(1961) The Chapman Report (3 page)

She resumed banging away at the typewriter. She had another hour before she would have to leave for the airport to meet Bertram Foster and his wife, Alma. Although, in many ways, Foster was not her ideal of a publisher-his coarseness and vulgarity often made one wince, and his interests in the more commercial aspects of Houseday rather than the literary were sometimes disappointing -still he had been astute enough to select Ursula from among his many free-lance contributors and to promote her to Western editor of the widely circulated family magazine.

Presently, having completed her précis, Ursula drew it from the typewriter and began to proof it. The précis was cleverly conceived, designed to cater to Foster’s financial prejudices and to improve Ursula’s own job. It covered her office’s activities the first half of

the year. It emphasized small economies and big accomplishments. It suggested wider authority and coverage for her department, at little extra cost, and in a way that might be enticing to potential advertisers.

“Dearest?” It was Harold’s voice.

Ursula looked up as Harold Palmer came tentatively into the den carrying a breakfast tray covered with eggs, toast, coffee. “You’d better have something, or you’ll get a headache.”

She watched absently as Harold set her dishes on the desk before her and then poured his own coffee. Although he had prepared breakfast almost every morning of their married life, and persisted in the custom even after they had employed a live-in maid, each time he made it appear as if he were going to do it this once as a favor. He was a tall, hesitant, inarticulate man, gray-faced and concave, and two years her junior. He had the appearance of, and in fact was, an accountant.

He settled in the leather chair across from her. “Hadn’t you better be getting dressed?” he inquired, nodding at her quilted long robe as he stirred his coffee.

“I’ve got my face on, and I’m dressed underneath. I just have to slip into a skirt.”

“How long are they going to be here?”

“Two weeks, I think. They’re going on to Honolulu.”

“Now that’s the way to live.” He drank his coffee. “Maybe if I land Berrey today, we’ll be going to Hawaii ourselves next year.”

Ursula’s mind had been elsewhere. “Who’s Berret?” she asked dutifully.

“Berrey,” Harold repeated with shy understanding. “He owns the Berrey Cut-Rate Drugstores. There are ten in the area. It could do a good deal for me. I met him a couple times, when I was with the old firm.”

The old firm, Ursula remembered, was Keller Company in Beverly Hills, a large beehive of underpaid accountants that Harold had been with since his graduation from the university. In an uncharacteristic burst of independence, he had left them three months before to open his own office. He had taken two small clients with him-but, Ursula observed wryly, it was she who was now paying the bills.

“Well, good luck,” Ursula said.

“I’ll need it,” Harold conceded worriedly. “I’m meeting him downtown at five. I may be a little late for dinner.”

“Harold, please. You know we’re taking the Fosters to Panero’s. You’ve got to be on time.”

“Oh, I will be. But Mr. Berrey is an important man-I can’t cut him short. It means a lot.”

“Foster means more. You be here.”

Harold did not contest this. He rose, slowly gathered the cups and saucers, piled them on the tray, and started out, as Ursula returned to her proofing. At the door he hesitated.

“Ursula.”

“Yes?” She crossed out the word detrimental on the page before her and wrote harmful above it.

“I wish you could come down to the office. It still doesn’t have a stick of my own furniture. I’ve just been waiting for you.”

“I will, soon as I can,” she said impatiently. Then, looking at him with a smile, speaking in a more gentle tone, she added, “You know how busy I’ve been. But I’ll make it.”

“I thought maybe Friday-“

“Friday I’m giving that enormous luncheon for the Fosters-all the publicity people, and actors …” Suddenly she clapped her bead. “My God, I promised Kathleen Ballard I’d go to hear Dr. Chapman Friday morning. How can I?”

“Dr. Chapman? The sex expert?”

“Yes-he’s lecturing at the Association. I’ll tell you all about it later. I’ve got to think.”

Harold nodded and departed for the kitchen, where the colored maid, Hally, was defrosting the refrigerator. Ursula sat back in the swivel chair and shut her eyes. Dr. Chapman would have been a lark, but now he was a nuisance. She was a working wife, and she had no time to spare for this sex gibberish. She would simply call Kathleen or Grace and plead a previous business engagement. After all, Foster came first.

Still, she was not satisfied. She rose, found cigarette and silver holder, joined them, and thoughtfully lighted up. She realized that she had looked forward to Dr. Chapman more than she had first imagined. Crossing the room, she halted before the wall of books, located A Sex Study of the American Bachelor, and pulled the heavy volume from the shelf. Slowly, she leafed through it, pausing here and there to absorb a graph of statistics or a long paragraph.

Just as when she had read it the first time, she was fascinated-not by any relationship the numerals might have to her, but by the bedroom doors they opened into other lives.

Even as she returned the book to the shelf, the title of the article was projected before her mind’s eye. It would read: ” ‘The Day Dr. Chapman Interviewed Me,’ by a Suburban Housewife.” Ursula herself, of course, would be the suburban housewife. It was perfect for Houseday. She would handle it lightly, humorously, teasingly, and yet with just enough provocative questions and answers to make it highly quotable. And better still, the interview with Dr. Chapman or one of his team would make a perfect conversation piece for the Fosters, reinforcing his image of her as competent and witty and yet The Eternal Feminine.

Turning it over in her head, relishing it, she could visualize Bertram Foster’s happy leer as she fleshed out each detail in innumerable anecdotes of the private adventure. There was no doubt in her mind now. She must attend Dr. Chapman’s lecture and then volunteer for an early interview. Once Foster knew what she was sacrificing for him and the magazine, he would permit her to make a late appearance at his luncheon. She could picture her entrance-the center of all eyes, for all would know what had delayed her-and then see herself masterfully regaling employer and celebrated guests with the inside Sex Story. She was positive Foster would be more admiring than ever. It could lead to anything. Even to New York.

The bus horn honked twice, loudly, beyond the window over the kitchen sink. And then, because engine trouble had detained the bus earlier, the horn honked twice again.

“Can you hold on just a minute, Kathleen?” Sarah Goldsmith said into the telephone. “It’s the school bus.” Capping her hand over the mouthpiece, she called to Jerome, her nine-year-old, who was finishing his cereal, and Deborah, her six-year-old, who was munching a cookie, “Hurry up now, it’s the bus, it’s late enough. And don’t forget your lunch boxes.”

Sam Goldsmith, his mouth filled with a hot cake, dropped the business section of the morning paper and held out his arms as first Deborah kissed him and then Jerome. “Now remember what I told you when you get out there at recess,” he said to Jerome. “Hold the bat away from you and high-like Musial-and then cut down into the ball. You’ll see.”

Jerome nodded. “I’ll remember, Pop.”

Both children grabbed their lunch boxes, pecked hasty kisses at Sarah’s face, and headed for the front door, Jerome bounding, Deborah scrambling, until they were gone, the door slamming loudly behind them. Sarah stood on tiptoe, craning her neck to see through the high window. She watched Jerome and Deborah race across the paved parking area before the car port and climb into the bus. When it began to grind away, she lowered herself and took her hand from the mouthpiece.

“I’m sorry, Kathleen. It’s like this every morning.”

“Oh, I know.”

“Now, about that lecture-you say everyone’s going to be there?”

“That’s what Grace says.”

“Well, all right. I don’t want to be the one who’s different. I suppose it is important.”

“For ‘scientific advancement,’ to quote Dr. Chapman.” Kathleen paused a moment. “Of course, it’s all voluntary, Sarah. After you’ve heard him, you either pledge to be interviewed or you decline.”

“I’ll do what the majority does,” said Sarah. “I read his last book. I think it’s a good cause. It’s just that-well, I suppose it’s sort of embarrassing. Is it really anonymous?”

“That’s what the press release says.”

“What I mean is-I once read an article about all those surveys in a digest magazine-about their history, the way they keep their material secret-but I remember even Kinsey used to sit across from you and ask questions right to your face. And there was another one before Kinsey-I don’t remember his name.”

Kathleen consulted the paper before her. “Could it have been Hamilton?”

“That sounds familiar. Something like that. He used to give typed questions on cards. But you still had to answer them to his face. That would make me terribly uncomfortable.”

“Yes,” Kathleen agreed, almost automatically. But though she sympathized with Sarah’s viewpoint, she knew that she must not accept it. “Still, I understand Dr. Chapman doesn’t do it exactly that way. I don’t recall what I heard about his method, except it’s the most anonymous of all-you really come off the assembly line hermetically sealed, like a Vestal Virgin. I wish I could tell you exactly how, Sarah. But Grace says he’s going to explain all that in the lecture.”

“All right. I’ll be there.”

After Sarah had settled the receiver in the cradle, she glanced at Sam. She wondered if he had listened to the conversation. He was still buried deeply in the latest stock averages and apparently oblivious to all. Watching him in silence, as she did so often lately, with her right hand characteristically over her heart (where lived that secret thing), she wondered if he ever saw her any more as he had seen her when they first met. She thought he might be agreeably surprised if he looked closely.

Sarah Goldsmith wore her dark hair pulled sleekly back in a bun, and though her heavy, black-rimmed spectacles gave her a rather severe aspect, her face, with the unplucked eyebrows and broad nose, was remarkably Latin and soft in early mornings when she had not yet put her glasses on. She was thirty-five, and her deep breasts and full hips were still firm and young. She was rather proud that, unlike Sam, she had never let herself go. Even after twelve years of marriage and two children, her weight had not varied by more than, five pounds.

Now, with a sigh, she moved to the table, poured a cup of tea, and sat across from her husband. She gazed past his newspaper, at his arm and the portion of his thick-jowled face visible, with detached pity. Although only four years older than she, he had become, at least in her eyes, an overweight clod. She had long forgotten her need for the safety of his solidity in their early years, and her approval of his dogged fight for their security. She remembered only that, after twelve years, he had evolved into a dull, insensitive, inanimate, sedentary fixture, an object with little interest in the world around him, its high excitements and marvelous refinements, beyond an obsessive concern for his men’s clothing store, his children, his back-yard garden, and his wing chair set before the television set. Love he performed dutifully, breathing hard, once a week, on Sunday night, and never satisfying her. This she might have endured, Sarah thought, had there been some romantic air about it, or some fun at least. But it had been added to the monotonous necessities of eating, sleeping, and chores to be done. Oh, he was a good person, of course, and kind, there was no doubt about that. But he was good and kind in that special flabby, sentimental, Jewish way, too quick to apologize or cry or be grateful. In a world alive, he was a sort of death.

She had once read Madame Bovary, and she had committed to memory several lines: “Her innermost heart was waiting for something to happen. Like shipwrecked sailors, she turned a despairing gaze over the solitude of her life, seeking some white sail in the far mists of the horizon… . But nothing happened to her; God had

willed it so! The future was a dark corridor, with its door at the end shut fast.” And afterward she always thought that she knew Emma Bovary better than she knew any woman friend in The Briars.

“Nine-thirty already!” she heard Sam exclaim. He was on his feet, pushing up the knot of his tie. “If I get there late like this every morning, they’ll rob me blind.” He started into the living room. “The minute the help sees you are lax, they take advantage. I see it all the time.” He reappeared with his flannel coat. “But who can leave when it’s so comfortable at home? I like to be with my wife and children. I like my home.” He stood over Sarah, tugging on his coat. “Is that a crime?”

“It’s very good,” said Sarah.

“Or maybe it’s just that I’m getting old.”

““Why do you always make yourself older than you are?” said Sarah, more sharply than she had intended.

“It bothers you? All right, I’m sweet sixteen again.” He bent, and her face, eyes closed, was waiting. She felt his chapped lips on her own. “Well, I’ll see you at six,” he said, straightening.

“Fine.”

“Tonight’s what? A-ha, the fat comedian at seven. Maybe we should eat in the living room so we can watch.”

“All right.”

He went to the door. “You got anything special today?”

“Shopping, Jerry’s dental appointment after school-a million things.”

She sat very still, listening to his leather heels on the cement, to the creaking of the car door opening. After a moment, the sedan coughed, started, and she heard it back out the driveway and then drive off.

Quickly, she finished her tea, removed her apron, and went into the master bedroom. She stood before the Empire dresser, intent on the mirror. Her hair was fine, the checked shirtmaker becoming, Unclasping her straw handbag, she pulled out lipstick and compact.

Carefully, she touched up her cheeks and then painted on her lips in subdued carmine. Again, she surveyed herself in the mirror, then timed and moved to the telephone on the stand between the twin beds.