Institute

by James M. Cain

He seemed startled, so I told him: “I’m the director. Or am I?”

  “Of course you are, Lloyd.”

  “Then I’ll call.”

  “Fine.”

  He stared for a moment and then asked: “And what places?”

  “The location of the press conference you should hold, as the host graciously answering any questions that may come up.”

  “That’s more up my wife’s alley.”

  “I was going to suggest that you ask her to arrange it.”

  “All right, what else?”

  “That’s all I can think of right now.”

  Hortense arranged it at one of Washington’s big hotels, with me sitting in as a sort of advisor, but not until she had “a few minutes alone with Monsieur Pierre, Dr. Palmer.” That seemed to mean money was going to change hands. By the time I got back, Monsieur Pierre was purring out loud. He was a sleek-looking guy with an accent I didn’t quite place. He set it up exactly as she wanted—for Conference Room A, with counter, bar, and buffet at one end, telephones at the other, and chairs in the middle. The only hitch came over the canapes. When she mentioned them to him, Monsieur Pierre frowned, but she told him emphatically: “I know they’re a lot of trouble and that hotels hate to fool with them. But these will be newspaper people who are not only chronic freeloaders but will have their hands full of pencils, papers, cameras, tape recorders, and all sorts of things—and to expect them to scoop up dip with potato chips or spear lobster tails with a fork is not being realistic. I want to make it easy for them—dips, shrimp, lobster tails, and potato salad of course, but also, if you could stretch a point, Monsieur Pierre—”

  It turned out that he could.

  For my two cents worth I asked for three armchairs—“with a mike beside each—one for Mrs. Garrett, one for Mr. Garrett, and one for me, facing the rows of folding chairs. Since they will be shooting pictures of us, we should be in comfortable positions. Also, in addition to your counter, bar, and buffet, I want a decent-sized table to hold the printed matter we’ll have on hand to give out. I want it put at one side near the door, so if any reporter forgets something, he can grab it on the way out.”

  Monsieur Pierre made a note.

  She had come down in a cab. When we were through I suggested: “Why don’t you come out with me? Then in the morning I’ll drive you in, and—”

  “I can’t, Lloyd; Mother’s here,”

  “Oh. Then invite me out. I’d like to meet her.”

  “That thought crossed my mind, but for some reason, I shied off.”

  “Okay, no use pushing our luck.” “With her, there will be plenty of time.”

  By the day of the news conference, stacks of material had been delivered to the apartment, not only the announcements, brochures, and releases but a couple of dozen copies of our application to I.R.S., in case some reporter wanted to cover us thoroughly. In addition, there were Xeroxed capsule biographies, mainly taken from Who’s Who in America, of the dozen people or so I had been able to reach and invite to join the board. I didn’t get any turndowns. Their names were important for advance release to the press.

  The entire mass of material filled two suitcases which were heavy. Because I didn’t want to make my entrance at the hotel, carrying them from the parking lot, I called Student Aid at the university and asked them to send someone over, telling them that the student would get a whole afternoon’s work because he would have to stand by at a press conference I was attending and possibly run some errands for me.

  13

  AROUND ONE O’CLOCK MISS Nettie called from downstairs and said: “There’s a Teddy Rodriguez here, Dr. Palmer. Says she’s from Student Aid. Shall I send her up?”

  “Says she’s from Student Aid? Good God, I asked for a he.”

  “Well, it looks like a she to me.”

  It was a she, all right, nicely formed and very pretty, in faded denim hot pants, chopped-off short, blouse, and sandals. She looked vaguely familiar.

  “Surprise, surprise!” she crowed. “I’ll bet you expected a boy. But summertime, you know. You have to take what you can get. I just happened to be there.”

  “Teddy, do I know you?”

  “I was in your English poetry class, Dr. Palmer. I’m the one who sat on the end, showing her beautiful legs and making eyes at you.”

  “Oh. Yes, of course.”

  “Aren’t you thrilled?”

  “Well, I would be, of course, except that I’m afraid you won’t do. It’s kind of a packhorse job and—”

  By this time she was inside, pointing to the suitcases which were in the hall outside by bedroom door. “Them? They’re nothing.” She skipped up the hall, grabbed them, and carried them to the alcove. “What’s in them?” she said. “Bricks?”

  “Pamphlets, press releases.”

  “I’m strong as a bull. Cheerleader during football season.” She cartwheeled into the living room and then came back to me, walking on her hands. “See?” she chirped gaily, getting on her feet again. “Nothing to it.”

  “Then ... you asked for this job.”

  “It’s not the money—it’s you.”

  “That’s enough about me. Now, about lunch—”

  “I had lunch. But I cook, too, as well as I do handsprings. If you want me to fix you some—”

  “No, I had a late breakfast.”

  By then we were in the living room. She was looking at the pictures and I was wondering what to do with her, since the news conference didn’t begin until four.

  “O.K.,” I said, “we’re going to have some dead air, so sit down, make yourself at home, and help yourself to those magazines. Time, Newsweek, and The New Yorker are there on the cocktail table. While you’re looking at them, I’ll be boning up for the reporters.”

  She camped on one of the sofas with Time and I on the other sofa with the stuff Sam Dent’s secretary had sent me, from a friend in the Newspaper Club, on the various local reporters who covered this kind of story. I thought it would help if I could call them by name, as though I knew all about them.

  Pretty soon she pitched the magazine back on the table and said: “I know what we could do. I know what would freshen dead air.”

  “Yeah? Like what?”

  She came over and sat in my lap and put her arms around me. “Like we could go to bed.”

  “Like we could not!” I growled.

  “We could, we could, we could!”

  By that time she was kissing me—hot, wet, and sticky. Of course, Hortense completely possessed me by now, yet in just a few seconds I wanted this girl bad—and she knew it. There were more kisses; I don’t know how many. But at last, by using all the willpower I had, I pushed her off, stood up, and said: “You wait downstairs—if you still want the job. Wait in the lobby. When I’m ready, I’ll call Miss Nettie. Don’t come up until she tells you.”

  “No, Dr. Palmer, no!”

  “Yes. You have to go.”

  “But why? Dr. Palmer, I’m entitled! It’s nothing new for me, that I thought it up after I got here. I fell for you right from the start, way back in September. I showed you my legs that first day when you lectured on Ann Rutledge.”

  “Ann who!”

  “Whoever. Hathaway, I guess it was.”

  “Keep those Anns straight.”

  “And you peeped at my legs, too.”

  “So? They’re pretty enough.”

  “And you want me now. I can tell!”

  “Regardless of whether I want you or not, it can’t be!”

  “But why? Dr. Palmer, I ask you: why?”

  “There’s a reason, Teddy.”

  “Blonde or brunette?”

  “More like blonde.”

  “I guess that says it.”

  She pulled out one of her curls, which were a sort of dyed sorrel, looked at it for a moment, and then shook her head. Her eyes were wet. I felt compassion, deep and genuine. It seemed tragic, somehow, that I had to say no to her. I blotted her eyes with my handkerchief, while at
the same time, edging her out. In the hall, when the elevator came, I kissed her once more and whispered: “O.K., I’ll be thinking of you.” When she was gone I went back inside, waited a minute, then called Miss Nettie and asked: “That girl from Student Aid—is she waiting or not?”

  “She’s sitting in the lobby.”

  I went into the bathroom and washed my mouth out with Listerine, to kill any smell of lipstick that might be lingering.

  I sat down again, trembling. At three o’clock I picked up the suitcases and went down in the freight elevator to the parking lot entrance and carried them out to the car. After I had put them in the back, I went around to the front of the building into the lobby. There I found Teddy reading a magazine. She seemed upset that I had done my own toting.

  “I wanted to do it for you,” she said. “It’s not the money. It’s you.”

  “You said that already.”

  I put her in the car and for the first time noticed the patches on the seat of her pants. They looked as though some sailor had sewed them on.

  “Who did your patches?”

  “I did,” she said. “Why?”

  “Just wondering, that’s all. They’re nice, pattable patches.”

  “You ought to know. You patted them.”

  “So I did, so I did. Touchée.”

  “What do you mean, touchée? No one got touched, I know of. Brother, what a washout. Patty cake, patty cake, pat me some more.”

  “What has to be, has to be.”

  When we reached the hotel parking lot I took the suitcases out for Teddy but let her carry them to the marquee where I told the doorman to take them and call a bellhop.

  Conference Room A was just off the lobby. It was all set up, with the bar, buffet, and counter at one end, my service table at one side, three armchairs with their backs to the bar, mikes in front of them, and folding chairs facing them. We were the first to arrive except for a bartender polishing glasses and two girls in red trunks, boleros, and shoes, with some of the barest legs you ever saw. They were lining up bowls with dip, salad, and relish on the buffet, as well as placing platters of canapes around. They came running over to help. I introduced Teddy as “a working girl’s working girl; so if you need any help, just holler.” We all got along well. When the bellhop had taken the brochures and pamphlets out of the suitcases and left after getting his tip, Teddy and I arranged the material on the table. She had some suggestions about how to display it, all of them good.

  14

  THEN THE GARRETTS ARRIVED. Hortense, wearing a green cocktail dress with a gold band around her head, looked simply beautiful. I presented Teddy as “my girl Friday who carried the press stuff for me so I could arrive like a gran signor—kind of like cruelty to children, except that she’s as strong as a bull.”

  “How fortunate,” Hortense said icily.

  “But prettier’n a bull,” Mr. Garrett said.

  “Mrs. Garrett,” Teddy cooed, “I’ve seen your picture often. I’ve always admired your hair. I just love dark blonde.”

  “You have quite beautiful hair yourself.”

  “Not really. Right now it’s dyed with henna rinse. I wish it were blonde, like yours.”

  “I’ll send you a wig. How’s that?”

  “Oh, Mrs. Garrett, would you?”

  There was more to this exchange than met the naked ear. I was somewhat uneasy at the way Teddy was tipping me off that she knew what my reason was.

  Hortense tried her chair and reached for the mike, to adjust it. But it was stiff and wouldn’t budge. Teddy skipped over to it, and gave a yank that really did the trick. She pushed it a little bit at a time until Hortense nodded that it was the way she wanted it.

  Hortense got up and came over to me. I was at the table I had had put in, looking at the various handouts. She nodded a couple of times. Then, after getting closer to me, she stiffened. “Get that girl out of here!” she snapped. “What do you mean, bringing such a creature?”

  “What girl?”

  “That girl!”

  Her voice was pure venom, and she had the bad manners to point without looking where she was pointing, to the mikes where Teddy was standing. When she raised her voice, Teddy came over and took her wrist and began putting pressure on it. Hortense walked backward under the pressure of Teddy’s grip until she reached her armchair and plopped down on it. When Teddy spoke, the mike, which was turned on, picked up her voice and boomed it out over the entire room.

  “I saw what you did, Mrs. Garrett, leaning close in to Dr. Palmer, so you could sniff his shirt to see if it smelled like me. I’m sure it did. It should have, the way I climbed on him and twisted around in his lap and slobbered on him. But he said no. Did you hear what I said, Mrs. Garrett? He made me wait downstairs because he had a reason—kind of a blonde reason. All I can say is, if you’re that reason, he might do better with me!”

  She wheeled around and faced me, her eyes glittering with tears, and sobbed: “Dr. Palmer, I’ll thank you to pay me, so I can go. I want my wages, whatever they are. Also taxi fare to the bus and bus fare to College Park.”

  But before I could get out my wallet, Mr. Garrett came over. He wrapped Teddy in his arms and said very loudly: “Take it easy, Teddy. Calm down, relax. College Park is right on my way. As soon as we’re through here, I’ll run you home.” He led her to one of the folding chairs, sat her down, and then went over to Hortense whose hand he picked up and patted, but she slapped him away. Then she jumped up and went out with that quick, boiling-hot walk a woman breaks into when she’s really mad. She went through the lobby and out the front door.

  I wasn’t the first guy to get caught in the middle of by two women blowing their tops, but I felt like holy hell anyway. Mr. Garrett played it cool—adjusting the mikes, inspecting the food, conferring with the bartender, and joking with the girls. I sat on the table, watching him, trying to figure out where I stood, if anywhere. It was frightening, but I made myself own up to it, that here in just a few seconds, the whole ship had been blown out of the water. Mr. Garrett must know the truth now, whereas before he could only guess. How was he going to play it? And was he going to play it? But when he called me over, all he said was: “Lloyd, we’d better be getting ready.” Which meant that he wasn’t going to play it; he was just going to ignore it. I suppose for the moment it eased my mind, yet deep down inside, it left me more nervous than ever, because I didn’t know where I stood. How can you ignore something like that? But if he could, I had to.

  As I passed Teddy, I asked her: “Would you take charge of the press stuff? See that each reporter gets a release from every pile?”

  “Okay, Dr. Palmer. I’m sorry.”

  “Why didn’t you bring a stink bomb?”

  “I said I was sorry.”

  “Don’t bang at Teddy.”

  It was Mr. Garrett, who had come over to give her a pat. “We all make mistakes,” he said, “especially when provoked.”

  That seemed to end the subject.

  It didn’t end Hortense, though. Pretty soon the reporters came, fifteen or twenty of them. Some I knew, at least by sight, and some I didn’t, though on about half of them, I had done some background study. The two Washington papers sent men, and so did the New York Times, the Los Angeles Times, St. Louis Post-Dispatch, Women’s Wear, and the Associated Press.’ But the Wall Street Journal, Baltimore Sun, and Philadelphia Evening Bulletin sent women, and for some reason, they took us over the jumps. The show got off to a lefthanded start when one of them pressed Mr. Garrett as to where Hortense was and why she wasn’t there. “If the Institute is named for her, this show must be in her honor. What’s become of her?”

  But he didn’t get excited. He answered: “She was here a moment ago, as a matter of fact; but then she changed her mind and left. My wife doesn’t like cameras. They make her break out in a rash.”

  “Mr. Garrett,” the woman said, “I know Mrs. Garrett quite well, and I’ve never noticed any allergy to cameras on her part. I would say s
he’s not only photogenic but photogenerous.”

  “Then that’s what you would say.”

  By this time three or four men were in front of us, sitting, standing, and kneeling, their cameras to their eyes, taking pictures of him. Instead of smiling, though, all he did was look peeved. There are times when a stuck-out jaw is the one thing that wins the ball game, but a press conference isn’t one of them. The woman smelled something peculiar about it, and she meant to get some answers. Suddenly she turned to me. “Mr. Palmer,” she began.

  “Dr. Palmer,” Mr. Garrett corrected her.

  “Dr. Palmer, in my paper’s bio morgue I find eight envelopes on you, all in connection with football, but none that mentions biography. May I ask why you were picked to direct this institute?”

  “Mr. Garrett picked me. Ask him.”

  “Mr. Garrett?”

  “I picked him because he knows more about biography than anyone else,” Mr. Garrett said. “He knows so much that it makes my head swim.”

  “Do you have a degree in biography?” she said to me.

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “Have you taken courses in biography?”

  “There are no courses in biography.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  She was obviously caught by surprise. Some of the other reporters suddenly began writing furiously.

  “There is no course in biography, or discipline, as they call it, in any American university that I know of,” I said, “in spite of the fact that biography is the one literary field that Americans excel in. It was partly to fill this lacuna that I persuaded Mr. Garrett to endow the Hortense Garrett Institute of Biography.”

  “She persuaded him, you mean.”

  “I know what I mean, if you don’t mind.”

  “You’ve seen a lot of her, then?”

  “Naturally. It was necessary in setting up the Institute.”

  “At her apartment, we would assume?”

  “If you would disconnect your assumer and stop telling me what I mean, we’d get along a lot better.” That got a laugh, and I added: “I’ve never been to Mrs. Garrett’s apartment. We’ve met for lunch and once or twice for dinner.”