It’s very hard, writing this, excavating our brotherhood, for me to be impartial about Frank, whom I found unbearable.
“He’s totally on my side,” Vita told me. “Frank’s a huge asset.”
This from the innocent woman who had, not long before, been disparaged by Frank as a gold digger and an opportunist, whom he warned me against marrying, because—he heavily hinted—she’d end up getting my house and most of my money, leaving me in the gutter, bankrupt and alone. His argument was based on lawyers’ cynicism and precedent—this had happened to other clients of his, he had proof in documents, binders of credulous men ensnared by greedy bitches.
She’s an unknown quantity, he’d said to me. A stranger.
I cringed to think that Vita was innocent of hearing these gibes.
Hire a private investigator! Execute an asset search! Threaten an intimidation audit! Get a prenup! It’s a test of love!
She was a stranger to him, but not to me. Frank didn’t know what I knew. The Vita that I’d met in the Colombian highlands, a single woman enduring the machismo of a mining camp and overcoming the rigors of the road, was someone I admired. And just as important, she hadn’t been daunted in Littleford—the tight little town being a challenge in culture shock. We’d gotten to know each other in sharing the more ordinary problems of the day-to-day—petty nuisances being greater tests of patience than the big drama of hardships. We became partners, cooking, shopping, cleaning, laundry. Loving her, I thought, This is where the true path begins.
“Frank’s working pro bono,” Vita said. “He cares about these exploited kids as much as I do.”
When, early on, Vita had asked, So, tell me about your family, I’d said, I don’t know where to begin. Maybe it’s better that you come to your own conclusions.
Wishing to be fair, I didn’t want to list the grievances I had with Frank. Doing that would, I suspected, make him assume an importance he didn’t deserve, and then he’d loom in a forbidding way over our relationship. I didn’t say much because I didn’t want him to matter. And I didn’t want to sound like him, a belittler, a hostile witness, a gossip, a nitpicker, a traitor.
This of course is hypocritical of me, because looking back at what I’ve written so far, pages saturated with sibling rivalry, I see I have portrayed Frank as a predator and a bully—insincere, hateful, and manipulative—the high-functioning asshole I always disparaged. In a murderous mood I’ve been building a case against him—a conventional case, prosecuting him as a selfish brute.
But there was more to Frank than bullying and greed and manipulation. There was a darkness in him that did not seem dark. He could be hateful, but hatefulness was not his worst quality, disparagement was not his most serious fault.
From an early age he was a dispenser of favors, and he had a wizard’s ability—which is also a huckster’s ability—to winkle out secrets, to divine a person’s fondest desire. He wanted to be useful, he wished to be indispensable, he needed to be needed.
I have mentioned how he’d had a brief affair with my ex-girlfriend, Julie Muffat, and then berated me for treating her badly. Without looking too deeply into my brother enjoying sex with someone I’d also had sex with—troubling in itself—it was obviously motivated by his seeing that an affair was something she wanted, in order to get even with me. Frank had accommodated her in her vindictiveness, and of course the sex was a bonus for him. Long after that brief sexual episode he remained close to her, helped her in various legal matters, gossiped with her—and all the while he encouraged her to divulge information about me, the shaming secrets of an old love affair. She was willing to tell him, to wound me. But why was he so interested?
Growing up, I’d mention to someone that Frank was my brother, and I’d steel myself in anticipation, thinking they’d respond with abuse, because I’d known him as an adversary. And I’d get a surprise.
Great guy! they’d say. Know what he did for me?
They’d mention a favor, often something incidental, but thoughtful, tactical—He loaned me his car, He helped me get a job, He shoveled my mother’s driveway one snowy day when I was at work. God love him, in the Littleford idiom. Heart of gold.
Sometimes the favor would be substantial, involving a sacrifice on Frank’s part, an inexplicable altruism. He might respond to a compliment with a bizarre display of generosity, a practice I’d been told about by miners who’d spent time in the Middle East. A naive stranger in those cultures might single out a watch, a ring, a gold stickpin, or whatever—That’s really nice, the stranger might say—and the pious owner of the admired thing, obeying custom, would respond, It’s yours.
No matter the value—and it might be a glittering string of emerald worry beads—it was instantly handed over and could not be refused.
Anyone who praised something belonging to Frank was rewarded with it, either that very thing, or else Frank said, I’ll get one for you, and he kept his promise.
See these cuff links? a Littleford man once said to me. Your brother gave them to me.
A shirt, a golf club, a scarf, a penknife, a cut-glass decanter, a necktie—at one time or another, these were items Frank presented because they’d been admired. There must have been many more, but these were ones I had personal knowledge of, Littleford recipients, who praised Frank’s generosity.
For a person who desires the thing he or she praises, the praise is the expression of a wish. It is not a simple compliment, it is the candid disclosure of a deep yearning. But Frank was not extravagant. If someone praised his car—he bought a new one every two years—he said, I can get you a discount on one just like this, or probably better. I know a guy.
He knew many guys. That was another function of his goodwilll, introducing someone to a person who could help, vouching for both of them, matchmaking.
He got my kid a job, He found a specialist for my father, He put me in touch with a real-estate genius. On meeting someone for the first time he’d study the stranger and wait for an opening, and if the person did not indicate a wish, Frank would say, I’m here to help—tell me what you want me to do.
This openhanded offer is often made, but the promise is rarely kept. Frank always followed through, providing aid and comfort, fulfilling the wish; and he never accepted payment. He would often show up later, offering more, to the point where he became a benefactor, unpaid, an angel of mercy.
Frank’s satisfaction was being someone who was indispensable. This aim—I want you to need me—was something I’d only come across in certain ambitious politicians. I can fix it, or I can help you, or Tell me what you want me to do.
I grumbled about Frank, but the memory of Frank’s willingness and generosity was an obstacle to most people listening to my complaints, whose usual reply was That’s not the Frank I know. For them, Frank was the dispenser of good advice, as well as material things, or introductions, or—because he was a lawyer—a bestower of justice.
“My father scalded his hand in the sink,” one man told me. It was Eddie Picard, at a high school reunion, on my first trip home from Arizona, when I was feeling flush. The elder Picard had been Dad’s friend. “I went to Frank, because my father said he was a good guy—he’d given camping equipment to my son’s Boy Scout troop. I figured he’d know a great doctor. Frank says, ‘Tell me how it happened.’ I says that we bought a new boiler. The water was scalding hot. ‘Maybe it was improperly installed. Maybe a wrong setting. I’ll get you a doctor, but you might have a case against the plumbing company.’”
“Then what?”
“Long story short,” Picard said, “Frank gets my father a dynamite doctor. He files a suit against the company and the manufacturer of the boiler, proves that thermostat shit the bed, and he gets a judgment—emotional distress, loss of earnings, personal injury, rehab, no trial—they settled. Frank was a godsend. And he didn’t charge us a penny.”
Of course not, because Frank would have gotten a large cut of the settlement, and maybe a payoff from the doctor, and years of referrals. Picard would not have wanted to hear this.
Camping equipment to the Boy Scout troop, like the scarf, the watch, the cuff links, the golf club, and other trinkets, was Frank’s way of chumming the waters.
Back when I was chipping diamonds out of the volcanic tubes of lava in Western Australia, on behalf of Rio Tinto, I got an earnest message from Frank. Call me.
“Got a client,” he began when I called. “I’m representing him in a personal injury suit against his employer. Big company. They’re sandbagging me, but I know I’ll be able to drive a bus through them in the end. Listen, this guy lost his sense of smell. Know what that means?” He didn’t wait for me to reply. “He could breathe toxic fumes without ever knowing it,” Frank said. “He works in a plastics factory.”
“Maybe he should get a new job.”
I’d heard Frank tell such stories before, and I was irked that I was on this long-distance call, swatting flies in a trailer in Kununurra, Australia, listening to this tale of woe.
“It’s not about the case. It’s about the guy. He’s engaged to be married.”
I took a deep breath to keep my composure, and said, “What is it you want, Frank?”
“We won’t get a settlement from the company for a while. But in the meantime he wants to surprise his fiancée with a ring.”
“I still don’t get it.”
“A diamond, Cal. Just find me one. It would mean a lot. Not only to keep my client happy, but in the end there’s a big payday. I’ll settle with you then.”
“Industrial diamonds, Frank. That’s what I’ve been digging out of the deep block caves. It’s called bort”—and I spelled that word—“It’s black, it’s brown, and it’s not gem quality. Seven bucks a carat. It’s used as an abrasive. And in drill bits. He wants to put this on the woman’s finger?”
I had mentioned diamonds in letters home, without specifying what kind. I was sure Frank told his client, I know a guy. In this case and others, I was the guy. Earlier on, he introduced me to parents whose children wanted to travel. Cal travels a lot, he told them—he can give your kids valuable tips. I was the guy, I was the favor.
Now I am demonizing him again and making him seem selfish. The truth is more complicated. He wished to be a benefactor, he wanted to please people, he aimed to be a patron, a godfather, a helper. He was a fixer, he was a Samaritan, he was Santa.
For a long while, early on in his legal career, Frank took up photography. He made a study of it, buying himself a plate camera, a boxy Speed Graphic that he used, hunched under a black cloth—Don’t move!—and got marvelous results, sharp portraits in black and white. And in the two or three years of practicing this hobby he offered people in Littleford—politicians, doctors, company directors, bankers, important citizens—a portrait of themselves, suitable for framing.
Just pose—no charge, he’d say, and he would haul his camera and tripod and black shroud to their house or office and take pictures, lovely ones, rare in detail and definition. He’d discovered that what most people want—especially important people, opinion formers, who had elegant offices with walls for photos—was a flattering portrait of themselves, or their wife or their children, or their dog; or a group portrait, all of them together. Frank developed the plates himself in his darkroom at home, and he retouched them, airbrushing, beautifying the subject—no flaws, no blemishes. He made a fuss of handing them over, showing up at the subject’s office with a bottle of champagne and the framed photo, gift wrapped. Then, a little speech, a toast, and the presentation.
Money was always offered but Frank refused it. This is a memory. You can’t put a price on a memory. Frank’s form of indirection lay in saying modestly, It’s just a harmless hobby of mine, while at the same time offering a thing that people cherished. The recipient had not been conscious of wanting a portrait, but Frank divined that it was the secret desire of most people to own an ideal image of themselves.
He knew that he was giving something of value, that they’d never forget, and as with all such gifts, the receiver was obligated, the more so because no money had changed hands. The photographs didn’t cost much—a few dollars’ worth of chemicals, but Frank may have been the only person in Littleford who owned such a camera, and the resulting photo was a thing of beauty, singular, and signed by Frank, a sort of icon to hang in the house, leaving them with a feeling of gratitude but also a lingering sense of indebtedness.
The strategy brought him clients, especially well-connected ones, and helped build his reputation. But as he became busier he did fewer and fewer portraits, and finally gave up photography altogether.
What never left him was his impulse to find someone in need, and to offer his services, taking charge. Here’s what you have to do . . . It was Frank in his role as rescuer—of someone injured, or loveless, or abandoned, an accident victim. He was a suitor to single moms and had a way of wooing them as clients in their quest to receive child support or alimony. There was no immediate profit for him in their cases, but they were small victories, and friendships and visits, that led to referrals, to personal injury suits.
Far from being viewed as a bottom-feeding predator he was praised for being a savior, and in many respects that was exactly what he was. My rescuing him long ago in the creek on Cape Cod was confusing to him, because he made it a principle never to owe anyone. He regarded favors to him as an encumbrance; he didn’t want to think that by my saving him from drowning he owed me his life. Though he’d been sinking beneath the black water and looked a goner, he minimized it afterward, claiming that he could have made it to shore on his own.
I laughed when he said that, but we had no witnesses, so he stuck to his story. He needed to be the power figure, the rescuer not the victim. Not owing anything to anyone was one of his boasts. It gave Frank quiet satisfaction to be owed, knowing that at any time he chose he could collect.
Later, he became a regular attender at funerals. He saw one aspect of his role as Littleford’s foremost attorney to be designated mourner. He made a point of ostentatiously grieving. He would embrace the ashen-faced spouse and stunned relatives—and leave his card. If there’s anything at all I can do . . .
He was often summoned afterward by the widow to sort out a will, or deal with probate, or property, and in doing so he became part of the family.
Frank cultivated widows. They were weak and vulnerable, confused as to what their next move should be. They seldom knew the extent of what they were owed—it was Frank’s contention that the spouses were notorious for having hidden assets and died before they revealed their whereabouts. Frank delved—asset searches were one of his specialties—he found bank accounts and investments and safe-deposit boxes, and when he was through, he was able to reward the widow with much more than she dreamed of.
And so the widow remained in Frank’s debt and, having been enriched, became useful to him. He would extract a fee, often less than he deserved, so that they would stay indebted, and he would become a friend of the family, uncle, godfather.
Frolic had been a widow. I have mentioned how he had chanced upon her clerking at a gas station in Maine, and she had poured out her heart about how her husband had died from a lung disease he’d contracted working in a plastics factory. She uttered the magic word fiberglass. Frank had wooed her, slipping into his role as rescuer of a grieving widow, drying her tears and offering to represent her in the lawsuit against her late husband’s company.
Frank became Frolic’s trusted adviser, and after his success in arriving at a settlement—millions—they’d continued to meet, and become lovers, and ultimately married. But through all this, and even after marrying into her fortune, Frank was regarded as a rescuer.
My brother had his critics (How do you stand him?), but he had many more well-wishers. Over the years I was struck, again and again, by the testimonials of people in Littleford he’d helped. I resisted being impressed, because in all matters related to Frank I remained skeptical. He was my brother, I knew him better than anyone, and I had never seen him as a true benefactor, because the dark side of philanthropy was a lust for power.
So when I returned home from my contract in Canada and Vita told me how he’d offered legal counsel in her campaign to draw attention to the exploited children in the Colombian mine, I was on the alert. I’d heard this before. Frank’s a huge asset. Frank’s going to help. I don’t know what I’d do without him.
In almost every case I knew of Frank—as attorney pro bono, the designated mourner, I’m happy to help, I know a guy, Mr. Fixit, the hand-holder, the godfather—he always gained an advantage with his favors and philanthropy. Though he was known as a good guy to everyone but me, heart of gold, Samaritan, rescuer, lifesaver, Santa, he never failed to collect.
Much worse than his malice, more serious than his bullying, was Frank’s kindness. I don’t say “apparent kindness,” because I could seldom separate the real thing from the pretense. He knew how to be generous and tender, he was able to touch a nerve and evoke a need; to inspire confidences, to be the soul of kindness. That was his most Luciferian trait.