Final Rights (15 page)

TWENTY-FIVE

2004

Tate
arrived at Uncle Piggy’s at twelve noon on the dot as Ruby had suggested. The
weather had turned chilly and damp, and she huddled into her fleece vest,
turning her back to the wind in an effort to stay warm as she approached the
crowded entrance. The distinctive scent of barbecue wafted from the smokestack
and filled the busy parking lot.

She joined the snaking line inside and immediately
felt crunched in as more people entered behind her. Everyone chattered among
themselves, filling the room with a buzz that competed with the annoying
commentary emanating from the TV anchored to the wall above a row of picnic
tables. The menu hung behind a tall counter and she scanned it quickly. Pork,
chicken and starchy side dishes. She had been counting on something healthy and
green to balance the barbecue ribs she planned on eating. Collard greens or a
salad—any kind of vegetable would have been acceptable, but her only choice
other than French fries appeared to be coleslaw.

Tate succumbed to the festering sense of
irritation and disappointment that had emerged as soon as she’d stepped inside
and looked around.
What a
dump! Not what I was expecting since everyone says this is the best barbecue in
town. And these people! No respect for personal space. I don’t give a damn what
you did last night. Just turn off the cell phone, shut up and stop bumping into
me!

Tate noticed her familiar, crotchety mood.
Sixteen years in New York City had given her plenty of time to develop a strong
intolerance for being crowded and subjected to the blathering of strangers in
cramped spaces. The advent of cell phones, in her humble estimation,
constituted a sign of the impending end of a civilized world. Strangers poured
out the intimate details of their lives in full voice anywhere they happened to
be with no regard whatsoever for who might be listening in.

She grumbled and fussed
under her breath and sidestepped so she stood just slightly out of the line.
She put her hand on her hip and stuck her elbow into the small gap she had
created between herself and the man in front of her. She glowered at him as he
continued his non-stop, animated conversation complete with theatrical gestures
obviously meant to impress the man next to him.
If that oblivious idiot bumps me again,
he’ll get a sharp poke in the ribs.
Seconds later, Tate’s wish came true. The Idiot backed
into her jutting elbow and let out a loud yelp.

“Oh! My bad!” He glared at her as if she
were the source of the problem. Tate hoped her wordless response conveyed the
message that he should back off and pay attention in the future.

The stare-down with the
man ended with Ruby’s arrival. “My, my, honey,” she called to Tate as she
wriggled her way through the line. “Hope you didn’t have to wait too long for
me. Oh, it’s unusually busy today.”

“Hey, Ruby! Your timing is perfect.” In
fact, only two parties stood in line ahead of them.

“Been here long?” Ruby asked.

“Oh, just long enough, I think. I’ll be glad
to get out of this crowd and sit down.” Tate sent a malevolent glance in the
direction of The Idiot.

“Thanks for standing in line. I only have an
hour for lunch, so I don’t get over here as often as I’d like.”

“Glad you took the time
to meet me, Ruby. I just wanted to apologize again for being so rude to you.”

The Idiot took notice of this and raised his
eyebrow in an exaggerated Oh-you-being-rude?-I-can’t-imagine-such-a-thing way.
Ruby noticed the exchange and gave Tate a quizzical look.

“I had my hand on my hip and he bumped into
my elbow. He seems to think it was my fault.” Tate offered her excuse
sheepishly.

“Oh, I see.” Ruby turned to the man.

“Please excuse my friend here. She’s just
getting used to our Southern ways, and she’s a bit of a slow learner.”

Tate flushed from her neck to her hairline,
partly from anger, partly from embarrassment.

“Yeah. I’m from New York. I don’t like being
crowded.” An explanation, for sure, but definitely not an apology.

“Oh, that clarifies everything!” The Idiot
smiled at Ruby and went back to the conversation with his friend.

Ruby turned back to
Tate. “We’re pretty acceptin’ of folks around here, but looks like you may be
givin’ New Yorkers a bad reputation.” The comment, offered with gentleness and
a kind smile, landed on Tate with a thud.

“Am I really that bad? Tell me the truth,
please.”

“Honey, I believe we
find what we’re lookin’ for in this world. And you jus’ lookin’ for someone to
offend you.”

“I don’t think so. But
maybe you’re right. Living in New York forced me to develop a thick shell.
Everyone does it to block out all the noise and constant commotion. You pull
into yourself. For protection.”

“Well, down here that shell of yours blocks
out friendly folks and a whole lot more. Maybe you should think about givin’ it
up.”

“Maybe I should. You know, Ruby, you have a
way of going straight to the heart of the matter. That surprises me. And I
appreciate it a lot.”

“What I’m about to appreciate is a down-home
barbecue sandwich. What about you?”

Tate studied the menu
again. It didn’t look any better the second time than it had the first. She had
seen lots of food coming across the tall counter while she’d waited. It looked
like everything was buried in thick barbecue sauce.
If I can’t eat
something healthy, then I’m gonna splurge on fries.
She decided on a rib
and chicken combination plate with sides of coleslaw and French fries. They
stepped up to the cash register to place their order.

“How you doin’ today, Miss Ruby?” asked the
cashier. Tate’s mouth dropped open as Ruby responded.

“Jus’ fine, and you?”

“Pretty good, but we’re busier than usual
today, so I gotta’ stay on my toes.”

“I see that. Hope you got enough food for me
and my friend here.”

“You know we do. You havin’ your regular?”

Tate placed her order
and paid for both of them. Moments later, their food appeared on the shelf
across from the cash register. They picked it up and Tate followed Ruby down a
hall filled with picnic tables on both sides. Business people in suits,
grizzled old men in worn overalls and families from young to old filled the
seats. Ruby continued toward a back room, Tate in tow.

“Do they know everyone by name here?” Tate
asked.

“Most of us, they do, if we’re regulars. I
love this place. We’ve been coming here for family dinners most of my life. So
many happy memories here.” They reached their destination and Tate looked
around at a room more depressing than what she’d seen out front.

Heavy, veneered tables surrounded by clunky,
ladder-back chairs filled the large, windowless room. The far end sported an
unlit gas fireplace set in a red brick wall. Ruby headed for one of the few
open tables, a smaller one with four chairs, and Tate followed, fervently
hoping this was not the kind of place where strangers plopped themselves down
wherever they found an empty seat.

Ruby settled herself in and cut her sandwich
neatly in half, making it easier to handle.

Tate tentatively took a bite of the rib meat
which had fallen easily off the bone. Too sweet. She quickly tasted the
coleslaw and a small piece of a hushpuppy.
Everything is too sweet.
She looked up to find Ruby watching her closely.

“Looks like this may not
be your favorite kind of food, right?”

“I can’t lie. I know a
lot of people love this place, and I see why. It’s obviously been here for
ages, it feels like a friendly neighborhood here, the menu probably hasn’t
changed much over the years, the ribs are tender, juicy and smell wonderful . .
. but I don’t like so much sugar in my food. I was hoping for some collards or
a salad of some kind.”

“You’re right. This is the same menu I been
eatin’ from since my family started comin’ here thirty years ago. For me it’s
sort of like goin’ to Grandma’s house for Sunday dinner when I was a child. I
can always count on things bein’ just the way I like ’em.”

“I can sure understand the appeal, then, and
I bet most of the regulars here would say the same thing.” Tate tried the
broasted chicken and ate a French fry, both of which were delicious. “Next
time, I’ll probably stick with the chicken. It’s really good.”

“Yeah,” Ruby interjected. “And make sure you
eat those green veggies before you get here.” They both laughed and continued
with their meal.

Their conversation
centered on getting to know each other. Ruby talked about her family, the
recent loss of her mother, and her husband’s illness. She took the job at
Forest Glen several years ago in order to pay for her children’s education. Her
daughter would be the first person in the family with a college degree when she
graduated in the spring. Ruby gushed with pride when speaking of the girl’s
achievement.

“She’ll have her
Bachelor’s degree. She wants to teach and will try to get a job right away. But
I think she’ll go back for a Master’s degree eventually. She loves kids. I hope
she has her own. I want to be a grandma. But not right now. She’s a good girl,
real smart and determined. She’ll teach social studies.”

“She sounds wonderful. Seems like you’re
lucky to have all of them.”

“Sure am. But it’s not
always easy. Still, I thank God every day. What about you? Is your family in
New York?”

“Well, that’s a long
story.” Tate evaded the question. “But first, can I ask you something about Mr.
Howard?” She paused, hoping Ruby felt comfortable enough to talk to her. “How
long has he been at Forest Glen?”

“I can’t say much. But
he arrived long before me. All I heard was that Mr. Price brought him.”

“After I left yesterday,
I went to meet Mr. Price. He’s very old, but spry and friendly. I saw an
exquisite desk
Mr. Howard made,
and it has a secret compartment in it!”

“Oh, that must be something. You know he
makes all those little boxes, and some of them have hidden places, too. Don’t
know how he does it. He gave me one a couple years ago, and I keep my rings in
it when I’m not wearing them.” Ruby put her hands out, arching her manicured
fingers to show off two beautiful rings, one with a ruby set in platinum, the
other an embellished silver setting with a large lapis lazuli stone.

“I assume that one is a ruby. Your
birthstone as well as your name?”

“No, just my name. My
grandaunt’s name, too. And this one, the lapis, my husband gave it to me on our
second date. He said it was almost as beautiful as me.”
  

“He sounds like a wonderful man.”

“He is. I don’t know what I’ll do without
him, but he’s been goin’ downhill for a few years now, so . . . but we were
talkin’ about Mr. Howard.”

Tate took the hint and
returned to the discussion about Leland Howard. “He simply fascinates me. I
want to take care of him. I’m so glad he’s out there at Forest Glen. You and
all the rest of the staff seem to be so dedicated to your patients.”

“Our guests, not patients. We love them.
They’re like our own family.”

“Do you know where Mr. Howard was before he
came to you?”

“The state hospital, I think. But you didn’t
hear it from me, understand?”

The state hospital! It all gets
curiouser and curiouser.
“No
I didn’t hear it from anyone. I promise.” After they finished eating, they made
their way out of the restaurant and paused in the parking lot.

“Thank you for this nice lunch . . . Tate.”
Ruby gave a wink in place of the missing title, and Tate laughed.

“Now we’re getting somewhere. If you can
lose the title, maybe I can lose the shell. It’s been a true pleasure getting
to know you, Ruby.”

“Same here. Wish I didn’t have to get back
to work, but I do. What are you up to this afternoon?”

“Back to the library again. I want to take a
look at a book they have that mentions Mr. Howard and his work.”

“Can’t stop diggin’ can you?” Ruby asked
with a big smile.

“Obviously not yet! I’ll be back to see Mr.
Howard again, so I’ll be seeing you, too.” They gave each other a friendly wave
and headed to their cars. Little did they know their next meeting would occur
so soon.

TWENTY-SIX

1942

Harland
Freeman had been busier than usual. A practical and methodical man, he wanted
every possible detail covered while he still controlled his own fate.

He secured the plot he
wanted at Riverside Cemetery, the final resting place of Asheville’s most
elite. He sniggered quietly as he imagined the dismayed look on the face of
Constance Ryland once she learned where he would be buried. He knew she would
consider it an affront to her family name, but her anticipated horror
constituted only one of the reasons he had worked so furiously behind the
scenes to get his hands on that particular tiny piece of land. Just as he had
been determined to live among Asheville’s business titans in his beautiful
house on Chestnut Street, he wanted to ensure he would rest at the top of the
small knoll elevated slightly above most of them forever.

It did not occur to Harland that the dead
are indifferent; the irony escaped him that he chased into death that which had
eluded him in life. He could think only of how visitors to the cemetery would
see his head stone and know he had been a wealthy and important man.

He commissioned his
headstone and revised his will, an ironclad document that could not be
challenged. His fortune would be used exactly as he intended after his death.
He bequeathed $5,000 each to three local charities, ensuring his name would
appear on the wall along with other major benefactors at organization
headquarters. Everything he had accumulated during his troubled lifetime would
go to good causes, but not all of them charitable. Harland left his mansion,
his dream, to the one person who would want it the least, the one person who
would recognize the gift as the insult and burden he intended it to be. Along
with a sizable trust fund to ensure the upkeep of 305 Chestnut in the decades
to come, Harland transferred his house and all his personal belongings to
Leland Howard.

Harland thought about his life and how he
had expected it to be different.
I’m
not a bad man.
Even if
spoken aloud, the thought could not ward off the nagging suspicion that he was,
indeed, a bad man.

I’m a go getter.
I’m determined and I persevere. That doesn’t make me bad.
It gave Harland little
pause to acknowledge he had no friends or family. He had convinced himself long
ago that he preferred being alone in the world. It freed him of having to make
compromises and of dealing with someone else’s need for attention or comfort.
Harland didn’t even have pets. He lived in his mansion on the hill on Chestnut
Street as a solitary man, often padding around his library at all hours of the
night. Of course he would never do such a thing, but if it pleased him to do
so, he could even leave his socks and underwear on the floor of the bathroom
with impunity—no one would speak a word of it to him.

A cadre of servants met
his personal needs. The maid kept the house spotlessly clean. The cook prepared
sumptuous meals for him. The gardener maintained the impressive landscaping
around his property. A man needs only this and a healthy dose of respect and
admiration—at least to Harland Freeman’s way of thinking.

Harland’s
house had been completed close to on schedule, and he had moved in on a
beautiful autumn day in 1941. The idea for his inaugural party began to form
even before the contractors finished the last touches, so while he settled into
his mansion, he busied himself with planning the event as well.

Barely two months later, he fussed with the
final details prior to the arrival of his guests. Custom-designed invitations
printed on parchment had gone out to more than 100 of the most prestigious
businessmen in Asheville. RSVPs had arrived in
large batches to the surprise and delight of the host. Almost 160 people would
soon fill the magnificent rooms, and he expected they would all be quite
impressed.

The Christmas
decorations rivaled the best he had seen anywhere, with dozens of candles
gracing the mantelpieces and tables. Opulent garlands of holly, mistletoe and
evergreens covered every available banister inside and out, leaving openings at
the newel posts so the intricate carvings in the wood could be admired. The
sweet aroma of cinnamon and apple joined that of clove-studded oranges, filling
the rooms and wafting out into the mild December night.

A ten-foot Christmas tree stood in the front
window, glorious and gleaming with hundreds of tiny lights and one-of-a-kind
ornaments. Harland didn’t even like Christmas trees, but to omit one at a
holiday party would be a social error of enormous magnitude. This event
heralded the inauguration of his architectural masterpiece, and it had to be
perfect. He spared no expense or effort to ensure his guests would praise it as
the best party of the season.

The incident at Pearl Harbor barely a week
earlier threatened to quell the festiveness of the event, but Harland would not
change his plans nor lower his expectations simply because a war hovered on the
horizon.

As the first guests
reached the entrance, Harland took one last look around. He had built his
crowning glory. It would quickly become his shame and, ultimately, his undoing,
but as he surveyed his estate in that brief moment of joy, probably the only
true joy he had ever experienced in his life, he found no hint of what loomed
ahead. Moments later, he immersed himself in the prideful celebration of his
new home.

“Lovely place, Harland.”

“Beautiful, what you’ve done here.”

“Exquisite!”

“A masterpiece.”

The compliments flowed easily as the guests
arrived, and Harland’s pleasure nearly overwhelmed him.

“Thank you,” he effused. “Thank you for
coming.”

“Oh, it’s not that grand, is it?” he would
say, assuming what he meant to be a humble attitude.

Most of the guests willingly put aside the
destruction in the Pacific in favor of more comforting topics, and when the
conversation inevitably turned in that direction, someone, often not Harland
himself, would redirect it. They all seemed to be having a good time. Some of
them chatted easily with him and seemed genuinely interested in what he had to
say. Others smiled graciously and complimented him on the food, the cocktails,
the furniture and the garden.

Harland floated from
room to room engaging in social chit-chat with his guests. At one point, he
passed the door to the drawing room. A small group of people had gathered
there, talking about the house. He stopped, just out of sight, to hear what
they were saying.

“Well, the place is quite grand, you have to
give him that,” said Constance Ryland, begrudgingly.

“Yes, I suppose you do. You know Smith’s
firm designed the place,” said her husband.

“Yes, I know,” chimed in
another female voice, “but I heard he insisted they add some elements of his
own design.” Her tone suggested that had not been a good idea.

“Well, yes, and some of
them work quite well, I have to admit,” offered another.

Harland could not
always tell who said what, but he beamed and leaned in a bit closer so he
wouldn’t miss a thing. He wanted to savor this night for a long time. He had
sought recognition like this for most of his life. Tonight, it had finally
arrived, and he reveled in it.

“That front door is
quite something, don’t you think? He made a point to show it to me earlier.
He’s obviously very proud of it, but it’s rather ridiculous.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Baroque design is
totally out of place. Very ostentatious for a house here in Montford.” Harland
recognized the speaker in this case. Thomas Bristol was a local architect of
note, and Harland had meant for him to be impressed by the grand door he had
designed and which Leland had created exactly to his specifications. Harland
pressed against the wall and listened closely as Bristol continued.

“It’s fairly common in
the Baroque style to use a pediment, and there are many different styles.
Freeman added a swan’s neck design which looks rather feminine coupled with
those huge iron hinges and the lockbox. And there’s the silly inscription he
added.”

“What inscription? I
didn’t see it.” Harland could not place this female voice.

“It says ‘A man’s home is his castle!’ How
trite is that?” Harland felt a bit nauseous when he heard the guffaws and
tittering coming from the room.

“Apparently he wanted a one-of-a-kind door,
and he surely created that!” Bristol finished his monologue with a flourish.

“It’s not really one-of-a-kind, though.”
Harland recognized the voice of Constance Ryland, who now spoke for the first
time. “I noticed the door when I arrived,” she said, “but it’s not unique to
this house.”

Harland froze. What could she possibly mean?
He had extensively researched door styles and used what he learned to create an
exact design. He had drawn it out himself on paper and given it to Leland.

“Really?” said her husband.

“Yes, really,” Constance continued. “I
visited Ellie Howard a few days ago. Her husband recently put a new door on
their house. The design is very similar. I’m not fond of the one on this house.
It’s too rough and boastful, but the one on Ellie’s house is graceful, more
finely rendered, and it doesn’t have a pediment crowning the door. It’s
actually quite beautiful. But then I’m not an expert.”

Harland gasped and went numb. His glass
smashed to the floor. He became dizzy and lightheaded and grabbed the door jamb
in an attempt to steady himself as the group came rushing out into the hallway.
He knew he had gone deathly white, and his body seemed to be collapsing in on
itself. He could barely remain standing.

“Are you all right, old fellow?” Mr. Ryland
took his elbow to steady him.

“Yes . . . I think so . . . maybe I just . .
. yes . . . I’ll be fine.” Harland reeled with the knowledge of Leland’s
betrayal.

“Really, old man,
perhaps we should call for help . . .”

The women gathered in a huddle near him and
made suggestions.

“Get him some water . . .”

“Loosen his tie and cummerbund . . .”

“Maybe he needs a brandy . . .”

The men supported
Harland and led him to the midnight blue velvet settee he had procured from the
same company used to supply furniture for the prestigious Kenilworth Inn. He
sank onto the sofa and quickly grabbed his chest. It had just occurred to him
he might be able to convince them he was having a mild heart attack. He rallied
all the focus he could.

“I think I’m okay,” he
said. “Just some palpitations. Nothing serious, I’m sure.”

“You look a fright, man, like you’ve had
quite a shock.”

“No, just some palpitations. I’ve been
seeing my doctor about them just recently,” Harland lied.

“We’ll call him. Who is your doctor?”

“No need,” said Harland. “I just need to
rest. This has happened before. I just need to rest.”

He persevered, and the men helped him up to
his room, Harland feigning weakness and exhaustion all the way. They brought
him a brandy and saw to it he settled in comfortably. He requested their
assistance in informing his guests the party should continue in his absence.

The men finally left him to himself and he
sat alone in his opulent bedroom, vacillating between rage, disbelief and
mortification.

How could Leland have done that? What would
possess him to make a door for his little shack like the one he made for
Harland’s stately mansion? Leland could not help but know an entrance like that
was completely out of place on a working class bungalow sitting at the edge of
the commercial district.

He continued to steam
and brood while his guests slowly drifted out, eventually leaving the remains
of the party behind. He had a vague awareness of the help cleaning up and
letting themselves out. Finally he sat alone in the house. He imagined
retribution, what it would look like, how good it would feel. He would sue
Leland and ruin him. He would confront him face-to-face and beat him to a pulp.
He would broadcast across town the truth kept hidden all these years and
everyone would finally know. Harland knew he would never do that, add to his
own shame in such a way, but he would find a means of landing a fatal blow to
Leland. There must be a way, something so unthinkable it would make Leland
suffer as he himself now suffered.

As he rambled through various scenarios, it
suddenly occurred to him why Leland had done what he had done. And as much as
Harland hated Leland for it, he knew he had deserved it. He did not accept it
and he would surely find a way to retaliate, but he understood it, and in that
same moment, he understood Leland had finally beaten him. His unassuming,
self-effacing, plain and simple, much despised cousin had won.

Leland had transformed his precious and
beautiful creation—his castle entrance—into something ugly and spiteful, just
as Harland had turned his own creation—the innocent child—into a tool to once
again
manipulate Ellie into giving him what
he wanted! A fleeting moment of self-loathing flooded over him, then thankfully
passed, and he resolved himself to getting his revenge regardless of his own
complicity in the matter.