Institute (16 page)

“Sociability helps.”

“Does that answer your question?”

“It’s what I wanted to know.” “Kiss me.” And then: “Lloyd, I’m getting terribly nervous.”

O
F COURSE, ONCE WE
moved into the building, Hortense wouldn’t have been Hortense without giving a party, a big stinkaroo in celebration thereof, although she called it an “opening” and acted as though it was something anyone would do under the circumstances, or, as she put it, “the least we can do, in all decency.” But I was beginning to find out that all she knew to do or that rich people like her knew to do about anything—from the birth of an heir to the shotgun wedding preceding it—was a little party for three hundred people or so. What such parties accomplish I haven’t yet found out except to make Hortense take a deep breath and say, ‘Thank God
that’s
over’—and then begin planning the next one.

But if it would make her happy—and, especially, ease her mind—it was all right with me, and I pitched in to help to the extent that I could. My help consisted mainly of moving the Institute in so we would have something to celebrate. It was quite a job, and I called on secretaries, Dr. Lin, our Chinese librarian, Carter and Johnson, and, of course, Davis. Our quarters took up three floors of the new building, including the first floor. There, through a heavy glass door was the big room I’ve already mentioned, now finished in oak paneling and furnished with bookshelves, desks, leather chairs, and thick carpeting. It was to be our reception room, with secretary, phone, and the usual intercom hookup. Beyond was my private office and beyond that, Hortense’s and beyond that, a small dining room with bar, kitchen, and pantry. Her mind, though she apparently didn’t realize it, ran to the entertainment and facilities it required more than to the conference rooms upstairs.

But not Davis’s mind. He had ideas about our library. The minute he started to talk, I knew they were good. His point was that fifty percent of our subjects would figure in one of America’s wars but that a lot of references to them would be found in standard works which weren’t too expensive to buy—for example, for the Civil War, the Official Record; for Battles and Leaders, the Southern Historical Society Papers, the Photographic History, and the Bassler collection on Lincoln. He thought if we stocked these books, it would save all kinds of work for our scholars, and they wouldn’t have to go to the Library of Congress or the National Archives or wherever, but would have them right at hand there in our own building. I agreed and authorized him to buy sets wherever he could. All that summer he had been making his deals, which was how he came to have all those books in storage. They had to be moved in now by truck and then hauled up to the second floor and shelved. In front of the shelves we put rolling ladders, index cabinets, and desks. I copied the room from what I had heard of a scholar’s room—Rupert Hughes—in Los Angeles, which was a model of efficiency, I had heard. On the third floor were the “study rooms” for our “fellows.” The other seven floors we rented out, and this led to a small brouhaha just before the big bash. Donald Klein, our rental agent, had his desk inside the front door where he took it for granted that he could buttonhole guests as they came in regard to rental space. Of course Hortense hit the roof when I told her and went boiling downstairs to see him. I went along, unhappily, not believing in brawls and hoping she wouldn’t start one. But count on her: “Don,” she said, “of all the people I wanted to come, I think I wanted you the most, and here I find out you’re going to sit at this desk and
sell
! Don, how could you? Oh, how could you!?” It turned out that he couldn’t.

There was no particular reason for me to be nervous that day. Hortense had lined everything up down to the last detail, especially my part in it. But for some reason, I
was
—plenty. As director, I was to stand with her and Mr. Garrett and help receive the guests, dividing with Sam Dent the job of supplying names, though since he had no official connection with the Institute, he didn’t stand in the receiving line. But because he knew the Garrett staff and, of course, the politicians, and I knew the fellows, board members, scholars, and Institute staff, it seemed that between us, we had everyone covered. It was my first big Washington party, however, and I had a lot to learn.

I felt something, something more than I had expected, the moment I get there around four, with things due to start around five. It may have been the baby grand piano that had been moved in without my knowing it or the bull fiddle in its case, leaning in one corner. Or it may have been the chrysanthemums, the big jardiniers full of yellow ones, standing in all four corners and in rows against the wall. Or it may have been the half-dozen black girls in the dining room whom I glimpsed through the open doors—the caterer’s contingent, in dresses so short there was probably a law against them—bare legs, bare midriffs, skimpy bras, and little lace caps and aprons. Or it may have been the black girl at the desk, dressed the same way, who was reading a magazine and who put her hand on the phone when I went over to call Hortense, saying: “Sir, this phone is for incoming calls only. I can’t let you use it. There’s a pay phone in the lobby.” Or it may have been Hortense’s manner when I went out in the hall and called her—the quick brush she gave me, as if to say she was busy and would I kindly leave her alone. Whatever it was, I finally got it through my head that something was about to happen. And, of course, I tried to get with it, which is a bit hard to do when you have no idea what you’re trying to get with.

Sam Dent arrived, and I asked him what was up, but he gave me a vague answer: “If I knew, I’d certainly tell you; but nobody does, actually. They think they do, but they can’t be sure.”

The Garretts arrived and Hortense gave me a quick briefing: “You’ll stand with us, receive the guests first, and present them. Sam will present them to you and you will present them to us. For heaven’s sake, listen for names and get them straight. Repeat them clearly to
us.”
She took her place with Mr. Garrett, at the upper end of the room near the door of my office, and I took mine with them; she was standing next to me, with Mr. Garrett on her right. The orchestra came in and began to tune up. The bass player took his fiddle out of the case.

The guests began to arrive and were met by Sam who herded them to the front of the room toward the windows. If was barely five o’clock, yet dozens of people were there, some looking out at the street as though expecting something. Everyone seemed to know what was coming off except me, and I began to feel queer. The orchestra struck up with “Ma, He’s Making Eyes at Me.”

The phone rang, the one for incoming calls, which the girl had refused to let me use. She answered it and then signaled to Mr. Garrett who was there in three strides. He answered, nodded, and handed the receiver back to the girl. Then he nodded to Hortense and they went out in the hall and from there to the sidewalk. Finally I knew what it was: the call was from the White House to say that the President’s car had just left. That’s what all the excitement was about.

By now everyone was at the windows, watching, and I watched, too, from the doorway. A car pulled up and six men got out, like in a gangster movie, four of them staying outside, two-and-two, to block the sidewalk, and the other two coming inside to stand around gimlet-eyed, studying the crowd. Then another car pulled up, a limousine with the blue-and-white Presidential seal on the door. Then the President was getting out and holding his hand for the First Lady. Then they were coming in with Mr. Garrett and Hortense. The orchestra leader, who by now was standing beside me, made a sign and the orchestra broke off what they had been playing and rolled into “Hail to the Chief.” The President waved to them and took his place with the Garretts where they had been before, up near the door of my office, the First Lady beside the President and the Garretts beside her. Hortense beckoned to me and I went over. When I was presented, the President said: “Dr. Palmer, it’s a pleasure I’ve looked forward to. I’ve seen you play often.”

“He’s a fan of yours, Dr. Palmer,” the First Lady said.

From there on in, it went smoothly. Sam formed the guests into line and brought them to me, and I latched onto the names, which wasn’t hard, since they were all prominent people—senators, cabinet officers, congressmen, judges, writers, scholars, librarians, and so on. It was quite a distinguished gathering. Senator Hood was there with Mrs. Hood, but they seemed somewhat subdued.

The orchestra resumed its lively tunes, and when everyone had been received, the President stood around, chatting affably. I made a point of not staring. Then I felt a hand on my arm, and when I turned, he was standing beside me.

“Dr. Palmer, I saw you do something once that baffled me, and I’ve promised myself that if I ever met you, I would remind you of it and ask you to clear it up.”

“Sir, if I can, I’ll be glad to.”

“It was in a game with Virginia. In the last quarter, one of Virginia’s players scooped up a Maryland fumble and headed for a touchdown, with you in hot pursuit. Now, I had noticed your clean tackling—you left your feet, hit them clean, and brought them down hard. But when you closed in on this man, you didn’t tackle him the way you usually did. You went up his back, threw an arm around his neck, and wrestled him to the ground with about as much style as a fireman throwing a mattress out the window. I knew there had to be a reason . ... So what was it? Do you remember the play?”

“I remember it—the game, the play, the tackle. It was cold that day. There were snow flurries, and our hands were so numb that we couldn’t handle the ball. Both teams kept fumbling, and passing was out of the question. To tackle a man from behind, you had to grab what you could and hold on—pants, padding—anything. You couldn’t knock a man down by impact; there wouldn’t be any. He would be running the same way you were and just about as fast. But what could I do that day? My hands were so cold I couldn’t hold on, so I had to clip him and take the penalty or else go up his back. I hated it; it’s such a crummy way to play. But I did it. I brought him down, and we won the game. Does that clear it up?”

The President nodded, apparently in admiration. Then he smiled.

“It never occurred to me,” he said, “what the reason was, but I knew there had to be one. I always admire someone who does what has to be done—when, as Grover Cleveland put it, he ‘faces a condition, not a theory.’ ”

He turned to someone else then, and my other arm was caught, this time by Hortense.

“I heard it,” she whispered. “Aren’t you proud?”

“I guess so, but why couldn’t you have told me who was going to be here?”

“Oh, I couldn’t! We weren’t sure he would be. Even after he accepted, something could have come up. He would have been represented, of course, but that would have been awful—to let it out that he was going to be here and then have him not come.
And,
the Secret Service asks you not to make an announcement. If it’s not known, the danger is that much less.”

“Everyone knew but me, apparently.”

That night she paraded naked in front of the full-length mirror, asking me: “Lloyd, does it show on me? I
am
five months gone, as you said, and tonight that Judy Hood looked at me rather peculiarly. She had a certain look in her eye.”

“Turn around. Slowly.”

She turned, and I said: “Nothing so far.”

“It won’t be long now, and I still haven’t heard from that Finn.”

“Not to hurry you—”

“I know, I know, I know.”

T
HAT DAY MARKED THE
zenith of Lloyd Palmer’s star as director of the Hortense Garrett Institute. After that, it began to fall—or, I could even say, plunge. That same week we took on more writers, more biographers, with study rooms, recorders, secretaries assigned to transcribe, and all the rest—including a man I won’t name. He was from Georgia and was doing a book on Longstreet, who was briefly Lee’s second in command. That doesn’t sound like anything trouble could grow out of, but what that biography did to me shouldn’t happen to any American citizen who pays taxes and obeys the law. This writer was well known. He was the author of a fine book on Francis Marion, the Swamp Fox of Revolutionary fame, as well as many historical articles in important publications. In other words, he seemed worthy in every way of the grant-in-aid we gave him, in addition to office accommodations.

The first indication that there might be something odd about him was when Davis dropped by my office and suggested that “you leave him to me,” a hint I disregarded because I was beginning to distrust all hints from Davis. So when this man came in, I asked him to lunch. I took him to Harvey’s and listened while he talked—or at least, half-listened, for he began to bore me early on. I dislike people with grievances. His was against Douglas Southall Freeman, the biographer of Lee and Washington—and, it seemed, of Longstreet as well. That, this man could not forgive Freeman for.

“So, okay,” he growled, “we know about Gettysburg, how Longstreet wanted to shift his corps to the right and hit the Union rear and cut them off from their road, and perhaps, with luck, roll them up for a surrender. And we know that Lee said no and insisted on Pickett’s charge, one of the worst decisions yet made on a battlefield. So, okay, that was it; that was how Freeman had to tell it so long as the subject was Lee. But couldn’t he leave it at that? Did he
have
to write Longstreet up year after year for every newspaper, quarterly, and publisher who wanted a piece on the subject? Couldn’t he have disqualified himself? Because he must have known, Dr. Palmer, that to make a star out of Lee, he had to make a bum out of Longstreet! But Longstreet was right that day at Gettysburg! He was not a bum! And I say Dr. Freeman was wrong to keep on defaming him! He shouldn’t have! He did not have the right! Why did he have to be Longstreet’s biographer, too?”

He was getting so worked up that the maître d’ began shooting looks at us, and I tried to quiet him down. “Hold it,” I said, “I agree that Freeman might well have stepped aside and let someone else write on Longstreet, but, after all, Longstreet is dead and Lee is dead and Freeman is dead. It’s your turn now, but bury the dead, why won’t you?”