Final Rights (9 page)

FIFTEEN

1939

“I
swear, Leland, you need to stop piddling
around and get some real work done today,” Ellie complained. Her search for
Leland ended just where she expected, in the old log cabin at the back of their
property. Once the home she knew and hated as a newlywed, it now housed
Leland’s workshop.

Leland nodded and
continued carving a delicate pattern into the piece of birdseye maple in his
hands. “I will, Ellie, I will. Just want to get this finished first.”

“What you’ve got to do,
Leland Howard, is get to work on that job Mr. Bloomfield gave you. You know
we’ve got bills to pay and groceries to buy, and the boy has been asking for a
bicycle for his birthday.” Ellie heard the hardness in her own voice and felt
the familiar twinge of sadness in her stomach.

She surveyed her husband as he sat in his
rickety chair, turning the piece of wood lovingly in his hands. She had made
her bed long ago, and she would lie in it for the rest of her life. She never
questioned that. But sometimes he could be so stubborn, so difficult. She
swallowed back her anger, turned on her heel and walked back to the house.

When she felt frustrated with Leland, Ellie
often calmed herself by recounting all the reasons he made a good husband. His
kindness. His dependability. His gentleness, loyalty, calmness,
level-headedness, even his stubbornness . . .

Ellie continued to tick
off Leland’s admirable qualities as she went about her work in the kitchen. She
had plenty to count, and they clearly outweighed the negatives, such as his
occasional episodes of stubbornness, his lack of ambition and the fact that he
loved her—probably his worst fault by far because Ellie’s feelings for her
husband fell far short of the intensity of his love for her, and that left her
feeling guilty and resentful.

Ellie loved her husband, of course. But, she
did not love him with the devotion Leland showered upon her. She had never felt
passion for him, never had the sense her life would be incomplete without him.
Once long ago she hoped for that kind of love, but Ellie learned at too young
an age just how fragile hope is. One wrong move and her dreams had slipped away
irretrievably. Everything from that moment on led her to this life, a safe and
secure life with a devoted husband, a rambunctious son and not a single
passionate dream for her own future.

Leland
secretly longed to hear Ellie’s voice tinged with the sweetness he remembered
from their brief courtship. She most often spoke with a hard edginess these
days, and her exasperation had cut through his reverie. Leland enjoyed nothing
better in the world than moments just like this one, sitting in the sun and
working on one of his own projects. Yes, paying work demanded attention, and
plenty of it waited, but right now he wished he could just finish this one
special thing for his own pleasure.

Leland watched his wife as she retreated to
her kitchen. Her kitchen, his workshop. Her chores, his duties. The summation
of those tasks and things that belonged to her and those that belonged to him
added up to their marriage. They lived compatibly, occupying the same time and
space. They even slept in the same bed every night, side by side, but they did
not truly share their life together. No matter. Leland still considered himself
blessed to have married Ellie, to hear her quietly breathing beside him in the
early morning hours, to sit at the breakfast table while she cooked eggs just
the way he liked them and to spend the evenings in their favorite chairs in
companionable quietness. Those mundane activities did not quench the yearning deeply
buried inside him, but at least they assuaged the pain a bit.

The one exception to their separate lives
resided in the person of their son. Ellie shared the boy with him fully and
without reservation. She expressed her love easily when the child served as the
focus, and Leland allowed himself to imagine what it would have been like to
grow up that way himself.

He had no doubt his
parents loved him, but they had not demonstrated it the way he and Ellie did
for Clayton. Clayton joined in everyday activities with each of them. At least
in the early days he did, before he started changing. He worked the garden
side-by-side with Ellie and sat next to his father in the workshop, often
chattering away nonstop. Ellie had taught Leland how to cuddle and coddle their
child, though Leland never became adept at it. Still, the two of them showered
Clayton with attention and love at every opportunity, and Leland longed to
experience the feeling of love like that.

As a child, Leland had
wandered the woods on his own, often for hours on end. When with his parents,
most often each of them focused on their own activities. His mother cooked,
cleaned and did laundry. She held sole responsibility for the garden and the
chickens, in fact for all household activities, and Leland ceased to be her
helper as soon as he grew old enough to work with the men.

His father spent most
waking hours in the workshop, first on the old homestead and then in the shed
behind their cabin in town. In his youth, Leland served as his father’s apprentice.
Even though they occupied the same work space much of the time, each had his
own solitary projects and social interactions rarely occurred.

Leland learned many things from his mother
and father. He grew into a hard-working, trustworthy, reticent man who knew how
to hold his feelings close to his chest. Yes, he could be stubborn at
times—everyone knew that. But other passions of Leland’s life remained hidden.

Timber rattlesnakes, though dwindling in
numbers, still populate the forests of Western North Carolina. Their
distinctive chevron markings make them easily identifiable while still
providing excellent camouflage. This allows them to move inconspicuously
through their habitat largely undisturbed as they go about their simple lives.
Mild-mannered by nature, they avoid confrontation, always preferring an easy
avenue of escape if one exists. Once cornered, however, they are fierce. Only
the truly foolhardy will fail to back away once the warning rattle sounds, for
the timber rattlesnake’s bite is precisely aimed and potentially lethal to the
unwary trespasser. The same held true for Leland Howard.

SIXTEEN

1944

Clayton
Samuel Howard’s propensity for trouble developed early and reached maturity
long before he did. He had been hauled into police headquarters the first time
at age 11, after bloodying the nose of Jimmy Boykins, who lived a few doors
down from the Howard’s. Jimmy Boykins, the local bully who had been harassing
the neighborhood kids for years, made Clayton one of his favorite targets. He
humiliated the boy with taunts and teases about his looks. Clay’s good looks
would develop as he matured. Until then he was a gangly, skinny kid with
protruding teeth, arms too long for his body and raging insecurity, an easy
target for any bully. Jimmy pushed Clayton off his bike, causing scraped knees
and road rash on Clayton’s right forearm that left a scar. He stole Clayton’s
scooter, wrecked it, then brought it back, leaving it broken on the front lawn.
The pranks and damages escalated a bit each time until Clayton finally struck
back.

One quiet afternoon,
when Jimmy Boykins started taunting Clayton about his clothes, the boy turned
quietly away as usual, face reddened with embarrassment at his weakness, tears
filling his dark eyes. But instead of slinking away, he picked up a thick,
fallen tree branch from the side of the road and walked up behind Jimmy
Boykins, who now swaggered along laughing heartily. Without thought or warning,
Clayton whacked his tormentor hard on the back of the head. The resounding
crack filled the still air and sank into Clayton’s very soul.

Jimmy Boykins fell face-first to the street,
breaking his nose on the curb. He rolled over—groaning, dazed—and looked up.
Clayton loomed over him, tree branch raised for the second blow, face a mask of
maliciousness, the rage built up over years now spewing out through wild eyes.
Jimmy cringed, raising his arms to cover his face, hoping the blow didn’t kill
him. He waited. He opened his eyes to see Clayton’s face contorted in a vicious
ear-to-ear grin as he slowly dropped the branch and sauntered away.

Clayton had found his power that day, or
rather it had found him. In a perfect world, power is used for good, but
Clayton did not live in a perfect world.

When Ellie and Leland picked up their son
from the police station, they were solicitous and protective. They explained to
the police in great detail all the grief Jimmy Boykins had rained down on their
son, and how they were not surprised he had finally responded. Yes, perhaps
he’d responded rather drastically. Yes, they did know Jimmy Boykins lay in the
hospital with a severe concussion, broken nose and split-open eye. But Clayton
had not hit him a second time when he could have, they argued. He had knocked
down the boy who had been making his life miserable. He had done no more than
defend himself. Too bad he had used the big branch, but please understand, they
reasoned, Jimmy Boykins was three inches taller than Clayton and weighed at
least twenty pounds more. Clayton had to make sure he hit him hard enough to
knock him down, once he had decided to hit him at all.

Yes, yes, they would see to it the boy knew
what he’d done was wrong. Clayton already showed remorse. They’d give him a
good talking to, just as the arresting officer had done. They’d put him on
restrictions and mete out the punishment he deserved.

As they walked home,
their young son between them, both Ellie and Leland noticed the difference in
how he walked. He stood up straight now, shoulders back, chin raised, facing
the world head-on instead of shying away as usual—a good sign, they decided
later as they rehashed the grueling day now behind them. A good sign. They were
sure of it. Still, it nagged at Ellie that while Clayton seemed contrite, he
also seemed smug and proud of himself in a quiet, secretive way.

Wishes die hard,
especially those for a perfect child, those born deep in the fertile soil of a
mother’s heart, those fed by love and hope. Ellie’s wishes for Clayton were of
such a nature, and she held fast to them.

Her wishes for Clayton
carried her through when she retrieved him from the police department the
second time after he had broken three windows in the
local grocery store for no apparent reason.

When the next incident
occurred, Ellie reviewed all the wonderful things she remembered from the boy’s
infancy—his gleaming hair tinged with red in the sunlight, the big laughing
eyes and the fruity smell of his tiny body when she lifted him out of the bath,
the joy she felt as he laughed and squirmed in her arms. Ellie tried hard to
remember every amazing experience with this boy from the moment of his birth
and to squeeze out of her mind all the other things she had come to associate
with him—the moodiness, the hard glint in those beautiful dark eyes when
someone crossed him, the huddled tenseness ready to explode into some kind of
mischief. And after every incident, Clayton became himself again—the sweet boy
who loved his mother, a joy to have around.

Surely that’s all it
was—mischief—Clayton’s way of getting even with the world he felt had let him
down. And the world had let her child down in some very real ways.

Ellie knew that at
least part of the blame lay with her. Keeping secrets always takes a toll on
the ones you love. She had learned that lesson very well over the years.

She and Leland had
forged a decent life. Of course, Ellie had wanted something different for
herself, but she had to admit they had created a good existence. Leland
provided for his family, though he never pushed himself to the level of success
she envisioned for him.

A fine craftsman, one of the best in the
entire region, his work graced most of the fancy homes in town. He held a
notable reputation for his fireplace mantels, unique tables, comfortable chairs
and a wide variety of one-of-a-kind furnishings. An ambitious man could have
turned those skills into a great fortune, but Leland preferred a leisurely pace
of work dedicated to meticulous detail. Ambition did not suit him.

“I’ll get it done when I get it done.” This
response to being pressured to hurry up had become Leland’s signature, and it
irritated Ellie greatly.

Leland seemed content
to stay in the little log cabin where he had lived with his parents, and then
Ellie, since his boyhood. He had finally agreed to build a new house on the
front of the property, but it had taken him almost five years to complete it.
Ellie had not hurried him to finish the house because it disappointed her as
soon as she realized what he had planned.

Her husband, despite being a master
craftsman, had created for her one of the smallest and simplest houses on the
block. A boring structure even before completion, it would never be more than
the most basic of dwellings. In the beginning, she had tried to sway him to a
grander plan, but he would have no part of it. Simple, solid, basic. He would
provide his family with that. Pretentiousness belonged to the wealthy, not to
simple folk like him and Ellie.

Simple folk.
Ellie associated that description with
people who had no aspirations, no gumption. Ellie had once dreamed of
graduating high school and heading to the big city. Any big city would do.
Having been isolated in the Western North Carolina mountains her entire life,
Ellie knew of the outside world only what she read in her favorite magazines
and gleaned from her conversations with visitors to Asheville.

Maybe she would go to Knoxville, or Atlanta,
or maybe even New York City. She would find a way to leave as soon as she
graduated, and she would go to a place where she could live a life as big as
her imagination.

Harland Freeman could have been her ticket
out of town—at least she thought so on their first and only date. Surely
Harland would not want to stay in Asheville. He had big plans for himself, too,
and together they could break free.

When Harland dumped her, Ellie ditched her
grand plans. She picked Leland for her husband, married him and left school
behind, but she did not give up her dreams. She just modified them. And she
kept modifying them over the years to reconcile the chasm between living big
and living simple. Her dream for a beautiful house had been transformed into
the reality of the inelegant structure where they now lived. She had more
space, and even better, she now had her own home since Arlen and Mary Alice
chose to continue living in the cabin in the back. Still, Ellie had to resign
herself to the house as she had done with so many other things since the day
she was married. She made do with less than what she truly wanted.

At
17 years old, Clayton had become more than Ellie could handle. Yes, a mother
could have dreams, but a child had no obligation to fulfill them. This
knowledge crushed Ellie, who loved her child deeply. But even she had to admit
that her love could not heal his wounds.

Clay, as he insisted on being called,
slipped in and out of puzzling spells Ellie could not understand. In a bad
spell, he kept the schedule he preferred, and no amount of limit setting by
Ellie or Leland could control him. He continued to go to school, but only
because he now held the title of neighborhood bully and school gave him ample
opportunity to act out his new role. Even the older and the bigger kids steered
clear of Clayton. He had no real friends, only a small group of weaker boys who
attached themselves to him to avoid being his target.

Ellie began noticing small quirks in
Clayton’s behavior long before the full-blown pattern had emerged. The
compliant, sweet child she knew so well seemed to slip away quietly and in his
place Ellie faced a stubborn, demanding and angry version of the boy.

“Clayton,
please . . .”

“Clay! I keep telling you it’s ‘Clay’!”

“Okay . . . Clay. I’m just trying to help.
Tell me what’s wrong,” Ellie pleaded.

“Nothing! Everything! Leave me alone, Maw!”

Ellie cringed. “Please don’t call me Maw,
Clay. You don’t like Clayton and I don’t like Maw.” She sought a fine balance
between indignation, fear and motherly concern. Her son lay sobbing on the bed
where he had hurled himself after bursting through the front door moments
earlier.

“
LEAVE ME ALONE!
Get out! Get out
NOW
!”

His voice took on the threatening tone she
had heard before, and it sent her scurrying out of his room, shutting the door
as she left.

Ellie sank into her favorite chair and began
weeping. Soon, maybe tonight, maybe in the next day or two, he would come back
to her, meek and apologetic. He would beg forgiveness and she would give it,
even though it became more difficult each time to do so.

Once it had been easy,
back when he could be found wo
rking at her side in the garden or spending hours with
her reading, baking and playing games they created just for the two of them.
When he wasn’t in school or with her, he could be found in the workshop with
Leland, quietly whittling intricate figures from leftover wood and then proudly
presenting them to Ellie.

His shyness came from Leland. He learned at
his father’s side how to be still in the presence of others, listening silently
to what they said but saying nothing of his own. By the time he reached 6,
Clayton could sit in a room with others and all but disappear. While charming
behavior in a little boy, it seemed ominous in a brooding teenager.

And Clayton brooded a lot. “He’s feeling
tired,” she would tell Leland when he asked why Clayton spent half the day in
bed. “I think he’s coming down with something.” She tried to believe her own
explanations, but doubt and worry kept gnawing at her.

When he beat up Jimmy
Boykins, her concern escalated. She watched him more closely, looking for signs
of trouble. She found plenty of them and busily went about searching for ways
to counteract them. A bout of depression on his part prompted her to bake his
favorite pie. His signs of irritation led to her efforts to soothe him.
Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t. And as he grew older, her attempts
became more ineffectual, leaving her feeling helpless and desperate, just as
she did at this moment, sitting in her chair listening to the wracking sobs
coming from his bedroom. Is it reasonable to remain hopeful when so much of
one’s experience points in a different direction? This life question surfaced
for Ellie once again, as it often had in recent years when her son returned
home in such a distressed state.

Clayton emerged from his room the following
morning sheepish and tousled, still wearing his street clothes. Ellie expected
as much. She had been awake most of the night herself while her son wrestled
with his demons behind his closed door. He had finally quieted down about 3
a.m. and Ellie had slept fitfully before arising a few hours later.

“What happened yesterday, Clay?” Ellie blurted
out the question even though she had intended to wait until Clayton offered an
explanation.

“I’m sorry, Mom. Really. I messed up again.”

“How? What did you do?”

“Really bad this time . . .”

“Clay, please tell me what happened.” Ellie
had seen her son through more scuffles than she could count. She recognized all
of his common responses—remorse, indignation, sadness, justification—but this
time she noticed something unusual. Fear.