[Fred Trump, aged 90, in the throes of dementia,

is greeted atop Fifth Avenue to sign some papers]

 

See I don’t sign it till Maryanne looks it over.

That last one of Don’s codicils she said didn’t

pass the smell test. I told her get, who was it

Mary, who did my estate last?—I told her get—

But I’ve always been careful, always, even

with the kids. They’re yours but they have

minds of their own. They want things and

when they’re young that’s all you want to do

is give them whatever it is without their asking.

Then they grow up and you start negotiating.

You’re trying to teach them what’s valuable.

If you’re lucky they’ll want what you have.

Be careful it doesn’t cross a line though.

They say the worst betrayals are those against

your own family. That’s the bottommost hell.

I never let them forget it either. Even Freddy.

Made it clear from day one what I thought of his

drinking and carrying on in that fashion like

some ten o’clock scholar, how it reflected

on all of us. And like Cain in the field he

almost took Donald down with him—Sign

what now? No I don’t sign anything, not

till Maryanne has a chance to look it over—

What was I saying about Freddy? That’s it.

He thought what we had was going to last.

How do you reach someone like that,

someone with such lack of ambition?

They pick up on it in the boardrooms like

buzzards picking up a whiff of carcass.

City councils, planning commissions, hearings

from every goddamn government acronym—

He would’ve never made it through all that

because they can always tell whether or not

a man is serious about his work. If he isn’t

he shouldn’t be at the table. With Freddy

I was never sure. I could smell the carcass.

Don was different—But you know that

already. Here you are with his papers like

an errand boy. What’s your name?

Same—? Well you put those things

down till Maryanne gets here. I won’t

sign it lest she looks it over. You can never

be too careful, even when it comes to family.

You know Don—the boy never made

a lateral move his whole life. This business

with All County, that was Don and John.

I’d just about said to hell with estate taxes.

Let them take it for all I care. When you’re old

the fight leaves you—doesn’t matter how much

you had before. Old age is cancer on the will.

Besides I fought plenty in my time—won most.

The Henry Ford of homebuilding, that’s what

they called me. I built the modern house

for the modern man. Gave them all garages

before they even had cars to park them in.

Those little lawns the size of beach-towels,

those were my idea. So your dog wouldn’t

do his business on the street. I put a roof

over Brooklyn and Queens—A barber’s son!

Son of Elizabeth Christ, God rest her soul,

the bravest woman I’d ever known—dear

sweet Mama—but for our sake you never saw

your Kallstadt again.—Mama! Forgive me for

needing you when father died—I was still just

a boy playing ring-a-levio with the Berghers.

I was scared for you, and you were terrified.

You never cried in front of Johnny or me,

but I always knew when you had—when I

came home from school and saw your eyes

like peppermint candies, your body in chains.

I wanted to lick your wounds, but what

does a child really know about grief? I got

to work instead—caddying, whitewashing,

deliveries and paper routes in Woodhaven,

towing lumber like a mule in wintertime.

I built you homes everywhere in the city—

Say again? What am I supposed to sign?

Christ’s sake can’t you leave a man alone

with his thoughts. I won’t sign, won’t sign!

Where’s Mary? She tells me when it’s lunch.

He’s getting everything now as it stands.

Who do you think? The majordomo.

That’s his name on those papers. My name.

Or where do you think he gets it from?

Who do you think groomed him? 

Who set him up in Mannahatta?

When you’ve been at it as long as I have

you play the long game with everything.

The city looks like a floor plan. Your legacy is

something you buy upstate for the summer.

All the work scales up till finally you can

see the big picture—it’s all Power Laws.

Course everything starts to seem like work.

You have to know where every conversation

begins and ends. Have to keep an eye on things.

Like with Don—I don’t mind. Not at all.

He knows what it means to own something—

It’s yours. You do with it whatever you want.

Maryanne said what? For me to sign these?

She did?—Where’s she run off to now—

Well all right then—Where’s my pen gone.


 

This poem is in the style of one of my favorite poets, Robert Browning (1812 – 89). Browning was a master of the dramatic monologue. By dressing up his thoughts in the voices of famous figures, both literary and real, Browning was able to study the psychological origins of many difficult ideas like morality, art, and religion. Perhaps you’ve read “Fra Lippo Lippi.” I would also suggest “Andrea del Sarto” (also about art) “Caliban upon Setebos” (my personal favorite) and “Cleon” and the “Epistle of Karshish,” both of which deal with Christianity and religion in general.

While these monologues are often long and full of complexity, they never seem boring to me. Browning does such a great job capturing not only voice but movement too. You get the sense that his characters are actively speaking, that they’re thinking through their ideas. They reason, correctly and incorrectly, they prevaricate, they back-pedal, they reminisce, they say things they don’t mean, they reach conclusions. In short, they feel like real people.

The title comes from a chapter in Gwenda Blair’s biography The Trumps, which deals with Trump’s dad, Fred Trump.

Thank you for reading.

 

R. Charboneau

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