Final Rights (27 page)

FORTY-THREE

1942

Harland
Freeman took special care to prepare himself for the next-to-last most
important day of his life. He bathed and groomed himself meticulously, then
dressed in his finest clothing. His muted blue, cotton shirt coordinated
perfectly with his hand-tailored suit constructed of fine, homespun wool in
Hoover Gray from the Biltmore Industries’ looms. The color of the fabric had
been created specifically for Herbert Hoover, and Harland had chosen it
carefully. The double-breasted jacket with its thick padded shoulders narrowed
at the waist, giving Harland the larger-than-life look he wanted. He added a
matching vest, wide tie, black wing-tip shoes and engraved gold cufflinks.

Once dressed, he
surveyed himself in the mirror. He posed with and without the black Fedora and
decided the effect of adding the hat enhanced his overall image, especially
when worn fashionably tipped over his right eye. Satisfied with his appearance,
he descended the stairs, plucked his new walking stick with the large, silver,
bird’s-head handle from the stand just inside the massive front door and struck
out for his destination.

He paraded along Chestnut Street, marking
each pace by swinging his stick up to waist height then clicking the metal tip
on the pavement on the down stroke. The pretentious nods he offered to the
occasional passersby were met with mixed reactions, and one man, who he
recognized as his neighbor from two doors down, actually crossed the street to
avoid greeting him. Undeterred by the intentional slight, he continued on his
way.

He entered the iron gates at Riverside
Cemetery and paused, giving himself time to savor the view. The winter air
smelled crisp and spicy, and he inhaled it deeply into his lungs. His eyes
scanned the rolling hills and took in the vast array of monuments sweeping down
the embankment to the industrial area hugging the banks of the French Broad
River. Paupers rested forgotten in the insignificant graves strung along the
bottom of the hill. Somewhere among them lay both of his parents. He had never
bothered to search for their graves, and now he turned away in disgust.

He walked purposefully to the top of a knoll
near the entrance, the favored final resting place for the likes of the Wolfe
family—Thomas had been buried there a few years before—the Von Rucks, Westalls
and other noted Asheville elite. A beautiful spot, surely, but not what he
wanted.

He crossed the small winding road to an
adjacent section of the cemetery. There on a gentle slope with an unencumbered
view of the mountains, he found the Ryland family plot. He circled the area
carefully, studying the headstones and monuments for their size, style, wording
and craftsmanship.

Constance Ryland had shunned him since their
high school days. Regardless of his rise in status, she had chosen a friendship
with the lowly Ellie Howard rather than him. Constance had come to represent in
Harland’s mind every person who had ever shunned or scorned him, and she would
be the one to pay for all their sins. She had stood with them in his library,
at his party, drinking his wine when she uttered the words that decimated his
life and ultimately led to his premature need for a burial site for himself. In
that moment a powerful hatred for her invaded him and set him on his final
path. Once carried out, his vengeful plan would even the score and tie her to
him for eternity, and what made that such a perfect outcome as he saw it was
the fact she could do nothing to avoid the fate he planned for her.

He lingered as he surveyed his surroundings,
even resting briefly against the shoulder-high marker bearing the name of
Constance’s father-in-law, before he settled on his decision. Then he walked to
the cemetery office and purchased three adjacent plots immediately in front of
the Rylands. He would visit the funeral parlor the next day and finalize the
plans for his burial.

Something close to joy overtook Harland as
he walked home. He imagined Constance’s horror when she realized what he had
done, how outraged everyone would be by his final act of retribution. They had
shunned him in life, but they would be unable to forget him in death. And
finally, he wouldn’t care a whit about what they said about him.

Upon his return home,
Harland took great care to ensure everything was in its proper place. He
returned the cane to the stand by the door, handle turned just so, and placed
the cufflinks in precise alignment in the silk-lined case sitting atop his
dresser. He hung the suit, vest and shirt in an emptied section of the closet
where they would be easily found. He positioned his shoes immediately beneath
the cuffs of his pants and draped the tie over the shoulder of the jacket. To
guarantee his directions were followed exactly, Harland left a detailed note
tucked loosely in one of his shoes. Unfortunately, Harland failed to anticipate
the difficulty the undertaker would experience trying to make him look good in
his casket once he had blown part of his skull and brain away.

“Well,
I certainly didn’t think I’d be dealing with this man again so soon.” The
funeral director held the note from Harland in his hand and spoke aloud as he
sat alone in his office. Only four days previously, Harland had marched into
his establishment asking questions about his services and prices.

“I’d like to make burial arrangements,” he’d
said.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Has there been a death in
the family?” The Director assumed his most soothing tone, the one he reserved for
the grieving.

“Not yet. I want to make plans for my own
interment, when the time comes, of course.” Harland made it a point to use the
less common term for burial, an elitist choice apparently lost on the Director.

“We certainly can help you with that. Are
you ill?”

“Illness has nothing to do with it, my man.
I just want to make sure it’s done right, so I’m making the arrangements
myself. Can’t leave an important thing like that to anyone else, now can I?”

“Oh, well . . . usually it is the family
members left behind who take on that role, but . . .”

“Like I said, better to do it myself than
take chances.” Harland found no reason to tell the Director the true reason for
taking matters into his own hands—there was no one else who would do it if he
didn’t.

“Of course. Well, then,
let me show you around.” The Director led Harland to one of two viewing rooms.

“We have two choices for visitation. This is
the larger room, and there’s another just here . . .”

“Won’t be needing a viewing room. You’ll
just be seeing to my burial. There will be no funeral services.”

“I don’t understand. You’ll want your family
and friends . . .”

“There’ll be no family,
no friends, no clergy. Just your staff seeing to preparing me and getting me
into the ground over there at Riverside Cemetery. I have a choice plot. Three,
actually, and I’ll be buried in the middle one, so there’s one left vacant on
each side of me.”

“Yes . . . I see. It’s common for plots to
be set aside for family members who . . .”

“
No family
members! I don’t like to be crowded, so I’m to be placed in the middle and the
ones on either side will remain empty!”

“Uh . . .” Nonplussed by Harland’s
commanding style and highly unusual request, the Director fumbled for words.
“Uh, I . . .”

“Well, man, can you do it or not?”

The Director inhaled deeply and rubbed his
hand over his eyes. In his line of business, he typically dealt with people at
the most vulnerable and needy times of their lives. They welcomed his
comforting style and eloquent gestures of support. His melodious voice calmed
them. They often wept, the women especially, and gratefully accepted his
handkerchief to wipe away their tears. This man fell so far from the norm the
Director had no tools to deal with him.

“Uh . . .”

Harland stared hard at the Director and
seemed to relish his discomfort.

The Director took
another deep breath and with it recaptured his composure. “Yes, of course I can
do as you ask.”

“Well then, let’s discuss the details.”

The Director spent the next hour with
Harland as he chose his coffin—the most stylish one available from the
highest-priced group—and ordered an extravagant and expensive monument. Now,
only days later, he sat in his office, having just returned from Montford with
Harland’s body and his instructions.

A photograph of the Director’s
dearly departed mother rested on the corner of his desk. He fervently believed
she watched over him from her vantage point in Heaven. He spoke to the image
now, as he had the habit of doing when the strain of his work felt heavy. “At
least this will be the end of it for me as well as for him. And I doubt you’ll
have to worry about dealing with him up there!”

Harland’s burial occurred as he had instructed, with no
fanfare, no exequy or ceremony of any kind. That left the staff from the
funeral home and the cemetery to search for alternate ways of getting the sense
of closure usually provided by ritual. Having been denied that, they felt no
connection to the person of Harland and little responsibility for the body of
Harland. They put him in the ground and covered him with dirt. They laid the
sod back down over him and saw to the placing of his monument. Having fulfilled
their duties, they turned their backs and left him alone.

As per his instructions,
a rectangular perimeter of stones reaching eight inches above the ground
outlined the three plots where Harland lay. This well-defined border warned
anyone who thought about stepping onto his land not to tread on private
property. Long benches supported by small pillars spread out on each side of
his pedestal monument, so the structure stretched the full length of the three
spaces. While the seating invited visitors, the boundary shouted
KEEP
OUT!

Atop the monument rested a bronze urn draped
with a laurel wreath. A polished text panel contained his epitaph, which
read:
 

Harland Clayton Freeman

B: March 21, 1910 – D: February 13, 1942

I stand by all I did

Disapproval does not trouble me now I am dead

Harland could not know while composing his
plagiarized sentiment that even in death he would pay the consequences he had
earned in life.

Winter
gave way to a dazzling spring, then an early and brilliant summer. Dogwood,
poplar, ginkgo and ancient oaks dressed the hillsides of the cemetery in color.
Always a peaceful place, Riverside Cemetery proved most beautiful in spring.

Harland’s monument
stood almost ten feet tall from its base to the tip of the urn. Nothing within
twenty yards rose to this height, so it commanded the entire slope. Regardless
of the sun’s position in the sky, at some point during every day, the
pedestal’s shadow poked its way into the Ryland family plot, thus stealing a
bit of the beauty of each day from them. This punishment would last even longer
than that which he had settled upon Leland Howard. Leland would die one day and
be released from the burden placed upon him, but no means of escape existed for
the Rylands—at least none Harland could imagine.

Although Asheville is blessed with an ideal
climate, it is not immune to occasionally destructive weather events, and it
was exactly that—an unpredictable summer storm of massive proportion—that
eventually rescued the Rylands from Harland’s wrath.

The birds and squirrels sounded the initial
warning as they scurried for cover. Human inhabitants of the city noticed the
gathering storm when thick, white clouds, their bellies colored golden by the
sun, began accumulating in the western sky in mid-morning on a particularly
warm day in early June. By that afternoon, a towering thunderhead with an anvil
stretching as far as could be seen marched steadily toward the city, spawning
several tornadoes in Tennessee as it approached. Though the mountains proved
disruptive enough to the rotation of the storm to prevent the formation of
additional funnel clouds, they did not mitigate the heavy rain, golf ball-sized
hail or blinding flashes of lightning.

The bolt that reached down from the sky to
destroy Harland’s avengement did what all lightning does. It sought out the
high pointy object standing in the open field, attracted especially by the
imposing bronze urn. The charge toppled the vessel and pierced the heart of the
granite pedestal, leaving a deep fissure in its wake. Weather continued its
work, filling the crevice with water, then freezing it during the cold winter
that ensued. Amid the blazing color of the following spring, the stone finally
gave way and Harland’s monument, the one he intended to serve as an enduring
reminder of his disdain for those who had shunned him, broke apart and tumbled
across his grave. Decades later, when someone finally came looking for him,
they found a thick carpet of deep green ivy obscuring the entire gravesite.

FORTY-FOUR

2004

Richard
Price began at the beginning, telling Tate and Cally how he and Leland had met
and the slow development of their friendship, about Leland’s growing popularity
as a craftsman, his lack of ego, his family life with Ellie and Clayton.

“I never knew a man who loved his wife more
deeply than your grandfather loved your grandmother. Frankly, I never
understood it. Always seemed to me that she was cool toward him.”

“I remember her as loving and out-going,”
Cally countered.

“With you and your father, she was, until
Clayton started getting into so much trouble.”

“What kind of trouble? He used drugs, didn’t
he.”

“I don’t know the details. But yes, he
probably used drugs. He was what they called a Greaser back then—one of the bad
boys—and seemed proud of it. Hung out with the wrong crowd, always getting into
scrapes, got hauled off to jail more’n once.”

“I don’t remember him
very well. Gamma always sent him away if he showed up at the house when I was
there. In any case, he never tried to be a father to me.”

“None of that mattered to Leland. He loved
Ellie and he loved Clayton—stood by him no matter what kind of trouble that boy
got into.”

“Gampa was always gentle and loving. I
scratched my initials into the mantel and instead of getting mad, he taught me
to whittle.”

“He was proud of that incident. Did you know
that?”

“Proud? He should have been furious.”

“Nope. He told me about it, even showed me
your handiwork. Thought it showed a love of the wood and some initiative.
That’s what he said about it. Clayton never took to the woodworking. Leland saw
a chance for the family tradition to continue through you.”

“Mr. Price, will you tell me about the day
she died. The day they died? And what happened after that?” Cally reached for
Tate as she asked.

Providing comfort to others had always been
one of Tate’s strengths. She usually did it with words, but now she simply
folded her hand around Cally’s delicate fingers.

“Those are painful memories, but you deserve
to know. He called me. I went to the house immediately, and he was lying on the
bed with Ellie in his arms. I knew she was gone, but he continued to cradle her
until the police arrived. They took her away, but he didn’t want to leave.
Before I could convince him to come with me, they came back and told us they’d
found your father in the park where he’d hung himself.”

“He killed her, didn’t he?”

“Yes, he did. Your grandfather saw Clayton
running out the door, and he admitted it.”

“It must have been terrible for him, for
both of them. You can’t kill your own mother and not feel tortured.”

Tate listened to Cally and marveled at her
stoicism and the compassion she expressed for Clayton. Tate would never be so
forgiving toward those responsible for the crushing losses she had suffered.

Richard Price continued.
“I don’t know what went on in his mind. And I had Leland to take care of, so I
focused on that. He had been at my house for several days, and not doing well,
as I said. He finally came out for breakfast one morning. He was intent on
going back to the place to get some things for you. I’m not sure what, but it
was really important to him. I had to tell him you were gone and I didn’t know
where. That’s when he took a bad fall on the terrace. Hit his head and passed
out. He went to the hospital, and it became apparent he was slipping into a
deep depression.”

The old man leaned back in his chair and
breathed deeply. Cally and Tate exchanged glances and waited to see if he would
continue.

“I talked to the doctors about bringing him
back here, but they thought he was a suicide risk, so they sent him off to the
state hospital. He languished there. They did their best to treat him, but he
never pulled out of the depression completely.”

“How did he end up at Forest Glen?” Cally
tried to keep her questions to a minimum, since Mr. Price was already giving
them so much information, but this one was important to her.

“Well, over the months it became obvious
he’d probably never live on his own again. He didn’t want to go back to work. I
knew he couldn’t stay in that hospital. I had to get him to someplace better.”

“Forest Glen seems like a very nice place.
The staff is good to him.”

“It has always been one of the best retirement
facilities. But he didn’t have any money.”

“I have been wondering how his care is paid
for.”

“Well, he was a master craftsman. You know
that, don’t you?”

“Yes. Tate has told me some about his work.”

“He had a workshop full of finished pieces.
‘My little projects’ he always called them. He did his work for money, of
course, but he spent a lot of time making the things he wanted to make, even if
no one had commissioned them.”

“I have very fond memories of that workshop.
I’d sit with him. I remember lots of things stacked up along the walls, many of
them draped with old sheets. There was all kinds of wood and sawdust all over
the floor . . . he’d lay his tools out in neat rows and carefully put each one
back in place when he finished with it. I think I learned my own sense of
orderliness from Gampa.”

“Well, those ‘little projects’ became highly
valuable after he stopped working. People were clamoring for anything made by
Leland Howard. Leland allowed me to take care of his financial matters. In
fact, he was happy to turn it all over to me. I was able to sell everything he
had made, put the house on the market, sold off most of their personal items .
. .”

“I wondered what happened to their things.”
Cally teared up again.

“I’m sorry, Cally. I
would have saved them for you, but Rita just whisked you away. Your Grandma
Thornton wouldn’t tell me where you were. She just said you were gone and never
coming back. So I did what I thought should be done. I sold everything I could
and invested the money for Leland’s care.”

“
It’s okay, Mr. Price.
Really it is. I have the note from Gamma, some childhood memories, a few things
Mom left. And now I have Gampa again. I really couldn’t ask for much more.”

Tate had chosen to
remain quiet throughout the conversation until now. “I have a question, if I
may.” There was one crucial issue Richard Price had not mentioned.

“If I can answer it, I will. Leland told me
to tell all the secrets.”

“The house over on Chestnut Street. It’s in
Leland’s name. Why didn’t you sell it?”

“Well, Ms. Marlowe, that’s a long story.”

“We’ve got time, don’t we, Cally? If you’re
up to telling us more, that is, Mr. Price.”

“Yes, plenty of time!” Cally said.

“Well then. Let’s have some tea. It’s a
relief to talk about this after all this time.” Richard Price rang for the
housekeeper, who took his request for strong tea and a ‘little nibble,’ both of
which arrived a few minutes later as promised.

“Freeman was a contrary old scoundrel if
ever there was one.”

Cally turned to Tate, a puzzled look on her
face.

“Oh, I never told you! The man who built
that house was named Harland Freeman.”

“How much does she know?” Richard Price put
the question to Tate.

“Almost as much as I do. I just don’t think
I ever mentioned Mr. Freeman to her.”

“Well, everyone found him unlikable, Leland
more so than others. They were cousins, you know.”

“Cousins?” Tate could not squelch her
excitement. “They were cousins? How were they connected?”

“Leland’s mother was Mary Alice. She left
town when she was quite young. Went to live with an old aunt and uncle up in
the woods. Leland was born on the old homestead, and they moved back to town
when he was 8 or 9.”

That’s why I never found a birth record
. Tate would fill Cally in on that later.
“Who were Harland’s parents?”

“Mother was Eulah Mae, Mary Alice’s older
sister. Crazy Eulah everyone called her. Father was a layabout most of the
time. Worked here and there but never steady. When Mary Alice and her family
moved back to town, she’d have nothing to do with Eulah Mae. So the boys, Leland
and Harland, never spent time together. Leland’s dislike for Harland was
mutual.

Tate could not hold back her next question.
“Then why on earth would he give the house to Leland?”

Cally sat back and let Tate take the lead.
Tate’s passion for the house on Chestnut clearly outweighed Cally’s interest in
the place.

“I’m not sure what all happened between the
two of them. They had no use for each other, that’s for sure. At least until
Freeman wanted his special door when he was building that monstrosity . . .”

“It is a strange place, for sure. But not
monstrous exactly . . .” Tate reminded herself not to interrupt again. “I’m
sorry. Go on, please.”

“Never could figure out why Leland did that
work. He didn’t want to, but somehow he felt pressured. I always sensed it had
something to do with Ellie, though I can’t imagine what that would be. Anyway,
Leland took the job, but then he also put a door very similar to the one he
made for Freeman on his own house over on Cumberland.”

“I own that house now. I think I told you
when I visited you the first time.”

“Yes, I remember that. Same door, almost.
Rumor had it at the time that Freeman was furious when he found out. Wasn’t
even a couple months later he shot himself. Transferred the house to Leland,
but made it so it couldn’t ever be sold long as Leland was alive. Leland felt
like it was an anchor around his neck. He always hated the place and wouldn’t
even travel down the street in front of it anymore.”

“Wow. He must have had a powerful aversion
to it.”

“No more’n his aversion to Freeman himself,
I can tell you that.”

Tate offered more information. “I met the
man who used to tend the lawn over there a couple of days ago. He says there
were some lawyers involved but they stopped paying him a long time ago.”

“Paige and Schmidt. Those hooligans!”

“Hooligans? What’d they do?”

“Not much of anything in
the last few years before they closed up shop. That was the problem. Let things
slip and got sued a couple times. They finally shut the doors and left town.
That was the last anyone heard of them.”

“I went to the courthouse and saw the trust,
the one holding the house for Leland. At one point there was money in it, too.
Any idea what happened to it?”

“I should have done more about that when the
lawyers dropped the ball. But I had a stroke—that’s what left me like this.” He
opened his arms, hands palms-up in a gesture of helplessness, and looked down
at his legs. “But Leland would never even talk about the place, and I wasn’t
ever involved. So I chose to stay out of it. Maybe a lawyer could help you
figure out if there’s anything left and where it is.”

“That’s a good idea. I
could sure use some help. We could use some help, that is, assuming Cally wants
to pursue it.”

Richard Price locked his eyes on Tate and
paused before speaking again. “You’re intent on saving that old place. Why?”

“The place haunts me, pure and simple. But
there’s another reason, too, one I just realized. I have to save it because it
belongs to someone.” Tate turned slowly to Cally and touched her shoulder. “I
think it belongs to you, now, Cally.”

Cally hung her head and cried quietly. “That
was just dawning on me, Tate. I think it’s time for me to go see the place,
don’t you?”

“Yes, if you’re up to it.”

Cally turned to Mr.
Price. “You’ve had a long afternoon with us here. You must be ready for us to
leave.”

“I’ve told you most of what I can, and it’s
a bigger relief than I expected. I think I’m ready for a nap. Old men need to
rest a lot, you know.” His impish quality peeked out through his watery eyes,
and Tate was happy to see their visit had not worn him out enough to quell his
playfulness.

“You have been so generous with your time,
Mr. Price. I can’t thank you enough for everything you’ve shared with us.”
Tate’s words fell far short of expressing the extent of her gratitude.

As they left the library, Mr. Price called
after them. “You’ll come back again, won’t you? Both of you?”

“I certainly will, if you’ll have me. And
I’ll bring treats next time,” promised Tate.

“Me, too!” Cally chimed in. “I’ll come to
visit you and my desk!”

As they walked to the truck, Cally asked to
see the house on Chestnut Street. Tate drove by slowly and stopped at the curb.
However, Cally made no move to get out and look around. Instead, she gazed
intently at the old place then sighed deeply, as if a heavy weight pressed down
on her.

“You don’t want to see it?” Tate asked.

“Oh, yes, I do. But I’m
exhausted. I want to see it when I can really take it in. Could we do that
another time?”