(1961) The Chapman Report (46 page)

“A real sizzler,” he said. “Thank God, it’ll cool down tonight Maybe we should serve drinks and the buffet in the patio?” Teresa’s head jerked toward him, revealing an expression of surprise.

The expression on his wife’s face puzzled Geoffrey. “Anything the matter, Teresa?” he asked.

What had astounded Teresa was Geoffrey’s sudden reminder that they were giving a large party this evening. Since the day before yesterday, the event had left her mind completely. Even since breakfast, an hour ago, she had been preoccupied with the greater event eight hours off. Yet, suddenly, at almost the same time, she was expected to perform as wife and hostess.

Geoffrey was still gazing at her curiously. Quickly, danger signals blinked red warnings across her mind. In the recent past, the Dark Ages, parties and dinners had been her most devoted activity and favorite social pleasure. To have forgotten this would invite grave suspicion.

Don’t just sit, she told herself; say something, anything. She a something, anything. “There’s nothing the matter,” she said, “except I’ve been so busy arranging the dinner, I completely forgot to rent a costume.”

“Didn’t you decide to cancel the costume part of it?”

She remembered that she had, indeed, decided just that, but had

neglected to inform her guests of it. “No, I changed my mind again. I decided it would be more fun to keep the status quo-women in costume, men optional.” “Well, fine. You’ve got the whole day to find something. What

do you intend to wear?” “I haven’t had a moment till now to think about it.” “What about the get-up you wore at that Waterton supper party you know, New Year’s Eve-three years ago?” “George Sand?”

“Absolutely. It was most becoming. Isn’t she the person you wish you had been when Dr. Chapman interviewed you?” “Of course not. She’s too masculine. Still, it’s an idea. The only thing that bothers me is that I’ll be repeating myself; it won’t seem very imaginative.”

“Oh, hell, half the crowd hasn’t seen it before.” He dug the shop keys out of his linen jacket. “Do as you wish. I suppose you’ll want me home early?” “No,” Teresa answered quickly, “that won’t be necessary.” “Well, scoop me up no later than six, anyway. I’ll want time to shower and dress.”

As he turned toward the shop, she called out after him. “Dearest, is it dreadful of me to ask you to take a taxi home tonight? I’m so afraid I’ll be up to my ears in Mrs. Symonds and Mr, Jefferson.” Mrs. Symonds was the German cateress who prepared the hors d’oeuvres and dinner for a fee of twenty-five dollars, and Mr. Jefferson was the elderly, solemn, colored bartender. “Very well,” said Geoffrey. “Don’t forget the cigar.”

“George Sand.”

After Geoffrey had unlocked the front door of the shop and disappeared inside, Teresa remained a minute longer before the yellow curb, trying to gather her wits about her. She had promised to meet Ed Krasowski, in his beach apartment, at five-thirty. She had invited ten couples to come to drinks and dinner at seven. That meant the first arrivals would appear at seven-fifteen. The Goldsmiths were always early.

Teresa calculated the time. Between five-thirty and seven-fifteen lay-lay, now wasn’t that clever of her?-one hour and forty-five minutes. Subtracting the thirty minutes it would take her to drive back to The Briars from the beach, there was left one hour and fifteen minutes. This was insufficient for what she had to offer, and for what Ed would give her. Grand romance could not be constricted by the clock. What to do? Common sense dictated that she should call him at once and postpone the assignation for another day-tomorrow or-no, that would be Sunday, and Geoffrey would be home-tomorrow or the beginning of next week. But now the ardor that burned within, across her chest, across her loins, was too demanding, too insistent, too immediate. Common sense was decimated and routed. And at once she was happy again.

It would be today, this afternoon, exactly as planned, she decided. She would simply be late to her own party. It was even amusing. George Sand had not been without similar audacity. But a foolproof excuse must be invented. What, possibly? She recalled that at the time she had conceived the party, she had considered as the piece de resistance of her dinner buffet a Danish ham baked inside a bread. She had featured this gourmet’s delight once before, and it had been a gastronomic sensation and earned her gratifying compliments, but this time she had rejected it finally because the bakery was a forty-minute drive out Ventura Boulevard in the horrible valley. The valley would be an oven today, but the exotic Danish ham seemed to make Ed Krasowski possible.

Now, then, the modus operandi. She would telephone the bakery, place a rush order, and pick the ham up before noon. She would smuggle it into the house, to preserve it from the heat, and then return it to the luggage compartment of her car before going to Ed’s. At five o’clock, departing for the beach, she would leave a note for Geoffrey: Have decided on Danish ham in bread and gone to valley to pick it up. Will be back shortly. Everything under control. In haste, Teresa.

Then, thinking, more modus, more operandi. She and Ed would have consummated their love-it was now “their” love-by seven-thirty. It would probably be difficult parting from Ed, she recognized that; he would want her to stay the night, the evening, any-way, and she would want it, too, but she would be firm. Poor deal boy. Well, there was a life of nights ahead. She would assure him Anyway, anyway, seven-thirty, yes. She would drive to the first pub lie phone. By then there would be guests, and Geoffrey would be worried ill. She would inform him that, returning with the ham in bread, the car had stalled in the middle of nowhere and was this moment being repaired by the nearest gas station. Carburetor trouble sounded the right note. She knew nothing about what

made vehicles go, but Geoffrey knew less. She would reassure Geoffrey of her return within a half hour and promise to be on the receiving line, in costume (with cigar), within fifteen minutes of her return. There, now. Easy? Teresa shifted the gear, and the idling convertible was propelled forward into the day, as was Teresa herself. As the day grew older, Teresa was never unmindful of the oppressive sun. Everywhere she went, an afternoon newspaper met her with the boldfaced streamer: angelenos swelter in record heat wave. There was a large photograph, beneath, of a leggy model, generally unsheathed, dancing gratefully beneath a hose of water applied by two briefly clad starlets, their latest motion-picture credits advertised in the caption. Teresa disliked heat because it undid neat-ness of person. But this day, she resented it less. Somehow, tropical weather seemed appropriate for her passion, although, most likely, Ed’s lovely beach place would be cooled by the nearness of the lapping waves. Teresa moved steadily, efficiently, toward five o’clock. From a stifling glass booth beside a filling station, she telephoned the valley bakery and ordered the ham in bread for one o’clock. Then she telephoned Mrs. Symonds to advise her to include the ham in bread on her menu and ignore the cold cuts. Leaving the booth, she remembered the original purpose of her meeting with Ed. She located an art-supply store, intending to purchase easel, canvas, and paints, and then thought this camouflage too elaborate and foolish, and settled for charcoal and pad.

Going back to The Briars, she tried to remember where she had stored the George Sand costume, and then remembered. She found it in the large bottom drawer built into the bedroom wall. The out-fit, inspired by Delacroix’s portrait of Sand done in 1830, consisted of a top hat, now somewhat bent, a dark stock, loose coat, and men’s slacks, all badly creased. She telephoned Mr. Jefferson, who was out on his day job, and left word with his landlady that he remember to bring ice cubes and one cigar; yes, one, no particular brand. She braved the suffocating heat again to drive to a cleaning shop in The Village Green, and there deposit her Sand costume to be brushed and pressed. She then steered her car eastward, past the atrocious Villa Neapolis, past the university, through Beverly Hills, into Hollywood, where she turned north on Cahuenga. She fought the freeway traffic, feeling the wheel flaming under

her tight grip, until she reached Studio City, where she made the turn-off to the bakery. The eighteen-inch ham in bread, still warm, was ready. She wrote a check for twenty dollars, carefully placed the | box in her luggage compartment, and then completed the circle by driving on Ventura to Sepulveda Boulevard, and thence to Sunset and The Briars. She double-parked at the cleaners, where the Sand costume waited, neatly pressed, and then hastened back to the house, where Mrs. Symonds, mopping her chins with a white handkerchief, impatiently waited in her vintage coupe.

In the kitchen, Teresa briskly reviewed the hors d’oeuvre list and dinner menu with Mrs. Symonds, then got out the good silver, dishes, and platters, finished the floral arrangement for the buffet (green Bells of Ireland and white Agapanthus resting on a glass-covered Miro collage), rearranged the seating in the studio modern living room, and then retired to the master bedroom.

She removed five outfits from her closet, hung them in a row, and stepped back to study them for utility as well as beauty. At last, she selected the Parma-blue silk dress, because it did wonders for her bosom and hips, and because the long zipper in back made it easy to put on and remove. She examined her underwear with care, settling finally on the sheer black brassiere and nylon crepe panties; then returned the brassiere to the drawer, settling for the black panties and a half-slip. She considered stockings, but the necessity of a garter belt was a nuisance, and she decided that she would remain provocatively bare-legged, and wear the high-heeled blue leather pumps that complemented the dress. She opened the Jewel box, removed her wedding band and deposited it, leaving only the diamond engagement ring on her finger. She poked through her accessories, held up the fragile necklace with the small gold cross. and liked it.

She filled the tub, added several drops of a French bath oil, and then immersed herself in the fragrant water and soaked. She thought about the last year in Vassar, and the Greenwich Village period with the poet who never bathed (what had happened to him?), and she tried to picture Ed’s apartment overlooking the ocean. She thought about the interview with Dr. Chapman, and all she could remember of it were those questions about the exhibits. She had, she remembered, given her reactions to a half-dozen photographs, and to a passage from Casanova, and then she had been offered the option to read or refuse to read a passage from Fanny Hill. She had read the passage, of course. “My bosom was now bare and rising in the warmest throbs, presented to his sight and feeling the firm hard swell of a pair of young breasts… .” What had she answered? Yes, somewhat aroused. Perhaps she should have answered strongly aroused. No, somewhat was more accurate. She tried to picture Ed’s apartment again. At last, an eye on the clock, she stepped out of the tub, dried herself, touched up her well-formed figure with cologne, inserted the diaphragm, and then slowly garmented herself with the attire selected. At ten minutes to five, she wrote the note to Geoffrey about go-ing to pick up the ham in bread, and reminded Mrs. Symonds to be sure to see that Mr. Hamish received the note so that he would not be concerned with her absence. At five o’clock, precisely, she settled behind the wheel of the convertible and prepared to leave for the beach. The address that Ed Krasowski had given her, she was surprised to learn, was not in Malibu as she had expected, but much before Malibu and closer to the widely patronized Santa Monica pier, There was a large dirt parking area, and the soiled gray wood building a dozen units perhaps, was of indifferent clapboard construction, and rose in humpty-dumpty fashion above a cliff that hung over the beach. It was flanked by a cheap hotel and a hamburger shanty. Teresa told herself that this was Bohemia, such as she had left behind in Greenwich Village, but this was better, and it was good to be back among teeming and vital life. Ed’s apartment proved to be on the second floor. Carrying pad and charcoal and her white summer purse, Teresa climbed the slippery, creaking steps to the outer veranda above. Two dirty, tanned, sopping children, possibly female, brushed past her, one chasing the other down the stairs, and Teresa saw that her dress was only slightly spotted. She continued along the veranda, sidestepping several pools of water and a hole where the planks had broken or rotted apart, and at lasted she reached the sanctuary of Ed’s apartment.

She rapped. “Come in!”

She opened the door, a chipped green, and entered. For a moment, she stood inside the door, closing it behind her and trying to accustom her eyes to the shade. Ed sat in a big overstuffed chair, one leg thrown over the side, sucking beer from a can and listening to a blaring baseball broadcast on the portable radio. He was wearing a T-shirt again emblazoned with the legend Paradise Park, and

white shorts, wrinkled, the stripes faded along the sides. Although his face seemed puffier than she had remembered, the shirt and shorts wonderfully pointed up his bursting strength and manliness His biceps were incredible, still, and the thighs grew out of his shorts like barkless tree trunks.

“Hiya,” he said, waving. He indicated the radio with a nod “They’re in Philly, all tied up in the third.”

Teresa bobbed her head as if she understood. Ed finished his beer and then, remembering manners, lifted his enormous bulk to his feet. “Well, make yourself at home,” he said.

“Yes, thank you, Ed.”

She placed her sketch equipment on a table.

“See you came prepared,” he said.

“That’s right.”

“What about a beer? Set you up.”

“If you’ll have one with me.” She had never had domestic beer in her life. It was a day of adventures.

“I’ve had three already, but I’m not the one to say no. Excuse me.

He went into what appeared to be a kitchenette. For the first time, she surveyed their Charterhouse of Valdemosa, their Palma, their Majorca. A large oval, braided, early-American rug, its ancestry traceable to Sears, Roebuck, covered a worn floor speckled with sand. Besides the overstuffed chair and raucous radio, the remaining furniture consisted of a green divan with broken springs and several fraying rattan chairs. There were two intensely modern reflector lamps. On the walls hung a reproduction of Millet’s The Angelus probably the landlord’s, and a reproduction of Bellows’ A Night at Sharkey’s, probably inherited from a previous and more pugilistic tenant. There were three magazine pages of nude females with abnormal bosoms and buttocks, taken from a publication unknown to her-Playboy-tacked to the wall. There was an autographed photograph of someone who signed himself Harold “Red” Grand There were two photographs, happily framed, one of Ed in football togs, crouched and ferocious, and the other of the person she remembered as Jackie.