To this, Camilla nodded, saying with pride, “Yes, my ancestor’s antiracist views are well documented, and my family upholds those views to this day.” Then she fell back into a strained silence, and I picked up the baton again.
“All right, then. Despite his one questionable act of leaving his regiment, I say you should be proud of him, the person he was, and what he accomplished on the whole.” I went to close the magazine. “Camilla, I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can help you with this, and I really need to get back to my office. I’ve got a project to finish up and I really don’t want to work late tonight. I have—”
“Keep going until the end,” she cut in, before I could finish with the words a date tonight with my boyfriend. What I wouldn’t have added, but really wanted to shout from the mountaintops, was that my boyfriend was a handsome FBI agent who’d just come home after a long undercover assignment and had a whole week off to spend time with me.
I gave Camilla a look of undiluted exasperation and felt a little proud of myself for that small act. When I’d worked with Camilla, Roxie, and Patrice at the Howland library, I’d reined in any feelings or actions that weren’t friendly or helpful. I had to, for the sake of both keeping my job and maintaining a peaceful work environment.
Now, though? I was my own boss, and I owed Camilla nothing. Or next to nothing. I had no desire to be rude or disrespectful to her, especially for reasons as silly as office-hierarchy pettiness. To me, the better way to do things was to live well and happily, without giving consequence to the unworthy people in one’s past.
That’s not to say it’s always easy when one of those people is staring you in the face and practically demanding your help.
“Please,” Camilla said again, with a pleading note in her voice. “Keep reading until the end.”
I felt myself relenting. Darn it if I weren’t a nice person who was willing to keep giving people chances! I scowled and went back to the article, though it didn’t take much longer for my grumpy expression to change to one of astonishment at what I read.
Before they knew it, Charles Braithwaite and his family were earning money hand over fist, and his children and grandchildren were suddenly being welcomed at the best houses and social events in Texas and beyond. The formerly poor Braithwaites had moved on up to houses in the finest area in Houston, and they didn’t let anyone forget it.
At the time of Private Braithwaite’s death in 1945, it is estimated that he and his family had earned around $75,000—the equivalent of over a million dollars today—for his appearances as a Civil War veteran. Braithwaite made no bones about his appearance fees, either, and he didn’t care from whom he took money. In 1925, Zacharias Gaynor spent a month’s wages to have Braithwaite come to his house for dinner, a regular custom throughout history that often served to increase the host’s social standing. It did nothing for the Gaynor family, however, and Zacharias, after spending all his family’s money, was later sentenced to eight weeks in prison for failure to pay his debts, losing his job as a result. We can only guess at the hell his family endured during that time and afterward. But did Braithwaite care, or return the man’s money? Of course not, and he only continued to milk his fame even when he became feeble, deaf, and nearly blind from cataracts.
Such was the delight at having a real-life Civil War “hero” in their midst that some local companies even spent a bundle just to have Braithwaite, who was semi-bedridden by this time, show up for one parade or another to wave listlessly from the back seat of a car, shilling for some company he no doubt couldn’t even name.
Oh, but his children and subsequent generations were smart with the money Braithwaite gained. The three clans stemming from Charles and his wife, Violet, spread out over Texas and the United States, no longer the descendants of a man who stole as a youth and deserted his regiment as a soldier. No, the families continue to live off the image their ancestor so carefully cultivated from his lies. They still speak of Charles Braithwaite’s valor, hard work, open-mindedness, and honesty whenever they can, holding him up as a paragon of the greatest kind of American, not caring that the legacy upon which their livelihoods were founded was hardly that of a great man, but instead the most selfish of cowards.
It seems that even today, escaping the truth is a well-honed Braithwaite skill.
THREE
Slowly, I closed the magazine. While I’d known Chronology to publish articles that contained harsh truths about historical figures, I’d never seen one take such a pointed and vitriolic aim at its subject’s descendants.
“Do you see what I mean now?” Camilla asked.
“I sure do,” I said. “Wow. And I have to say, I’d heard of the Braithwaite family in Houston, of course, but I didn’t know you were related to them. I don’t think we ever talked about it when you and I worked together.”
That was actually an understatement. I’d been open about my life and background to my coworkers, but Roxie, Camilla, and Patrice had given me very few details about themselves in return. The most I knew about Camilla was that she had two teenage sons and that she’d gone back to her maiden name after getting divorced. There were times I’d wondered about her background, but my few attempts at engaging her in talking about anything personal during the sixteen months we’d worked together had always been met with a return to her standoffish demeanor and a segue in conversation.
“I don’t care to talk about it with most people,” Camilla told me. “Roxie and Patrice come from more humble beginnings, and when I started at the library six years ago, I had to work hard to convince them I wasn’t some rich snob. My branch of the Braithwaite family has done well, but my parents were both college professors. We were comfortable, yes, but we certainly lived a lot less extravagantly than my cousins. Still, I’ve never felt like I need to explain myself to others.”
And there we were again. I had been an “other” instead of a friendly coworker.
“How did you even see this article?” I asked, determined not to feel slighted. “I mean, I know we had a subscription to Chronology at the library, but I don’t recall ever seeing you read it.” As soon as the words came out of my mouth, I felt terrible for how rude I must have sounded. Camilla, however, didn’t seem to notice.
“I don’t normally,” she said on a sigh, staring through the pass-through at Flaco, watching him flip sizzling slabs of meat while instructing his sous-chef, Juan, to chop some more vegetables. “One of the college students was reading it while I was looking up some information for her. She noticed the name Braithwaite and asked if I was related to Charles. When I said yes, she handed me the article and told me I’d better read it.”
I decided it would be best to circle back to why Camilla had so unceremoniously interrupted my pleasant lunch in the first place.
“So, what is it exactly that you want me to prove? That your ancestor was telling the truth about staying in the war and receiving his corporal’s stripes?” When she focused on me again, I asked, “Do you believe your ancestor was telling the truth?”
Her nod was vehement. “I do. We’ve always known he fought in the war and earned his promotion to corporal. There was never any hint that he was a deserter.”
With most of my clients, I was careful in my replies to their long-held family notions. I understood all too well how important it was to believe your family—believe in your family—even the people you had never met and those who had passed away decades or more before you were even born. It wasn’t rational by any means, but it didn’t stop any of us from feeling it and wanting the positive stories we’d known about our ancestors to be true.
However, Camilla wasn’t a client, not yet. I also didn’t want to take on a fruitless endeavor that would put me at the beck and call of someone who had already proven herself unworthy of my trust.
“What proof do you have?” I asked. It was a bit blunt, but Camilla gave me only the merest of side glances before answering.
“Beyond all the family stories, we have a few othe
r things, including Charles’s journal and a photo with him in his corporal’s uniform. We also have a letter from Charles to his father detailing the Battle of Seven Pines, after which he earned his promotion to corporal. He wrote about the horrors of war and the bravery of his fellow soldiers even then.” Camilla’s eyes registered earnest belief. “It’s a very moving letter. I can show it to you, if you like.”
All I could think was, And every bit of that could have been forged or re-created after the war to suit his purposes. Still, I said, “Yes, I’d love to see it. Did you bring the materials with you from Houston?”
Camilla shook her head. “No, everything is already here in Austin. My family gave all of it to the Harry Alden Texas History Museum when it opened in 2003. They have it on display in their Civil War section.” Then she frowned. “Well, they do for now. A friend of mine who works for another museum told me the curator will most likely be obliged to take the exhibit of my ancestor down until they can confirm the truth.”
I laced my fingers together. “Camilla, I don’t know the curator of the Alden museum, but I do know the assistant curator. He’s a good guy, and if he has to investigate, he’ll do so thoroughly and with respect. In fact, he also has researchers for things like this who are just as good, if not better, than me. I can give you his phone number and email right now.” I opened up my phone to go to my contacts. “Why don’t you call him, explain the situation up front, and let him and his team do the work for you? Not only will you get high-quality research but you’ll also get it for free. With me, you’d not only have to hire me, you’d unfortunately have to pay me a premium to fit you in between the three upcoming projects I have on tap. I’d have to push one or more of them back to work on this, and they may go to another genealogist once they’ve been notified I can’t start their project on time.”
I wasn’t bluffing. On my website was a clear notice that anyone who wanted a rush job would be charged extra. If one of my other clients opted to go to a competitor because I had to push their job back a little, I wanted to make sure I could still pay my bills.
Camilla was shaking her head. “No, I want you to handle this. I want it done with discretion and … and by somebody who cares, like I said. I’ll pay you your rate plus the premium.”
To my surprise, she reached into her purse and pulled out a checkbook, then looked at me with solemn determination. “What do I owe you as a retainer for now? Or would you rather me transfer the money electronically? Either is fine.”
“Hold on,” I said, gently putting my hand over the check before she could start writing. Even if she could afford it, I didn’t think it was fair to take her money without fleshing out a good reason for it first. “You’re rushing into this, Camilla, and I have to know. Why is this so important to you?”
“Does it really matter why?” she said, sitting back when I’d taken my hand away.
“It does,” I said. “I mean, I get that you wouldn’t want your relative’s legacy to be tarnished, but, if you’ll forgive me, who is really going to care that much, outside of your family and maybe a handful of others, like the museum curator?”
“I’ve no doubt there will be an article in the Houston Chronicle and pieces on all the local news stations, too,” she said darkly.
“Probably, yes,” I said. “I agree that it wouldn’t be fun to have such an article written about an ancestor of mine. Still, with the way the media and people’s memories move on in the blink of an eye, whatever scandal that comes from this would be forgotten in a couple of days, at most.”
She was quiet, like she was really hearing me, so I continued to press my point.
“Also, while Charles Braithwaite did take money for appearances, he hardly stole it. Nor did he present himself as some sort of hero. He merely pushed himself up one rank, to corporal, which sounds more prestigious than ‘private,’ yes, though not by much. I really don’t think that now, over seventy-five years after his death and over a hundred and fifty-five years after the Civil War, anyone is really going to care that Charles Braithwaite deserted his regiment and then sought a little bit of fame from outliving his fellow soldiers.”
“He wasn’t a deserter,” Camilla snapped, her voice growing louder and a flash of anger bringing out more bright spots in her cheeks. A few patrons sitting by us at the bar turned to stare. “Look, Charles fought for the Confederacy, yes, though his speeches thankfully confirm that he had no interest in glorifying its aims for the war. Nevertheless, when it came to his rank, he fought, and fought bravely, and he was promoted for it. He earned his corporal’s stripes, Lucy.”
I opened my mouth to give a hopefully soothing reply, but Camilla wasn’t done.
“But you’re right, preserving that part of his legacy isn’t the only thing that’s bothering me. There’s also someone who’s claiming Charles ruined their family,” she said. “And another person is starting a petition to have the park and elementary school renamed.” She held up the magazine and shook it. “People are starting to use these claims to disparage my family.”
FOUR
I gave the evil eye to the one guy still gawking at Camilla and he hastily went back to his basket of tacos.
“Are you serious?” I asked. “Who’s claiming your ancestor ruined their family?”
Camilla pulled the magazine toward her and found the last page of the article again. She pointed to the section mentioning Zacharias Gaynor, the man who’d ended up in prison for failing to settle his debts after paying Charles Braithwaite to come for dinner.
“The descendant of this guy, that’s who,” Camilla explained. “His name is Neil Gaynor, and he’s a PhD candidate at Howland University. He knows me because he’s always in the library doing research and I’ve helped him a bunch.” She sat up a little straighter on her barstool. “I’ve become quite known for being a go-to research librarian, but I still don’t do the kind of in-depth genealogical and historical research you do. Believe me, if I could do this all myself and keep it quiet, I would.”
“I think there’s a compliment in there somewhere,” I said dryly. Camilla’s eyes cut to me in surprise, but before she could feign contrition, I said, “So what does Mr. Gaynor want from you?”
“It’s ridiculous—he claims his family began a downward spiral into poverty after his great-great-grandfather spent all his money having Charles to dinner in 1925. He says Zacharias’s children went hungry, and one died from malnutrition. Apparently Neil’s great-great-grandmother went to Charles to ask for their money back, and Charles refused. Zacharias died not long after and the family has continued to live at poverty level since then.” Camilla huffed out a breath. “Whether or not it’s true that Charles refused to refund them, Neil says he’s already spoken to a lawyer and he’s planning on suing our family for reimbursement of their family’s monies, with interest.”
“How much money would that be today?” I asked.
“It’s not a huge amount until you add interest over the decades,” she replied. “Then it comes to a bit over ten thousand dollars.”
I interpreted the look of misery and frustration on her face. “Which is a good chunk for a lot of people, but not for a family like yours—and it would probably cost at least half that just to pay for lawyers to counter any suit, so it might be easier to just pay him.” When she nodded with a sigh, I added, “But you’re also probably thinking that if one guy gets that kind of money from your family so easily by threatening a frivolous suit, then others could come out of the historical woodwork and do the same.”
“With how litigious our society is these days, it’s a possibility,” she said.
I had to admit, she had a point.
“And who wants Braithwaite Park and Braithwaite Elementary to be renamed?”
Camilla’s face radiated annoyance. “A woman running for city council. She contacted me as well, telling me she didn’t think it was right for a park and an elementary school to be named after—and I quote—‘a lying, greedy man.’” Camilla’
s look turned doleful. “Then she added in stuff about how no public entity should have ties to the Confederacy. As an educated person, I can’t say I disagree with her. My extended family discussed it back in January, in fact. We’re already in touch with the city to remove his name from the park and school, and I told the woman as much.”
“How did she respond?” I asked. “Will she drop the petition?”
“She said she’ll drop it when the name change is announced, though she said we were doing the right thing, and we are. My family understands that you can be proud to be from Texas and from the South while still recognizing and hating the fact that the South’s pro-slavery history, including the Confederacy and the Civil War, caused so much pain—and it still reverberates today. My relatives and I believe in being open to a change that will no longer put the Confederacy front and center. Yet we also don’t agree with erasing or destroying history or historical artifacts. Instead, my family believes Civil War history—just like all history—should be properly studied, discussed, and learned from, and any relevant artifacts should be displayed in places like museums for educational purposes.”
I smiled broadly at her. “Camilla, I feel the exact same way.”
I knew my reaction had pleased her when, this time, she used her hand to brush her thick hair behind her shoulders. Then she picked up the issue of Chronology.
“I want to be clear, Lucy. I don’t love it that this reporter called out Charles for cashing in on his time as a Civil War soldier, but she nevertheless reported the truth when it came to the nature of his talks. She correctly states that Charles spoke mostly about what it was like to be a soldier in the war. She also admitted to the good things Charles did afterward, like championing education and a woman’s right to vote.” Camilla shook the magazine so the pages shimmied, her voice becoming impassioned. “What I can’t stand is that she ensconced the truth in this overall cloak of ridiculous inaccuracies about Charles being a deserter who later lied about his life for profit. And then she says his descendants, all the way down to my present-day relatives and me, have perpetuated and continued to profit from Charles’s so-called fraudulent claims. I mean, we’re not perfect—what family is? But to imply that we make our livelihoods out of ‘escaping the truth’? What the hell is she playing at?”
Fatal Family Ties Page 2
