(1961) The Chapman Report (18 page)

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, Benita?”

“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.

She saw that his coffee cup was empty and interrupted. “Jay-” Boynton had always called him Jay, and she had eventually been forced to do the same-“let me get Albertine to bring some more coffee.” Albertine was the thin, sinewy, crisply dressed Mulatto day worker, with gold teeth much admired by Deirdre, who appeared five times a week to make the beds, dust half the furniture, break the cups, and read in a singsong to Deirdre before bedtime.

“No, thanks, Katie. I’ll be on my way in a few minutes.”

“You’ve only just come.” The amenities.

“It’s wrong, I know, to rush about like this. There’s always too much to do. I suppose I don’t delegate enough. As Boy used to say, ‘Knock it off, Jay; you only live once-enjoy it, make the peasants work for you.’ And you know, when Boy said it, why, it would bring me up short. I’d take stock. I’d say to myself, He has the right philosophy. And I’d really be more sensible for a day or two. Unchain myself from the desk. I’ve never known another man so understanding of the real meaning and values of life.”

Kathleen said nothing.

Metzgar glanced at her, and, like everyone, perhaps more than anyone, misunderstood. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I guess I’ve always got him on my mind-always will. It’s not fair to you.”

She wanted to shout. But the civilizing process that had begun twenty-eight years before tightened its clamp of restraint. “It doesn’t upset me any more,” she said firmly. “Life goes on. Boynton was alive. Now he’s dead. It’s a fact. It’ll happen to all of us.”

She was sure that Metzgar did not like this. He was still smoothing his mustache with a finger, blinking down at the coffee cup. “Well, certainly, I think that’s the only attitude-that’s healthy,”

he said at last, doubt releasing each word one at a time. “As a matter of fact, there was something I wanted to discuss with you about Boy. It concerns both of us. Jim Scoville told me he saw you last week.”

“Yes, briefly. He had a few last questions about the book.” “The book,” said Metzgar as a priest might say Deuteronomy. “You know, Katie, we want this book to represent everything Boy stood for.”

“I’m sure it will. Jim’s very conscientious-and properly worshipful.”

A slight flicker of disapproval winked across Metzgar’s face at the levity of the last. “I feel strongly-and I know you do, too-that we must allow nothing to happen that might impair the public’s image of Boy as he is remembered and as he will be truly represented in the book.” “I don’t understand you.”

“Jim Scoville happened to remark that you were allowing yourself to get involved in this sex survey-this Dr. Chapman thing. I’m sure Jim misunderstood you.”

“Not at all,” said Kathleen. “I belong to a perfectly respectable club that was selected for questioning, and I volunteered with all the rest.”

“But, Katie, don’t you see-you’re not like all the rest; you hold a peculiar, special position in the eyes of the public. You were married to a hero. To many, it would violate the trust he left you-it would disappoint-if you allowed yourself to be forced to … to discuss certain matters about Boy and yourself that properly belong to only Boy and yourself.”

Kathleen felt the hot twitch of her nerve fibers. “Good God, Jay, what are you trying to make me into-or Boynton? We were married, husband and wife, and we were like any other couple, despite what you may think. In the eyes of Dr. Chapman, I’m just another married-once married-woman, and Boynton was the man to whom I was married. It’s all perfectly anonymous and scientific-“

“It’s not right,” interrupted Metzgar. “It’s not fitting to your station. You just can’t see how it looks to an outsider. As for the anonymity, you’re too famous, and so is Boy, and it’s bound to get out.”

“What if it did? Every reader of your book will know I’m no longer a virgin, and Boynton was not quite a eunuch-“

“Really, Katie-“

“No, I mean it. We were married. We slept together. How was Deirdre born-by immaculate conception?”

“That’s different. That’s normal and clean. But-well, you must know this-all kinds of dirty and abnormal sex connotations are associated with Dr. Chapman’s survey. His report on married women will be made public, and everyone will know you participated.”

‘With three or four thousand others.”

“That’s not the point. Please don’t go through with it, Katie. It’s not like you.”

She saw that he was an anxious child, this tycoon, this great man, humbled still by a vision of the man he had always wanted to be. She saw that further discussion would be useless. Metzgar had not the perception, or desire even, to understand what the truth might have been, and it was simply no use with him. Now she wanted him out of the house, far away, like an old bad dream.

‘Well, if you feel that fiercely about it-” she said.

“I do. It’s you I’m thinking of, Katie. Call them and cancel it.”

“All right, Jay. I will.”

“Good girl. You’re right-minded, and I knew you would see what was right.” He rose to his feet, inflated with self-satisfaction. This is the way he must look and feel, she thought, after putting over one of those million-dollar deals. “You’ve let me go back to work with a clear head. Shall we have dinner one night soon?”

“I’d love to.”

“I’ll have Irene call you.”

After he had driven off in his black limousine, she closed the front door, absently stared at the gold silk walls of her small entry hall, then walked restlessly into the large living room. Often, when she was disturbed, the quiet elegance of the room, so devotedly furnished, pleased and soothed her. Now, studying the long, low sofa covered with Venetian silk, the flanking turquoise Thaibok chairs, the tea table, the exquisite collection of porcelain Chinois-erie, the sliding Spanish grilled panels that hid the bar to the left of the fireplace, the three shelves of boxed Limited Editions Club books, there was little pleasure in it. The harmonious and comforting refinement of the room seemed to have no salutary effect on her jumbled brain.