(1961) The Chapman Report Read Free Page B

“scientific advancement” could serve only to disguise beneath noble purpose an unhealthy and erotic mentality, or, as bad, a coarse commercial mind determined to capitalize on the forbidden. In fairness to Dr. Chapman, Kathleen remembered reading that he kept none of his considerable earnings for himself. Nevertheless, in this culture, a well-known name was equal to any annuity and might be cashed in at any time. Besides, he probably preferred notoriety to wealth.
    Maybe she was being harsh with him, Kathleen reflected. Maybe the fault was her own, that she had become prim and old-fashioned, if one could really become old-fashioned at twenty-eight. Still, ha conviction was unshakable: a woman’s reproductive organs belonged to herself and to herself alone, and their use and activity should be known to none beyond herself, her mate, her physician.
    Frowning at the necessity of having to promote something in which she did not believe, something so obviously unpalatable and indecent, Kathleen ground out her second cigarette. She brought the typed column of names and numbers back before her, lifted the receiver, and began to dial the numerals listed after Ursula Palmer’s name.
    Ursula Palmer was an aggressive clarifier, inquirer, pinpointer. When she asked how-are-you, she meant to know, exactly, how-you-were from morning to night, and yesterday, too. No vague generalities, no misty expositions, ever satisfied her. In the world scrutinized by her luminous, large brown eyes, all had to be tangible, known, understood.
    Now, one hand still resting on the space bar and keys of her typewriter and the other holding the receiver to her ear, she continued -as she had for the last several minutes-to plague Kathleen with concrete questions about Dr. Chapman’s expedition into The Briars.
    “Really, Ursula,” Kathleen was saying with repressed exasperation, “I don’t have the slightest idea why Dr. Chapman picked us for his last sampling. I only know what’s on the publicity release in front of me.”
    “Well, then, read it to me,” said Ursula. “I just want to get all the facts straight.”
    Ursula could hear the distant paper rustle in Kathleen’s hand, and she listened, eyes closed to concentrate better, as her caller’s husky voice read the words over the telephone. ‘When Kathleen had finished, Ursula opened her eyes. “I suppose,” she said into the telephone, “that covers it. Poor Dr. Chapman. He’s going to be disappointed.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “I mean what’s he going to learn from this cold bunch of biddies that he doesn’t already know? I can just see him asking Teresa Harnish her favorite position. Two to one she tells him it’s being the wife of an art dealer.”
    “I don’t think we’re any different from women anywhere.”
    “Maybe not,” said Ursula doubtfully.
    “Can I tell Grace you’re coming to the meeting?”
    “Of course. I wouldn’t miss it for anything.”
    After she had hung up, Ursula Palmer regretted that she had irritated Kathleen, as she sensed that she had and always did. It was too bad, because she sincerely respected Kathleen and wanted her friendship. Of all the women whom she knew in The Briars, it was Kathleen alone, Ursula felt, who was her intellectual equal. Moreover, Kathleen possessed that indefinable air-that thing that made a woman a lady, a kind of well-bred repose known colloquially as class. To this, or part of this, was added the glamour of wealth. Everyone knew that Kathleen had inherited a small fortune from her father. She was independent. She did not have to work. Once, in one of her monthly features for Houseday, Ursula had written of the average well-off suburban wife and used the person of Kathleen as the model. She envied Kathleen her striking appearance: her shining black hair, bobbed short and smart; her provocative green eyes; the small tilted nose; the full crimson mouth-all this and the Modigliani neck set on a tall, boyish, graceful