Author’s Preface

Long before his unfortunate and highly publicized death, John Charles Creed (Jack to his close friends, Chas to a few colleagues, Charles to the general public) requested that I destroy certain of his papers in the event “anything unusual” happened to him. At the time, I was unsure what “anything unusual” meant, and Jack did not elaborate. Ultra-theatrical when it suited his purpose, Jack was known upon occasion to exaggerate, so I did not pursue the matter. Rather, I told him I was his man in all things—never, of course, expecting to find myself in the awkward position to which events brought me. And I would not have remembered the episode had not Jack himself repeated his request, two decades later, on the eve of his death: obviously this was a matter of some importance to him.

Still, I hesitated. A literary man myself, I was sensitive to the value of unpublished papers and aware of Jack’s stature as the winner of a Pulitzer Prize, propelled by his trial and murder to renewed public attention and acclaim. I was also aware of potential legal problems, given some of the revelations of this book. In some future lawsuit, I feared, I might be accused of having knowingly destroyed important evidence before the fact. So I agonized and temporize . . . but finally, after completing this manuscript, I destroyed all of his private papers—not only the journal which he kept from his first year at Busiris until the day before his death, but also a couple of short stories and his untitled academic novel-in-progress, a fictive successor to Age of Faith, Age of Folly, and Songs of the North Country. Jack always preached the importance of not letting lawyers and accountants run your life. His wishes were clear, and in fulfilling my promise to a dead man, I claim at least one good deed before I too leave the scene.

Readers who suspect something funny going on can think whatever they want. They will, however, have to content themselves with public papers, and with this study, trusting the instincts and integrity of a trained scholar and an old friend to set the confused record straight. I have always prided myself in the integrity of my work. As Jack would have said, my papers are in order.

In fact, Jack’s concern over his journal seemed to me largely unfounded when, in the weeks following his funeral, I read through the manila file folders which constituted his “Red Files.” The journal was mostly a tedious chronology, more in the style of Byrd than Pepys, of the Creed quotidian: luncheons and conferences with students and colleagues; manuscripts written, submitted, accepted or rejected; excursions with the children; scholarly conferences, readings, and promotional tours. Unlike Henry David Thoreau, John Charles Creed did not mine poetry and prose from his journal. It contained, posterity will be surprised to learn, little critical theory, little social commentary, and little opinion on affairs cultural or political—which, in light of the charged and passionate nature of his writings, I myself found not a little disappointing, although not entirely out of keeping with the Jack Creed I had been privileged to know. His public would have been rather disappointed in just how ordinary an individual Jack really was, a reticent and, as the seventies ground on to the eighties and then the nineties, an alienated man. The journal showed, more than anything, a man with his feet on the ground. I do not believe that Rose Marié would have raised any eyebrow at its contents.

As for the novel-in-progress, it was not a strong book.

“Andrew,” Jack said one afternoon not long after Age of Faith had crept onto the New York Times list of best sellers, “I want to ask you a favor.”

We were sitting in my office at Busiris, concocting some get-rich-quick scheme that would allow us, in Jack’s invariable conclusion to such fantasies, to “tell this place to kiss our ass.” The year was 1977, and Charles Creed, on his way to the Pulitzer, had achieved the status of cult hero on campus. But life at Busiris had soured, and he was ready for escape. The fantasy then, I believe, was movie rights to Age of Faith, a dream which seemed particularly within reach. Though ironically amused at finding himself suddenly a marketed commodity, Jack was ebullient.

“That drillin’ in the wall is me, Tucker, busting out of here,” he effused. “There is going to be one very fat royalty check out of all this, followed by a series of fat royalty checks, and lucrative speaking engagements, and then another book, and then a third. I owe this place not a goddamn kiss-my-ass, and I am gone.”

Then he turned suddenly somber. Taking me to his office, he drew out the bottom drawer of his file cabinet to reveal several manila file folders filled with what I took to be manuscripts, perhaps three hundred pages each, all labeled with red tabs. I recall smiling to myself, remembering his observation that Hemingway had left the best of all insurance policies, unpublished words by a famous writer.

“These,” Jack said, “are the Red Files. If anything unusual happens to me, you know, if I am killed or incapacitated, I want you to beat your ass in here first thing and grab these files and burn them. I don’t want Rose Marié or anyone else rummaging through them, eh?”

He closed that drawer and drew open the drawer above it. “These remain. They are papers. A few unpublished things you can maybe see into print, some notes, rough drafts. Do some heavy scholarshit. Get yourself a job at a real college.”

Then he laughed the great laugh that all who knew him associated with John Charles Creed, professor and author.

I nodded. We returned to my office, and not a word more was said about the Red Files until the week before his trial. Whether Jack later made the same request of someone at Novum State, I don’t know. I doubt it, for the Red Files, two decades extended, were there in his office when I arrived, with Kelly, his second wife, one day after the funeral. A Midwestern gal wiser than her years, and remarkably composed under the circumstances, Kelly acted with characteristic Middle American directness: “I’m going over to administration to fill out insurance forms. You straighten up his office. He trusted you as his only true friend. I will be gone for at least an hour.” Doubly directed, as it were, I quickly discovered the files, packed them into a couple of boxes which I sealed with duct tape and carried directly to the trunk of my car. The file containing the novel-in-progress bore a red tab. In another drawer I found several manuscripts which did not bear red tabs; papers pertinent to previously published books; and several articles, each dated and sealed. These materials, along with hard copies of everything on his computer, are presently in the Special Collections Department of Novum State University Library. All material for the authorized Bob Dylan biography on which he was working, including outlines and rough drafts of two chapters, I returned to Dylan’s people. I have no idea at this point who, if anyone, has been authorized to complete the work, or what use that person might make of Creed’s drafts.

Having said this, let me admit that the journal was invaluable in refreshing my own memory of our relationship and of Creed’s years at Busiris, in illuminating some obscure details of his career, and in tracing his career at Novum State, a life I had known only through letters, telephone calls, and all too infrequent visits. The novel I found useful in preparing this book; I have relied on it as a somewhat fictionalized account of Creed’s relationship with Busiris Technical University and certain individuals during the 1970s.

Beyond the journal, sections of the novel, Age of Faith, an occasional Op Ed or critical essay, his infamous “The Teacher as Nigger” and his even more infamous “Women’s Lib: the Conservative Revolution,” I have based this narrative on my own recollections of our experiences together and the collective testimony of Charles Creed’s former friends, colleagues, and students. I was present throughout his sexual harassment trial, which is a matter of public record, but during those weeks I conversed privately and at length with Jack, Marcus DeLotta, Kelly Creed, Jenny May Creed, and Jack’s colleagues at Novum State. In the process I inevitably saw confidential documents, depositions, and affidavits which will remain confidential. Charles—always distrustful of lawyers, including his old friend Marcus DeLotta—sought my advice on a number of matters . . . my advice, I believe, more than others’. So readers may presume, in later chapters as well as earlier, a body of evidence now sealed, and a company of witnesses, many of whom have already left town. Thus the matter lies, and thus I hope it will lie.

I wish especially to thank Rose Marié Creed, Kelly Creed, Timm and Jenny Creed, Dr. Jenine Lundquist, Dr. Ernest Hauptmann, Dr. Louis Feracca, Mr. Roger Holmes, Dr. Lloyd Cowley, Dr. Linda Tholen, Dr. Paul Lesinski, Dr. Ed Haley, Mr. Paul Popowski, Ms. Carolyn Baer, Dr. Marcus DeLotta, Mr. Kenneth Jennings, Ms. Lynette Taylor, Ms. Maggie Armstrong, Mr. Martin Miller, Ms. Marianne Redford, Dr. Jeremy Jones, Dr. Ken Sunderland, Dr. Ben Allan Browne, and Dr. Percy Thompson. I am most grateful for their hours of thoughtful conversation, for offering in every case their fullest insights. Perceptions of John Charles Creed being varied, as would be expected of such a multi-faceted personality, I have been sometimes unable to reconcile conflicting testimony, even with the aid of the court record and Charles’ journals and papers. In every case I believe that those with whom I spoke recounted the story as best they understood it. Every individual who knew Charles will find some reason to quarrel with this book; I only hope they understand I too speak the truth as best I perceive it.

I would especially like to thank Dr. Lily Lee Martin for her assistance and for permission to publish this work in its present form. She is indeed a remarkable woman, and I was pleased to renew our acquaintance after so many years. A presence, now as always, enters the room upon her shoulder, and is gone from the room on her departure.

What Jack would say to this history, I do not know. A colorful crusader for all causes he considered worthy, Jack also loved privacy, and therefore mystery, and therefore confusion. His reputation for power and, frankly, for scandal always amused him, but he encouraged the myths and legends, and in specific cases I knew him intentionally to throw out false scents and rumors as “something to set their tongues wagging” or as “another item for my FBI files.” Charles associated mystery with fame, which, for all his apparent humility, he craved. That, I suspect, is one reason he wanted the Red Files destroyed, and one reason he might object to a biography which clarifies the record and violates the spirit of my promise to maintain confusion.

On the other hand, Jack could never have foreseen the circumstances of his death, the brief carnival of newspaper coverage, the enormous public interest in the death of “a Pulitzer-Prize-winner who nearly dismantled a whole university and took on single-handedly the entire women’s movement.” I believe he would have wanted the last word.

I believe Jack would have understood the need for this book, and my motivation in writing it. I believe he would have trusted my telling of his tale. I hope that others are equally understanding, equally trusting.

In any event, the festival is over, and Charles Creed is his posterity. Those who remain will, inevitably, carry on . . . but without John Charles Creed, that dark figure standing in the doorway, that increasingly remote and always mysterious shadow.

—College of St. Thomas
St. Paul, Minnesota
August 2002