The Chapman Report, page 14
Mary was waiting, as Naomi shuffled with the throng to the next row. Mary’s eyes were bright. “Wasn’t it exciting?”
“Thrilling,” said Naomi. “Like a first pajama party.”
* * *
Backstage, Dr. Chapman stood beside the water cooler, mopped his warm brow, then reached across for a paper cup and poured himself a drink. “Well, Emil,” he said to Emil Ackerman, “how did I do?”
“I’m all primed to volunteer,” said Ackerman, grinning. “It was even better than the speech you gave to the men a couple years ago.”
Dr. Chapman smiled. “That’s because this was about women. And you’re a man.”
“I guess I still am,” agreed Ackerman.
“Well, if you think you’ve worked up an appetite by now—”
“I sure have,” said Ackerman. “Only not for what you think.”
He laughed an evil schoolboy laugh. Dr. Chapman acknowledged the joke with a slight curl of his lips, his eyes shifting quickly to observe if anyone nearby had overheard them. He did not like to be caught in situations where the pure scientist might seem mere mortal.
“Well, a good charred steak should settle you down,” he said to Ackerman. Then, taking the fat man’s arm, he hastily propelled him toward the stage door.
* * *
When Kathleen Ballard reached the foyer, she saw that long lines had already formed at each of the four tables. Emerging from the auditorium, she had allowed herself to be separated from Ursula, Naomi, and Mary. Now the nearest door was no farther than the tables. She felt sure that she could reach the door unnoticed.
She had begun to make her way through the press of the crowd when she heard her name called loudly. She froze, then turned. Grace Waterton was elbowing toward her.
“Kathleen, you weren’t leaving?”
Kathleen swallowed. She felt dozens of eyes upon her and the heat on her cheeks. “No, I—well, yes, for a moment—there’s such a line, and I have so much to do; I thought I’d come back in a half hour—”
“Nonsense! You come right along with me.” Grace had her hand and was tugging her toward the table at the extreme left, the one marked “A to G.” There were at least twenty women in the line, and more gathering quickly at the far end. “If you have things to do, the others will understand,” continued Grace in her brass voice. “Oh, Sarah—”
Sarah Goldsmith, lighting a cigarette, was at the head of the line, waiting for the stout woman ahead of her, who was bent over the table signing her name and address. Now Sarah looked up.
“Sarah, be a sport. Kathleen here has a rush appointment. Would you let her squeeze in ahead?”
Sarah Goldsmith waved her cigarette. “Hello, Kathleen. Of course; go ahead.”
“I really don’t like to do this,” said Kathleen apologetically. She turned to protest to Grace, but Grace was already yards off, breaking into clusters of women, herding them into line.
Sarah had stepped back, waiting. Kathleen moved in front of her. “I was coming back,” she said lamely.
“Next,” called Miss Selby from the table.
Kathleen faced the table, smiled uncertainly, accepted the proffered pen, and hastily signed her name and address to the long sheet.
“Did you enjoy the lecture?” asked Miss Selby.
“Yes,” said Kathleen. She felt dull and a living lie. “It was very instructive.”
She quickly returned the pen, stepped away, then remembered Sarah.
“Thanks, Sarah. How’s the family?”
“Status quo. Nothing fatal this week, knock wood.”
“We must have lunch. I’ll call you soon.”
“I wish you would.”
Free at last, yet less free than before (sentenced to some future terror with her name and address committed to the long sheet), Kathleen went quickly to the door and then through it.
Outside, on the sidewalk, she stood in the sun a moment, trying to remember where she had parked, and then remembering. The street ahead was happily still empty. She neither wanted to see anyone nor discuss the lecture with anyone. Slowly, she started down Romola Place.
* * *
From the second-story window of The Briars’ Women’s Association building, Paul Radford gazed into Romola Place. There was a lone woman directly below, walking slowly down the hill. He could not see her face, but her glossy hair was dark and short, and it seemed to shine in the orange sunlight. The beige sweater and skirt appeared expensive. Paul wished he could see her face.
He shifted his pipe from one corner of his mouth to the other, drawing steadily, blowing out the blue-gray smoke, and never taking his eyes off the lone woman. She was off the sidewalk now, crossing between cars, opening the door of a Mercedes. Holding the door ajar, she settled into the front seat, one leg in and one leg out. The skirt was drawn high over the long, slender, exposed leg, and from this distance, it looked good. Then the leg was withdrawn. The door slammed.
With a sigh for all the women unmet, Paul turned back into the room. He watched Horace and Cass at the table sorting the questionnaires.
“Looks like the old man sold them,” Paul said at last. “The lecture’s over, but only a few came out.”
Horace continued to work silently. But Cass seemed hopeful. “Then this is the last stop,” he said. He rattled a questionnaire in his hand. “Dammit, I’m sick to the gut of these questions.”
“We’re illuminating a dark area,” said Paul with a grin.
“Shove it,” said Cass. He glared at the questionnaire. He read aloud from it in a mocking tone. “Since you have engaged in an extramarital affair, or affairs, can you answer the following supplementary question: During the first occasion on which you had sexual intercourse with a male other than your husband, were you the aggressor, or were you seduced, or was the mating a mutual act?’” His eyes left the page, met Paul’s, and his eyes were filled with anger. “Bitches,” he said finally.
“Who?” asked Paul with a frown.
“Married women,” said Cass. “All of them.”
And he resumed sorting the questionnaires for the married women of The Briars.
4
VILLA NEAPOLIS was the kind of motel for which Petronius might have written the advertising pamphlet. Its architect had crossed the villas of early Rome and the modem Mediterranean and the resulting hybrid structure of wood and stucco was arresting if not aesthetically commendable. The sixty apartments of Villa Neapolis, on two levels, sprawled indolently across the summit of a long hill. From an upper veranda, the view was spectacular—a patch of the blue ocean behind a moist gauze haze to the west, a woodland of green knolls rising before a university campus to the east, and, directly below, beyond the great cement circle of heated swimming pool and multicolored patio lounges, beyond the sharply descending gravel road lined with royal palms, the asphalt ribbon of Sunset Boulevard twisted through The Briars.
Emil Ackerman had made the reservations at the Villa Neapolis—a suite for Dr. Chapman, a double for Paul and Horace, a single for Cass, and a single for Miss Selby—because the motel was relatively new and patronized by passing celebrities, because the proprietor was beholden to Ackerman for some past favor and agreeable to a cut rate for two weeks, and because the location was but a mile east of The Village Green and Romola Place, where the Women’s Association building stood. Dr. Chapman, usually too preoccupied to appreciate or disapprove of any transient habitation, had been impressed with the Villa Neapolis and had been effusively grateful to his political patron.
Now it was early Sunday morning, and Dr. Chapman, in sport shirt and linen slacks, sat at a white metal table beneath the shade of a large striped umbrella eating breakfast with Horace and Cass. Dr. Chapman picked thoughtfully at his eggs and bacon, Horace worked steadily at his pancakes, and Cass ignored his French toast to watch an awkward sixteen-year-old blond girl pad from the cabanas to the diving board.
“Well,” said Dr. Chapman, cutting his bacon with a fork, “I’m glad we’re going to wind it up here.”
“I think you told me—but I’m afraid I’ve forgotten—how many volunteers did we get?” asked Horace.
“A most gratifying response,” said Dr. Chapman. “The Association has 286 members, of which 220 are eligible for our survey. Benita has the exact figures, but I believe 201 or 202 volunteered. Assuming that seven to ten percent, for one reason or another, do not appear, we will still have enough. I’ve already sent a wire canceling our tentative visit to San Francisco.”
He returned to his bacon and eggs, Horace cleaned his syrupy plate with the last portion of pancake, and Cass continued to watch the sixteen-year-old blonde. She had knelt beside the pool to test the water, and then made her way to the edge of the diving board. Now she executed a graceful jackknife, cleaving the water cleanly, and a moment later, she burst to the surface. Her long stroking arms brought her quickly to the ladder of the pool. She climbed out, hair stringy wet, face and limbs dripping, yellow suit clinging to her small round breasts and hips. Hastily, avoiding Cass’s gaze, she tugged her skirt low.
As she trotted back to the board, Cass poked at Horace’s arm and nodded off. “Look at that behind,” he whispered.
Horace fished for a cigarette, “Jail bait,” he murmured. “I prefer them full grown.”
“Each to his own,” said Cass. His eyes followed the girl. “I suppose almost every girl under seventeen or sixteen is pretty. They won’t all be pretty in a few years, but they are now. Youth is beauty in itself. Every contour of the body is new. After that—” he turned back to the table and shook his head— “after that they all become used and worn. It’s too bad.”
Dr. Chapman had not been listening, but now he raised his head. “What’s bothering you, Cass?”
“The human condition,” said Cass lightly, “with accent on the female.”
There was the sound of someone descending the wooden stairs, and they all turned. It was Paul Radford, in white tennis shirt and shorts, his knobby knees and bare legs accentuating his height. He greeted his colleagues, and then, almost imperceptibly, flashed a signal to Dr. Chapman, who promptly lifted himself out of the wicker chair with a grunt.
Paul and Dr. Chapman sauntered across the sunny flagstone patio, until they were out of earshot of the others. Paul halted. “I just spoke to Dr. Jonas,” he said.
“Personally?”
“Yes. He was at home.”
Dr. Chapman waited, anxiety on his face.
“It was quite brief,” Paul continued. “I simply introduced myself. I told him we were finishing our survey here, that we’d be here two weeks, and—well—that I’d like to meet him.”
“What did he say to that? Was he surprised?”
Paul considered. “No, not surprised. Matter of fact, I felt he was rather expecting to hear from you or from one of us; he said he knew we were in town, he’d read about it.”
“He’s a crafty one, that one.”
“Perhaps,” said Paul. “He sounded quite down-to-earth, pleasant—really friendly.”
“Don’t let him hoodwink you. I know all about him. You keep your guard up.”
“Of course. I was extremely cautious.”
“To be sure,” said Dr. Chapman. “Did he want to know why you were asking to meet him?”
“Not a word. He just said he’d be delighted. I felt some kind of explanation was in order. I said, `Dr. Jonas, we’ve read what you’ve written about Dr. Chapman’s work and we’ve been concerned—upset about certain public comments you have made and interested and impressed by others.’ I went on like that; I told him that he and the four of us were, in a sense, in the same field, with a common goal, even if our approaches were different. I thought that I might profit by talking to him, and I told him that he might find it useful to see me. He was quite affable and agreeable.”
“Did he ask about me?” Dr. Chapman wanted to know. “Not a word, until we’d made a date, and then he said,`Of course, Radford, your boss is invited to come along, too.’”
“Your boss—is that what he said?”
“It wasn’t disrespectful. His vocabulary is on the informal side.”
“When are you meeting him?”
“Monday night—tomorrow—after dinner, around eight, at his place. He has a house in Cheviot Hills. I believe that’s about a half hour from here.”
Dr. Chapman was thinking hard, biting his lower lip. “Well, I’m glad,” he said. “If he’s as friendly as you say, he may be receptive to our proposition. Let me mull over the whole thing today and brief you once more after dinner tonight.”
“Fine.”
“Preparedness,” said Dr. Chapman. “As the Good Book says, `Let your loins be girded about, and your lights burning.”
Paul saw Benita Selby, carrying a large paper bag, hurriedly crossing the patio toward them. She held up the bag triumphantly. “All done,” she said.
Dr. Chapman turned. “What is it?”
“I worked out the entire interview schedule,” she said, “and finished the post cards.” She tapped the bag. “They’re all right here.”
“How many cards?” asked Dr. Chapman.
“Two hundred and one, exactly.”
“Let me see now,” said Dr. Chapman, calculating. “There’ll be three of you interviewing—I’m begging off this last time, Paul, since I want to catch up on the paper work—well now, three of you can handle six women apiece, daily, eighteen a day in all. In eleven working days, you’ll have recorded 198 women—more than will show up, I warrant. Fine. That means, allowing for next Sunday off, we should be out of here two weeks from—when do the interviews start, Senile”
“Tuesday, Doctor. They’ll all have the notices tomorrow morning, and Tuesday they can start reporting.”
“Plan to get us out of here two weeks from today.”
“I’ll make the reservations tomorrow,” said Benita.
“Now, you’d better get those cards in the mail,” said Dr. Chapman. “There’s a post office just across from the auditorium. It’s closed, but there’s a box in front. There’ll be several pickups this afternoon. We’ve rented two cars—a new Ford and a Dodge—came in an hour ago. They’re in stalls forty-nine and fifty.” He dug into his trouser pocket and extracted two rings of keys. “Take the Ford.”
“Has it got power brakes?” asked Benita. “I get so nervous—”
“I’ll drive you,” said Paul. “I’ve got to pick up some tobacco, anyway.” He took the manila bag from her. He studied it. “Well, may our last crop be our best,”
“Don’t you worry,” said Dr. Chapman. “I had a good look at those women Friday. Most intelligent lot I’ve seen in months. Besides, Emil couldn’t speak too highly of The Briars. Some of the finest families in the city, he said.”
“I don’t care if they’re the finest,” said Paul. “I just care about whether they’re the most interesting. I’m going to be listening to sixty-six of them in eleven days.”
“As the psychiatrist said, ‘Who listens?’ ” said Benita.
“Please mail those cards,” said Dr. Chapman, with the dedicated insistence of one who had already humbled the marmoset, the lemur, and the human male.
The post-office branch that serviced The Briars furnished its mailmen with three-wheeled, gas-driven, seven-and-a-half-horsepower scooters, painted red, white, and blue, to deliver mail more efficiently to houses so widely separated by their large surrounding yards. The mailmen guided their scooters swiftly from box to box, stuffing letters into each and gunning their motors as they raced to the next stop. In this way, all the mail destined for the houses in The Briars was fully deposited in boxes before noon, and Monday was no exception.
* * *
The post card addressed to Mrs. Kathleen Ballard had the following information on the back: “Your interview will take place from 4 to 5:15 at The Briars’ Women’s Association building, on Thursday, May 28.” The information was mimeographed, except for the time, day, and date, which had been filled in by pen.
The card lay on the Biedemeir tea table in the living room with the usual Monday-morning accumulation of unimportant mail—two magazines, a department-store circular, the dairy bill, the new gasoline credit card, an invitation to a fashion show for charity, and the regular semi-monthly lavender page of trivia from an older married sister in Vermont.
Kathleen had the cup of hot coffee to her lips, and over the top of the cup she could see the heap of mail. She had glanced through it, minutes before J. Ronald Metzgar arrived, and had seen the card. She had already determined to tear the card up the moment Metzgar was gone, and if anyone phoned she would plead illness. The illness would be a lingering one and would last the entire two weeks that the doctor and his team were in The Briars. Now, aware that Metzgar was still talking, as he had been almost steadily for the past half hour, she turned her face to him and pretended comprehension.
Metzgar, she had noted long ago, had been type cast for his role in life. He looked exactly like a man who, at sixty-two, would still play tennis instead of golf, would have his third wife from society circles (each wife progressively younger and more ladylike), would be president of something terribly rich and important known as Radcone Aircraft. His wavy silver hair, rimless glasses, small, trim mustache, and smooth-shaved banker’s face personified executive. He was probably just under six feet, stocky rather than fat, and vain about his good health. His voice was high-pitched, and his words tumbled and overlapped in their haste, and he was said to be business shrewd and clever in a way that Kathleen had always secretly felt was obvious and overrated.
Early in the morning, Metzgar had telephoned from San Pedro to say that he would be returning to the plant in the valley and would like to look in on Kathleen about ten o’clock. He had arrived within a minute of ten o’clock, in a chauffeured black limousine now parked out in the driveway, and for a half hour he had rambled on about a recent vacation to Hawaii, labor problems, the usual incompetence resulting from too much government, and recent researches in atomic-powered aircraft. During all this, Kathleen had wondered if he were here for any special purpose, beyond a compulsive visit to the shrine.
