James Cain - The Institute

The nurse instructed her carefully after pushing up the wheelchair on what she was to do: lock her hands on her neck and hold on while the nurse lifted her. “And then—”

“Hold it,” I said. “I have a better idea.”

I peeled the covers down, sat beside Hortense, put one arm around her back, the other under her knees, and lifted exactly the way I lifted her that first time when I had carried her back to the bedroom from my living room. It worked fine again. I slid her down in the chair with no trouble, hoping for a pat or smile or kiss — or something, at any rate, something that would tell me that she remembered. All I got was nothing. The nurse wheeled her out in the hall where Mrs. Mendenhall and I joined them, and off we went, to the elevator, with the nurse pushing Hortense down the hall toward the window of the nursery I had come to know so well. When we were almost to it the nurse stopped, leaving Hortense in the chair, and skipped ahead to the window where she tapped. The other nurse nodded and disappeared. Then our nurse came back and pushed Hortense to the window. The nurse inside was there, pushing the same bassinette. Mrs. Mendenhall said: “O.K., Horty, there’s the big surprise we’ve been saving for you. You didn’t lose your child. They saved it and here it is, right in front of your eyes. There he is — your little son.”

Hortense just stared.

“Isn’t he beautiful?” And then as she had said twenty times: “He’s the spitting image of Richard.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Mother,” Hortense snapped, “he’s not Richard’s child; he’s Lloyd’s. Be your age, will you?”

Mrs. Mendenhall shot a look at the nurse and then said quickly: “Horty, in this hospital, he’s Richard’s — or he’d better be, if you know what’s good for you and for him. He’s registered as Richard’s, and any move on your part to change that is going to raise a stink that will last his whole life. So, unless you want to ruin it—”

“All right.”

Our surprise was a bit of a flop.

When we got back to the room, Sam Dent was there. At first Hortense seemed glad to see him, smiling a bit when she told him to turn his back as I lifted her back in bed. But after some friendly moments, while he asked how she was and she told him, “well as can be expected,” it all exploded once more when he half-cleared his throat and began: “Hortense, as soon as you’re able, I’d like for you to read some papers and stuff like that. One or two things have come up—”

That was as far as he got. She didn’t even let him finish, screaming at him in a weak voice that sounded all the worse for being so ghostly.

“Do you have to pester me now? Do I have to beg for consideration? Do you know what it means to be shot by a lunatic, to have a child taken out of you, to lie at death’s door for five days—”

“Three weeks,” Mrs. Mendenhall said.

“To have a foot in the grave the better part of a month? Do you think I can turn around then and begin reading stuff you bring me? So you can get on with some job?” There was more, but Mrs. Mendenhall and the nurse kept trying to calm her down, and Sam kept saying, “I’m sorry, Hortense; forget it. I didn’t mean to upset you.” When he and I were out in the hall, he tried to explain why he was bothering her about business at a time like this.

“Lloyd,” he said, “I had to. Legally, she’s it. She’s the only one who can say what goes on this stuff that keeps coming up, that’s going to keep on coming up. Since Mr. Garrett didn’t leave any will—”

“He didn’t ? I thought he did.”

“He kept talking as though he had, and he certainly meant to, but as far as he got with it was one of those clipboard jobs that he was so fond of — a memo to me about what he meant to put in it. And it leaves her in complete control. There’s things we don’t dare do without an O.K. from her. Like the debentures on the motorbikes. It’s a way to get working capital, but they can’t put them out until she signs the order.”

“Does she know about the notes?”

“I gave her a copy of them. It was a memo to me, so I had to keep the original. That’s part of what’s bugging her, maybe. I’ve thought since then that perhaps I shouldn’t have done it. But I had to if she wanted to do what he wanted — I mean, carry out his wishes.”

“What’s the rest of it?”

“You mean, why I shouldn’t have given it to her?”

“Yeah, I’d be curious to know.”

“Does the name Teddy Rodriguez mean anything to you?”

“Yes. Teddy’s a very close friend.”

“He meant to leave her a million.”

“Ouch.”

“But I had to show it to her — if she wanted to carry out his intentions, as she kept saying she did, whether he made a will or not.”

“What other bequests were called for?”

“Million to me, million to you, million to Mrs. Mendenhall, million to the child if, as, and when born, five million trust fund for Inga, to cease upon her death. But without any will to go by, it’s Hortense — and she has to make decisions, or else some of these companies that ARMALCO is made up of are behind the eight ball.”

“I get the picture.”

“He slung millions around like popcorn.”

“He meant to sling millions around.”

“Yeah, sure — correction noted.”

Next day Sam was back with another nut for her to crack. It seemed that Sol Novak, of Novak Bros., a subsidiary in Akron, wanted to incorporate, but had to have her O.K.

“It’s important for ARMALCO protection,” Sam told her, “because the partnership, as it stands, is a two-for-one thing, two shares to Sol for every share for his brother, Al. Maybe it’s for straight, on the up and up; but maybe Sol’s gypping Al. We can’t leave things to chance. On our end, we can’t have anything out of line or we’re wide open if we get sued. So, much as I hate to bother you, Hortense—”

She didn’t answer, at least in words. All she did was scream. Just open her mouth and let out ghastly bleats, one after the other. But they got fainter and fainter until she was gasping them out. Then she subsided a bit.

“I see it now,” she said. “It’s all clear. It means I have to die. Whom the gods would destroy, they don’t make mad any more. They let them dream and then make the dream come true. I had that dream every night. I got so I knew it by heart, knew what was coming each time. He was dead; my husband was dead. And I was the richest woman on earth. I had a yacht like Jackie Onassis’s, a mansion like Jane Du Pont’s, a coat like Frances Vanderbilt’s. I could have whatever I wanted just by waving my hand, anything I wanted, anything at all. Then, pretty soon, I would wake up and he would be in the other bed, snoring. But during the dream I was happy, so happy I wanted to fly!”

“Horty, stop talking like that!” Mrs. Mendenhall cut in. “You know that’s not true at all. You never dreamed things like that!”

“I know what I dreamed!”

“Let her talk!” I snapped, “if she’s to have peace with herself, she has to.”

“Debentures — what are they? And corporation. I don’t even know what that is!”

“ In corporation,” Sam corrected.

“Incarceration — of me, why don’t you say? Well, why don’t you? I’m the prisoner of my dream, and it’s going to kill me. Oh yes; I know what’s in store for me.”

It went on and on but at last ran down from her getting exhausted and shutting up. Then Sam and I once more walked out in the hall. A bench was there and we sat down, he mopping his brow which was wet. Then he broke out: “So she dreamed he was dead, so what? We knew that, and it didn’t bother her then. She just thought it was funny.”