Final Rights (10 page)

“You’re scaring me, Clay. Please . . .”
Ellie pleaded.

“It’s bad, Mom. You’ll hate me . . .” She
waited. The possibility of hating her son had ceased feeling foreign to her.
She just now realized this and wondered when it had happened.

“I kissed that girl who lives down the
street.”

Ellie puzzled over this admission. Why
should a boy of 17 be afraid because he had kissed a girl?

“You kissed who? Sheila?” The only
possibility Ellie could come up with lived two blocks over. She knew Clay had a
bit of a crush on Sheila which the girl did not share.

“No . . . not her.”

What is he talking
about? Who? Why was he so upset last night? Something’s really wrong!
Ellie took a deep slow
breath, attempting to stem the panic she felt building. Clayton kept his head
down, avoiding eye contact.

“That new girl who moved in a couple months
ago.”

Without warning, Ellie
felt her body become leaden and anchored to the floor. At the same moment, her
consciousness flew free of its bodily cage, swooped out of the room and down
the street to the gate of the house four doors down. There she saw Emily Brown
quietly playing in the front yard. She had built a small fort with lawn chairs
and a sheet. Under it she sat with her cat and three dolls, having a tea party.

“That’s a silly game for a 12-year-old,”
Ellie mused.

“What?” Clayton looked at his mother, surprised
by the unexpected and seemingly unrelated response.

Ellie abruptly dropped
back into her body and broke into uncontrolled sobs as the full import of what
had happened—what her son had done—flooded over her.

“Clayton! No! She’s only 12 years old!” The
resounding smack of her open hand landing squarely on Clayton’s face filled her
with loathing and resolve.

Later that day, Ellie made her way to the
Browns’. She apologized to her neighbors on behalf of her son, promised he
would never bother their daughter again and begged their forgiveness.

“Oh, he won’t be coming
back here, that’s for sure,” offered Mr. Brown. “I made it clear to him it
wasn’t safe.”

“What do you mean?” asked Ellie, alert to
his threatening tone.

“I mean no disrespect to you, Mrs. Howard.
Truly I don’t. But I took your son by the collar when I caught him with my
Emily and shook him up real good. I put the fear of the Almighty in him and
told him if ever I see him within sight of my daughter, I’ll shoot him dead. I
showed him my shotgun so he’d know I mean business. Good day to you, and don’t
think I don’t mean what I just said.”

Ellie had no doubt Mr. Brown would keep his
word.

SEVENTEEN

2004

Tate
finally arrived at the Princess Hotel the following afternoon, even though she
intended to go first thing in the morning. Discussions with Dave delayed her
and just when she finished with him, she ran into Mazie again. They chatted for
several minutes before Tate began filling Mazie in on what she had learned
about Leland Howard.

“I ’member him, too,” Mazie said. “Not very
well, though.”

“You’re just full of surprises, Mazie!”

“Well, it was a small town back then.
Everbody knew everbody.”

“I guess so. Tell me about him.”

“Don’t ’member much, but I know his wife was
kilt. Her son did it, or so I remember. Big scandal.”

“Her
son
did it?”

“Yep. High on drugs, I
think, or mebbe jus’ crazy.”

“This is getting to me,
Mazie. Only yesterday I learned Leland had a child. His name was Clayton. He
apparently died the same day Leland’s wife was killed. I found that shocking,
now you’re telling me Clayton killed his own mother? My head might explode!”

“I don’t know the
details, mind you, but that Clayton boy was a hoodlum.”

“How did he die? What
happened to him?”

“I seem to ’member somethin’ about him killin’
hisself. I just know he died the same day and then Mr. Howard broke down and
disappeared not long after.”

“The
more
I learn about these people, the more I want to know. It’s starting to drive me
a little crazy!”

“You’re like a dog with
a bone, Tate. Can’t let go, can you?”

“Nope, guess not. I’m
gonna keep going until it comes to an end, somehow or another.”

Tate left Mazie,
intending to head for the Princess Hotel, when Holly called, inviting her to an
impromptu lunch. Given Holly’s busy schedule, Tate jumped at the chance, not
knowing when the opportunity to get together would present itself again. They
met at Rosetta’s Kitchen and spent close to an hour together. Tate gave Holly
an abbreviated version of everything she had learned in the past several days.

“You’ve been busy,
Tate!”

“I have been, and
there’s more to do. I’m heading to the Princess Hotel right after this to see
what I can find out. I hope it’s not another blind alley.”

“The man who owns the
place now is a great guy. Took him two years to renovate. I haven’t seen it
yet,
but I hear it’s
beautiful.”

“Hopefully, Leland Howard’s mantelpiece will
still be in the lobby. I’d love to see it.”

Tate got her wish and much more. Having
finally reached her destination, she introduced herself to the receptionist and
asked to speak to the owner.

“That would be me,” the man answered. “How
can I help you?”

“You’re the owner?” Tate was confused.

“That’s me. Our receptionist called in sick
today, so I’m in charge. At least until my wife gets here. She’s the real boss
of the Front Desk.” He smiled warmly and Tate took an immediate liking to him.

“Well, then. I guess I’m in luck.” Tate
turned and looked around the lobby. No fireplace. “Or maybe not. This will
probably sound strange, but I’m looking for a fireplace.”

“A fireplace?” The man looked puzzled.

“Well, a mantelpiece, actually. One made by
a man named Leland Howard, sometime in the 1950s. I think this place was under
renovation back then.”

 
“Oh,
that
mantelpiece! It’s one of our prize
possessions!”

“You mean . . .” Tate
took in a deep breath; her heart raced.

“Yes, it’s here. Let me show you.” The man
led her through French doors and into a long sitting room off the main lobby.
Beautifully appointed, with groups of comfortable seating, low tables, richly hued
area rugs and a set of bay windows facing the street, it conveyed luxury and
comfort all at once. Three large logs burned in a huge fireplace surrounded by
an exquisite mantel gracing the wall at the far end of the room. They walked up
to it, and Tate reached out to stroke the wood, running her fingers along the
delicate carvings.

Tate’s host gestured toward the mantel.
“This is it. One of Mr. Howard’s best, I think.”

“What’s your name?” Tate tried to focus on
the man beside her, a difficult task given all the thoughts and questions that
ran amok in her mind.

“Warren. Warren Wright.”

“I have been searching
for information about Mr. Howard for days now. I know a lot, but so much is
missing. Do you know anything about him, about his work?”

“Actually, I know quite
a lot. I did a great deal of research when I bought this place. Wanted to
modernize it but keep true to its origins, you know, so I poked around in every
corner I could find. There were plenty of them.”

“And Mr. Howard? Please
tell me. What did you find out about him?”

“That was not easy. He
was an extremely talented craftsman, well known locally but never famous. Kept
to himself. Apparently he was fussy about who he worked for, what he would
build. This is one of only three mantels by him that I’ve been able to locate.
He primarily made furniture but would sometimes do other things—desks for hotel
lobbies, cabinetry, the occasional custom-designed door—”

Tate broke in. “Like the one on that old
house on Chestnut Street?”

“Where?”

“The place on Chestnut? In the news lately?
They want to tear it down?”

“Oh, that place. Yes, I
heard about it. He did work on
that
house?”

“I wonder. According to
the tax records he owns the place—owned it. Actually it’s held in a trust of
which he is the beneficiary. It has an unusual door. It’s oversized with metal
fittings like you’d see on a castle. So now I have to wonder if he made them.
And if he did that one, then he must be responsible for the one on a little
place I own. That’s the only thing that makes sense . . . at least I think so .
. .”

T
ate looked into Warren Wright’s warm brown
eyes. “Oh, I just wish I could talk to him. I have so many questions. But he’s
dead, and there are no relatives, and . . .”

“He’s not dead.”

Tate faltered, unable to believe she had heard
correctly. Warren Wright grabbed her before she lost her footing.

“You said he’s . . . did you say he’s . . .”

“He’s not dead. I talked to him myself. At
least I tried to.”

“And you know where he is?”
Incredible! I can’t believe . . . okay,
wait . . . what I think is what I create. What I think is what I create . . .

Tate chanted the mantra, willing herself to
take in what she was being told. Leland Howard was alive!

“Yes. He’s out there at Forest Glen. Unless
he’s passed on since I saw him. That was last year sometime.”

“I’ve got to see him. Will they let me see
him?”

“Don’t know why they wouldn’t. It’s a
retirement home, not a prison.”

“Okay, I’m going to see him.” Resolution
replaced resignation, and Tate turned toward the door.

“Do you want to see the mantel?”

“What?”

“The mantel. You came here to see the
mantel, and I’d love to tell you all about it.”

“Oh! Yes, of course . . . I’m sorry, I was
so shocked to learn he’s alive, I forgot everything else!”

“If you appreciate his work, you’ll love this.
I’d hate to have you leave without really experiencing it.”

Tate refocused. “Beautiful wood. Cherry? No
. . .”

“Red Oak. A superb specimen and the
craftsmanship is incomparable. Not many woodworkers took the time to focus on
every aspect the way he did. He used only the finest wood he could find. Every
detail is flawlessly executed. And he always added something special. Do you
know about that?”

“Well, the whole thing seems special.”

“Yes, but look at this.”

Warren Wright stepped to the left end of the
mantel, closed his eyes and ran his index finger gently along a row of
delicately carved notches decorating its lower edge. Tate heard a faint click.
To her amazement, a long, slim drawer dropped open, revealing a stash of
chocolate-mint coins, each wrapped in silver.

“After dinner mint?” Warren asked, eyes
twinkling.

“I’d absolutely love one!” Tate squealed,
pure delight taking over.

EIGHTEEN

1940

Harland
Freeman did not allow himself to feel uncomfortable when in the presence of
others. Such undesirable feelings lay deeply hidden beneath his façade of
self-confidence and tendency toward dominance in every situation. But at this
moment, he squirmed in his own skin as the woman and her child walked along the
street in front of him, obviously unaware he trailed just behind. He had to
speak to Ellie, but not now—not in the presence of the boy.

Harland and Ellie crossed paths on occasion,
but they never spoke, or even acknowledged each other, for that matter. In
fact, Ellie uttered her last words to him as he left the park following their
one mating all those years ago. Back then he feared she would pursue him after
their encounter. He had many ways of sidestepping heartbroken girls, and he had
prepared himself to use all of them with Ellie. But, the next day she walked
right past him in the hall at school, her head held high, as if he didn’t even
exist. She surprised him even more when she became engaged to and then married
Leland Howard immediately after the two boys graduated.

Ellie’s refusal to acknowledge Harland did
not bo
ther him. The child caused his
queasiness. The boy’s birth occurred barely seven months after the rushed
wedding, and Harland could not help but wonder if he watched his own son
walking hand-in-hand with Ellie. And that name: Clayton—Harland’s own mother’s
maiden name and his middle name—why had she chosen to pass his family name on
to her offspring?

A handsome child, the boy sported black hair
and dark, intense eyes, much like Harland’s own. Never having met him
face-to-face, Harland could not be sure, but he thought he detected in the
child the same slightly bulbous nose and square jaw he saw reflected in the
mirror each morning when he shaved.

Harland did not want children. He did not
want a wife, a family, or even any close friends for that matter. Harland
craved only respect. He secretly yearned for people to treat him the way they
treated a successful man worthy of reverence and emulation. He imagined gaining
status as the most important businessman in the city and people seeking him out
as if the sole fact of being in his presence constituted a special event. Yet
seeing the boy brought into question, if only for a moment, the value of living
a solitary life, which in Harland’s case had not yet come even close to meeting
his expectations.

No offers came from
professional baseball teams after high school, and the superficial popularity
granted him as a star athlete melted away quickly after he found himself
working as a clerk in the local hardware store, taking orders from a man he could
barely tolerate.

Maybe his dreams had not materialized so
far, but he continued to plot his way to the success he considered his due. It
irritated him that even now as an adult he had to figure out how to please
others in order to get his needs met, but he recognized that necessity, so
Harland went to work each day. He meticulously organized the bins of screws and
bolts, swept the floors and greeted customers with the bright smile he wore
like a suit of armor polished up each morning before heading out into the
world.
It’s my way out
. This thought alone held Harland in check
and stopped him from rushing out the door never to return.

He’d had a lifetime to grow accustomed to
uphill battles like this one. He had spent his formative years living in that
horrid cabin just north of downtown with his father, who eked out a living as a
handyman working for rich folks, and his mother, Crazy Eulah.

Everyone knew his mother by that name, even
beyond the boundaries of their little neighborhood, and once old enough to
understand its meaning, Harland thought of her as Crazy Eulah, too. She gave
birth to him at age 32—too old to have a child, as she told him countless
times. His arrival strained her already tenuous hold on reality even further,
and she retreated into herself to the point of sometimes losing complete touch
with the world around her.

A neglected child must make a difficult
choice early in life if he is to survive. He can cling helpless and childlike
to the parents who have cast aside basic conventions such as feeding, clothing
and protecting their offspring, or he can learn to fend for himself.

From birth, Harland insisted he would
thrive, and his squalling determination pulled his reluctant mother from her
stupor long enough and often enough that she fed and occasionally bathed him,
though he often spent days clothed in nothing but a ragged diaper.

By the time he could crawl and even before
he had acquired language, Harland had an acute awareness of the abandonment he
would later describe as being estranged from God. How else to account for the
fact that Eulah left him unattended in his crib for hours on end, or that his
father failed to recognize Harland’s need for touch and interaction, no matter
how weary he may be after a long day filled with menial work?

People felt sorry for
the scrawny boy with the thick black hair and sharp dark eyes, and he became
adept at begging for his sustenance from them by the time he could crawl. Mazie
saved him from careening headlong into the life of a tramp, drifting from mark
to mark. She provided security, dependability and so much more. Through Mazie
and her family, he acquired his social skills, and with their nurturing, by the
time he entered high school, he had a veneer of likability and the athletic
prowess necessary to become a star on the baseball team. Most of all, Mazie
taught Harland how to love. Harland decided on his own that any emotion with
the power to sway a man from his own calculated path must be carefully avoided.

Now he stood on the threshold of adulthood,
and he had no doubt that with perseverance and cunning, the success he pursued
would be his. He already had amassed what seemed like a fortune from selling
the land on Pearson. He would continue to grow his savings, set himself up in
business and build a fine house one day. His single-minded quest for respect
blinded him to the slow death of his boyhood charm—the saving grace of his
youth—and the emergence of the bitter, angry man lurking just beneath the
surface.

Harland
struggled through the years of clerking at the hardware store and gaining the
foundation he needed to move ahead in the business community. He worked his way
up to the coveted position of manager and then, at the young age of 27,
purchased his own business. Freeman Mercantile joined the many successful shops
lining Lexington Avenue. He obtained the business in a distress sale that
resulted from the collapse of all the local banks seven years earlier in the
wake of the crash on Wall Street. He had squirreled away every dollar from the
sale of the old family land on Pearson and then continued to build his fortune
by diligently saving most of his earnings and making wise investments. His
smugness about protecting his money during the Great Depression that swept the
nation and broke the backs of many local business owners cheated him of the
admiration he anticipated. Harland made things even worse by taking every
opportunity to brag about his foresight and good timing, oblivious to the
festering resentment of his colleagues.

He had turned himself into a powerful
businessman, so they had little choice but to show him what passed for respect.
One of them might offer him a ride across town when they saw him out walking,
or vacate their seat on the trolley for him on the rare occasion he used that conveyance.
But they didn’t like him, and Harland knew that beyond a doubt.

Well, he didn’t like them either. It didn’t
occur to him there might be a connection between these facts, an almost
tangible chain of cause and effect. Harland Freeman did not waste time trying
to understand the perspectives of other people. He had plenty else to think
about. He had to keep the store running and make it as profitable as possible.
He planned and plotted how to get the most work out of his staff for the lowest
wages he could manage. If he could make a profit selling a mediocre product for
an inflated price, that’s exactly what he did. If the product could be obtained
only from Freeman Mercantile, the price would be even more exorbitant.

He kept busy thinking about how he presented
himself in public, always making sure his suit looked slightly better than the
suits of the other store owners along Patton and Lexington Avenues, his shoes
were highly polished and his shirts impeccably starched and ironed. But above
all, Harland spent long hours laying the plans for the house he would build on
Chestnut Street. After a few years of owning his business, the time had come to
take another bold step. This house would be his crowning achievement, and he
was certain he would finally be graciously welcomed into the ranks of the elite
businessmen in Asheville.

“Oh, yes!” he boasted to Wallace Flanders,
who owned the men’s furnishing store two doors down and who lived on Cumberland
Avenue in a second-hand house. “Yes, I bought the property on Chestnut. Don’t
know why such a prime piece of real estate hadn’t already sold.” He paused for
the shortest moment then prompted, “Don’t you think it’s perfect for my
mansion? Would you like to see my plans?”

“Nice to see you,
Freeman,” Flanders lied as he moved quickly out the door with his purchase
under his arm.

Harland looked after him, and instead of
feeling the anger or disappointment or rejection that stalked him, he puffed
himself back up and strode off to attend to the next customer.