“Your legacy is this, Dad: Treating people like they're nothing more than opportunities to make you look better.”
Contempt is gone, replaced by a shocked, hollow look in his eyes. “You really think that of me?”
I hate the emotional rollercoaster he puts me on. Dec would have stormed off by now. Terry would have avoided the conversation altogether. I accept Dad's invitations and let him into my life over and over again because I keep trying to elicit that piece of him that's more humane, more authentic, more...
Dad-like.
And then he does this.
“Your actions dictate what I think of you, Dad. And when you start talking about putting my toddlers under pressure to be super-humans who achieve greatness according to your metrics, then–yes.”
“What the hell is wrong with greatness?” He says it calmly, plucking a piece of fig cake off the wooden board. As he chews, he looks at me speculatively, as if he actually wants to know the answer, as if it's not a challenge.
“Greatness is truly great when it's intrinsic. Not when it's forced by someone else.”
“You're just going to waste your boys’ childhood? Never encourage or guide or structure their time so they can be molded to do more? Be more?”
“Not your way. No.”
“My way? There is no ‘my way’! It's the way, Andrew.” He shakes his head, a slow, sad gesture of disappointment. “One of those boys will run Anterdec someday. It's all you have, and when you're my age, you'll understand why legacy is important. You'll be in this exact position one day.”
It's all you have.
The temptation to mention the gyms I now own is strong, but I won't show my hand in a moment of weakness, and make no mistake: I am weak right now. Weak because I brought up emotion.
McCormick men don't feel.
McCormick men act. To feel is to admit weakness.
The feeling is distinct and palpable, and it makes me livid.
“What's your point, Dad? I should take pity on you because one day I'll hand the company off to one of my children?”
He bristles at the word pity. “I'm trying to warn you. Give you advice. Help you learn from my mistakes.”
“Trust me. I already have.”
He lets out a long sigh with more emotion in it than I'd expect. “This is not how this conversation was supposed to go.”
“Good, because this is pretty bad.”
“I also want to talk about inheritance.”
“What about it?”
“You have children coming. That means significant changes to wills and trusts.”
The hair on the back of my neck begins to stand up. “What do you mean?”
Before he can answer, Paolo appears with a table brush, removing our bread plates, gently brushing the crumbs off the tablecloth. He sets down dinner plates and then a steady stream of servers deliver our food.
“Another drink, sir?” he asks Dad, who gives me a glance before declining. I change my mind on the fly and shake my head. After refilling our sparkling water, Paolo leaves.
I immediately cut into my steak. Can't scream at someone with your mouth full, right?
“A new generation requires additions and changes. After your brother had Ellie, I spoke with our estate attorneys, and with the Montgomery trustees.”
“Okay.” One-word answers are safe, and the tenderloin is perfect. Maybe that vodka and soda is kicking in, too.
“Of course, I've written Ellie–and will write any additional grandchildren–into my will and your mother's family trust. None of the trusts will actually break, though, for four additional generations beyond your children.”
“Sounds good.”
“You're not angry?”
“Why would I be angry?”
“There's significant capital tied up in these trusts.”
“I know.”
“You don't want access to it?”
“I don't need access to it. I have my salary, my investments, and my income is plenty.”
He snorts. “From the Montgomery trust, surely not.” My mother, Elena Montgomery, came from a family with money. Dad has no control over her family trust.
And it kills him.
“Terry lives on it,” I remind him, secretly pleased that this is like poking him in the eye with a pine needle.
He gives me a sour look. “Terry lives in a hovel and drives a tin can.”
“He owns a duplex in Jamaica Plain and drives a Subaru.”
“Exactly.” Dad takes a bite of his steak. I use it as an opportunity.
“Why tie up the trusts for so many generations?”
His eyes hold intrigue, as if he's caught me in a snare.
“Not that I care,” I add, then take a bite of salad. The watermelon radish complements the bibb lettuce and shaved campo de Montalban, and the pear-lemon dressing is perfect.
“Legacy. I like to think I've founded an empire that people can continue to build on.”
“How can we build on it if we don't have access to capital?”
“I did. Built Anterdec from the ground up with absolutely nothing.”
“Yes. Of course.” We have to acknowledge it, always. And I do genuinely admire what my father managed, but I don't understand his incessant need to have it validated.
Then again, I didn't grow up on the streets of South Boston, stone-cold poor. The divide between the world as he knows it and my own world, a product of his choices, is too great.
Maybe that's the source of so much friction between us. He expects me to be grateful for all his hard work when I never asked him to sacrifice so much in the first place.
“You're upset the trusts don't break with your generation,” he says in a goading voice, as if he thinks he's close to riling me up about something I truly don't care about.
“Why is it so important to you to think I think that?”
“You're in denial, son. Every man with some smarts wants the money to prove himself.”
“I don't need to prove myself to anyone but me.”
Only a double blink shows me I’ve gotten to him.
“I think it's a strong decision to delay the trust breaking. Prevents future generations from spending your hard-earned money in foolish ways. Keeps the McCormick family on top for a long time,” I continue, feeding his ego. Moving him away from specific discussions about my wife and children is the goal here.
Not dominance.
Distraction.
“Good to see you come around,” he says after another bite of steak. I ignore the ridiculous barb and focus on my food. Amanda's finally out of morning sickness, so I can eat whatever I want in front of her, but the Brussels sprouts might still be a bit much.
This is good. Not as good as Consuela's meals, but damn close.
We finish our food, lifting the napkins from our laps at the same time, sharing a small smile that feels like a truce. Dad stands, looks at his watch, and makes the most basic of gestures indicating he's choosing to leave me.
I stand, too. He offers his hand to shake and I take it. Grip strength isn't a measure of a man, but it can be a measure of health, and his is weaker over time.
His strength is waning.
He mentioned his age earlier.
And speaking of health...