Institute by James M. Cain Page A

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.