“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?”