(1961) The Chapman Report (42 page)

Her temples were ablaze. “Mr. Foster-” “Yes!” he shouted, reiterating his command. He reached for her, but she tore free of his grasp and slapped him with all her strength. “You pig-you filthy pig!” “You’re the pig.”

She leaped to her feet, to evade him, grabbing for her purse and then the manuscript.

He sat, wheezing, and his voice was now a pleading whine. “Ursula-listen, sweetheart-I can help you-anything-“

She started for the door.

“You did it before!” he shouted. “You like it!”

She had the doorknob.

“You leave, and you leave the job-everything!” ‘ From the open door, she wheeled. “You know what you can do with your job?” she shouted back. And then, like a longshoreman (she would remember later), she told him. And then she fled, past the elevators, down the three flights of stairs, through the lobby, and she did not stop running until she had reached the car. Then, and only then, did the full impact of her break with the past, not

the future but the past, strike her forcefully. Curiously, she felt no need to weep. Through the windshield, between the two tall, gray office buildings ahead, she could see the lowering blue-green mountains to the north, every furry crag and crevice defined. It was a wonderfully clear day for California, she was pleased to note.

Still comfortable on Naomi’s sofa, Kathleen Ballard had hardly moved in a half hour. A dozen playlets, produced by daydreams,

had intervened between herself and the mystery novel on her lap. In each playlet, the hero was always Paul, but the heroine bore a different countenance imposed upon her own person. Ursula Palmer had come and gone, and Ruth Joyce, and Felicia Scoville, and now she had introduced Sarah Goldsmith into her corporeal being, on her private stage, and had presented her to Paul.

Considering Sarah, Kathleen could see how her natural warmth, her down-to-earth housewifeliness, her air of fecundity, would appeal to a man like Paul. Surely, in Kathleen’s situation, she would react affectionately and generously. It was a matter of the forty-eight chromosomes, in the end. How did the Creator distribute them? How Sarah hers, and how me, mine, my mashed, dried gelatinous genes that gave me my me-ness? Genetically, Sarah has it by a unanimous decision.

Never, since that Halloween night when she was six or seven and the headless skeleton had risen shrieking from behind the fence, and she and the others had bruised and bloodied themselves in their heart-stopping scramble to the illuminated shelter of the main street, had Sarah Goldsmith known such icy fear.

Flattened against the living-room wall, behind the drape, beside the large window, she peered outside. The Dodge had not moved, nor the dark avenging spirit of haunting guilt that was inside it. Withdrawing from the glass pane with a breathless gasp, Sarah pushed herself from the wall, and, steadying herself on the furniture she passed, made her way on collapsible legs to the kitchen.

For the third time this morning, since she had first sighted the car and the driver after Sam’s departure, she was dialing Fred’s number. Since the terror of Monday, she had awaited the return of the avenging spirit, the adhesive conscience, the all-knowing eye. But on Tuesday, and again Wednesday, the street had remained empty, and, following Fred’s advice, she had remained away from his bed and stayed anchored to Sam’s house.

This morning she had mystically, neurotically, compulsively, latched her peace of mind to the number three. If three days would pass with the street empty, then she and Fred were safe, and it had all been a coincidence. But on this, the third watch, the Dodge had been inexorably waiting, and her magical incantation had melted before a demoralizing reality. Even as she had telephoned Fred to report the terror, her dependence had been on the number three, the third call that would find him in his apartment. But her wizardry had vanished. The devil rode a Dodge, and bewitchery had fled from her hands to his.

The telephone buzz hummed persistently, mechanically subdued, controlled, unable to exclaim the urgency of her panic.

At last, she returned the receiver to the hook. Fred was out, and she was alone with their evil. The slant walls of the house were the rising tide, engulfing her, and the only refuge lay in the sun, where also waited the danger. But outdoors was the sanity of her living Street, and friends, and the path to Fred’s apartment, and ultimate safety.

Who was the shadowing, four-wheeled figure anyway? A man. A ear. A detective on duty. A commercial shadow, fifty dollars a day, hired, fired. By whom? Mrss Tauber? Sam? But look, she was invincible, Sarah told herself, free, white, a mother, a shopper, with daylight her armor. How could the four-wheeled figure harm her more? Follow again? Make another note? For Sam? Mrs. Tauber? There were notes enough, surely, already. More did not matter. What mattered was seeing Fred, measuring, evaluating, deciding, knowing someone stood beside her, flintlock in hand, defying the world to jeer her scarlet letter.

She found her leather jacket in the closet and reached the front door and opened it. For a moment, she hesitated, saw the gardener across the way, then the Dodge, and then she hurried into the sun and daylight. Once in the cool station wagon, she swiftly started it, backed out, attained the street, made the turn away from the parked conscience, and then turned again, and when she was in the traffic on Wilshire Boulevard, she was relieved to find no reflection of the Dodge in her rear-view mirror.

There was no memory of the ride to Beverly Hills, and no sight of the terrifying shadow. But crossing Santa Monica Boulevard, past the great hotel, she thought she saw in her mirror, two cars back, the familiar grill. She made the right turn south, then two blocks, and, across from Fred’s apartment, she parked. She tore herself from the front seat, searched behind, and felt limp pleasure in the view of the street barren of traffic and enemy.

She hastened into the apartment building, up the flight of stain more familiar than Sam’s front door, and it was when she turned to touch the doorbell that she saw the sheet of paper pasted with Scotch tape above the knocker.

There was a message, classically slanted, printed, in Fred’s hand. “Reggie,” it began-a name unknown to her, but male-“Had to skip out early to the barrister-” jocular, although maybe not, but indicating no crisis-“and will be closeted with him through lunch. Will settle the matter and call you late afternoon. Forgive me. Sit on the phone and wait. Fred.”

Sarah’s disappointment at Fred’s absence was now tempered by a new bright hope. It would require no Champollion to decipher this discovery. Fred had spoken often about seeing an attorney to divest himself from the juiceless Mrs. Tauber. But always Sarah’s questions had hung unanswered, deferring to the immediacy of their clinging bodies, and afterward the questions had evaporated into thin air; nor did she mind, for the more demanded answer had been given.

She had removed her spectacles, before ascending the staircase, and now she returned them to her face. She studied the note for a word wrongly read, a phrase misunderstood. But the message was all clarity. Fred was closeted with his attorney. This could mean, at last, at long last, he was arranging the divorce, a proceeding, a word, not yet part of their vocabulary of love. Her body was permeated by the marvel of it, the glittering Utopia of it. A divorce. But who was Reggie? Here was needed Champollion. Or merely Fred.

She opened her purse, dug through a miniature cosmetic warehouse, and found the gold pencil. She reflected a moment, and then, at the bottom of the sheet pasted to the door, she wrote: “Fred-came calling to discuss business-will call later today-S.” She considered her handiwork, crossed out business, and replaced it above with Dodge. This was unmistakable.

As she descended the staircase, a momentary trepidation held her elbow, escorted her to the heavy door. Outside, she met her car. She examined the street, right and left. There was no other car.

As she crossed the street, a deduction entered her mind. It was so obvious that it had almost eluded her farsightedness. Why was Fred conversing with an attorney today, why now, after these many weeks? Because of her urgent call Monday, because of M. Javert. Fred was anticipating Mrs. Tauber. Or Sam. The inevitable detective had produced the inevitable crossroad of decision. Why await confrontation? Scandal? A grand slam? Anticipate. Disarm. Poor Mrs. Tauber. Or Sam.

She had reached the car. She was proud of Fred, her Fred, her Fred. The Dodge was ineffectual now. Pitiful Dodge. Stupid, foolish Dodge. Those wasted notes (“Subject left home 10:32. Entered Tauber ap’t. 10:57. Emerged 12:01. Halted to comb hair, adjust make-up”), so promisingly erotic, so suddenly respectable. She

wondered if it would be in the newspapers. She remembered that she had promised Jerry and Debbie that she would not disgrace them again by forgetting the PTA paper drive. Nevertheless, she felt almost gay.

Kathleen Ballard had finally got past the first chapter of the mystery novel, aware early that it was of English origin because honor was spelled honour and aware also that the nephew Peter was too detestable to have done it (yet the author-at his twenty-fourth novel-would surmise that Peter, being detestable, would be dismissed, and therefore it might be wise to make it Peter, after all). She turned the page, having just met Lady Cynthia returned from Nepal, when the telephone shattered the stillness.

Kathleen swung to her feet, limped on the leg that had almost gone to sleep, and snatched up the receiver in the kitchen after the third peal. A remote telephone operator’s voice announced the nurse’s registry. Miss Wheatley, who had been assigned at noon, would be detained until six. But she would definitely appear. Kathleen protested. There was a patient requiring expert care. Wasn’t anyone else available? The remote voice avoided involvement. No one available before evening, but then Miss Wheatley would be on hand. Kathleen fought the detached system. What if there was an immediate emergency? Would they have a nurse then? The remote voice would not be baited, no more than would a phonograph record. The voice was in no position to reply to the questions. The voice accepted messages and delivered them. Good day.

Kathleen was used to these lesser disappointments, and once having adjusted herself to the six hours ahead, she took inventory of the kitchen for sustenance. Naomi, it was evident, always ate out. Or, more likely, based on the single stocked cupboard, did not eat at all, but drank her meals on the rocks. A determined search disclosed, at last, a bent can of pea soup, a mammoth can of beef stew, a dusty, unopened box of cheese crackers, and several bottles of Seven Up (seasoned survivors of an old lost battle against gin). Kathleen decided that the beef stew would suffice, and this was a good day to start a diet, anyway.

She had succeeded in decapitating the mammoth can when the telephone rang a second time. The caller was Paul, and, hearing his voice, she was grateful for the companionship, and then certain that he would not have been happy with Sarah Goldsmith at all.

She told him about the nurse, wanting only the affection of his

concern, and was then able to tell him that she would manage very nicely until six. Was she sure? Absolutely. Damn sorry to have gotten her into this mess. Of course not; it was the least that she could do. What about Naomi? Sleeping. Good, good. Horace would be relieved. She hadn’t forgotten dinner, had she? Oh, no. Well, until later then. Yes, later.

The stew was in a pot and heating over a burner when she heard Naomi’s outcry. “Horace!”

Kathleen turned the burner low and hurried toward the bedroom. When she entered, she found Naomi on her back, beneath the blanket, eyes pointed to the ceiling.

Kathleen went to the bed. “Are you all right?”

The eyes shifted. “What are you doing here?”

“Horace had to go to work. The nurse hasn’t come on yet. So I’m filling in.”

“Why you?”

“I … I’ve been seeing a friend of Horace’s, and they called me.”

“I don’t need anyone. I don’t need a nurse.”

“Well, the doctor-“

“That horse’s ass.”

Naomi did not move. She closed her eyes, then opened them. Kathleen, worried, walked closer to the bed.

“Naomi, can I get you anything?”

“No. I’ll be up soon as this junk wears off.”

“How do you feel?”

“Like someone’s pinching my crotch.”

“Stitches.”

Naomi averted her head on the pillow. “Bastards,” she said from profile and with no anger. She was still again, and Kathleen stood waiting uncomfortably.

“Do you know what happened last night?”

Kathleen quickly shook her head. “No.”

“I was gang laid.”

“Oh, Naomi-“

“It might have been instructive, if I’d been sober. I’m submitting a supplementary report to Doc Chapman.”

“You mean they forced-“

Naomi met her eyes. “I’m not so sure.” She created the brief facsimile of a smile. “Go away. I contaminate. I’m a slut.”

“Don’t talk like that.”

“Men’s language. I like it. The only true language. They don’t know women. But they know sluts.”

“Naomi, try to rest.”

“Who was here? This morning?”

“Your doctor. Then Horace brought a psychologist.”

“Head-shrinker?”

“No. He was just trying to help out, give advice.”

“What did he advise?”

“I think we should wait until Horace-“

“No, you.”

“I’m not sure.”

“Get off it, Katie. I’ve been banged by a battalion. I’ve got to know what the high command says.”

“They spoke of treatment, analysis.”

“You think lying on a couch for a year telling dirty stories will help?”

“I can’t say. I suppose they know.”

“Screw that.” She turned on her side. “Let me sleep.” Her voice was fading.

Kathleen looked on helplessly a moment, distressed by Naomi’s sickness, sickness and sickly vulgarity, and then turned to leave. At the door, Naomi called out to her.

“What’s Horace doing here?”

Kathleen was surprised. “I thought-why, he’s with Dr. Chapman.”

“I didn’t know.” Her voice drifted off. “No kidding?” In a moment, her labored nasal breathing told Kathleen that she was asleep.