(1961) The Chapman Report (56 page)

How, then, could the distant future ever know this community now, alive on this placid Sunday? Suddenly, with a stab of intellectual pain, the helpless pain of a frustration that must be lived with, Paul realized how haphazard and warped was all history, all knowledge. If he, this day, walking through a street that would one day become a fourth layer of ruins beneath a hump of dirt, could not clarify a picture of life in The Briars-what then could the scholars of the future, the students, his heirs, in not a hundred years but in five thousand years, make of it?

He tried to project this street five thousand years into the future. By then, based on nature’s past performance, The Briars, all of Los Angeles, no doubt, would have been buried again and again and again under explosives, floods, fires, earthquakes, with new cities built on old cities, and then crumbling, disintegrating, continually so, until some defeat had left it a vast mound of earth covered by grass or water.

And then, one day, five thousand years hence, an archaeologist-perhaps a nonconformist, outlawed by his colleagues for his absurd conjecture that once there had been a city in this place, once in the twentieth century a.d.-would come with his copies of ancient fragments, with his belief in myth and legend, and direct the diggers. Months would pass, maybe years, and down, down beneath the layers of silt, they would discover their first telltale remnants of an ancient race.

What would have survived the dust? What fossilized pieces would outlast Dr. Chapman and give their own history of this street in The Briars? A mud-caked enamel slab? Would this archaeologist of ten centuries later know the door of a freezer? A remarkable fin of hard substance? Would this archaeologist deduce it had belonged to an extinct beast, or somehow learn it had been the arrogant rear end of a four-wheeled vehicle known as Cadillac? A fancy bottle crusted with the loam of eternity, a portion of its label still legible? Would the cypher experts ever know the word on the label read bourbon? A small, gold-plated, faceless idol? Would

the experts understand that it was one of the long dead religions, between Judaism and Mormon, or relate it some way to the folk play of the ancient time, when men awarded the idols in prolific number to mimics who permitted their images to be thrown in crude reproduction on a screen of cloth? A skeleton of a young person, probably female, no more than sixty-seven, buried in a time when life was that brief? Would they know that she had once lived in beauty, possessed of a dark and enigmatic soul, and that she had given her sex history to a investigator associated with Dr. Chapman (referred to in the Lake Michigan Scrolls), and that her sex history had been a deceit?

Would this be The Briars in five thousand years? An enamel slab, a fin, a bottle, a statuette, a skeleton? Yes, Paul realized, this might be The Briars. The archaeologist’s discoveries would be heralded widely, and the hoary civilization and place reconstructed on countless papers, a place and people of frail women, pagan idols, dead languages, and monster vehicles.

Paul scanned the street and wanted to reject the fantasy. It could not happen here, to this place so alive. To accept so total an extinction, made life pointless and impossible. Yet, his harder heart knew that it had always happened, and would happen again. “Thus, the inexorable years made of all history a lie. How ever again to believe that the Egypt, Greece, Troy, Pompeii, of antiquity were what the historian supposed them to be from his faint twentieth-century conjectures?

What did all this mean, after all? It meant, thought Paul, that The Briars existed truly but once. Now, on this day, at this time, in this place. The Briars that Dr. Chapman would record, or the one that he saw, for he and Dr. Chapman were no longer one, was all the reality that remained or that mattered. This was the gift to accept and appreciate: the living particles of time in this living place, chosen for him by some Fate, to be used and not squandered before the inevitable oblivion, before the erosion of never-stopping tomorrows, before the fossils formed, and the diggers came, and the lies began.

Behind him, he had buried the past. Ahead, he could see no future recognizable. Momentarily, he was landless, stateless, and, with no desired haven, the journey ahead would be unendurable.

Resolutely, Paul Radford entered Kathleen’s driveway.

She had been so sure that he had given her up, because it was nightfall, and the train was to leave at seven, and he had not called, and he had not come.

While she fed Deirdre in the kitchen, he recounted the events of the critical day past. The child, sensing the importance of it,-feeling the security of his presence, ate silently, listening, not understanding, but enjoying it. Kathleen moved about the kitchen, more tense than he had known her to be, and he spoke briefly but fully of Cass’s letter, of the newspapers, of the television program, of Dr. Jonas, of Sidney Ackerman, of Dr. George G. Chapman. He reported his actions, but not his emotions. The essence of the day was enough for now. They both understood this. If there should be other days, there would be time for the detail.

Once, she asked, “What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. You mean, my work?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know.”

“You could go back to books.”

“I don’t want to run.”

“Then you should see Dr. Jonas.”

“I might. As for what else I do-it depends.”

“On me?”

“On you.” ’

She had gone on with the dishes and pans, and since neither wanted to eat, because there was still too much unsaid, she had asked for a drink. While she carried Deirdre off to bed, he had gone to the bar and prepared double Scotches with water.

Now they were two, locked in by the night. She stood with drink in one hand and cigarette in the other, before the wide picture window that faced out on the patio and the enclosed garden, and she said nothing. Patiently, he remained on the sofa, respectful of her isolated silence, and he drank and watched her. Remembering the first time he had seen the lovely child face, the short dark bob, the Oriental eyes, the tiny nose, the cherry-red lips, in the wallet, in the doorway returning the wallet, he felt again the same surge of passion and desire. Her lithe body, high-breasted and narrowing to long, curved hips and thighs, drew close to each projection and concavity the golden silk dress.

He rose and came behind her, encircling the soft breasts with his arms. He kissed her raven hair, and the warm ear shell, and her cheek. “Kathleen,” he whispered, “marry me.”

She revolved slowly, ever so slowly, her breasts pressing inward and releasing fully inside his arms, until she faced him. Her red lips were unsmiling.

“Paul, I love you.”

“Then-“

“But I can’t marry you, because I’m afraid.”

“But you love me.”

“That’s it, darling, don’t you see? I always knew I’d many again, for Deirdre at least, for loneliness, for social conformity, but I also knew it would never be someone I loved. With a man who didn’t matter, a friend-well, it would be a bargain understood in advance. I would be wife and wifely, and even a bed companion. But if it had to be more, I knew I could not do it. I knew I could never marry for love, because too much more would be expected of me. I would expect too much more of myself. And, Paul, try to understand this-I’m inadequate, incapable; I can’t give real love.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I know.” She closed her eyes, lips compressed, and shook her head. “Or maybe I don’t know. But I can’t chance it. If 1 failed again, it would be the worst kind of hell. And I haven’t the strength to face that. You see, it’s because I love you so-“

“Exactly what are you trying to tell me, Kathleen?”

“What I intended to tell you yesterday morning, when I came to your office.”

“What, Kathleen?”

“The truth.”

She disengaged herself from him. He waited, very still. She took his hand and, wordlessly, led him back to the sofa. He sat down. She sat beside him.

“Paul, when you interviewed me for Dr. Chapman that Thursday afternoon-“

“Yes.”

“I lied. I lied and lied.”

“Yes,” he said again. “I know.”

She stared at him incredulously. “You knew I lied?”

He nodded. “It’s part of our training.”

“And still you … you wanted to love me?”

“Of course. One thing has nothing to do with the other.”

“But it has, Paul.” She hesitated. “I only lied about the married part.”

“That’s right.”

“Arid still-“

“I love you, Kathleen.”

“But you won’t, Paul! That’s the whole point of it. That’s what I went to tell you yesterday. I wanted to have it done and over with and forget it. I wanted you to know about my marriage, and I tried to tell you, and I’m going to now.”

“I don’t want to know, Kathleen.”

“You have to know! Paul, I came to ask you a favor yesterday. I’m going to ask it-“

He waited apprehensively.

“Interview me again.”

“What?”

“You know the questions by heart. Ask them again. The ones about marriage-marital intercourse-the ones I lied about. Ask them again, and let me tell the truth this time.”

“But it’s-look, Kathleen, that kind of ordeal isn’t necessary.”

“You’ve got to do it. There’s nothing more to say unless you do it.” She rose and removed herself to the farthest end of the sofa and looked at him. “Go ahead.”

“I can’t see what’ll be gained-“

‘You’ll see. Go ahead. No screen. The truth this time. I’m scared sick-“

‘No-“

‘Please, Paul!”

He found his pipe and filled it. Her eyes did not leave him. The pipe was lighted, and he saw her eyes.

“All right,” he said. “You were married three years?”

“Yes.”

“What was the frequency of coitus with your … your husband?”

“The first six months, twice a week, then once a week. The last two years, once a month.”

“Once a month?”

“Yes, Paul.”

“Sex play before coitus?”

“Almost none. Sometimes a minute-sometimes.”

It was curious, he thought, how soon the inadequacy of the Chapman method had demonstrated itself. Here was a statistic, a numeral. A minute, she had said, sometimes. But the fact had no life, and therefore less truth. Hell, he thought, I’m not bound to

Chapman any longer. The question is not what he must know, but rather what I must know to help her.

He resumed his examination, abandoning the formula of the questionnaire in order to seek not numbers but an understanding of her. He solicited Boynton’s attitudes toward petting, and then her own, and, although high-strung, she replied to each inquiry without evasion.

“Did you ever take the initiative?” he was asking.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because-I don’t know why not.”

“Let’s go on.”

Mercilessly, but with increasing aversion, he probed her libidinal history. Her answers continued, dulled by pain, and when, again, he tried to halt, she demanded that he continue.

“All right,” he said. “Did you attain physical satisfaction always, almost always, sometimes, rarely, or never?”

“Never.”

“Were you most often clothed, partially clothed, or in the nude?”

“Partially clothed.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t like him to see me naked. I didn’t like to see him either.”

“Was it always that way?”

“I don’t know. I don’t remember.”

“What time of day did you usually-“

“After midnight, when he was drunk enough.”

“Was the act ever physically painful to you?”

“Sometimes, yes. He could be rough.”

“But generally he didn’t hurt you?”

“No, generally he didn’t.”

Paul watched her a moment. “What characteristics in men do you find most sexually repellent?”

“Men or Boynton?”

“Men.”

“Do you mean physical?”

“Anything.”

“I don’t like fat men,” she said, “or the super-Nordic type.” She thought about it. “No, that’s not what matters, really. I don’t like brutality, vulgarity-“

“What do you like, Kathleen-what do you find sexually attractive in a male?”

“Intelligence, empathy, a kind of gentleness.”

“An effeminate man?”

“God, no-I mean, mature authority in a man, strength-a solid, grown man, not a thoughtless acrobat. I want all the things in a man my husband never had.”

“Did he have anything at all for you, Kathleen?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did he-well, let me get back to the Chapman questions. You never had an orgasm with him. But otherwise-” He paused, then continued. “To what degree did you enjoy the sex act with your husband-very much, somewhat, not very much, not at all?”

“I hated it. I hated every damn minute.”

Her hand trembled as she pushed the cigarette into the tray, and then fumbled for another.

“Go on,” she said, “go on.”

“No, Kathleen,” he said. “This is foolishness. You’re the one who must go on. I don’t need statistics. Just tell me what really happened, how you felt-that’s all that counts-how you felt.”

She stared at the tea table, drawing steadily on the cigarette. “He came from Korea, this hero-handsomest man on earth-everyone wanted him, and he wanted me. I was flattered silly.” She remembered a moment, and then began again. “We eloped. It was in all the newspapers. I’d never been with another man before him. He’d had a hundred women, but never a love affair, I’m sure. He’d had prostitutes, call girls, camp followers, and, well, just easy girls who were worshipful and wanted it on the record.” She faltered. “I’m trying to explain hirn. I don’t know. From the first night, he did what he wanted for himself, and that was all. I didn’t know what to do, or what was expected of me. And I never had a chance to react. I never reacted. To what? There was no love -only intercourse. He wasn’t inadequate or anything like that. I was the one who was inadequate. I came to despise the time and avoid it. He called me cold, frigid.” She looked up. “Do you know French?”

“Slightly.”

“He had a stock of expressions picked up in bordellos. Femme de glace, he called me once-woman of ice.” She bit her lip. “He kept calling me frigid. He never stopped.”