The Chapman Report, page 24
The silly cane and walnut screen had been an immediate annoyance. In her manic mood, which was exhibitionistic and seductive, she had wanted to be admired openly and had looked forward to observing her male interviewer’s face as she shocked and excited him, and reduced him finally to sexual suppliant. These feelings in Naomi were especially heightened when she heard Paul Radford’s voice, which she decided was sexy and promising.
But his opening questions had made her thoughtful and dampened her disposition. She did not like telling him that she was already thirty-one, and that she had been brought up in strict Catholicism, against which she had revolted, and that she had not even finished high school. And then, worse, all those dreary details, distasteful even, of her preadolescent and adolescent years. Why was anyone ever that young? When she read biographies or long novels, or at least when she used to, she had always made it a point to skip the early sections about growing up. Now, thank God, her own early years were behind her, and the man had announced that they would discuss premarital coitus. Why coitus, after all that pompous prattle about frankness and bringing it into the open? Why not plain fucking? That’s what it was, anyway. That’s what it was, and she could tell them. My God, she was drunk.
She realized that an unlighted cigarette was dangling from her lips. She fumbled for a match, and then became aware of the sexy voice addressing her again. She applied the light to her cigarette, coughed, shook the match out and dropped it to the floor. She narrowed her eyes and tried to listen.
“…that period from puberty to marriage. Did you ever engage in premarital coitus?”
“I certainly did.”
“How many partners did you have—one? two to ten? eleven to twenty-five? or more?”
“More.”
“Can you estimate how many?”
“It’s hard to remember.”
“Maybe I can help. After puberty, at what age did you first engage in lovemaking?”
“Thirteen—no, fourteen—I was just fourteen.”
“And the last time, before you were married?”
“The week before the wedding.” She remembered. She had wanted satin pumps for the wedding. The shoe clerk with the Hapsburg jaw. He wouldn’t take his hand off her leg. Should she explain? “I had to,” she said. “My husband wouldn’t until it was official.”
“You were twenty-five then?”
“Just about.”
“That leaves eleven premarital years—”
“About fifty,” she said suddenly.
“What?”
“About fifty men. Mostly after I was twenty-one.” She smiled, trying to picture his face behind the screen, and blew a smoke ring and felt superior.
There was a momentary silence. Then Paul spoke again. “In these affairs—I must ask this—did you accept favors?”
“What does that mean?” she asked.
“Well, cash gifts—”
“Hey now! Wait a minute, mister. If you’re inferring that I was a prostitute—”
“I’m inferring nothing. I’m merely inquiring for the record.”
“Well, you put this in your little black book. And get it right. Nobody ever touched me unless I wanted it, and I did it for love—do you understand?—because I wanted to, and no other reason.”
“Of course. Please don’t misunderstand—”
“See that you don’t misunderstand.”
“Shall we go on?”
She felt angry and dizzy, and glared at the screen. The nerve of the man.
“Where did these affairs usually take place?” Paul asked.
“Everywhere. Who remembers?”
“But most often?”
“Wherever I lived. I’ve been on my own since I was a kid.”
“Did you achieve satisfaction on any of these occasions?”
“What’s your guess?”
His guess was negative, but her answer was an insistent affirmative. Her capabilities, Naomi argued indignantly, were the match of any man alive.
There were several more questions, and then Paul stated that they would next cover the marital relationship. With trembling hand, Naomi lighted a fresh cigarette off the stub of the old, and waited.
“You were married only once?”
“Thank God.”
“For how long?”
“Six years.”
“Are you divorced?”
“Almost three years ago.”
“Have you had any relations with your former husband since?”
“I haven’t even seen him.”
Paul began to probe her life with her husband. Her replies to his inquiries were alternatingly flippant and hostile.
Once, having made some slighting remark about her husband, she seemed to regret it and was anxious to amend her pronouncement. “Don’t get me wrong,” she said, remembering the better times and hating to be harsh and spoil her best memories. “He was sweet. He wasn’t so bad as I’ve made out. We had our moments.”
Naomi’s humor returned gradually in the next ten minutes, as Paul continued to examine her married life. By the time he reached the subject of extramarital relationships, she was in the best of spirits. The dizziness had departed, and she was beginning to feel at ease, except for the lack of a drink.
“You were married six years,” said Paul “Did you ever engage in extramarital petting—petting only?”
“Most women do. I’m no different.”
“Can you recount—”
She did so, lustily.
When she was finished, Paul inquired about her actual affairs. “Did you have any with male partners other than your husband?”
This had been the beginning of the trouble. “Look,” she said suddenly, “maybe I can save us both time. I’ll tell you straight out, and we can get it over with. He was a great guy. I mean it. But he couldn’t satisfy me. I just wasn’t happy. Maybe I never will be. I meant to be faithful, and I tried—I really tried. But you’re not a woman. You don’t know what it’s like to need love and not have it, at least not have what you need. So I cheated. Not at all the first year. But I got nervous as a cat, and I was afraid I’d come apart. So I knew I had to do what I did. But I was careful I didn’t want to spoil what we had. I really wanted him but I wanted everyone else, too. Do you understand?”
“I think so.”
“I was discreet. I’d go downtown and find someone in the movie or in a bar or go shopping in the next city. I know you like statistics. I’ll try to give you a few. For five years, after the first year, there was a man every—no, let me put it right—the first few years, I wouldn’t do it more than once a month.”
“With the same partner or different partners?”
“Different ones, of course—always—they never even knew my name. I couldn’t risk getting involved. But it kept getting worse. Pretty soon I had nothing else on my mind. I thought I’d go insane. It became two, and then three a month. Finally, every week. Once someone—a friend’s wife—saw me in another city with a man and that scared me witless, and then I was away so much—well, my husband became suspicious. No, that’s not right. He trusted me. He became curious. So, for a while, I determined to stop going out. But I couldn’t stay home. Just sit waiting for him. I was out of my mind. So when I got really desperate, I’d try strangers in the neighborhood. It wasn’t easy. And it made me jumpy. Anyway, there was a school kid—not a kid exactly—he was twenty, and whenever I ran into him, I could see he was wild about me. Always staring at my bust. Well, I liked him a little, and he looked virile, and I began thinking that if I could get to trust him and have him when I needed him, maybe that would be enough and safer all around. One night, I knew my husband would be working—he had some hush-hush spare-time job—so I went out and found the boy and invited him over for the evening. Well, my husband went out about seven, and this boy showed up right after—he’d been watching from the street and I remember, it was one of my bad nights. I simply couldn’t wait. The minute he came in, I told him that I wasn’t interested in conversation or tea or necking. I wish you could have seen his face, poor baby. He was afraid to use the house, so I took him out on the back lawn, and we just lay on the grass. It was wet and mad and wonderful. He was a good boy. I came when he did, and we just stayed there like two beat animals, and then, suddenly, someone turned on the backyard lights, and it was my husband. The kid ran off, and there I was. I wanted my husband to beat me, to kill me. I was so ashamed. But he just stood there crying. That was the worst part. I tried to get him to kill me. I told him about some of the others, not all, just some. And all he did was cry. Then he walked out, and I never saw him again. So I came to California and got the divorce—my old man was living here, but his wife’s a bitch, and I couldn’t stay with them. I had some money from my mother, so I bought a house in The Briars. I figured here I’d meet a decent guy. I sure did, and how. I met plenty. All married. You want to know my record for the last three years? Twice a week, maybe. I’m able to keep it down to that by drinking. You’d be surprised how it helps. I mean, if you drink enough. Anyway—” she halted, breathless a moment, and squinted at the screen, wondering what he was thinking— “I don’t care what you think,” she said. “You want the truth. I’m not ashamed. We’re all built differently. I bet you think I’m an old bag. Well, I’m not. Get rid of that lousy screen, and you’ll see. Men think it shows on women, but it doesn’t. Anyway, it’s healthy if it’s natural, and it’s natural for me. Of course—” she halted again and decided that she wanted his good opinion— “I guess you’ll want to know for your survey that I’ve reformed. I haven’t done it once in three weeks. That’s the truth, too. And it wasn’t so hard to do, either. Like smoking. I once stopped for a month. You get withdrawal pains, sure, but if you make up your mind, you can do anything. You believe that, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do.” Paul’s voice was low.
“I’m going to get a job. I’ve made up my mind. I have an appointment right after I leave here. That’ll keep me busy until I get married. If I just find the right man—I mean somebody who matches me—I’ll be all right; you’ll see.”
“I sincerely hope so.”
She fell back against the chair and closed her eyes, and finally, she opened them. She felt better all around. “Well, you’ve got to admit, I’ve fattened up the batting average for The Briars… Any more questions?”
* * *
There was still the last of Tuesday’s daylight left, and Naomi’s frame of mind since departing the Association building was one of unnatural excitement. The experience had been curiously stimulating and it had, in a way she did not understand, sanctioned her past conduct. Celibacy and continence seemed the lesser virtues.
Once she arrived at the boulevard stop light and turned west, Naomi knew that she would not keep the eight-o’clock appointment with Kathleen Ballard. Filled with high resolve at noon, she had telephoned Kathleen, and after exchanging gossip about mutual friends and recounting a Dr. Chapman joke that was current, she had asked to see Kathleen. Naomi had frankly told Kathleen that she wanted a favor of her—that is, if Kathleen was still on good terms with J. Ronald Metzgar of Radcone. Kathleen had said that she was, and hoped that she could be of help. They agreed to meet at Kathleen’s house immediately after dinner.
Naomi made one brief stop. She parked in the lot beside Dr. Schultz’s Twenty-Four-Hour Pet Hospital and asked the night attendant to release Colonel, her five-year-old cocker spaniel. Naomi had acquired Colonel as a pup, because he was the only cocker she had ever seen who did not have sad eyes. Several months before, she had put him up at the pet hospital because feeding him, cleaning him, walking him, had become too much of a chore. But today she wanted him back. While the attendant went to fetch Colonel, Naomi scribbled a check. When Colonel was brought forward, tail wagging uncontrollably at the sight of her, she felt ashamed at having neglected him so long.
With Colonel on the seat beside her, lapping gratefully at her free hand, Naomi drove hastily home. She left the car in the garage, led Colonel into the house, and gave him some milk. While he was occupied, she hastened to the bathroom, freshened her makeup, returned to the kitchen, poured a double Scotch, and, not bothering with ice, she drank it down grimacing, and then felt warm and eager again.
She found the red leash, hooked it to Colonel’s collar, and started for the front door with him.
“I’m going to take you for a walk, poopsie,” she said.
Outside, it was dark at last, and the street lights were on. Wrapping the leash around her hand, she held Colonel in restraint as she crossed the lawn to the street. There were no sidewalks in The Briars, despite the annual petitions from parents with children, and Naomi walked close to the curbing, past the hedges of her nearest neighbor, and continued down the block.
Approaching the fifth house from her own, the Agajanian house, she slowed. The plan that had formulated in her mind, during the latter portion of the interview, was that she would stroll past the Agajanian house, and that Wash Dillon would be outside and see her, or that he would see her and come outside. And if that didn’t happen on the way going, she would stop on the way back and ring the doorbell. If Wash answered, she would say that she wanted to see him after dinner. He would understand and find a way. If Mrs. Dillon answered, or more likely one of the Agajanians, she would say that she was a neighbor and that she wished Mr. Dillon to appraise the value of a rare record collection she had taken on approval.
She had arrived before the white colonial. Beyond the row of birch trees, she could see that the lights were on. Someone was at home. She looked about the front lawn. No one was in sight. Lest somebody detect her from the window, she continued her stroll with Colonel. Nearing the driveway, she heard the pat-pat-pat of a leather ball on the cement. In the illumination of the garage lights, a skinny boy was dribbling a basketball and trying to bit the hoop attached to the top of the garage.
This was Wash Dillon’s son, she remembered, and his name was Johnny. She wondered what she should do, but then there seemed no choice. She must see Wash tonight. “Johnny,” she called.
He turned, startled.
“It’s Mrs. Shields.”
He came toward her curiously, and then he recognized her. “Oh, hello.”
“Is your father home?”
“Naw. He left us last night.”
“What do you mean?”
“He took all his things. He had a fight with Ma and hit her. I don’t think he’s coming back.”
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know. ‘Course, he’s still at Jorrocks’ Jollities. That’s Mr. Agajanian’s nightclub.”
“I know…. Well, I’m sorry, Johnny.”
“Makes no diff. He’s never home anyway. Sa-ay, that’s a nice dog.”
“Yes. Good night, Johnny.”
“Good night, Miss.”
There was no point in going further. Naomi tugged at the leash and started back.
In the kitchen again, she pulled off her coat, threw it on a dinette chair, and opened the cupboard. There were still three cans of dog food. She opened one, emptied it into a deep dish, lured Colonel into the service porch, and then closed the kitchen door on him. He would eat and sleep. The question was—would she?
The electric clock on the oven said seven twenty-two. She wasn’t hungry, except for Wash. She knew that there was still time to have something and drive over to Kathleen’s. But she had no desire to see Kathleen or talk about a job. Dammit, she didn’t want some dreary old job. She wanted a home with someone in it—someone.
The bottle of Scotch, half filled, was beside the sink, and there was the glass. She had to think things out. She poured three shots, until the amber liquid almost came to the top of the glass, and she drank. She leaned back against the sink and drank steadily. The fluid invaded her limbs and chest and encircled her groin. The feeling was not of warmth but of heat.
She evoked the image of Wash Dillon as she had seen him the day before yesterday, standing at the front door with the post card. It was not his shaggy hair, or death head with the face all pocked, or insolent smile, or great length of body, that she saw, but instead a towering phallus that moved at her through the mesh of door screen.
She wondered, do other women have such obscene visions? They must. Purity was the civilized Lie. Behind it, hid Desire and Lust. In his lecture, Dr. Chapman had said that there was nothing unique any woman could tell him, that most women did everything, thought everything, only never admitted it to anyone except to him, and that nothing you felt was truly unique. Was that what he had said exactly? She could not remember now.
She finished the drink and tipped the bottle toward the glass again. Her hand was unsteady and some of the liquor splashed on the sink. Holding the filled glass, she felt the searing flame across her body. The pain of the fiery torture must be quenched. For a single second, she considered trying to reach the nightclub and seek out Wash. But then the searing flame was gone, and in its wake lay a charred wasteland of agony.
She stared at the blurred glass in her hand and knew that no human being, not Wash, not anyone, could halt the agony or save what had already been devastated. There was only one course left, one measure that would end this malady that had invaded flesh and spirit. She set the glass on the sink and staggered out of the kitchen. In her passage to the bedroom, she tried to snap on the hall light but missed the switch, and finally had to return to get the light on. Blindly, she felt her way in the darkened bedroom.
With a jerky motion, she drew the drapes together. The final privacy, she thought. She moved to the foot of the bed and methodically disrobed. The clothes, she had decided, were part of the pain, and now she wanted nothing on her skin. She kicked off her shoes. She pulled the sweater upward over her head and cast it aside. She fumbled behind, managed to unhook her nylon lace brassiere, slid the straps down her arms, and dropped it. She unzippered her skirt and let it fall, and then removed the garter belt. Groping for the edge of the bed, she found it, and sat, and quickly rolled off her stockings.
