Page 72 - Too Much and Never Enough - Mary L. Trump

My father was still in the hospital on January 20, 1967, their fifth wedding anniversary. Undeterred by his poor health and worsening alcoholism, my mother sneaked a bottle of champagne and a couple of glasses into his room. Regardless of what was happening around them or what state her husband was in, they were determined to celebrate.
Dad had been home from the hospital for only a few weeks when Linda got a call from her father. Her mother was doing better after her stroke, he told her, but he hated leaving her at the mercy of nurses while he put in full days at the quarry. The stress of work, the expense of his wife’s care, and his constant worry about her were taking their toll on both of them. “I’m at the end of my rope,” he said. “I don’t see how we can continue.”
Although Linda didn’t know exactly what her father was implying, he sounded so distraught she was afraid he meant that both he and her mother would be better off dead and, out of desperation, might do something about it. When she told Freddy about her parents’ precarious situation, he told her not to worry and called his father-in-law to tell him he was going to help out. “Quit your job, Mike. Take care of Mom.” Money wasn’t an issue, at least not then, but Freddy wasn’t sure how his father would react when he told him.
“Of course,” Fred said. “That’s what you do for family.”
My grandfather believed that in the same way he believed it was appropriate to send your kids to college or join a country club: even if it was of no interest to him or wasn’t particularly important to him, it was simply “what you do.”
After the Steeplechase deal collapsed, there was less for Freddy to do at Trump Management. He and Linda had been planning to buy a house since my brother had been born, and now, with extra time on his hands, they started to look for one. It didn’t take long for them to find a perfect four- bedroom on a half-acre lot in Brookville, a beautiful, affluent town on Long Island. The move would add at least half an hour to Dad’s commute, but a change of scenery and the freedom of being out of his father’s building would do him some good. He assured the real estate agent that he could meet the asking price and getting a mortgage would be no problem.
When the bank called a few days later to tell him his mortgage application had been rejected, Freddy was stunned. With the exception of