Too Much and Never Enough, стр. 42
When the business of the funeral was complete, the family planned to take a drive to the All Faiths Cemetery in Middle Village where the family plot was; my grandfather’s parents, Friedrich and Elizabeth Trump, were the only occupants at the time. I later learned that over the preceding two days, my mother and my brother and I had separately pleaded with different members of the family to allow my father’s ashes to be spread over the waters of the Atlantic Ocean.
Before we left the chapel, I caught up with my grandfather to make one final plea. “Grandpa,” I said, “we can’t bury Dad’s ashes.”
“That’s not your decision to make.”
He started to walk away, but I grabbed his sleeve, knowing it would be my last chance. “Wasn’t it his?” I asked. “He wanted to be cremated because he didn’t want to be buried. Please, let us take his ashes out to Montauk.”
As soon as the words came out of my mouth, I realized that I’d made a critical mistake. My grandfather realized it, too. He associated Montauk with my father’s frivolous hobbies, such as boating and fishing, activities that had distracted him from the serious business of real estate.
“Montauk,” he repeated, almost smiling. “That’s not going to happen. Get in the car.”
Sunlight glinted off the marble and granite grave markers as our grandfather, his light blue eyes squinting beneath his enormous eyebrows at the brightness of the day, explained that the tombstone, which was already inscribed with his mother’s and father’s names, would be removed temporarily so my father’s name and dates could be added. As he spoke, he spread his hands wide, like a used-car salesman, bouncing on the balls of his feet, almost jaunty, knowing he was in the presence of a rube.
My grandfather followed the letter of the law and then did what he wanted. After my father was cremated, they put his ashes into a metal box and buried them in the ground.
Dad’s death certificate, dated September 29, 1981, states that he died of natural causes. I don’t know how that is possible at forty-two. There was no will. If he had anything to leave—books, photographs, his old 78s, his ROTC and National Guard medals—I don’t know. My brother got Dad’s Timex. I didn’t get anything.
The House seemed to grow colder as I got older. The first Thanksgiving after Dad died, the House felt colder still.
After dinner, Rob walked over and put his hand on my shoulder. He pointed to my new cousin, Ivanka, asleep in her crib. “See, that’s how it works.” I understood the point he was trying to make, but it felt as though it was on the tip of his tongue to say, “Out with the old, in with the new.” At least he had tried. Fred and Donald didn’t act as if anything was different. Their son and brother was dead, but they discussed New York politics and deals and ugly women, just as they always had.
When Fritz and I were home for Christmas vacation, we met with Irwin Durben, one of my grandfather’s lawyers and, after Matthew Tosti died, my mother’s main contact, in order to go over the details of my father’s estate. I was shocked to find out that he had one. I thought he’d died virtually penniless. But apparently there were trust funds that had been set up by my grandfather and great-grandmother, such as the one that had paid for boarding school, that I didn’t know about at the time. They were to be split between me and my brother and kept in trust until we turned thirty. The people appointed to manage those trust funds and to protect our long-term financial interests were Irwin Durben, my aunt Maryanne, and my uncles Donald and Robert. Although Irwin was the point man—it was he we had to call or meet with if we had a question or a problem or any unforeseen financial needs—Donald was the ultimate arbiter of approval and the cosigner of all checks.
Stacks of documents covered Irwin’s desk. He sat in his chair behind them and began to explain what, exactly, we were about to sign. Before we got very far, Fritz interrupted him and said, “Mary and I talked about this earlier, and first we need to make sure that Mom will be taken care of.”
“Of course,” Irwin said. Then over the next two hours he methodically went through every piece of paper. The actual amount of money my father had left wasn’t clear to me. The trusts were complex financial arrangements (at least to a sixteen-year-old), and there was what seemed to be a huge tax burden. After explaining each document’s significance, Irwin pushed it across the desk for us to sign.
When he finished, he asked if we had any questions.
“No,” Fritz said.
I shook my head. I hadn’t understood a thing Irwin had said.
P
ART
T
HREE
Smoke and Mirrors
C
HAPTER
N
INE
The Art of the Bailout
“MARY TRUMP MUGGED” the New York tabloids, subtle as ever, blared in 100-point font the day after Halloween 1991. Even though I already knew what had happened, it was jarring to see the headlines as I passed news kiosks on my way to the subway.
My grandmother hadn’t just been mugged, though. The kid who’d grabbed her purse in the grocery store parking lot as she loaded shopping bags into her Rolls-Royce had slammed her head against the car with such force that her brain had hemorrhaged, and she had lost some sight and hearing. When she hit the pavement, her pelvis fractured in several places and ribs broke, injuries that were no doubt more dangerous than they might have been if she hadn’t had severe osteoporosis. By the time