Final Rights (7 page)

TWELVE

1917

Mary Alice Clayton entered the world in a small cabin in
Asheville in 1878, the second of two daughters and the last child in the family
to live past infancy. A quiet girl, given to retreating into fantasy when she
was not occupied with the chores assigned to her, she asked little in the way
of attention. “Not much trouble.” When her mother talked about her youngest
daughter at all, that’s how she usually described Mary Alice.

The family lived a simple life. Mary Alice’s
mother tried to keep an organized home. Her father found work wherever he
could. They had food to eat, beds to sleep in and a roof over their heads. Mary
Alice dutifully went to school and studied reading, writing and arithmetic,
gaining the skills necessary to succeed in life. Though intelligent, she rarely
received encouragement or acknowledgment, and she excelled at nothing.

What energy Mary Alice’s parents had
available to engage in life beyond providing the basics went to her sister,
Eulah Mae. Three years older, Eulah Mae had staked out her claim long before Mary
Alice arrived.

However, the affection of their maternal
aunt belonged solely to Mary Alice. Aunt Ida visited town infrequently, but
when she did, she showered Mary Alice with attention, filling the child up with
love.

On Mary Alice’s 13th birthday, Aunt Ida
visited and made a request the girl had been secretly wishing for most of her
life. Could Mary Alice come to live with Aunt Ida and her husband? Uncle Fred
had been badly injured in a fall. He could hardly get around anymore, and both
of them felt age slowing them down. They could use some help with the chores,
someone to look after them. If Mary Alice could be spared, they would be ever
grateful. It did not escape Mary Alice’s attention that her parents conferred
only briefly before giving their consent. That afternoon, with her few
belongings packed in a sack and a lightness of heart she had never felt before,
Mary Alice set out with Aunt Ida to her new life.

She settled into a routine quickly. She made
herself useful wherever she could. She provided help with the cooking and
laundry, chopping wood, feeding the chickens and collecting eggs. No task
proved too big or too small for Mary Alice, so long as she knew it would help
her aunt and uncle. When they ran out of requests, she found ways to make their
home better on her own. She gathered flowers from the small meadow to grace the
wooden table. She mended curtains and expanded the garden. What she received in
return held much more value than what she gave. In this house, Mary Alice
slowly settled into the security of being loved.

Living in the mountains
provided a tonic to Mary Alice’s soul, and as she grew into adulthood, she came
to know her surroundings intimately. She recognized the birds by their mating
calls. She became familiar with the edible and medicinal plants growing in the
wild and took great pleasure in watching the subtle changes occurring with each
season. Frequently, with her work for the day completed and her aunt and uncle
settled in, Mary Alice retreated to the woods. The peacefulness of the forest
nourished her deeply. Weather permitting, she loved to lie down on a bed of
soft pine needles in a patch of filtered sun and drift off to the lullaby sung
by the wind wafting through the treetops. On such a day several years after her
arrival at the mountain homestead, an unexpected meeting changed Mary Alice’s
life once again.

The ability to identify a good piece of timber before it
had been harvested stood out as Arlen Howard’s most highly developed skill. He
knew wood intimately. He learned to whittle soon after he learned to walk,
starting with simple stick figures carved from the leavings of the chairs and
tables made by his grandfather and father.

The Howard men held a well-earned reputation
throughout the region for their craftsmanship, and little Arlen followed
happily in their footsteps. He loved the color of young cherry wood and the
earthy fragrance of freshly cut maple. What schooling he had took time away
from the forest, which he roamed from a young age in search of the best wood he
could find to add to the stockpile in the family workshop.

The Howards’ log cabin in the mountains just
outside Asheville provided shelter and comfort for him and his older sister,
their parents and their paternal grandparents. Although his sister eventually
married and moved on, Arlen enjoyed his quiet mountain life. By the time he
reached adulthood, he had become an accomplished carpenter, working alongside
his father and grandfather, living each day as it came with little thought to
the future.

So, the fact that Arlen found a wife at all
came as a miracle. One afternoon as he moved quietly through the woods, he
happened upon Mary Alice Clayton where she lay napping in a patch of sun.

Her rich, dark brown hair tinged with red
fell in soft waves around her face. Her full black eyelashes formed soft curves
on her cheeks, and her pink skin captivated Arlen with its paleness. Her simple
dress rested in soft folds around her tiny frame, her small breasts pushing
against the fabric and her full hips resting gracefully on the bed of pine
needles. In her repose, Arlen sensed her receptiveness, her willingness to
please.

Mary Alice awoke. No great revelation of
love at first sight cast its spell over either of them. Rather, they were
like-beings, and each recognized this quickly in the other. Neither needed to
ask what thoughts occupied the other’s mind or whether they made a good match
for each other. Fate brought them together. They met in the woods one day, and
not long after they married in the woods as well.

Mary Alice continued to care for her elderly
relatives, and Arlen stayed in the cabin with them, returning to his family’s
home when necessary to help with the chores and collect supplies for his
woodworking. When Uncle Fred died, followed shortly after by Aunt Ida, Mary
Alice went home with Arlen to stay.

She found her place in the Howard clan as
easily as she had with her aunt and uncle when she first moved to the
mountains. She never questioned her life would continue in its quiet and
predictable manner.

After several failed pregnancies, Mary Alice
and Arlen’s only child fought his way into the world in the spring of 1910.
This first act of stubborn determination set the tone for his approach to the
problems that emerged later in his life.

Leland Samuel Howard enjoyed several
precious years at the homestead, learning to whittle and roaming the forest,
just as his father had, before the Howard clan left for a vastly different life
in the city. After his departure, the surrounding mountains forever held the
tantalizing promise of a return to the peaceful life of his youth, but for the
boy that dream remained undeniably out of reach.

The Howard homestead sat at the edge of the
huge estate assembled in bits and pieces by George Washington Vanderbilt II. He
visited Asheville in 1888 and immediately fell in love with the rolling Blue
Ridge Mountains girding the city. He bought up 125,000 acres of land on which
he would build a mansion the likes of which were unknown in the area. His
acquisitions occurred with little fanfare, yet he single-handedly transformed
tiny Asheville into a destination for the rich and famous, permanently changing
the lives of its inhabitants.

These changes had little immediate impact on
the Howards and other mountaineers like them whose land remained in their
possession. Then Congress passed the Weeks Act in 1911. That legislation opened
the door for the creation of national forests, and Mr. Vanderbilt saw the
opportunity to sell off some of his property—more than eighty thousand acres of
it. Although he died unexpectedly in 1914, his widow finalized the sale of the
land, thus giving birth to the Pisgah National Forest. Several families with
land near the Howards jumped at the chance to sell their property as well,
leaving Mary Alice and Arlen more and more isolated.

As much as she loved the
mountains, Mary Alice knew the time had come to move back to Asheville. When
Arlen’s parents died and only the three of them remained, she pressed hard
until her husband reluctantly agreed to sell his heritage and relocate to the
city. They sold the cabin where Mary Alice had lived with her aunt and uncle as
well. Half the money went to help them set up a household in the city. The
other half, with Arlen’s permission, went to Mary Alice to keep in her own
name.

They purchased an old,
wood cabin on Cumberland Avenue with ample space in the front where Arlen and
Leland could eventually build a more modern home, one suitable to city life.
But the cabin in back seemed the best fit for all of them, a vestige of their
roots in the mountains, and Mary Alice and Arlen remained in it for the rest of
their lives. Simple lives, for the most part. Peaceful and productive lives
surrounded by the noise of the city rather than the whispering sounds of the
forest. They gradually adjusted to those changes, even Arlen and Leland, who
previously knew only the secluded life of their mountain homestead. Arlen found
ample work in the city to support them and Leland apprenticed with his father
when not attending school. They grew accustomed to their neighbors, found a
small church well suited to all of them and made new friends who they welcomed
into their simple home. In fact, everyone felt welcome at the Howard
household—everyone except Mary Alice’s nemesis, her crazy sister, Eulah Mae.

THIRTEEN

2004

Eight years after her mother’s death, Mazie Daniels
finally pulled out the tattered box of memorabilia and began sorting through
it. It overflowed with pictures, clippings and mementos, spanning the last
century. She picked up a small, faded, black-and-white snapshot from near the
top of the pile. A young woman perched on the stoop of a tiny house overlooking
a verdant garden. A chicken coop leaned into the left side of the house, and a
beat-up Model T sat out front. Alongside her stood a wiry girl, one hand
resting on the woman’s shoulder.

Mazie cradled the
photograph and turned it over gently in her wrinkled hand. The scrawl on the
back, barely visible now, read “Mazie and Baby 1932.”

Memories of that moment
came back to her clear as could be. She was 12 years old, and her family had
just returned from church services. Cora Jenkins met them as they approached
their house and, with great excitement, insisted they pose for a photograph she
wanted to take with her new Beau Brownie camera.

“It’s gonna be so
beautiful!” Cora exclaimed. She had recently received the camera as a gift and
she now went around the neighborhood taking pictures and selling them for five
cents each.

“Don’t fuss so,” Mazie’s
mother had admonished, but she smiled and blushed a bit as Cora issued
instructions on where and how they should position themselves. Moments later
Cora snapped this picture, the first ever of Mazie, standing there with her
mother on the porch of the little house in Stumptown where she had grown up.

Ancient history. God
knows I never did think I’d get to be this old! And now I got this ol’ box full
of memories and don’t know what to do with ‘em all.

She continued sifting,
item by item, sorting things into various piles. Pictures and souvenirs from
the years of raising her three sons, various keepsakes of her own life from
childhood through her married years and a sparse few reminders of her parents.

She kept coming back to
the first faded image, reaching not only for the memories it held but also for
the old feelings of happiness and hope.
Mazie and Baby. Mazie and Mazie, really. And I’m the
last one.
She shared her name with her mother, her grandmother, great-grandmother
and on back for at least six generations. By family tradition, the eldest
female child of a Mazie became Mazie, too.

But her children were all boys, and while
they promised their first girl would bear the family name, they had fathered
only boys as well. From birth, she had been called “Baby,” and the name
followed her throughout her life within her family circle. Even her children
called her by the nickname, though the outside world knew her as Mazie, a
moniker she carried proudly.

She spent the next half hour hunched over
the box and moving through the feelings elicited by the artifacts. Sadness,
joy, grief, pride, regret, disappointment, surprise—they all lived there in the
pictures and clippings and in her heart. Finally she stood up and stretched out
her back and shoulders. She stepped gingerly around the clutter in the hallway
on her way to the kitchen and put together a small lunch from leftovers in the
refrigerator, then shuffled out to her long, narrow porch to sit in the
sunshine. She leaned back in her chair and lifted her face to the light,
allowing whatever thoughts came to drift through her mind unrestricted.

She awoke with a start when her plate
clattered to the floor, and as she reached to pick it up, she heard Tate
Marlowe calling up to her from the sidewalk.

“Mazie! Everything okay?”

“Must have drifted off. Old women do that,
you know!” she chuckled. “Come on up, honey.”

Tate climbed the steep cement steps slowly,
favoring her left knee, which always felt like it might give out on her at any
moment.

“Beautiful day, Mazie. See you’re getting
your sunbath in!”

“Yes, indeed.” And they both laughed.
Mazie’s sunbaths had become a shared joke between them. For Mazie, anytime
outside, regardless of the reason or the weather, counted as taking a little
sunbath. “Got to keep my looks up for the gentlemen, you know.” A sly wink
always followed.

“The gentlemen, eh? How many of them are
after you now, Mazie?”

“Only one special one. But I keep telling
him I got no time to be flirtin’ with him. I’m too old for messin’ around
anyway.”

“Really? Just how old are you, my dear?”
Tate arched her eyebrow, not expecting a straight answer from Mazie.

“Now a lady don’t tell her age, Tate. You
should know that.” The wink again. “All I’ll say is had black people been
allowed to vote when I was comin’ up, I would of happily voted for Mr. Truman.”

“Well, that makes you older than me, Mazie.”
Tate smiled and sat down in the comfortable chair next to her friend. Both
closed their eyes for a moment and took in the sun.

Their uncommon
friendship had sprung out of mutual curiosity and close proximity. They met
shortly after Tate purchased the two houses on Maplewood. Mazie lived in a
rambling old structure just two doors down and across the street. Mazie
initiated their contact, offering Tate a warm welcome and a glass of sweet tea
as she moved into her new apartment. They chatted briefly the first day, and it
quickly became routine for Tate to look for Mazie whenever she headed out for a
walk.

They discussed everything from the weather
to the state of Mazie’s love life. She kept busy volunteering at Irene
Wortham—a local agency providing a variety of services to children and adults
with developmental disabilities—and she had more than one avid suitor at the
place.

“I know I look old, Tate, but those mens
still find me attractive. I don’t understand it, but I like it.”

“I understand it, Mazie. You’ve got a
spark.” Mazie’s drooping old eyes twinkled, and a playful, almost cocky, look
spread across her features.

“See, that’s what I
mean, Mazie. You always look like you’re about to spring a surprise on me.
You’ve got an impish quality about you that’s quite fetching.”

“Oh, I’m just playin’ with you, honey.”

“And that makes you interesting, Mazie.
Really fascinating. No wonder the men are after you.”

Tate shared with Mazie her disappointment
that some of the neighbors seemed upset about her buying the duplexes and
fixing them up. Her “For Rent” signs were routinely pulled down, and the woman
directly across the street from Tate’s place stopped speaking to her after Tate
asked a long-time tenant to move so the current renovations could begin.

“You’d think they’d be grateful I moved the
rabble-rousers out and the cops aren’t here half the time in the middle of the
night to break up knock-down-drag-out fights,” Tate complained.

“Oh, honey, that Lester who used to live in
your place? More times than not he’d fall down drunk in the street right
outside his door and he’d still be sleepin’ there in the mornin’. Can’t tell
you how many times he’d be rantin’ and ravin’ about somethin’, fightin’ his
demons and wakin’ me up from a sound sleep. I’m sure glad he’s gone, and all
his kind with him. All these neighbors ’round here be thinking the same thing,
whether they say so or not.”

“Glad to hear you say it, Mazie. The guy
right next door to you? He told me one day it’s too bad the people who grew up
here in Asheville can’t afford to live here anymore, because people like me are
buying up property and forcing the price up.”

“Well, he’s got a point there, Tate, but . .
.”

“‘But’ is right! I asked him where he’s from
and you know what he told me? Miami! And I found out he bought his place from a
woman who owned it for only a year and sold it to him for twenty thousand more
than she paid for it. Talk about hypocrisy!”

Mazie broke out into laughter and Tate
bristled. “Now don’t get me wrong, Tate. But you gotta chill out a little bit
’for you give yourself a heart attack!”

Tate looked hard into Mazie’s face and
noticed the slight grin and gentle yet firm gaze.
This is a woman who knows what she
thinks and doesn’t hesitate to say it. Just like me.

“You know, Mazie. You’re right. And don’t
start expecting to hear me say that very often!” Their mutual laughter rang
clear, dissipating Tate’s anger and softening her heart.

“You been pretty busy lately, Tate. What you
up to? How’s the work coming along over there?” She nodded toward Dave as he
carried supplies from his truck into the apartment under renovation.

“Oh, much slower than I want, of course! His
work is wonderful, and the place will be beautiful when it’s done. I just hope
that happens before the first snow!”

Mazie’s laughter at the
comment confirmed her ability to quickly pick up on Tate’s sarcasm and dry
humor, one of her most charming qualities as far as
 
Tate was concerned.

“Actually, he’s been working steady for the
past couple of days. I’ve been on him, you know. He’s finally putting the new
windows in the kitchen. Hard to pin him down, but when he’s there, he’s working
hard.” Tate paused for a moment before changing subjects.

“But what’s really got me going,” Tate
continued, “is an old house on Chestnut Street. Did you hear about it? It was
on the news last night. They want to tear it down and build some cottages over
there. It’s a strange old place, empty a long time apparently, and . . .”

“You mean Mr. Freeman’s old place?”

Tate gasped. “Mr.
Freeman’s place? Yes, a man named Harland Freeman built it decades ago, but
how’d you know . . .”

“About Mr. Freeman? Why, honey, my momma
mostly raised him when he was a boy. I growed up with him at my dinner table
’til he got too fancy to ’sociate with us no more.”

“You
grew
up
with him?” Tate
struggled to comprehend Mazie’s message. “You have to tell me everything you
know, Mazie!”

They spent the next two hours locked in deep
conversation, Mazie reliving her youth, Tate trying to keep up as Mazie told
her fascinating tale.

Baby’s
birth coincided with the dawn of the Roaring ’20s, setting the stage for a
childhood filled with expectations that remained largely unmet. A happy and
animated little girl doted upon by the rest of her family, she arrived seven
years after the youngest boy. The one exception to the universal adoration of
Baby visited frequently but did not live with them.

Harland had become a
fixture in Baby’s family by the time she arrived, and he openly resented the
perceived lowering of his status triggered by her birth. At 10 years old, he
had learned that with sufficient effort he could usually get what he wanted.
And he wanted badly to maintain his position in Mazie’s family.

He had always felt equal to Mazie’s sons—two
older than he, one younger. He had his own place at the dinner table, just like
the others. The boys included him in their brotherly roughhousing and generally
treated him as they treated each other. Of course, he had begun to understand
his superiority, being white and all, but he hid that knowledge when in their
presence, and his deceit seemed to go unnoticed.

The arrival of a girl
changed everything in ways Harland could not comprehend. They coddled her,
fussed over her, showed her off to everyone in the neighborhood. He had never
been treated in such a deferential manner. Until then, he did not know what he
had missed. Seeing her so joyful as she basked in the limelight ignited
jealousy and anger.

Harland found a variety
of creative ways to draw attention away from Baby and onto himself, once even
going so far as trying to push his way onto Mazie’s lap as Baby suckled.
Sometimes his attempts garnered the desired outcome; other times they went
unrewarded. Only when he became menacing did Mazie set strict limits on him. He
remained welcome in their home, but he had to be kind to Baby.

Thus a tenuous truce established itself
early on and held throughout the years. Baby wanted desperately to be loved by
Harland, just as everyone else adored her. Harland wanted to retain the
sustenance his life depended on, so he became adept at pretending he liked
Baby. Every child has the innate ability to understand the difference between
being cherished and being tolerated, and Harland’s fake affection for her left
a permanent scar on Baby.

Still, in those early years of Baby’s life,
most everything seemed possible. The country thrived in a period of economic
prosperity that reached even into the corners of Stumptown. Baby’s father
skimped and saved until he had the funds to buy an old Model T from Mr. Milner,
for whom Mazie had worked for nearly twenty years. The purchase put him in a
position to strike out on his own, and he made a decent living for himself and
his family hauling trash, cutting down trees for firewood, which he sold
throughout the neighborhood, and performing a variety of other odd jobs. Work
came to him easily, and his business continued to grow.

Then the crash of the
stock market began eroding his success. Even before all the local banks failed about
a year after the economic disaster, most of the jobs Baby’s father depended on
began to disappear. The two oldest boys had already struck out on their own,
but the youngest one scrounged for whatever work he could find to help support
the family. Even with Mazie’s wages and what the men brought in, Baby had to
work. At the tender age of 11, she took on menial tasks at the homes where her
mother worked and eventually found more work with the wealthy folks in
Montford. Some of them had managed miraculously to salvage much of their
fortunes. Not only had her childhood ended abruptly, but all her dreams had
died in the process. A maid, not a jazz singer. A maid, not a teacher. A maid,
not a hope in the world now of anything better.