I’d come home from Broughton to lure him to watch Dark Shadows with me, to be told he was slogging about the neighbourhood leafleting for a sit-in at the city council. He had a letter to the editor printed in the Raleigh Times; he wrote comment pieces for his junior high paper, The Mustang, and his social studies projects were obsessive; regardless of the era, he managed to write essays about Oakwood. My little brother was given to instant and enduring if sometimes irrational loyalties from which I had benefited myself.
The battle over the beltway lasted eight years, and Truman’s active opposition never flagged. At fourteen he became a founding member of the Society for the Preservation of Historic Oakwood; by fifteen he was volunteering after school for Preservation/NC, a non-profit concern dedicated to rescuing old properties state-wide to which he still donated ten hours of his week. The acme of his martyrdom was in 1976, on the Moser house lawn, where we now stood. At the time, the property was dilapidated and the city had condemned it, though according to Truman their intentions were less than honourable—the Moser house was smack in the path of Raleigh’s prospective new road.
The heavy digging equipment assembled, and so did a hodge-67
podge crowd—hefty black working women, mothers with prams, boys with scooters, Truman, beginning to fill out now, strode from the mêlée and planted himself in front of the bulldozer. Once he encouraged the others to do likewise, the wrecking crew was at a loss, and shrugging, knocked off for the day.
The SPHO got a stay from the courts, and over the winter Truman sawed and hammered through his Saturdays with the owner until they brought the Moser house up to standard. His grand stonewall before the bulldozer had made the front page of our morning paper; I bought five copies. He looked so brave and handsome, his chin thrust in precocious indignation. One of these was framed and yellowing in Truman’s dovecot; another travelled with me in my wallet, flannelled from unfolding and smoothing and quietly refolding again.
As for his second son’s burgeoning political awareness, my father was underwhelmed. I might describe our father’s attitude towards Truman’s architectural fervour as rueful; Truman would say derisive.
The civil disobedience and picketing campaign against the beltway may have galvanized blacks and whites together until Oakwood teemed with the ‘community spirit’ to which my father paid lip-service, but he’d little taste for potluck suppers in real life. He was a man with strict definitions of what qualified as worthwhile. He’d argue that people are more important than houses, don’t you think? and Truman would return that people lived in houses. My father accurately divined, however, that it was not the tenants Truman cared about. In Father’s defence, he was himself battling lawsuits filed by white parents against the city over bussing, and organizing discussion forums about integrated education that regularly degenerated into punch-ups. He had his hands full, and I can see how in comparison a fight over a freeway might seem small.
Their differences came to a head twice. When Truman was a senior in high school, he suggested Heck-Andrews be listed on the National Register as an historic property. He claimed our house would be a shoo-in; he knew the procedure through Preservation/NC and volunteered to shuffle the paperwork. My father was patently uninterested. On the register you were told what trees to leave standing and what colour to paint your trim and the rigmarole was a waste of time. I agreed with Truman that registry wouldn’t have cost the family much bother; I’m afraid
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that for my father this was largely an opportunity to hammer home just how little he thought of his son’s decorative preoccupation. Truman got the message, all right—loud and clear.
So for the final showdown Truman was already haggard. About his son’s ambition to study architecture I won’t say my father was scathing, but his response was flat. Since Truman’s belated enrolment in Duke was primarily designed to earn his father’s imprimatur, there seemed little point in a major that left my father cold. After a few desultory discussions, Truman announced he would switch to philosophy, and my mother made pie.
‘You know, the city council never did come around for the right reasons,’
Truman reflected in front of the house whose life he’d saved. ‘Raleigh just grew so much while the beltway was in the courts that the road they planned wouldn’t have done the job any more. Those bastards never did concede that tearing down these mansions would have been town-planning pornography. A hollow victory, in the end.’
‘But you made a moral difference, didn’t you? It’s still standing. Thanks to you. Good job.’ I biffed his arm again, though my congratulations could never proxy for my father’s.
Truman was the defender of the helpless, which was sweet except that if you ally yourself with helplessness you can fall prey to it yourself.
To Truman, houses were the essence of innocence: they had never done anything to anyone. With this same compulsive empathy for the weak, he was a sucker for kittens and baby rabbits; as a boy he’d nursed doomed robin’s eggs in light-bulb-warmed boxes. He still trapped racoons in our garden without poisoning the bait, and drove the scrabbling creatures in their cage ten miles to release them, bounding, in Umstead Park. I had met other youngest children as adults, and they all had incongruous soft spots for small animals.
As we detoured to the capitol to read inscriptions under bronze Confederates with bayonets, I considered that, coming from paternity with such a grand mandate as equality under the law, there was something marvellous about how little Truman wanted: proper diet and a particular house. As he debated out loud how we might best cook a chicken curry without curdling the yoghurt, I thought there might be something to this idea that the
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Great Questions were spurious, not pertinent, and the good life was about addressing instead whether you should microwave bagels and why it had become absurdly difficult to buy 100 per cent cotton athletic shorts. My little brother’s gumsoles quickened in anticipation as he scattered peanut casings and pigeon feathers because it was getting past seven o’clock, and it was time for rice.
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6
That Thursday morning the postbox was stuffed with stiff square envelopes addressed to ‘The McCreas’, what few of us remained. I ripped open a selection of Christmas cards at the kitchen table, and they dis-heartened me somehow. The scrawled condolences about my mother commended her ‘community service’, but never recalled the clear, accurate alto in which she rendered ‘Day is Done’. Many cards were from my father’s colleagues, whose names rang with the singsong familiarity of state capitals I’d never visited—‘Benson Bonaventure’ and ‘Leonard Maxwell’ had imprinted tunefully on my memory like ‘Boise, Idaho’
and ‘Montpelier, Vermont’. I could no more picture their faces than they could mine, but if these people didn’t know me they didn’t appear to have known my father, either. Their notes exalted his legal judgement and passion for civil rights, but not one scribble recalled fondly how when he talked in hallways he’d knock his cordovans one against the other, gazing at the floor and obsessively rattling his keys. My father may not have valued his most endearing qualities; goodness, or what passes for it, is not that attractive, and I hearkened back instead to the day my father waggishly stole our peashooter and pelted the dining room while Mother screamed for him to stop. But we often make that mistake about ourselves; I faulted his friends.
Amid the season’s greetings, however, I discovered two identical envelopes, one for Truman, one for me. I read mine, and hid Truman’s behind the flour canister, where he discovered it while wiping down the counters after one more allotment of chicken thighs that evening.
The return address arrested Truman’s sponge; rice grains ticked to the floor. ‘What—?’ He ripped the envelope none too gently. ‘Garrison was right; they sure didn’t waste any time.’
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He plonked in a chair and spread the expensive stationery on the wet table, where it began to spot. When Truman was very little Mordecai and I would
dog him around the house, mirroring his flailing hands as he tried to drive us away and repeating his every word—‘Schtah-ahp it! Cudd id ou-oud’—until he cried. Now he read the legalese aloud with the same mincing parodic whine of his childhood tormentors: November 29, 1992
Hugh Garrison Esq.
Garrison, Jason & Lee
First Union Capitol Center
Raleigh, NC 27605
Re: Estate of Sturges H. McCrea
Dear Mr. Garrison,
We are in receipt of your letter of 26 November 1992, regarding Mr.
McCrea’s generous bequest to the ACLU. We understand that you are in the process of liquidating assets of the above-captioned estate, the proceeds from which liquidation the ACLU is due 25 per cent.
As you have advised, however, the ACLU is now co-owner, as tenant in common, of the real property located at 309 Blount Street. To determine the precise value of that property, a formal appraisal should proceed forthwith. Should your clients choose to divest, the ACLU is willing to wait for its portion of the proceeds pending the sale of the house, provided the property is immediately put on the market at a price which reflects its market value. If your clients choose instead to retain the property, the ACLU naturally expects its share in cash, not to be unreasonably withheld.
We recognize, of course, the difficulty that can frequently arise in disposing of inherited real estate, and would not presume to press you unduly in this matter. At the same time, as a non-profit organization with an active and growing caseload, we trust you will proceed as ex-peditiously as possible.
Let me take this opportunity to express to the McCreas, through you, our appreciation for the family’s support. On a personal note, 72
I worked with Sturges McCrea on the Cox vs. Adams case, when he impressed me with his courage, his astute and even wry arguments, and his overweening commitment to civil rights. This state has lost an able lawyer, a judge who never flinched from a dissenting opinion, and a profoundly thoughtful, sincere human being. That this should be reflected even after his death in the form of this bequest impresses but does not surprise me.
Very truly yours,
David Grover
General Counsel
cc: Mordecai D. McCrea
Corlis L. McCrea
Truman A. McCrea
Truman looked up, wafting. ‘Makes you want to vomit.’
‘It’s like all those Christmas cards,’ said Averil. ‘Your father was such a totally perfect person…’
‘To whom you could never hope to measure up,’ said Truman, flapping the page like flypaper stuck to his hand. ‘And of course “David Grover” isn’t “surprised”. ‘Everyone knew Father was self-righteous.’
‘You think Father was a prat,’ I submitted, sitting on the opposite end of the table.
‘A prat?’
‘A pillock,’ I clarified. ‘A wanker.’
The grinding of Truman’s molars dimpled his jaw. ‘I think he was on his high and mighty horse, and God forbid he should leave what isn’t really that much money—and my own house—to his ordinary children who happen to be white and middle class and of course that’s something to be ashamed of.’
‘Maybe,’ I proposed, ‘his kids don’t need his money.’
‘You think the ACLU is more strapped than we are?’
I cocked my head. ‘Might there be a difference between self-righteous and plain old righteous?’
‘No,’ he said staunchly. ‘They mean the same thing.’
‘So there’s no such thing as decency. As a generous man.’
He flung the letter on the table. ‘Decency doesn’t include having this exalted Jesus opinion of yourself and making other people suffer for it.’
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‘I don’t understand,’ I solicited. ‘How have we suffered?’
Truman’s nostrils flared as he inhaled.
‘Look here,’ he said, taking a pen from his workshirt and drawing a line down the back of David Grover’s smudged request. On the top of the first column, he printed, DAD GIVES MY BIRTHRIGHT TO STRANGERS, above the second, DAD TELLS THE ACLU TO JUMP IN THE LAKE. He must have worked this out more than once; the arithmetic went quickly.
‘Take a look.’ He shoved the paper down so I could see. ‘Say the liquid assets do come to $300,000. Even adding the $14,000 Mordecai forfeits, you and I together come into $164,000, before state taxes, and that’s with Hugh probating for free—’
‘Hugh’s not charging us legal fees?’ I interrupted.
‘No,’ said Truman reluctantly. ‘He’s doing it as a favour.’
‘For us?’
He squirmed. ‘For Father.’
‘So is Hugh self-righteous, too?’
‘Hugh’s just a nice guy!’
‘Other people can be charitable because they’re nice guys, while your own father is a prat.’
‘I didn’t say prat, you did, will you just listen a minute? If this house is appraised at $380,000, that means to buy out both Mordecai and the ACLU, we need $190,000. We don’t have it. Know what that means?
“Franny’s Realtor” poked on our front lawn.
‘But look at this.’ He scrawled. ‘Without the ACLU scoffing up a quarter of everything? We’d each have $100,000 plus Mordecai’s $14,000: $214,000, and we’d only have to buy Mordecai out of his third for $126,666. No problem, right? And with $43,667 each left over to cover taxes and stay on our feet. You asked about suffering. Well, yes, I’m suffering. Thanks to Father’s righteousness, as you call it, I may lose my only home.’
‘Do you think maybe Father worked out those equations himself?
That he wanted us to sell?’
‘Just because he hated this house—’
‘He might’ve thought it time you got out on your own.’
‘You had long, confiding talks about it, I suppose.’
‘Yes,’ I said smoothly. ‘We did.’
‘I can live without both of your counsel on my welfare, thank you very much— what’s so funny?’
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I’d started to laugh, like the Good Witch of the North when Dorothy doesn’t understand about the shoes yet. ‘Oh, Truman,’ I said when I caught my breath. ‘All your calculations. Bloody hell. This house is paid off. We can take out a mortgage.’
Truman’s shoulders dropped two inches in shock.
‘Well, yeah,’ he said, folding his chart with embarrassment. ‘My point stands. Without David Grover the only trouble we’d have keeping Heck-Andrews would be Mordecai, and we’d have a lot more money.
A quarter doesn’t sound like that much, but it makes a humongous difference.’
‘Yes,’ I said firmly. ‘It makes some difference.’
‘So you think—’ he tapped the paper—‘Father’s donation is swell?’
‘I think it’s laudable.’
‘Why? He didn’t give his money away, but ours.’
‘That’s where we differ. It was his money.’ I had held my peace on this matter for as long as I was able, and licked my lips. ‘It’s still his money.’
Truman snorted. ‘Not any more it isn’t.’
But I was just getting started. ‘And you keep going on about your house. Sometimes you remember and say our house. But it’s theirs. We didn’t buy this place. It’s still theirs.’
‘Tell that to David Grover. You’re not being very helpful.’
‘I simply can’t share your outrage. Father earned his money, to do with as he pleased; we don’t deserve a penny.’
‘I’m supposed to feel guilty?’
I was not about to make myself popular. ‘You’re supposed to feel lucky. To get so much as a cheese grater, much less a whole house. Just because you come into something doesn’t mean it’s rightfully yours.
That’s what’s wrong with this country, too, our whole generation—we think the world owes us a living. We think a house and car and credit card come with the territory. When the Good Life doesn’t arrive on a plate, we’re irate. We think every
thing should be free. We’re spoiled, Troom. You and I are spoiled rotten. And so is the whole frigging United States.’
‘You sound just like your father,’ said Averil.
‘She’s right,’ said Truman. ‘You’re imitating him—staking out the moral high ground and surrounding it with an electric fence. I had to put up with it as a kid, but I don’t see why I should have to sit still for it from you.’
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‘What are you saying, we should give the house back?’ shrieked Averil. ‘They’re dead.’
‘In which case,’ Truman added, ‘there’s no point in trying to impress Father with your scruples.’
‘Notice,’ Averil muttered, ‘she didn’t say any of this stuff when Mordecai was around.’
‘It’s much harder for our generation than it was for theirs!’ Truman cried. ‘After the war, the economy was expanding. Now we’re in a worldwide recession, and you want me to bust with self-reproach just because I’ve got a place to live—for now. A fat lot of good that’s going to do anybody.’
‘I don’t know how much harder it is for us,’ I countered. ‘Our burden is having it too easy. I think—’ I was suppressing a smile—‘inheritance is evil.’
‘Well, don’t that beat all!’ Truman exclaimed. ‘You wouldn’t want to say something mildly intelligent like, “Inheritance perpetuates class divisions”. No, no. Inheritance is evil.’
‘Why don’t you give your share away, then?’ asked Averil. ‘Why don’t you donate all your money to the ACLU?’
‘Firstly, I wouldn’t do that to you and Truman. Without me, you’d never keep the house, never get a mortgage—’
‘Spare us your lordly—’
‘I’m not finished. Second, I’m as piggy as the next person. I may find Father’s compulsion to give his money away magnanimous, but that doesn’t mean I could do the same myself. He was better than we are—’