked the time.

  Hart looked at the others. It was as though all the people who had been talking were frozen: mouths still open, hands still raised, pens poised over notebooks. They were on the edge of bursting out, continuing the argument in spite of Kingsfield.

  “We always seem to hear from the same people,” Kingsfield said. “Would someone who has not contributed care to speak? Someone who usually does not raise his hand?”

  Hart sighed. No one would raise his hand. A hand up would be an admission that normally the hand was not raised. An admission that one was a coward. This was taking up time. They might not finish the discussion.

  “I suppose I’ll have to ferret you out then,” Kingsfield said, looking irritated because, as always, there were no new volunteers. “Mr. Brooks, will you give the facts of Tinn versus Hoffmann?”

  Kevin looked surprised and scared. Like most of the class, he’d retired into his private thoughts while the regulars floated in the higher reaches of the law.

  “Right,” Kevin said, turning the pages of his book, trying to find Tinn v. Hoffmann.

  The case was complicated: some thirteen letters and telegrams between a company wanting to sell pig iron and a company wanting to buy it. Every time it looked like they’d finally made a deal, the buyer backed down, hedged. Finally, the frustrated seller gave up and sold the pig iron elsewhere. Now the buyer was suing, saying that the seller had promised to give him the iron.

  “Mr. Brooks,” Kingsfield asked, “how was the case decided, and how does the decision relate to what we’ve been discussing?”

  “Right,” Kevin said again, and paused.

  Hart put his hand up, swung it like an ax reaching the apogee of its arch. His eyes pleaded with Kingsfield. It wasn’t fair to stop them so close to wrapping it all up.

  Hart was ignored. His stomach muscles tightened. He saw the wall clock moving toward ten. Tinn v. Hoffmann was the crux of the whole thing.

  “In the first letter of November twenty-eight,” Kevin said, “we find this phrase, ‘make you an offer.’ The court seemed to stress this phrase. No, I guess that’s not the crucial passage.” Kevin wavered.

  The correct answer tried to push open Hart’s mouth. Kingsfield seemed to sense it and, as though he’d known all along, he called on Hart.

  “Really!” Hart exploded, drowning out Kevin’s lingering voice. “The correct rule, and the one along which this case was decided, is: In an ambiguous set of facts, the party who creates the ambiguity and tries to use it to his own advantage shall have the ambiguity resolved against him.”

  The rest of the regulars stuck their hands up. They started to elaborate on Hart’s point. Kingsfield glanced quickly at Hart. There was no smile, but the look was enough. It was a recognition of Hart’s seat, a token for a job well done.

  Hart looked toward the window and saw Kevin, slouched down behind his book. What the hell was wrong with Kevin? He’d given Kevin the answer, but Kevin wasn’t taking advantage of it.

  As Hart watched, Kevin’s hands began to shake. Kevin put down the book and gripped the desk, holding onto the curving bench top like a sailor clinging to a spar. “Fuck,” Hart said under his breath, “fuck.”

  After class, Hart walked out on the stone steps of Langdell. He could see the entire yard. Law students were rushing between classes. All of them using the same jerking motion that stressed they were going somewhere important. It was the same pace they used in the Square. Only there, for some reason, it looked silly. Hart would see them toting their casebooks as if they were going to a board meeting. And then he’d see them again, twenty minutes later, still circling the Square, looking for girls or spying on the college. The first time you saw a law student in the Square, he might wave. The second time, he’d plunge into the crowd, hiding.

  The yard had gotten a clean coat of snow last night. Most people stuck to the path and, except for the occasional trail of a dog, the snow was unbroken, a solid reflecting mirror that threw the light up onto Langdell. The light seemed to stick there, held by tiny pieces of quartz in the granite. It was one of the few times the immensity of the building made sense. It rose from the white blanket like a sparkling ice wall.

  There were girls on the paths. Radcliffe girls heading back to the dorms, and only crossing through the law school because it was the most direct route. Radcliffe girls forced there because it was winter and cold. They kept away from the law students.

  A group of professors came up the stairs, heading for their classes. Hart drew to the side of the steps, away from the huge door. The professors hung together as they climbed, marching in formation, and the students shrank away, letting them pass. A boy at the top of the steps opened the door for them. They seemed to expect that and did not break step.

  Far off to the right a law student got out of a V.W. station wagon. His wife slid into the driver’s seat and handed him his briefcase. They didn’t kiss before she drove away.

  Even with the sun, Hart began to get cold. There were more students on the steps now and he began to feel pulled by them. He took a last look over the yard, at the final stragglers moving toward Langdell, and retreated into the building.

  29

  “WHERE’S O’CONNOR?” Bell said, looking around the table. It was at least thirty minutes after the time they were supposed to start.

  “I’m afraid that O’Connor’s decided to cut back and cut out the study group,” Anderson said. “Needless to say, his loss is our gain.”

  Kevin looked agitated. His face started to shake.

  “What’ll we do about his outline? People shouldn’t quit the group. Jesus, what the hell will we do at the end of the year. We’re supposed to help each other.”

  “Shut up, will you Kevin,” Bell said. “I never liked O’Connor. I don’t give a shit about his outline. He’s a little pimp. I wasn’t going to share my outline with him anyway.”

  “You what!” Kevin said. He stood up, pushing back his chair. “We’ve got to stick together. That’s the whole point of this group.”

  “The point of this group is to learn the law,” Anderson said matter-of-factly. “And O’Connor never was much help. By the way, one might say the same of you.”

  Kevin sat down.

  “There isn’t anything we can do about it,” Hart said, glancing at Ford. “Maybe O’Connor will come back. Who knows? It’s his right to leave. Jesus, don’t you think so?”

  Ford nodded. He was looking down at the table.

  “We can all do some of O’Connor’s work,” Ford said. “We’ll just divide up his course. But one thing. Let’s not get soft-hearted. O’Connor is out and that’
s it. He doesn’t get our outlines at the end of the year and we don’t get his.”

  “Listen,” Hart said, “Let’s not make any rules yet. Maybe O’Connor will come back tomorrow.”

  “Yes,” Kevin said, “I’ll talk to him. Someone’s got to talk to him. People can’t quit the group.”

  30

  HART DRANK half a bottle of scotch with Ford and he still couldn’t sleep. He got up, turned on the light and started to read again. It was slow going. Numbed by the scotch, he made fifteen pages in four hours.

  When it got to be light, his vision stopped functioning. He set his alarm and pulled the sheet over him to get an hour’s sleep in before contracts.

  He fell asleep thinking about Susan.

  Hart woke up at ten. At first, he didn’t believe it. He ran out into the hall. It was silent, empty except for a janitor sweeping at the far end.

  “SHIT … SHIT … SHIT.” Hart screamed and the janitor turned around, gave Hart a glance, decided Hart was crazy and went on sweeping.

  Hart ran back to his room. He shook his watch. It still read ten o’clock. He slammed his palm against his head, blinked his eyes and looked out the window. The last stragglers were going into Langdell. He’d missed contracts but he could still salvage torts.

  He pulled on his pants, his shirt, put on his shoes without worrying about socks, grabbed his parka, his books, and ran out the door, down the stairs, flying toward the granite monolith.

  Through the small windows in the door, he could see the German professor at the lectern and a boy in a seat near where Hart should have been sitting, answering a question.

  He’d have to walk down through the class to get to his seat. He sucked in air; he could do it. He’d look down at the floor and concentrate on something else. The German professor might not even notice him.

  His casebook was in his right hand and he shifted it to the left. It was red. It should have been blue. Blue was torts. Red was contracts. He’d grabbed the wrong book. He backed away from the door, cursing.