The Institute

12

In Wilmington, Washington, and various places, things now began to accelerate. Next in our order of business was the application we had made to I. R. S. for a tax-exempt status. To sit in with us on that, Sam brought in a tax lawyer, a character named Kaufman, who was a bit of a stuffed shirt, but was a shark on tax law, which was what we hired him for. Around Sam’s age, he was grossly overweight. Kaufman insisted that we work in his office on Sixteenth and C because his reference books were there, so I would walk there every day from the Garrett Building on Massachusetts. The reason I had to sit in was that I knew what the Institute would be doing. So day after day, for the supplemental booklet we would submit, I dictated to Kaufman’s secretary a detailed account of our projected activities, so every possible thing would be covered and we wouldn’t hit any snags later just by failing to include some material in our application — “to acquire, repair, and shelve books, pamphlets, periodicals, manuscripts, and source material of all kinds”; “to employ researchers, technicians, scholars, consultants, and librarians for the assistance of scholars writing biography or writing anything which, in the judgment of the director, contributes to biographical study”; “to employ persons qualified to prepare indices for the assistance of scholars writing biography”; “to acquire, operate, and maintain recorders and employ technicians to maintain them, such recorders to use film, tape, wax, wire, or other means of reproduction, oral or visual or both, for the preservation of biographical material” — and so on for eighty-five pages in blue cover, until my tongue had kinks in it from dictating such gobbledygook. But Kaufman seemed satisfied, and it was Garrett who called at nine-thirty one morning while Hortense was still in bed to tell me: “Lloyd, I’ve just opened my mail and wanted you to be the first one to know. We have our ruling.”

“We have our—”

“Ruling. From I.R.S. We’re in.”

“Well, hey, that’s wonderful news. I’d heard they were fairly prompt but didn’t expect action so soon. It’s hardly been a week.”

“Our application’s in order and on the up and up, that’s why. Kaufman gives you full credit — while, of course, saving some for himself.”

“He did fine. Well, I’m pleased.”

That put him up tight and me up tight — him because by now rumors were going around, with stuff coming out in the papers, and he had to make some kind of announcement, and me because I was named in the rumors and the university kept calling me, especially the president’s office, to know what was going on and whether I would be there next year, as so far I hadn’t resigned, not being quite sure how things would finally turn out. So I had to make up my mind, and did. In a short, hand-written note, I resigned. Mr. Garrett had also made up his mind. He asked me to come up to discuss his press statement. So next morning I was in his Wilmington office, listening to his idea on how to make the announcement. It was weird, to say the least but at the same time, interesting, because it showed how little a big wheel understands public relations or what he owes the public in the way of information. He thought it was enough to send out a brochure, one I would write, “of two thousand words or so,” describing the Institute, along with an engraved announcement, “and that’s all. I’ve checked off the newspapers here that I think the brochure should go to.”

He had his thumb marking a place in a book, which he passed to me. It was Ayer’s newspaper directory. He had put markers in for Boston, New York, Philadelphia, Baltimore, Washington, Norfolk, Richmond, and a few more places, with check marks beside the big papers in each city, which you couldn’t overlook, of course, as the circulation figures told you. I glanced at it here and there, and while I did this, he went on: “I may say that, since this is in my wife’s honor, for once in her life, I don’t want her besmirched — by printer’s ink, I mean — as she has been in Wilmington. After all, it’s a private matter, and when we’ve come up with all legitimate information. I think we should cut it off. I think we’re entitled to cut it off.”

“Private? Cut what off? I don’t understand.”

“Well, isn’t it? It’s my money.”

“It’s your money, but you’re claiming exemption from taxes. That makes it public.”

“I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

“As far as Mrs. Garrett goes, I don’t believe for one second that she minded very much, that she really minded at all, the things that came out in the papers, especially the pictures. In plain English, she loved it. This idea you seem to have, of cheating her out of her big moment, strikes me as somewhat silly.”

“Well, thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

“What’s your idea about it?”

“My idea is: maybe the press isn’t perfect, but they’re the only press we have, so if we can’t lick ’em, let’s join ’em. They’re there, and it’s up to us whether they tell it our way or some other cockeyed way that needn’t have happened at all, if we’d just got with it and played our cards right.”

“You mean, stacked the deck?”

“Okay, what’s wrong with stacking it?”

“How do we stack it, then?”

“The announcement, the brochure, and the mailing list are fine as far as they go. Count on me to fix up the style. But we should also get out a press release, a Xerox job that we write up ourselves, with names, dates, places, and a release date — all complete.”

“What names, besides my wife’s?”

“Our governing board, for one thing.”

“It hasn’t even been appointed.”

“No, but I’ve picked the nominees.” I took out my list of historians, biographers, librarians, university department heads, and financial bigwigs, and passed it over to him. “They should be queried,” I said. “And when we have their acceptances—”

“They’re probably on vacation now.”

“They can be reached by phone — or rather, most of them can.”

“Okay, I’ll begin calling today.”

“I’ll begin calling today.”

“What’s your objection to me?”

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.