Final Rights (12 page)

TWENTY-ONE

2004

The
receptionist greeted Tate hesitantly. No “honey” this time. Just a “good
afternoon.”

“Hi. I’m here to see Mr. Howard again,” Tate
began, then she held out a package of cookies—her peace offering.

“I brought these along. I made some for him,
and I wanted to give some to the staff as well.”

“Now that’s mighty nice of you, Missus . .
.”

“Marlowe. It’s Ms.
Marlowe, but you can call me Tate.”

“Ms. Tate. Very nice of
you to think of us, too.” Tate noticed her cool tone and the emphasis on “Ms.,”
but decided to let it slide. So many people these days still found it
difficult, even distasteful perhaps, to address a woman by a title that did not
signify marital status.

“Just Tate. No ‘Ms.’ necessary.” She kept
her tone friendly.

The receptionist paused briefly before
giving a totally unexpected response.

“Okay, Ms. Tate. I
understand you don’t like our Southern ways ’round here. We call people ‘honey’
and we call ’em ‘missus’ even when we don’t know if they’re married or not. You
pro’bly think we’re uneducated or backwards, but that’s not the case. We’re
polite. We’re friendly, and we stick to our habits just like everbody else. We
don’t mean no harm, and we don’t mean no offense. I’ll bend to your way much as
I can, but there’s limits. So you decide. You can be Ms. Marlowe or Ms. Tate,
but no way am I gonna address you by your given name and not put no title in
front of it.”

Tate stared agape at the woman whose fierce
expression challenged her own indignation.
Whoa! What’s going on here? I thought I was being polite!
She felt the flash of anger that warned of
an impending meltdown, but instead of lashing out, she forced herself to look
at it from the other side.
I’m
pushy, bossy and demanding. I approach the world like everyone’s out to get me.
I take offense easily and feel justified in doing so.
These thoughts rushed through her mind in an
instant and with them an overwhelming awareness of how caustic she could be.
She felt the extremely rare sensation of shame flow over her. The next moment
she found herself awash in a flood of gratitude.
This is exactly the lesson I need to learn.

Tears formed in the
corner of Tate’s eyes as she took in the woman in front of her. Not just the
face, not just the physical body, but the full spirit of the woman, her
essence, integrity and dignity. She reached over and took the woman’s smooth,
dark, cool hand into her own.

Tate had failed to notice the woman’s ID tag
before, had not taken the time to put a name to the face, but now she did.
How appropriate. Ruby truly is a jewel.

“I cannot thank you enough, Ruby. I rarely
stop to think how I come across to others, and when I do, I usually make
excuses for how it’s their problem, not mine. I haven’t been here long, and I
still find Southern customs a bit perplexing, even annoying sometimes. Still,
it’s no reason to be rude, and I realize how abrasive I must seem to you. I’m
really sorry. And I mean it when I say ‘thank you’ for pointing it out to me.
Not many people are willing to stand up to me the way you just did, and it’s
truly refreshing, ’though I’ll admit I’m embarrassed.”

“I’m embarrassed, too,” Ruby gasped. Tate
noticed the flushing on Ruby’s face and neck. “Don’t know why I said that. I
never talk to people that way. Somethin’ just came over me.”

“I have that effect on people sometimes!”

“But I should never have . . .”

“I get that you have to maintain your
composure in this job. But no one heard you except me, and I’m so grateful to
you right now, Ms. Ruby . . .”

“Really? For such shameful behavior?”

“Really. And I deserved
it. I have to tell you, I needed to hear it. People just don’t call me on my
bad manners very often. They walk away instead, and I lose people without ever
getting to see what part I played in it. You helped open my eyes in a way I
couldn’t have done on my own. You and I could be good friends.”

“Well, Ms. Tate . . .”

“But you’d really have to stop calling me
‘Ms.’ outside of the work place!”

They broke into laughter, which filled the
otherwise empty lobby just as someone entered from the door leading to the
Common room.

Dorothy, the aide Tate had met yesterday,
looked at the two women quizzically.

“You seem to be havin’ a good time.”

“We are,” said Tate.
“We’re forging a friendship here based on mutual respect and brutal honesty!”

“And peanut butter cookies,” Ruby chimed in.
“Want one?”

“
There
are plenty to go around. I brought lots to share with the staff and the other
guests. Any chance I can see Mr. Howard again, Dorothy?”

“They can’t all have the cookies, you know.
Some are diabetic and we have to be careful of allergies and what not. I’ll
take them and make sure everyone who can have one gets one,” Dorothy
volunteered. “And you keep some for you and Mr. Howard. I think he’ll be happy
to see you today.”

Leland sat at the same
table, looking out over the woods behind the facility, apparently deep in
thought, absentmindedly fiddling with a small wooden box he held in his hands.
Tate watched him from a distance for several minutes before approaching, which
she did only after his attention returned to the work before him.

“Hello, again.” She consciously softened her
tone as she greeted him.

“Do I know you?” Same question. Same
expression of curiosity.
I
hope he doesn’t remember me.

“We met only once, very briefly. My name is
Tate Marlowe.”

“Marlowe is it? I don’t recollect knowing
any Marlowes.”

“I’m fairly new in town. Wanted to come
visit and bring you these.” She placed the cookies on the table near him.

“Peanut butter?” He
peeked up at her with childlike joy.

“Yep. Peanut butter. I hear they’re your
favorite.”

“You bet!” He reached eagerly for the
cookies then paused. “May I have one?”

“Of course. I made them just for you. Well,
I gave some to the staff, too.”

“Mighty nice of you, Missus . . .”

“Marlowe. Tate Marlowe.”

He took a bite of the cookie and savored it
for a moment.

“This is pretty good.” Leland smiled at her
mischievously. “You make ’em yourself?” Tate thought it might be a trick
question.

“Sure did. I hear you’re partial to homemade,
and I also understand you’re pretty good at telling the difference.”

“One of my few remaining skills, I’m happy
to say. Still have good taste buds.” Leland spoke slowly and a bit haltingly.
His thin voice quavered some.

“Well, how’d I do?”

Leland munched on the cookie and brushed the
crumbs off his shirt front. “Not bad, but I like the chewy kind best.”

“Well, you’re in luck, because I made them
both ways. Try this one.”

Leland took the pliant
mass from Tate and lifted it to his nose. After sniffing it, he gently pressed
it between his fingers, testing the texture. Then he bit into it and broke into
a big smile. Tate waited for the review.

“Mighty good cookie, Missus . . .”

“Marlowe. Just call me Tate, if that’s okay
with you.”

“ . . . Missus Tate.”
No getting around it, I guess. Better
get used to it, though the likelihood of that is remote!

“Glad you like them. I haven’t made them in
years, so I was afraid they might not turn out so well.”

“Why’d you make ’em for
me
?” The question caught Tate off guard.

“I . . . well, um . . .”

“Why’d you come to see me? Do I know you?”

“No, Mr. Howard, you don’t. But I hope
you’ll let me visit so we can get to know each other. It may seem strange, but
we have some things in common and I find you very interesting. I don’t want to
push, though.”

He looked at her intently. “We have met
before, haven’t we?”

“Yes, I was here yesterday, and I think I
upset you.”

“You said something about a house and my
work.”

“I didn’t intend to bring up bad memories.”

“I’m an old man. I have good ones and bad
ones. More bad ones than most folks, but lots of good ones, too. These cookies,
for instance. They put me in mind of the ones Ellie would make for us. For me
and my son, back before . . .”

Tate saw the pain
overtaking Leland again, and she cringed thinking of the distress he must
suffer. She knew about the death of his wife and son and that Leland had
dropped out of sight soon after the tragedy. Now, miraculously it seemed, he
sat in front of her. She prayed he would not close her out completely.

“. . . back when we all lived together and
things were still pretty good.”

He’s sharp. He remembers what I said
yesterday.

“I’d like to hear about those days, if
you’re so inclined, Mr. Howard.”

“You don’t want to hear an old man’s sad
story, young lady, and believe me when I tell you I’ve got a sad one to tell.”

“Actually, I do want to hear it. More than
you could possibly know.”

Why? Why is this so
important to me? So there’s an old house people want to tear down. Why can’t I
just let it be? It really has nothing to do with me.
But Tate knew she would
not let go until her questions were answered, whether it seemed reasonable or
not.

Tate
sat with Leland for almost two hours while he poured out a convoluted tale. As
he talked, he kept his veined hands busy working on a beautiful piece of wood
which gave off a faint, sweet aroma.

He shared snippets about his early childhood
and his family’s move from the forest to the city, interspersed with references
to high school and other sharply remembered anecdotes spanning his long
lifetime. At other times, he struggled as he tried to recover a lost memory
that obviously still held significance for him. There seemed neither rhyme nor
reason to what he related or in what order, so Tate did her best to piece
together the disjointed tale, choosing to listen to whatever he wanted to share
rather than butting in with questions of her own.

“Haven’t talked about this stuff in many a
year. Don’t know why I’m talkin’ to you now.” He peered intently at Tate, as if
searching for the answer to his question in her eyes.

“Maybe it was just a matter of time . . .”
I’m coming to love this old man. He
seems to have suffered so much, and yet I believe he’s still capable of loving.
“. . . or it could be the peanut butter cookies.
I always thought they were kind of magical when I was a kid,” Tate said.

Leland chuckled and she smiled back at him.
He continued with his stories, like verbal snapshots of his life. But he didn’t
talk about his wife or son. Nothing about the house at 305 Chestnut Street.
Guilt and impatience battled for Tate’s attention. She wanted answers to
specific questions, but she allowed Leland to set the pace and tone for their
conversation, serving as his sounding board, getting vital bits of information
for herself and hoping to give him respite from his loneliness.

Eventually the reminiscing took its toll.
Leland’s eyelids drooped and he seemed to dose off. Unsure whether to stay or
leave, Tate looked around for help just as Dorothy approached.

“I can’t believe he spent so much time
talkin’ to you. He usually keeps to himself and his work. Don’t mix much with
the others.”

“I’m amazed. After yesterday, I didn’t know
if he’d even see me again.”

“Those cookies must have cast a spell over
him, just like they did the rest of us.” Dorothy winked and Tate knew her
amends to the staff at Forest Glen had been accepted.

Just then, Leland roused and began
straightening up his wood and tools.

“You can leave it there, like always, Mr.
Leland.” Dorothy helped with the cleaning up. “It’ll be right here when you
come back.” Leland lifted the piece he had been working on to his nose and
inhaled deeply. Then he handed it to Tate and motioned that she, too, should
smell it.

“It’s beautiful. Such a sweet aroma. Really
delicious.” She took another deep breath, drawing in the richness of the wood.

“You ever work with wood?” Leland asked.

“No, never did. Maybe I should give it a
try. It seems to bring you such great pleasure.”

“Nearly the only thing in my life I could
ever count on. That, and things changin’ when you least expect ’em to.” Once
more, Tate had a sense of the deep and painful memories hidden behind Leland’s
comment, though she had no idea the extent of them.

“Could we talk again sometime, Mr. Howard?
I’d like to come back if you’ll let me.”