Final Rights

by Tena Frank

  Once he had accumulated enough of the slightly flawed specimens for Harland’s project, he moved on to the heart pine. It would blend with the floors in Ellie’s house beautifully, its warm color ranging from reddish brown to pale yellow, adding to the appeal of the exterior. For her house, he chose only impeccable samples with gently curving grain and just the right amount of black sap staining. The heart pine would be fashioned into an impressive door to grace the entrance to the house he had built for her. It would be a much refined rendition of Harland’s design, and the workmanship would far outshine that on Harland’s house. Everyone who happened by would see that Ellie finally had the best work he could produce, better than anyone’s money could buy.

  While paying for and loading up his purchases, he tried to explain away the misgivings he felt in the pit of his stomach as a case of indigestion.

  TWENTY-NINE

  2004

  The whirlwind encounters in the library finally ended with a plan. Cally, Sally and Tate would share dinner at a local restaurant where they could talk without the interruption of Sally’s family. On Sally’s recommendation, they found a table at Anntony’s in the Grove Arcade. Tate loved the ornate Arcade and the outdoor seating at the restaurant, even though she found the food there disappointing. Still, the menu took a distant second to the opportunity to spend time with these two fascinating women.

  “Okay, I have a question before anything else gets discussed,” Tate said as they took their seats. “Cally and Sally? Is that why you were best friends—because you have almost the same name?”

  The two women broke into laughter. “They called us the Bobbsey twins,” Cally said. “We were inseparable.”

  “We lived around the block from each other,” Sally added. “So our back yards joined and from the time we could crawl, we were like little homing pigeons. We just wanted to be with each other all the time.”

  Cally chimed in. “One time when we were maybe 3 years old, we were playing in the back yard and crawled under a big bush, curled up together and fell asleep. Our mothers were frantic looking for us. They even called the police because they thought we’d been kidnapped!”

  The two reminisced some more while Tate sipped a glass of chardonnay. Dinner arrived just when Sally asked the question she had waited most of her life to have answered.

  “What happened to you, Cally? Why did you disappear from Asheville?”

  Cally’s face tightened and her eyes began filling with tears. “Damn, I’m not going to cry again.” She took a deep, grounding breath and squeezed her eyes closed while she willed the tears away.

  “Truth is, I just don’t know, Sally. Something happened, something bad. I never knew what. I asked Mom countless times and she always said ‘It’s better you don’t know.’ Whatever it was it scared her. I came home from school one afternoon, and she had packed up most everything we owned. What wouldn’t fit in the car got left behind. A week later, we were in Los Angeles, sleeping on the couch at her cousin’s place. She would never talk about it, and she would never come back, no matter how much I begged her. Finally I just gave up, and eventually I pretty much pushed away all memories of this place and all the people here. Thinking about them was just too painful.”

  Sally and Tate listened intently as Cally poured out her tale. With the words came the pain and frustration, and most of all the deep, untouched sadness. Cally had been torn away from everything she loved for reasons she had never understood.

  How does someone survive that? How do you go on when you lose everything? As Tate puzzled about these questions, she noticed a clutching sensation in her solar plexus. It spread slowly through the center of her body, a constriction progressing from her stomach up the path of her esophagus to her throat where a huge lump formed, restricting her breathing. She felt light-headed and unfocused and realized her own eyes were filling with tears. Through the haze she saw Cally and Sally staring at her.

  “Are you all right?” Cally asked, as she reached over and took Tate’s hand. “Tate?”

  In a flash, Tate remembered. She knew only too well how someone can survive what Cally had. She had done it herself. The memory of her brother’s sudden death flooded her with grief. She wanted desperately to collapse into it, to fall in a heap into her bed and cry for two weeks like she had back then, twenty years ago. But Tate didn’t cry anymore. She no longer allowed grief and despair to swallow her whole. And she certainly would not do so now, in a public place in front of two strangers.

  Tate took a gulp of water and forced herself to breathe. The constriction eased, her head cleared, and she pulled herself out of the steep dive into emotional turmoil.

  “Yes, I’m okay,” she lied. “I just had something stuck for a moment.” That part was not a lie.

  Over dinner, the old friends shared other memories. Tate listened quietly most of the time, enjoying their laughter and joining in only enough to conceal her own pain. They shared desserts and coffee and then decided on a last glass of wine. Throughout the meal, Tate was aware Sally seemed a bit on edge, like she was holding something back. She wondered if Cally had noticed.

  Sally opened the discussion about the past again. “Cally, I think I know why your mother left,” she began hesitantly.

  “Really? Tell me!” Cally’s excitement lit her face up for a moment before she saw the grim countenance of her old friend. “Oh! It’s bad, isn’t it? Just like I always thought.”

  “Yes, it’s bad. Maybe it really is best not to know, like your mother said.”

  “I HAVE to know! Sally, please tell me. No matter how bad it is, it can’t be worse than all the stories I’ve made up about it my whole life.”

  “I’ll tell you, Cally, but not here. Let’s go back to my house. We can sit in the backyard, and I’ll tell everyone to leave us alone.”

  “I think that’s my cue to take off,” Tate said. “I’ll leave you girls to it.”

  “NO! Please come with us, Tate,” Cally pleaded.

  “But I would feel like an intruder. We just met.”

  “Maybe we just met, Tate, but I feel like I’ve known you all my life. You know my grandfather, and I have so many questions about him that we haven’t gotten to. I’m not letting you go until I get answers to all of them.”

  Tate had told Cally in the briefest terms what she knew about Leland as they left the library earlier that day. But there was much to be shared, and Tate had plenty of questions of her own. She agreed to continue on to Sally’s house with her new friends.

  Tate’s decision to spend the rest of the evening with them pleased Cally greatly. Her attraction to Tate had sprung up almost instantaneously when they met only hours earlier at the library.

  How could she not be attracted to her? If Cally had noticed only Tate’s physical characteristics, she would have seen a plump, medium-height woman who appeared to be in her early 50s—much younger than her actual age of 58—a woman completely unpretentious about her appearance. Tate seemed totally comfortable in jeans and a t-shirt, like she wore them every day. No make-up or jewelry save a large silver and turquoise bracelet on her left wrist, and no watch. Cally couldn’t imagine going without a watch, given that she slept in hers and took it off only when showering.

  Surveying Tate with only an academic interest, Cally would have taken note of her shoulder-length, naturally wavy hair—a shining mass of wash-and-wear chestnut brown tinged with sun streaks. She could not see Tate’s eyes from that distance, but she expected they would be intense and beautiful.

  But, Cally was not an objective observer and Tate’s physical appearance was not the source of the profound impression she made on Cally. Every movement of Tate’s body conveyed self-assurance. Her resonant voice suggested courage and resilience. The power of her gaze seemed magnetic, and when she’d wrapped her arms around Cally and held her tight there in the library, it had been like sinking into a familiar and safe place Cally had never known existed. But now, having rested there briefly and been deeply nourished, she
had no desire whatsoever to leave.

  Sally still lived in Montford but not in the house where she had grown up. Cally and Tate settled into the comfortable chairs on the back deck while Sally brought out a bottle of wine and glasses. Tate realized they were only a couple of blocks from the house on Chestnut. She’d have to ask Sally about the place at some point and share with them what she had learned recently.

  Sally poured wine for each of them. Still hesitant to cause her friend any pain, she asked again, “Cally, what I have to tell you is going to be hard to hear. Are you sure . . .”

  “Absolutely sure, Sally! I’m tough. I can take it, whatever it is. Just spit it out.”

  “Okay. I don’t think I knew back then what everything meant. I was a little kid, just like you. But eventually I put the pieces together.”

  Sally had come home from school one afternoon to find her mother very upset, though she wouldn’t say why. She kept the doors closed and locked, which was unusual, and that evening Sally’s parents excluded her and her brother from their huddled conversation. The next day in school, Sally heard Ellie Howard had been murdered in her own home and that her son, Clayton, was also dead. She wished so much she could be with her best friend, but Cally did not come to school and Sally never saw her again.

  Cally listened solemnly without interrupting.

  “Clayton was your father, wasn’t he?” Sally asked.

  “Yes. I didn’t know him very well. He only came around once in a while. Mom always sent him away.”

  “Then maybe you didn’t know he was a drug addict. He had violent mood swings. My mother told me all this a long time later.”

  “You know, I figured that out myself quite awhile ago.” Cally spoke slowly and deliberately, and Tate realized she was exerting a great deal of effort to keep her composure.

  “I remember Gamma Ellie keeping him at a distance from me. I visited her and Gampa a lot, but if Clayton was around, she would always send me home.”

  Tate watched Cally closely. “I know this is hard stuff to hear, Cally. How are you doing?”

  “You know, I’m doing okay, Tate. It is hard to hear, but it’s also a huge relief. I’ve spent my whole life wanting to know, and now I do. I can finally figure out how to move on.”

  “Well, I remember other fun stuff, too,” Sally chimed in. “Want to hear some of that?”

  “Yes, some fun stuff would be just the thing.” Cally smiled and shifted to a more comfortable position.

  “I remember the day you carved your initials into that old fireplace at your Gamma’s house. We giggled the whole time. I tried calling you Cat after that, but you insisted on Cally.”

  Cally’s brows and forehead puckered as she searched for the memory. When she found it, she squealed with delight.

  “Oh yes! My initials spell Cat, but I didn’t like that nickname. Oh, I loved that beautiful old fireplace. Gampa made it, and I spent hours sitting in the corner there and reading or coloring.”

  Tate went on alert. “You mean Leland? You had a fireplace made by Leland?”

  “Yes, at their house. I loved it so much. One day I took a nail and carved my initials into it. When he found out, I thought he would be so angry. You know what he did?”

  “What?” Tate asked.

  “He took me out to his workshop, gave me a beautiful piece of wood, a small knife and a chisel, and he taught me how to carve.” Cally paused for a moment and savored her memory.

  “Where is he Tate? You said you knew.”

  “He’s out at Forest Glen Manor. I can take you to see him tomorrow if you like.”

  “I would like that very much.”

  “You know, Cally, it’s strange,” interjected Sally. “Your Gamma’s old house is gone. I thought they’d torn it down when they destroyed that block of Cumberland to put in I-240. But I was driving over on Maplewood the other day, and I could swear it’s now sitting over there. It looks a lot different. It has white siding on it, and they’re working on the inside. But I saw that old door, and I’m sure it’s the same house.”

  Tate gasped. “That’s my place! Do you mean to tell me Leland Howard owned my house?”

  “Well, if it’s the same building, then he not only owned it, he built it!” Cally said.

  Tate turned to Cally and felt every cell in her body crackle with electricity as their eyes met.

  THIRTY

  2004

  Tate greeted the next morning cheerfully, bouncing out of bed and into the kitchen to put food out for Pocket, who appeared moments later, stretching from paw to tip-of-tail and yawning deeply.

  “You look like a little yoga cat, Babycakes,” Tate cooed. “You know what they call that move you just made? A downward dog! Maybe we should get a dog. Whadda ya think?”

  Pocket ignored Tate’s chatter, choosing instead to sit in the patch of sunlight on the kitchen table and clean behind her ears.

  “Okay, so maybe that’s not such a great idea afterall. How about another cat instead?” No response from Pocket, who methodically licked between each toe of her left paw. Once that side was clean, Pocket yawned and started on the right paw.

  “So it’s the silent treatment, is it? Guess we’re on our own then, just you and me.” Tate put a small dish of fishy smelling cat food on the floor near the table and headed for the bathroom. She heard a soft thump as Pocket jumped off the table to gobble down her morning meal.

  Thirty minutes later, Tate headed downtown to meet Cally. They had laid out their plans the night before as they sat drinking wine in Sally’s backyard. First, they would have breakfast at Over Easy, a popular café on Broadway, then head to the library for more research and finally on to Forest Glen to see Leland Howard.

  Hope the place isn’t too busy. I’d love to get the little table in the back corner so we aren’t squished in. Tate visualized herself and Cally sitting exactly where she wanted, with plenty of room around them and a friendly, attentive waitress. She reviewed her preferences in her mind several times as she walked the half-block from where she had parked. Just as she entered the small restaurant, she saw the party at the favored table paying their bill. She felt a familiar rush of glee, looked around and realized she was first in line, having arrived only seconds before the folks behind her. The waitress swiped the table clean and motioned to Tate just as Cally arrived.

  “Thank you!” Tate glanced skyward as she uttered the gratitude under her breath.

  “Hi, Tate!” Cally sang out. “I’m so happy to see you again.” She threw her arms around Tate and squeezed tightly. Cally wore tight jeans, a waist-length leather jacket and a handwoven teal and purple scarf.

  “Hey, Cally.” Tate pulled away quickly. “We have a table.”

  “Wow, I thought we’d have to wait. Sally said this place is always packed.”

  “Well, I called in some help.”

  “Oh, they take reservations?”

  “No, not really . . .” Tate pondered how much to share. “. . . a different kind of help.”

  “That sounds mysterious,” Cally commented as they took their seats. She looked around at the clustered tables. “This looks like the best seat in the house. You must be really lucky.”

  “You could say that.” Tate hesitated momentarily, then blurted out, “It’s actually my runners.”

  “Runners? What do you mean?”

  “Damn! I didn’t mean to say that. You’ll think I’m crazy!”

  “Too late! It’s out. So what, or who, are runners?”

  “Well . . . here goes. Runners are spirit guides of sorts. Whenever I’m wishing for some amenity, like a great parking space, a perfect table, an empty cashier’s line—you know, the things that make life feel magical—I call on my runners. They go ahead of me and get what I’ve asked for. At least most of the time they do.”

  “Okay . . . ?” Cally seemed skeptical. “. . . I’m not sure I know what you mean. These runners are like fairy godmothers?”

  “That’s another way to look at it. I
probably shouldn’t have told you about them. Like I said, you’ll think I’m weird.”

  “I wouldn’t say weird . . . maybe ‘different’ is a better word.”

  “I’ll accept different! And lucky.” But Tate knew luck had little to do with it. She knew faith and gratitude created the little miracles that showed up in her life frequently.

  Over omelets, hash browns and strong coffee, Tate filled Cally in on what she knew about Leland Howard.

  “He’s been out at Forest Glen for several years. I don’t know the details. You can’t say I told you this, but one of the staff members there told me he had been in a state hospital before coming to their facility.”

  “Gampa was definitely not crazy. Why did they put him in a . . . a mental institution?” Distress contorted Cally’s face.

  “I’m sorry to tell you these things, Cally. I wish I could answer all your questions, but I can’t.”

  “I know. I just hate to think of him alone in a place like that.”

  “He’s being well cared for now. You’ll see. The staff at Forest Glen loves him.”

  “Okay. What else do you know?”

  “Well, he was a great craftsman—much sought after here in town apparently, but quite private. I found references to him in a few public records—not much really, other than the notice of your grandmother’s death. He seems to just disappear right after that. I want to check further through Ancestry.com. Maybe we can find out what happened to him.”

  “But you said you met him. Didn’t you ask him?”

  “My first visit didn’t go well. I mentioned his work and the house on Chestnut and he shut down completely. I thought he’d never speak to me again. So on my second visit, I just let him talk.”