The Paper Chase

by John Osborn

  “There’s just no way you’re ever going to have a normal relationship with him. You accept that, and you try to do things on your own,” Susan said.

  “I don’t know,” Hart said. She had raised the gun so the butt rested on the wall. “Like our outlines. Every one of his words copied down. Look, I sit in the damned dining hall. What do I hear? I hear people telling Kingsfield stories, about how Kingsfield flattened a particular student in a particular way. It’s like they were telling Norse sagas. It’s like we were studying theology instead of law. He’s arranged it that way. He’s everywhere.”

  “You know,” she said, “some people would think you’re strange.” She laughed. “But as it happens, I agree with you. Of course, my circumstances are special. But that’s not the thing. The question is what the hell are you going to do. You’ve got to stand up. You’ve got to grow.”

  She sighted the rifle down the beach. A cold wind blew in from the sea and rustled the trees.

  “I can’t explain it,” she said. “But you’ve got to stop being so soft.”

  She fired off two shots, one after the other. He saw the sand fly six inches from a rock and then, with the second report, the rock pitched out of the sand. He sat up.

  “Relax,” she said. “There aren’t any more bullets.” She swung around so her legs were on the side of the wall facing the house and put the rifle down.

  “Listen,” she said, “I’m tired of hearing about my father and tired of talking about him. What about you? Can’t you do things? Do you like to sit in class and take shit? Why don’t you just tell him you’re not in the mood?”

  “You don’t understand,” he said. “The class is like a team. Everyone has to answer questions.”

  “Jesus,” she said, walking over to the chair. She put her hands around his neck and smiled. Then she slapped him hard across the face. He grabbed her arms tightly, holding them to her sides.

  “Don’t be mad,” she said. “I just have to make sure you’re alive.”

  51

  FORD WAS WAITING for Anderson on the steps outside Langdell.

  “I suppose you’ve figured out something, now that the study group doesn’t have any outlines. O’Connor and Bell are lost and I have a feeling Kevin isn’t going to make it,” Ford said.

  “Of course,” Anderson said. “I prepared for this a long time ago. I saw it coming.”

  A dog scampered up to them and Anderson pulled his attaché case out of harm’s way.

  “In fact,” Anderson said, “I made concise outlines of all courses. It was a lot of extra work.”

  “You wouldn’t want to share them with Hart and me?” Ford said.

  “Look, Ford,” Anderson said, “I like you. I really do. You were nice to get me into the group and all that, even if it didn’t work out well. I’m willing to give you the outline I promised, but not all the extra outlines. It wouldn’t help my chances. You might do better than me.”

  “Thanks,” Ford said. “Thanks for everything.”

  “You haven’t seen Hart,” Anderson asked, as if nothing had come between them.

  “No,” Ford said.

  “I’ve been looking everywhere for him,” Anderson said.

  “Why?”

  “Well, it’s just sort of business,” Anderson said.

  “Listen, Anderson,” Ford said, “I’m Hart’s agent while he’s out of town. Anything you have to tell him, you can tell me.”

  “I don’t know,” Anderson said, drawing his eyebrows together. “This is really just for Hart.”

  “You can only get to him through me,” Ford said sternly.

  Anderson hesitated. “All right,” he said at last. “You know Hart is the best student in contracts. No, I don’t mean best. He’s out of anyone else’s class in that one course. He’s fantastic. I just wanted to make sure I got his outline.”

  “That’s too bad,” Ford said carefully. “You see, now that the study group’s gone, it’s everyone for himself. I’ll personally see you get Hart’s outline. I’ll Xerox it myself for you, but only for two copies of all your outlines. Don’t worry, I’ll pay for that too.”

  “I had hoped to talk to Hart,” Anderson said. “But I suppose this will have to do.”

  52

  THEY WALKED down the path to the beach barefoot. The sun streamed in over the water, making it look warmer than it was.

  “In a month, the ferry will be going by every couple of hours, full of future law students. Some day I’m going to blow up the ferry,” Susan said.

  “Why?” he said.

  “It makes too much noise,” she answered. They stopped ten yards from the waves and watched a sail miles out. Hart didn’t want to go back and face exams and the dorms. He wanted to stay with her. It was like a dream.

  “I’m not looking forward to going back to class with your father,” he said.

  “I’m not particularly interested in seeing him either. I wish there was more of a family. It would have been better to have brothers and sisters,” she said.

  “I’ll be your brother,” Hart answered, smiling. “You can start growing up all over again. You were too young to go to college anyway. We can live here while you grow up.”

  “All right,” she said. “You can be my brother.”

  She pulled her arms into her sides, rocked around on her left foot, dug into the sand, and then lunged back with her fist. It came in over his shoulder, and caught him on his cheek, sent his head snapping down toward his shoulder.

  “You’re crazy,” he said, backing away. “You’re really crazy.”

  “Sibling rivalry,” she said, smiling. “Did you know it hurts more to be hit on the side of the head, because the head can’t rock back and absorb the impact?”

  “Watch it,” Hart said. She was dancing toward him. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “Come off it. I could wipe you out,” she said, moving to his side. “Hart, you’re so full of illusions, you can’t do anything human. Your brain is all confused. You can’t hit a woman, can you?”

  Her arm flicked up, diverting his eyes, and then with the other arm she jabbed her hand into his belly, her fingers straight so that the hand sank in like a knife. He doubled up, fell to his knees.

  “You see, Hart,” she snapped, “I don’t even have to try to mash you. You can’t hit back and you’re not agile enough to avoid me. You’re bound to lose. Just like the law school, isn’t it?”

  His breath came back and he got up on one knee. Then he charged toward her, digging hard into the sand, flying. In the last second, he checked. She looked so soft and small. He slowed to hit her with less power.

  She sidestepped as he came, his momentum carried him past her, and she hit down with her fist on his exposed neck. For an instant, it severed all his nerve connections. He flew on, landing in a heap in the sand.

  “I want to return my brother for a newer model,” she laughed. “You’re just like Kevin, only it’s going to take you a little longer to cave in. Maybe you’ll wait until you’re forty. They should never have let you into class with Dad. He doesn’t even have to try. You’re like the robots. The law school got you without trying.”

  He was motionless, throbbing with pain, his eyes half closed.

  “You’re all right, aren’t you?” she asked, looking down.

  Then he moved: snapped out his arm like a casting rod and caught her foot. Yanked it forward with all his energy, trying to pull the leg out of the socket. She sprawled on the sand in front of him, started to flip over on her side, roll. He shot out his fist. It caught her on the cheek and his knuckles capped with sand scraped down like files, carving four red channels on the side of her face.

  She rolled outside his reach, dripping blood.

  “You see, you can do things, if you try,” she screamed. “You’ve just got to get angry enough.”

  They lay for a minute, lying in the molds they’d made in the sand. Finally, she stumbled to her feet. Then she took his hand and pulled him up. />
  53

  “HERE’S YOUR COPY of Hart’s contracts outline,” Ford said, pushing the neat pile of paper across the table to Anderson. “Let’s have your outlines. I’ll Xerox them and have them back by the afternoon.”

  Anderson reached for Hart’s outline. He thumbed through it quickly.

  “It’s good,” Anderson said. “I can almost feel it through the paper. This is a good outline.”

  “The best,” Ford said. “No one knows contracts like Hart. Let’s have your outlines.”

  Reluctantly, Anderson opened his attaché case and pulled out five neatly typed outlines. He pushed them across the table to Ford.

  “Don’t lose them,” Anderson said. He sighed. “Please don’t lose them.”

  “Don’t worry,” Ford said. He stacked the outlines and started to rise.

  “One more thing,” Anderson said. “You might as well make Kevin a copy. He can’t possibly do well enough to upset things. I feel sorry for him.”

  “Kevin doesn’t need a copy,” Ford said. “He’s left school.”

  “Christ,” Anderson said, “I wish I’d known. I should have said good-bye.”

  Ford pulled out a brown manila envelope, blew in it to puff it out and then turned it upside down. Three crinkled dirty pages slid onto the table.

  “It’s Kevin’s outline,” Ford said. “He’d only done three pages. I got it in the mail yesterday. Maybe you can get some extra insight from it.” He started for the door.

  “Listen, I didn’t do anything,” Anderson called after him. “It was Bell who hated Kevin. I never said anything against him.”

  I know,” Ford said from the door, “I never said you did.”

  54

  THE CLASSROOM WAS HOT. The air hung like flypaper, a premonition of summer. Pages ripped from the students’ notebooks as the sweat from hot hands seeped like glue into the paper.

  Hart tried to make his mind bend into the cases, but instead it swung along in the hot air currents, and he had fleeting images of Susan, the Cape, Kevin. All the images sliding over each other as if they were suspended in water.

  He really didn’t have to think in class. Kingsfield was providing a summary of the course and the only important thing was copying it down. In the week that had passed since Hart had come back from the Cape, Kingsfield had referred to constitutional contracts, marriage contracts, historical contracts, French contracts, African tribal contracts, religious contracts and to other subjects which Hart had listed in his notebook but could not bring as easily to mind.

  It didn’t matter what his answer to a question was. The answers which Kingsfield sought were implied in his questions. They served only to keep the class on its toes, to make certain that everyone would be at least partially prepared for the exam.

  The professor slammed the lectern, emphasizing a point. The wooden stand drummed out a sound like a tribal call. Then, without looking at the seating chart, Kingsfield called on Hart.

  “Mr. Hart,” he said, “will you relate the next case to the summary we’ve been building?”

  It shocked him. He had had no warning. He had thought that Kingsfield wanted, in the closing spasm of the course, to call on those students who might need a special push.

  Hart looked at his book, flipped a page, bringing the next case into view. He looked at his small summary typed on tissue paper and pasted into the book. Yes, he could recite this case to the class. He looked back toward the stage. Kingsfield was standing to the side of the lectern, his hands on his hips, pulling his jacket off his chest and thus allowing some breeze to circulate. Kingsfield was waiting.

  “I think I’ll pass,” Hart said quietly.

  It was done. He had actually refused to answer a question. The first part was the hardest.

  “Pass?” Kingsfield said. “Pass what? Pass the course?”

  The dialogue snapped the class from their notes. Rubbing tired hands, they looked first at Hart, and then at Kingsfield, not understanding. Was Hart making a joke? There was laughter. And then the class began to take up their pens again, ready to catch Hart’s answer and Kingsfield’s summary.

  He’d been given a chance to back out. He could answer the question and it would be left at that. The craggy face of the old professor, drawn in fierce lines, seemed to recommend that course. A few students glanced nervously at Hart, as if to say: Don’t upset us, don’t make a mistake.

  “I don’t have anything important to say about the case,” Hart said. “I’ll raise my hand when I do.”

  Immediately, hands went up around the classroom. Sweaty hot arms were thrown up as students saw in Hart’s refusal the chance to prove themselves before Kingsfield. Hart didn’t have anything to say. Hart didn’t understand the question. Hart, one of the best students in contracts. Hands raised in an attempt to justify the bodies that supported them. Thirty hands raised by thirty students who wanted Kingsfield to give them the chance to shoot Hart down.

  “You don’t have anything to say?” Kingsfield said, for an instant puzzled. He looked at the seating chart, as if to make certain it was Hart talking. The hands of the class stretched up higher. Seats of pants inches off seats of chairs. Students wanting to bust Hart up and prove themselves.

  The professor took out his handkerchief and mopped his brow. It was entirely appropriate. The room was stifling and there was sweat on his forehead. But Hart knew that Kingsfield was crafty, that he was mopping his brow to gain a few seconds in which to think.

  Then Kingsfield laughed. A quick, cutting laugh like ice falling into a glass. “All right,” he said, gripping the lectern with one hand, “I’ll tell the class the significance of the case myself” And he did.

  Gradually the hands dropped to the desk. The faces belonging to the hands looked disturbed, angry. Somehow Hart had escaped. By all rights, he should have been shot, dragged before the class, his insolence broken. It had happened to others, it should have happened to Hart.

  When the session ended and Hart had gathered his books together and walked to the aisle, the student ahead of him, a large, well-dressed, ugly boy with red hair, sneered, “You were lucky, smart ass, he should have let you have it. I guess he felt sorry for you.” And then the boy pushed Hart, a smashing blow that caught his shoulder and knocked him back against the students behind.

  55

  IT WAS THE LAST DAY of class. Down in front, Kingsfield pirouetted, gesticulated, moving the class through its final spasm. They were on the last case. It was very special that months after they’d started, Kingsfield would end on the last page in the book. How many other professors could so exactly delineate the subject, and so completely dominate the class, that no small measure of the students’ independent interest would vary the progress?

  As Kingsfield’s arm cut a wide swath of air, emphasizing a point, the gold watch chain tingled across his vest and the neat row of buttons lifted with his heartbeat.

  Hart put down his pen. In five minutes it would be over. Just exams. And what were exams? The dorm was going crazy, but Hart had not started his review. Law school ended for him in this room.

  The professor brought his hands together, tying an argument in a knot. Then he shoved his hands out, palms to the class, as he illustrated the universality of another theme.

  As the hands of the classroom clock drifted to the hour mark, Hart’s eyes began to water. Don’t be an ass, he said to himself.

  And then Kingsfield threw his head back and shut his book. His hand came down hard on the lectern, booming the sound back and forth across the curving benches. The class had ended.

  Hart could not believe it. He had expected some final speech, some last thoughts with which they would wrap themselves in the years ahead. Watching the old professor shuffle his papers together and then tuck his notes and book under his arm, Hart’s insides ached with a lonely jabbing pain.

  Kingsfield turned and stepped toward the door. The class broke into applause. The noise thundered through the hall, rocking the windows. Slowly,
as one body, they rose, each one clapping his hands red.

  Kingsfield turned back halfway to the door. He looked annoyed at the uncontrolled faces. He shook his head slightly as if to shrug off their gesture.

  Then he was gone. They kept clapping for a long time, standing up behind their seats, facing forward toward the stage, clapping as if, like Tinker Bell, Kingsfield would die without them.

  56

  FORD HAD TO GET OUT. Walking downstairs to get a cup of coffee had become an adventure into the surreal. If you met a friend on the stairs, he’d ask you the name of a case. If you couldn’t bring the case to mind, you’d get a silly smile that said: “Hah, you don’t know the material. I do. I’m going to do better than you. You will flunk. FLUNK.”

  Ford knew his limits. He knew that soon he would yield to temptation and start cramming as many facts into his mind as he could. Then he’d look for ways to trap his friends into believing they were stupid.

  No one asked about the theories they’d learned. It was always:

  “Can you give the facts of …”

  “Can you tell me the page number of….”

  Ford knew it was suicide, knew that the dorm was committing mass suicide on the altar of detail.

  Hart was dubious, but he started with Ford to a hotel about a mile from the law school. As they were going out the doors of the dorm, each carrying a suitcase filled with notebooks, outlines and casebooks, they met Bell.

  He looked completely mad. His eyes had turned round, twitching, and his usually neat hair fell down over his eyes. His gigantic frame blocked the door.

  “Where the hell are you going?” Bell yelled.

  “We’re leaving,” Ford said. “Where is none of your business.”

  “You won’t pass,” Bell shouted. “You won’t pass without my outline.”

  “O.K.,” Ford said. “Then we won’t pass.”

  Ford started to move around Bell, keeping the suitcase in front of him as a shield. With his hand, he signaled Hart to follow.