(1961) The Chapman Report (51 page)

Bursting into the kitchen, almost falling, she flung herself at the door and wrenched wildly at the knob. It was long seconds before she realized that she had locked it from the inside. She fumbled for the upper bolt, twisting, when she heard him and turned.

Cass grabbed for her shoulders, wanting to smother the terrified face, but she ducked under his clawing fingers. His fingers tore at the shoulder of her housecoat as she grasped the edge of the sink to maintain her balance. Cornered, she straightened to meet him.

For an instant, he hesitated, staring at the housecoat ripped open, at the mother’s breasts rising and falling, at the overflowing mother’s flesh above and beneath and below the nylon pants, breathing now like some forest thing mortally wounded and shuffling closer and closer to her.

She watched him, mesmerized, helpless, and the picture froze in its incredibility: the maddened rapist, twitching face and sick to his bowels, and the housewife alone, you always read it in the morning paper, you always read it, and it had happened on some obscure street, unpronounceable, in some depressed outlying district, among the poor, the wretches, the slatterns, who had no expensive houses in The Briars, no expensive locks on their doors, no expensive kitchenware, neither clothes, nor friends, neither police, nor importance. It happened always to the anonymous dregs, but she was Sarah Goldsmith, of New York, with horn-rimmed glasses (where were they? you can’t hurt someone with glasses!), and a clothing store, and a seat in the synagogue, and membership in the Association, and shares in American Tel and Tel.

No!

With all of her strength, she threw herself past his outstretched, groping arms. She felt the clubbing weight of an arm against her breastbones, and then the exulting freedom of open space, and then her feet sliding upward from under her, and the floor and stove rising, spinning crazily into vision.

As the side of her head smashed against the corner of the stove and her body hit the floor, she seemed grotesque and misshapen, and then she rolled limply on her back. Cass tottered toward her, quickly dropping to his knees.

“Don’t run,” he said. “No more,” he said. “No more.”

She lay soft and doughy beneath, spread-eagled and compliant at last, and he lifted the long-known fleshy thighs with each hand, and he violated her, punishing, punishing.

All through it, on the hammered anvil of hate, he was the mover, and she moved not at all except to his movement, and even after, she lay still, inert, quiescent, not angry, not pleased, and then it was, touching fingers to her icy cheek and lids and pulse, it was only then that he realized she had been dead all the while, killed dead, neck broken, by the fall against the stove.

“Oh, Mother,” he sobbed, “Mother,” wanting the comfort of the swollen mother breasts and knowing that they were lifeless to him for all eternity… .

After Cass Miller had returned to the Villa Neapolis, leaving the Dodge in the guest parking area, he took a sheet of the stationery bearing an aerial photograph of the motel (“Your Luxurious Home away from Home”) and, standing at the corner of the reception desk, wrote in stilted hand his memorandum to history.

Later, in the car again, turning westward from the motel, he stopped beside the pumps of the first filling station, and, keeping the engine idling, he called out to the nearest attendant for the best neighborhood mountain drive. He printed the directions inside his skull, the last of them being for Topanga Canyon.

Later still, riding the outer rim of a rising paved road, he climbed steadily into the blue hills of the range. Once, through the outer window, he saw the whitewashed toy homes in the clusters of make believe miniature trees far, far below and was reminded of an electrical train set under a gaudy Christmas pine. Once, he thought of Benita Selby in the lavender bathing suit and her unattractive slat ass, and then of the blonde who wasn’t blonde at all on the train from East St. Louis, and then unaccountably of the sweet Polish girl in the white organdy formal whom he had taken to the high-school prom. Once, he thought about great men dying, all surely feeling duged at having to leave, after so much complexity, all with their grand last words, Nero saying, “What an artist is now about to perish!” O. Henry saying, “Pull up the shades, I don’t want to go home in the dark,” Henry Ward Beecher saying, “Now comes the mystery,” someone saying, “God will forgive me, it is His business.” All the bravura, all the pack of lies.

He saw that the road had narrowed and that only a flimsy metal guard rail protected the lane from the sheer drop thousands of feet below.

Yet, he thought, he wished he had added something with style to that note, perhaps the lines by Edgar Allan Poe: “The fever called ‘living’ / Is conquered at last.”

Then he saw, off along the mountain’s side, two vehicles, a sedan, a truck, approaching in the inner lane. Then he saw, again, coming fast, the metal guard rail. There will be witnesses, he thought, and plunged his shoe into the gas pedal. The rail loomed big, more quickly than he had planned, and then without thought, before he could change his mind, he swung the wheel hard right, swerving at full speed, catapulting toward the metal rail.

The massive machine heaved high beneath him as the metal and wood exploded with his grill and hood and radiator, throwing him from the cushioned seat into the bending wheel. Conscious he was, of the strange suspension between the blue above and the green below, conscious, too, of infinite space and roaring winds, wondering what he should think this moment here. A last word, words, dignity of man, yes, bravura, yes. The seat beneath him was leaving the floor, which was ridiculous, and he was sorry it was a rented car, and then, the hurtling sarcophagus shuddered, the atoms dissolving before him, and something flat and black swung toward his face, his neck nailed in too tight to move, and he thought a last, last word, words, phrase to remember me, immortal me, take it, Benita, valediction, epitaph: Fuck you, one and all.

At five to six, the day still light and muggy, Paul directed the cabbie to Kathleen’s driveway, then paid him the fare, and stepped out of the taxi.

The morning, the search for Cass, had been utterly futile. All that he and Dr. Chapman had been able to learn was that Cass had gone off somewhere, early, in the Dodge. Dr. Chapman had taken the wheel of the Ford back to the Association building, fuming all the way. Once inside, because they were behind schedule, Dr. Chapman and he had conducted their interviews right through lunch, taking only two coffee breaks.

When Paul had concluded his final interview at five-thirty, and met Horace in the corridor after the women had departed, both were surprised to find that Benita had gone, in some haste apparently, for her desk was still in disarray, and Dr. Chapman was nowhere to be found. To add to the mystery, the Ford was missing from its accustomed parking place. Briefly, Paul and Horace had discussed phoning Villa Neapolis to check with Dr. Chapman, but there seemed no point to it, especially since each was eager to keep an appointment. They had walked to The Village Green together, found taxis, and Horace had gone off to relieve the nurse at Naomi’s, and Paul had given the cabbie Kathleen’s address.

Now, entering the driveway on foot, Paul could see Kathleen’s Mercedes parked past the curve of the half circle. Reaching the front door, Paul touched the doorbell. Albertine appeared at once, carrying Deirdre.

“Hello, Albertine.” He placed his hands under the curly-haired Deirdre’s arms and took her to him. “How’s my favorite octopus today?” The last time, when he had greeted the child by name, she had corrected him, informing him that she was “a little octopus.” Now she settled in his arms. “I’m not an octopus,” she said with the gravity of a diminutive adult. “I’m me. Do you want to eat with us?”

“Well, I’d like to,” Paul said, “but-“

Deirdre twisted toward the housekeeper. “Can he, ‘Bertine?”

Albertine shrugged. “Jus’ means opening another can.”

But already Deirdre’s mind had shifted to more immediate pleasures. “Give me a rocket ride like always,” she said to Paul.

He hoisted her high above his head, whirling her round and round as Albertine backed off, and then he lowered her to the carpet. “There,” he said. “We’re on the moon.” Straightening, he faced Albertine. “Is Mrs. Ballard in?”

“She went scootin’ off to Mrs. Goldsmith’ couple hours ago and said for you to come there. Seemed awful fussed, like she was workin’ up to a good cry.”

“How do I get there?”

“Goldsmith’s? Go left two blocks, left again, Hayes Drive, then the third from the corner, left. Name’s on the box.”

“Thanks, Albertine… . See you in a little while, Moon-maid.”

Walking south on the wide thoroughfare, close to the curbing to avoid the occasional oncoming car, he wondered why Kathleen had been fussed, as Albertine had described it, and what she had come to the office to tell him this morning.

The mingled fragrance of a thousand flowers engulfed him, and he peered past the rows of eucalyptus, the hedges and bushes and ferns, the grilled gates, and once saw a fabulous bed of geraniums, and then orange and pink hibiscus, and, beside a banana tree, a profusion of purple asters bordered by white petunias.

How difficult, he thought, to reconcile this outer front of Utopia with the people who inhabited it, especially the women he had interviewed these two weeks past, the specific mistresses of these specific mansions. Look at them, he thought, staring at the front lawns and gardens and magnificent mansions, here everything is regulated and aesthetically enticing. The thick foliage the greenest, the homes the largest, the garages crowded with gleaming chariots, the sun-touched children, the maids. Here is an earthly heaven, you would say, placid, solved, happy; and the mammals within, placid, solved, happy-this you would say, until you had been inside. For he had been inside, he and Horace and Cass and Dr. Chapman had been inside, and what had they found behind the gracious facade?- crouching creatures fighting the human plagues that infest, not only here but everywhere, stagnation and dry rot of the mind, famine of the heart, and the airless dying of the soul. Everywhere? He tried to recapture fragments of interviews, the ones reinforced by warm strong love, true intimacy, the fully integrated ones. There had been some. A few. Very few. But for the rest … and which was Kathleen?

He was approaching Hayes Drive when he saw her come around the corner toward him, rust cardigan over her shoulders, blouse and skirt and low-heeled shoes. He waved and waited. She made no acknowledgment in return.

When she was beside him, he observed the strain on her features. “I was just going to find you, Kathleen.”

“Do you have a cigarette? I’m all out.”

“No,” he apologized, lifting his pipe stem from the coat pocket.

“It doesn’t matter.” Her hands were nervous. “It’s just been terrible. Have you heard?”

“What?”

She resumed walking toward her house, and he fell in step beside her.

“Sarah Goldsmith,” she said. “She’s dead.”

“Who?”

“Sarah-you met her, Paul, last night, just last night She was the one with the black hair pulled back in a chignon, like a Spanish dancer. Mata Hari.”

At once, he recalled her. He remembered a Latin face to which the Semitic name had not seemed to belong. And the tights and beaded scarves. And the rounded thighs.

“Yes,” he said, “I remember. What happened to her?”

“No one knows. The police say her husband murdered her.”

It was easier to recall the husband of Mata Hari. A nice rumpled blob, with apologetic eyes and a hand like gelatin. Aaron? Abe? Sam? Yes, Sam.

“Sam Goldsmith,” he said. “Why did he do it?”

“It’s all garbled, I’m sure. I got it secondhand. Her neighbor, Mrs. Pedersen, phoned me after the police and ambulance left. She found my name in Sarah’s personal phone book. I was the nearest neighbor friend, so she called. She has her own children, and the sitter was too upset to stay. So I went over to help out, after the children came from school.”

“They arrested Sam?”

“Yes, I think so. No, they took him in for questioning. That’s it. They found a note in the bathroom and her luggage packed. Apparently, she was leaving Sam this morning-going off to meet another man-she’d been having an affair-of all people, Sarah. I swear, I can’t believe it.”

“It happens,” he said gently.

She looked at him with troubled eyes. “Yes. I’m sure you hear it all the time. But Sarah-“

“The police, I suppose they figured Sam heard about it and tried to stop her?”

“That’s right. They said he came home-he wasn’t in the store this morning, it turns out-and found her leaving, and maybe the note, and he tried to stop her. They fought. He killed her. I can’t believe it, though, even under the circumstances. He’s the sweetest man.”

“Someone did it, Kathleen.” “Maybe it was an accident?” “How did it happen?” Paul asked.

“The sitter got a message to be there at noon, the key was to be under the mat, and wait for the children. She arrived a little late, and no one seemed home, and she went into the kitchen-and there was Sarah on the floor. The police said her neck had been broken.” They had arrived at the front door.

“I suppose you’re not in the mood to have me in,” said Paul, “That’s not it. I promised to go back. Mrs. Pedersen and I are going to sit with the children until one of Sam’s family comes. His lawyer called a relative in Chicago, and she’s flying out. I think she’ll get in about one in the morning.” Kathleen unlocked the door. “I just came back a few minutes to see that Deirdre is properly fed and to get my coat. Would you like a sandwich, Paul?” “No, I’ll just call for a cab.”

“Take my car. I won’t need it tonight or tomorrow.” She gave him the keys. “Please.”

“All right. I’ll have a snack at the motel, and then I’ll have to pack.” He waved the keys. “Does this mean I can see you tomorrow?” She stared at him. “I was hoping to see you, if you want to.” “I’m leaving with them tomorrow night. Only one thing could make me stay. This is no time to discuss it again, but-” “I can’t say now, Paul, I really can’t. Don’t be angry.” “You love a person or you don’t. What’s there to think about?” “Paul, please, try to-” “All right. Tomorrow. When?”