Final Rights (33 page)

“Here? You mean you found it . . . here?”

“Right here, where it’s been ever since they
took it out of the house, ten, maybe fifteen years ago.”

Cally propped her hands
on her knees and began taking deep, slow breaths. “I . . . am . . . not . . .
going . . . to . . . cry!” She uttered one word each time she exhaled. And she
did not cry. She stood up and declared: “Show it to me!”

“I thought you’d never ask!” Tate grabbed
Cally’s hand and began trotting toward their destination.

As they approached the collection of
mantels, Cally immediately noticed the one sticking partway out into the aisle.
She rushed over, brushed off some of the dust and rested both hands on the top.

The laying on of hands
. The thought hit Tate as she watched Cally,
head bowed, eyes closed as if communing with a living being.
She’s healing it. They’re healing each
other. And me.

Cally turned to Tate. “This is it, isn’t
it.”

“Yes.”

“Gampa made this?”

“Yes.”

“And my initials are
here? You’re sure this is the right one?”

“Yes.”

Cally knelt down and searched the wood panel
with her fingers for the scars she had etched so long ago. She found them and
the tears refused to be held back again. Tate sat down on the floor with her
and waited for several minutes.

Cally finally spoke. “I can’t believe it,
Tate.”

“It’s true.”

“How’d you find it?”

“When I woke up from
that dream this morning, I just knew the fireplace was somewhere, that it had
not been destroyed. So I went to the library and . . . no!” Tate stopped
abruptly. “Short version!” She hissed the command aloud, looked at Cally and
started again. “I called the guy I bought the house from. He came over. He told
me he sold the fireplace. To John. After he moved the house to the current
location. I came here looking for it. I found it. Here we are!”

Cally grinned. “That’s the shortest version
of anything I’ve ever heard from you.”

“Thank you! It was a monumental effort.”

Tate reached for Cally’s
hand and they sat quietly for a few moments. “You know there’s one more thing
to do, Cally . . .”

“I know, Tate. I’m working up my courage.”

“A part of me wanted to
look when I was here earlier, but I just couldn’t.”

“I appreciate that.”

“I’m not known for restraint any more than I
am for succinctness . . .”

“It must have been torturous for you . . .”

“Hard, difficult, but
not torturous. She left it for you, not me.”

“Do you think it’s still in there?”

“Only one way to find out.”

“Only one way. And I have to know, even
though it may break my heart.”

“Okay, then. Want to look now?”

“I have to.”

T
hey stood
up and Cally faced the mantel. She began running her finger along the underside
of the top piece, listening carefully for the faint click heralding success.
She reached the other end without the hoped-for reward and turned to Tate. “You
try.”

Tate knew instinctively
she could not honor Cally’s request, that to do so would diminish Cally’s
experience of finding the gift awaiting her if it was still there. “No, Cally.
You try again.”
 

“Please, Tate . . .”

“Tell me, Cally. Do you remember watching
your grandmother open the compartment?”

“Yes, oh yes. It was magical!”

“Think back to that moment. See her doing
it. Where does she put her finger? How does she move it? Do it just like she
did.”

Cally started again.
She placed her index finger on the mantel and paused, deep in concentration,
then adjusted her position slightly, moving her touch a bit lower on the edge
of the mantel. She traced carefully along the surface, feeling each groove of
the carved design. They both held their breath. The only movement in the
warehouse was Cally’s searching finger and the dust motes floating in the air.
Then . . . the click . . . echoing through the silence. They gasped in unison
as the secret compartment fell open.

Cally stood on her tiptoes and peered in.
She threw her hands up to her mouth. “There’s something in there!” She wrapped her
arms around Tate’s neck and they jumped up and down together, weeping and
laughing all at the same time.

“It’s still here, Tate! I can’t believe it!”
Cally reached into the drawer and pulled out a small velvet jewelry pouch. She
upended it and a diamond ring dropped into her open hand.

“This was my great-grandmother’s! Gamma
showed it to me.” Cally turned the tiny ring over and held it up to a shaft of
light so it sparkled.

“It’s beautiful. Does it fit you?”

“I don’t know. It’s so small . . .” Cally tried
to slip it onto her ring finger but it wouldn’t move past the first knuckle.
“Nope. But I could wear it on a chain . . .”

“That you could.”

“There’s more stuff in there, Tate.” Cally
looked frightened, like a small child who had been caught dipping into the
cookie jar without permission.

“It’s all yours, Cally. I already bought it
and I’m giving it to you.”

“No! Really?”

Yes, really. So it’s okay to look.”

“I know, but it seems . . . strange. Seeing
these things again, whatever they are. Gamma was the last person who touched
them.”

Cally took a moment to
brace herself, then reached back into the compartment. She pulled out a
tortoise-shell hair comb. “Oh, I remember this, too. It belonged to Gamma’s
grandmother, so that’s my . . . great-great-grandmother! I’ve never touched
anything so old.”

Tate bent close to see the comb. The
magnificent piece measured nearly the full length of her hand and about two
inches wide. It sported dark brown and orange blotches scattered on a pale
amber-colored background. She knew nothing about antique combs, but she
imagined this one to be quite valuable. “It’s beautiful, Cally.”

“I remember it. Gamma kept it, but I think
it made her unhappy.”

“Really? Why?”

“Something about turtles dying for the sake
. . . something. I had no idea what she meant, but I remember her saying it and
looking so sad.”

“Oh! Of course. Real
tortoise-shell is probably illegal, like ivory.”

“You mean owning it is a crime?”

“Well, probably not. If this is an antique,
it could date back to long before laws banning it were passed.”

“Gamma must have kept it because it’s a
family heirloom.”

“You could get it appraised, Cally. Have an
expert look at it and give you some advice.”

Cally held the ring and the comb close to
her chest. “Yes, that’s a good idea.” She seemed pensive.

“How you doin’?”

“I’m okay . . .
actually, I’m frazzled. I had a long day before coming here, and there are more
things in the drawer . . .”

“Do you want to leave them there for now?”

“I can’t. I know they’ve been safely hidden
for decades, but now that I’ve found them, I’m terrified of losing them again.”
Cally took a deep breath and removed two more items.

The first was a blue bank book with gold
lettering and worn edges. She opened it slowly. Inside she found her name in
flowing cursive in the varying shades of black and gray typical of fountain pen
writing:
Calliope Ann Thornton
. Speechless, she handed the book to Tate.

“Ellie must have opened this account for
you.” Tate pointed to the date of the first deposit. “Look. Over a hundred
dollars in 1961. It’s probably inactive now, but I bet you can still claim the
money somehow.”

“It’s priceless, no matter what.” Cally
gently tapped her own chest above her heart with the palm of her hand. “
She
left it for
me
.”

“She obviously loved you, Cally. She took
care to leave you these precious things.” Tate noticed that Cally held one more
item in her hand. “What’s that?”

“I don’t know. It’s a
letter . . . or something. It scares me.”

“Why?”

“It just does. I don’t think it’s from
Gamma. I’m not sure I want to open it.”

“You don’t have to, Cally . . .”

“She left it for some reason . . .”

“But still . . .”

“She wanted me to read it, whatever it is.”

“Still . . .”

Cally couldn’t know she
was about to discover a secret Ellie had kept even in death. She slowly slipped
the folded note paper out of its yellowed envelope and read it aloud:

My Confession

My name is Harland Clayton
Freeman. I was born on March 21, 1910. I am unmarried and the owner of
Freeman’s Mercantile in Asheville, North Carolina. I am a very successful
businessman and I have accumulated a sizable fortune. I think this makes me
important, but really I am a cad. When I was in high school I used my
popularity as an athlete to bed as many girls as I could. I didn’t care who
they were, and I paid no heed to the consequences my behavior might cause them.
I bragged to my friends about my conquests because I thought it made me
popular. Now I know it made me despicable. Regardless of my success as a
businessman, I am a complete failure as a human being. In March of 1927, I
seduced Marie Eleanor Vance and fathered a child with her. Then I walked away
and denied all responsibility for the child’s existence. The boy’s name is
Clayton Samuel Howard. Ellie married my cousin, Leland Samuel Howard, who is
raising the boy as his own and is a far better father to him than I ever would
have been.

I would never have admitted to
this except that I’m a greedy man who will do whatever I must to get what I
want. I want Leland Howard to build a fancy door for my new house and he said
no. I won’t accept no for an answer, so I cornered Ellie and threatened her so
she would convince Leland to change his mind. In exchange, she demanded I write
this confession, and I do so willingly since getting my way is of utmost importance
to me. I have no wife and no children born legitimately at this time, and I do
not expect to acquire such burdens in the future. Therefore the only person
with the right to claim my fortune when I die is Clayton Samuel Howard, the
child I fathered with Ellie.

Signed: Harland Clayton
Freeman
  
                                                                           
December
19, 1940

FIFTY

2004

Neither
woman seemed able to speak when Cally finished reading Harland’s note. Until
that moment, he had not been a main character in the story Tate had pieced
together about 305 Chestnut Street, even though he had built the place. Now
everything had shifted.

The world’s tipped sideways.
Somehow, Tate understood that Ellie had
secured the confession and that it had been a high price for Harland to pay.

Tate watched Cally closely. After placing
the note back in the envelope, Cally had stuffed all the items from the secret
compartment into her jacket pocket, closed the drawer and stepped a few paces
away. She now sat cross-legged on the floor with her back to Tate, rocking
herself gently.

Tate stayed put and sat
quietly while several chains of thought fought for dominance in her busy mind.
Fragments of the puzzle banged into each other and began arranging themselves
in appropriate alignment with the other pieces, spreading out in a vast,
shifting, three-dimensional tableau. Ellie, Harland, Leland, Clayton, murder,
love, desperation, anger, revenge, suicide, doors, secret pacts, facts,
conjecture . . . all of them falling into place and fitting together finally
into a comprehensible whole. She did not know all the details. Nonetheless,
Tate began to understand the saga from beginning to end. But putting it into
words . . . how could she possibly do that? Maybe in the end it wasn’t even
important. Each of the players had done what they’d done. They made decisions
and set themselves on a path. A path that led to this moment. None of it
mattered except Cally. And Leland. And the house at 305 Chestnut Street.

And me. I matter, too. At least I
should. But why? None of this really has to do with me, does it?

Cally rose and turned to Tate. “This changes
everything.” She said this quietly then turned and walked back toward the shop
entrance.

Both women took the ride back to town in near silence.
Tate drove on autopilot as she rambled through memories from her childhood.

As a child, her family
had visited the farms of her two great-grandmothers several times a year. She
had been allowed to wander those farms alone, meandering through the pastures
and outbuildings, often for hours at a time. During those visits Tate had
experienced a freedom and adventure missing from her usual home life.

In Grandma Strauss’ barn, strips of wood
nailed to support beams formed a steep ladder up to the hayloft. After scaling
to what seemed like a dizzying height, Tate would sink into the scratchy, sweet
hay and bury herself, with only her nose and eyes still visible. Lying there,
she listened to the rhythm of her own breath, to the chirps and buzz of birds
and insects, the creaking of old timbers and the rustling of small animals
scurrying through the dark corners of the cavernous building.

Cally’s voice broke
through Tate’s reverie as they reached the outskirts of Asheville. “You seem
really far away.”

“
I was.”
Tate sighed, but did not speak.

“Away where?”

“My grandma’s house.
Grandma Strauss, actually my great-grandmother. I was at her farm, laying in
the hayloft in her barn. It was one of my favorite places.”

“What did you like about
it?”

“Pretty much everything. The smells were
amazing. Cow manure, decaying straw, weathered wood, old leather yokes and
saddles . . .”

“You liked the smell of manure?” Cally’s
question signaled her disbelief.

“Well, yeah. I did. I know that sounds
weird, but fresh cow manure has this pungent, earthy aroma that has a way of
anchoring you to the land, if you know what I mean.”

“Sounds yucky, but it’s obviously a fond
memory for you. What else do you remember?”

“It’s odd. I don’t have
a lot of memories about my childhood, just some snapshots of different places
and events. I remember the outhouse. I clearly didn’t like that! It was spooky
to have to use it for a bathroom, especially at night. But she had cows and a
horse, pigs, barn cats, a huge garden. The old water trough for the horse had a
big fish swimming in it. It was a magical place for a kid. You learn a lot
about life being on a farm even briefly, and we visited often.”

Cally shifted in her
seat a bit and seemed to visibly release some of the tension she had been
holding ever since Tate had picked her up earlier that afternoon. “I’ve only
lived in Asheville and Los Angeles. In fact, I don’t remember ever being on a
farm. There was a neighbor near Nana’s house here in town who had chickens. I
got to help them collect the eggs once. That was fun.”

“Well, then, sounds like a trip to a working
farm should be in your future, Cally.”

“I can’t think about going anywhere just
now. I’m exhausted. Tell me more about your grandmother’s farm, please.”

Tate thought about Cally’s request. Should
she tell more of her pleasant memories from childhood or dip into the tightly
held stories buried in her past? Tate did not easily open herself to others,
but the possibility of doing so now, with Cally, kept creeping into her
awareness. And after the revelations Cally had just endured, Tate’s secrets
seemed small in comparison, but they loomed large for her.

“What if I told you about something awful I
did once? Would you hate me?”

Cally had not been fully engaged in the
conversation until now. She sat up straight and stared at Tate. “I would love to
hear about it, though I can’t imagine you ever doing anything awful.”

“We all have a dark side, Cally. Or at least
memories of things we wish we could take back.”

“Yeah, I guess we all do.”

“I usually learn from my mistakes and move
on. I don’t hang onto things much, you know? But there’s this one thing that
happened at Grandma Strauss’ farm that I’m still ashamed of to this day.”

“I want to know all of you, Tate, not just
the good part, which is what I see all the time. Tell me, please.”

“Well . . . I . . . when I was little I . .
.” Tate cleared her throat and her grip tightened on the steering wheel.

Cally waited quietly for Tate to continue.

“When I was maybe 9 or
10, we were visiting Grandma Strauss. I went out to the barn like I often did.
There was a new litter of kittens, maybe a couple of months old. We weren’t
allowed to have pets at home, and I wanted to play with one of them really bad.
Barn cats are only semi-tame. I’d tried to catch one many times before, but
they always got away. That day, I saw one playing with a half-dead mouse, and I
pounced before it could scramble out of reach.” Tate could feel the lump
growing in her throat and the heat of shame rising up her chest and covering
her face. “This is hard to tell.”

“Take your time.” Cally
had never seen Tate so upset.

Tate took a couple of deep breaths before
continuing. “So, I grabbed this little kitten and held her tight. She was a
gray tabby, really tiny, and so cute. I remembered someone telling me that cats
always land on their feet, and I wanted to see if that was true. I threw her up
in the air as high as I could and it was just like they said. She flipped in
the air and landed right-side up. I found this thrilling. As soon as she hit
the ground, I grabbed her and threw her up again, even higher.”

Tate glanced quickly at Cally. She saw in
her friend’s face anticipation and concern—and enough acceptance that she felt
willing to continue.

“I think the kitten must have been scared
nearly to death and disoriented, because this time she landed squarely on her
nose and it began bleeding. I thought I had killed her and I tried to pick her
up again. I think I wanted to cuddle her, you know, rock her and soothe her the
way a mother does an injured child. But she got away, and all I saw were the little
drops of blood she left behind.” Guilt coursed through Tate’s body,
transporting her back to the instant the kitten had hit the floor of the barn
and sprinted away. She tried unsuccessfully to stem the tears forming in her
eyes.

Cally touched her arm
gently. “That must have been awful.”

“Way past awful. I don’t
know which was worse—feeling sick that I had hurt an innocent animal or being
terrified that my dad would find out and I’d get a whipping.”

“You got a
whipping
?”
Cally seemed shocked.

“No, not that time. He
didn’t find out about the kitten. I don’t think anyone did. I snuck back out
the barn a couple of times to look for her, but I never saw her again.”

Cally did not ask about
the whipping. Instead, she let Tate finish her story. “Do you think the kitten
died?”

“Probably not. At least now, as an adult, I
imagine she just got bruised and more than likely healed just fine. Every time
I remember that day though, I still get this sick feeling in my stomach, this
overwhelming feeling of shame and guilt, just like I had in that moment. I’ve
never told anyone about it before.”

“Thank you for telling me, Tate.”

“You don’t hate me? Think I’m an awful
person?”

“You were a kid. You were as innocent as
that kitten. You didn’t intentionally hurt her.”

“No, it was definitely not intentional, but
that didn’t change the impact on the kitten. I’ve carried that lesson through
my whole life.”

“It made you a better person, I think.”

“I hope it did, but I’m not always so sure.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I don’t intentionally go around
hurting people. I learned that day to think about what I do and that my actions
may impact others in ways I can’t predict. But I also believe other people are
responsible for how they feel about something I may have done that they find aggravating.”

“I’m not sure I follow. Give me an example.”

T
ate
thought for a moment before answering. “Okay, so say I’m having a really bad
day. I’m in physical pain or I’ve just gotten some distressing news . . .
something like that. You call me up and I answer and snap out a greeting that
oozes with my frustration or whatever it is . . .”

“Okay.”

“. . . and you don’t
understand why I’m snapping . . .”

“Yeah . . .”

“. . . well, a situation like that could go
in a bunch of different directions. You could assume I’m having a bad day and
ask me what’s wrong. You could assume I’m angry at you and you could get angry
right back at me. You could take it as a personal slight and silently add it to
the list of grievances you’re collecting against me. Or any number of other
responses, right?”

“You think I’m collecting grievances?”

“No, of course not. Maybe once you’ve known
me for longer you might. I hope not, but . . . people do collect grievances,
don’t they?”

“Okay, I see what you’re saying . . .”

“So, all I did was express what I was
feeling in the moment, unfiltered. You hear what I say, how I say it, and you
make an assumption about what it means to you or about you. And if you take it
personally, you may get annoyed with me and then blame me for upsetting you. But
if you do that, it really isn’t the result of what I said or did, it’s the
result of the story you made up about it and what it means to you.”

“You really believe that?”

“I really, truly do.”

“But you snapped at me
for no reason. Hypothetically.”

“See, that’s just it, Cally. I snapped. I
didn’t snap at you in the sense of targeting you with my bad mood. I just
expressed my raw feelings and you happened to be the one who heard them. If I
hadn’t answered the phone in this scenario, or if you hadn’t called, or if
someone had knocked on my door unexpectedly . . . it could have been anyone or
no one who heard that expression of whatever I was feeling. I didn’t do
anything other than not greet you in the friendly way you would have liked me
to.”

“So what if I said that to you? ‘Tate, you
didn’t greet me the way I wanted you to.’”

“I would recognize the truth in your words
and apologize. And I probably would explain and beg your forgiveness!”

“So no matter what happens, it’s not your
fault?”

“No, that’s not what I’m saying. Sometimes I
do things even when I know they’ll come to a bad end, or when I should be aware
of that possibility. Still, I do them anyway. And if that’s the case, I take
responsibility. Like this afternoon. You made it clear you wanted time to yourself,
but I talked you into going to the salvage company with me.”

“But I’m glad you did. Now I am, anyway.”

“But you didn’t want to
go, and I knew that, and still I pushed my agenda. That was putting my needs
above yours. We all do that, and sometimes, like this one, it works out okay.
But if it hadn’t, I’d be apologizing all over the place to you right now for
having pressured you into going.”

“I’m glad you pushed me, Tate.”

“Okay, thanks for that. But there are other
times when I do something and realize after the fact that I should have thought
it out better first. I hurt someone, and it wasn’t intentional, but it still
resulted from my actions. I own it when I do something like that, and I try to
make amends.”