by Tena Frank
THIRTY-THREE
1927
Ellie Howard thought the task of finding a suitable husband on short notice would be the most difficult challenge of her life, and it had been, up until she found herself firmly stuck in the roles of wife, daughter-in-law-in-residence and mother. Mary Alice, though gentle at heart, could be fierce when overseeing Ellie’s induction into the Howard homestead—the small, cramped cabin on the edge of downtown Asheville. Mary Alice insisted things be done just so, and the old mountain ways of the Howard clan differed greatly from the city life of Ellie’s childhood where her mother had shouldered the main responsibility of caring for the family with dutiful efficiency, freeing her children to pursue their own interests.
Mary Alice would have no part of the likes of Bisquick or Steero bouillon cubes or Minute Tapioca, modern conveniences Ellie thought essential. So at her mother-in-law’s hands, Ellie learned to cook from scratch. Mary Alice considered canned goods from the corner store wasteful and inferior. She preferred to tend the huge family garden from early spring to late fall and preserve ample food to carry them through the year in her own kitchen, laboring over her beloved wood stove. Ellie reluctantly apprenticed in the garden. She became skilled at baking in the wood-fired oven. She collected the eggs, tended the chickens, even learned to wring their necks and prepare them for Sunday dinner, a task she found thoroughly disgusting.
Mary Alice also oversaw Ellie’s mothering once the baby arrived. Ellie scrubbed dirty cloth diapers in the metal tub out back and hung them on the clothesline to dry in the sun. Mary Alice forbade the use the popular evaporated milk formulas so Ellie breastfed, and though her mother-in-law chided her for being shy, Ellie refused to feed the baby sitting in full view of anyone who happened to be in the cabin. Instead, she sat face-to-the-corner wedged between the masterfully crafted cradle and the end of the small bed she shared with her husband, a hand-woven shawl draped over her head and shoulders for privacy.
The months passed slowly, and Ellie felt herself slipping dangerously close to deep despair, an intolerable condition for a young woman who had lived most of her life buoyed by her optimism. Refusing to relinquish all hope, Ellie began forging a new path for herself in steps so small she sometimes barely noticed them—a path based on her desires rather than her circumstances.
Gently at first, she prodded Leland to build her a home of her own, and though his progress was exceedingly slow and frustrating, the house eventually emerged at the front of the lot facing Cumberland Avenue. She began exerting her will in opposition to Mary Alice as well, focusing on small areas where she expected the least resistance.
She loved Mary Alice and Arlen. They had graciously and lovingly accepted her into their family and their home. They had made room for her when they had precious little to spare. Still, she would not be swallowed up by them. She would not allow that to happen. She needed her own routines, her own rituals, and she intended to create them with her son and husband. She had not wanted the child, had not planned for him, and his arrival had set her on an unexpected and uncharted course. She resolved to restore vestiges of her former life where she could, and she would start with the tree in the park, the very spot where she had lost her way.
Ellie had passed that tree en route from one place to another her whole life. She loved its ancient spreading branches heavy with thick, green leaves in summer, rich with reds and oranges in the fall as it prepared for another season of rest, barren and majestic against cloudy gray skies in winter, and then again full of vibrant new life each spring. Since her tryst with Harland Ellie had avoided going anywhere near the tree she loved. Harland had stolen that from her, too, and she set herself the task of reclaiming her territory.
One afternoon in late August, Clayton’s first summer, Ellie carefully dressed him in the little sailor suit her parents had given her when the baby was born. She encased his feet in the tiny white leather shoes that would one day be bronzed and displayed on the mantel her husband would build, put him in his buggy and headed to the park. Mary Alice came around from the side of the cabin as she was leaving, a laundry basket full of neatly folded, dried clothes balanced on her hip.
“Where you goin’, Ellie?”
“To the park, with my son.”
“There’s this ironin’ to be done, ya know.”
“I know. And I’ll do it when I get back.”
“Don’cha think ya should be tendin’ to ya chores?”
“No. I think I should be taking my son to the park to enjoy this lovely afternoon.”
“Ya got responsibilities, Ellie . . .”
“. . . and the most important one is my son, Mother.” Ellie did not like calling Mary Alice Mother, but she used the deferential moniker spoken in the most appeasing tone she could muster while still setting the limits she intended.
Mary Alice tilted her head to the side, shaded her eyes from the sun with her weathered hand and held Ellie’s steady gaze. Ellie did not flinch. “Well then, don’t be takin’ too long. Woman’s work is never done, ya know.”
“Never done, maybe, but a break from it never hurt anyone.” Ellie nodded to Mary Alice, pleased with herself for holding her ground. “I’ll be home soon, Mother.” And with that, Ellie took a huge step toward her own liberation.
She set out at a fast clip and arrived at the entrance to the park ready for her encounter, emboldened by her recent success with Mary Alice. She paused only for a moment, took a deep breath, straightened her spine and pushed the buggy ahead of her down the steps to the base of the tree. She stood motionless, heart pounding, eyes closed, and willed herself to remember the last time she had been there.
She had been a child, filled with unfettered fantasies of a grand and adventurous life with a dashing young man. She had been Ellie Vance then, and the world seemed to beckon her to greatness. As best she could, she conjured up those old feelings of excitement, anticipation, hopefulness, joy. But standing here now, shame beat down passion, guilt held happiness at bay, outrage gave way to resignation.
Yet, sheltered by the tree, she felt a hint of comfort. She took Clayton from the buggy, placed him on his back on the blanket she had spread out, and sat down cross-legged beside him. She shook his favorite rattle above his head, and he reached his tiny hand out and grasped her thumb. He giggled and held tight, pulling her hand and the rattle toward his perfect mouth. Ellie felt the rush of love for her beautiful child flood her body, and she unexpectedly burst into tears.
“It all started here, baby,” she cooed. Clayton squealed as the rattle tinkled. “You started here and that made it a bad place for me for a while. But we are going to make it a good place again. We’ll do that together, okay?”
She searched her child’s smiling face, his shining brown eyes, and saw there only love, unquestioned trust and innocent joy. She realized how easy life could be, how focusing on joyful things could overpower darkness and regret, and she believed in that moment she could find her way back. She knew she would at least try her best to do so. With her child, she would create a good place where she could thrive and be happy again.
Ellie carved out time every few days to take her sojourn to the park. As Clayton got older, the buggy was replaced by a Radio Flyer wagon her friend Connie gave him for his first birthday. Sometimes Clayton would toddle along beside her, or Ellie would carry him. Eventually he graduated to a tricycle, then a two-wheeler. However they traveled, they always ended up at the base of the huge tree where they spent their time telling each other stories, reading from Clayton’s favorite books or sharing a picnic lunch. Sometimes they would nap, the little boy wrapped safely in his mother’s arms.
In those early years, the two of them were inseparable, but Ellie made it a point to include Leland as well. Whenever he had the time, Ellie encouraged Leland to join them in the park, and she paid special attention to nurturing the relationship between her husband and son. The family grew up under that tree as much as Clayton did, and no matter the season, they sought the pl
ace out for a respite from their daily routines. Other families did the same and over the years, the place slowly changed. At Leland’s urging, the fathers hung a big rope swing from a strong lower branch. He made a simple bench of red oak and placed it on the opposite side of the thick tree trunk so parents could sit somewhere other than on the ground while they watched their children play.
With each visit, every little change, Ellie felt more secure, and eventually the new memories she so intentionally forged eclipsed those of her brief moment with Harland. That event from so long ago became submerged, leaving Ellie to mistakenly believe she had finally freed herself from it and from Harland Freeman.
Like all little boys, Clayton Samuel Howard knew what he wanted to be when he grew up. He would be a fireman, or a cowboy, a lion-tamer in the circus, maybe even a famous baseball player. From as far back as he could remember, his mother encouraged him to dream big. She showered him with love and he clung tightly to her. Many of his best childhood memories were of lying cradled against her as she read to him under the huge tree in the park. Winnie-the-Pooh and Curious George were his favorites until he could read by himself, and then he favored My Friend Flicka and Bonus Kid.
The day Clayton turned on Jimmy Boykins marked the death of a sweet little boy and the birth of a man who one day would kill his own mother in a fit of drug-induced rage. It was not a simple path from one existence to the other, nor was it an easy one. It started with the thrilling sense of power he felt as he loomed over Jimmy Boykins, weapon raised for another blow. Seeing his former nemesis cowering on the ground with a bloody nose sent an adrenaline rush through Clayton, and he inhaled the resulting sense of invincibility deep into every cell of his being. He wanted more, and he determined in that moment to find it however he could.
Clayton first sought his power by becoming the local bully. He swaggered. He boasted. He threatened and demanded. The neighborhood kids had heard what he did to Jimmy Boykins and they didn’t want any of the same, so they either steered clear of him or buddied up with him. Clayton and his little gang roamed the neighborhood stirring up trouble here and there—mostly minor offenses in the beginning—but as he gained confidence, his behavior escalated and he ended up in trouble with the law on more than one occasion. Each time, Ellie or Leland bailed him out. He always offered apologies and promises to change his ways, and each time his parents chose to believe him rather than see the truth that lay beneath his compliant façade.
When bullying lost its luster, Clayton turned to vandalism. When breaking windows and defacing property failed to provide the rush he sought, he turned to drugs. Marijuana was easy enough to get, but it proved too mellow for his taste. He tried LSD, alcohol, amphetamines, even cocaine. Clayton would try anything once. By the time he reached his twenties, he had lost control of his life and from then until the end, he spiraled deeper and deeper into an abyss from which he would never escape.
He had moments of clarity when he realized what he had become, what he had given up in exchange for so little. He remembered feeling love for others and being loved by them. Flashes of the past would break through to the surface, usually when he was coming down from a high or sobering up after a drinking binge. He remembered whittling wood in the shop with his father, helping his mother bake or working with her in the garden. He especially remembered the spot under the tree—the “good place” his mother called it. He relived for a precious moment the peace of nestling there in her arms as she read his favorite stories and the joy of her pushing him high into the air on the rope swing his father had made for him and the other kids. And when he remembered, he wept. Then he would go in search of his next fix, whatever it might be, just so he could forget all the good things he’d lost, just so he could feel invincible again even for a little while.
The day he killed his mother he was in search of oblivion, or at the very least, cessation of his immediate pain. The clawing withdrawal from heroin drove him hard. His heart raced, he hadn’t slept in at least two days, he was plagued with vomiting, cold sweats and muscle cramps so intense he felt his bones might snap.
She’ll help me. That thought raced through Clayton’s mind as he barged into the house and demanded money. She had money, he knew that. Or at least she had things he could exchange for drugs. The antique comb from his great grandmother—she’d shown him that once, and her own mother’s diamond engagement ring. He believed there were other valuables as well, and she always had a little cash put away somewhere for emergencies. This was an emergency. Surely she’d see that and she would help him. She loved him.
But all she said was: “You’ll never get it. I swear you’ll never get it.” She ran into the bedroom and locked the door. He went wild, smashing everything he could get his hands on, then kicking in the bedroom door and demanding again.
“It’s for the girl! You’ll never get it! I swear you’ll never get it!” Her refusal reverberated through his head, clashing so hard against his belief she would rescue him that he couldn’t make sense of her words.
When he did, when he understood she would not give him what he asked for, he stood staring at her dumbstruck. Anger surged through his veins just as the heroin had, but instead of reaching nirvana, he exploded in rage. And then he hit her, hard. And kicked her. And she collapsed and he knew he’d killed her.
As painful as his withdrawal was, it paled in comparison to the anguish that flooded over him as he saw her in a heap on the floor. Her beautiful eyes, which used to look at him with such love and adoration, now radiated only fear and disappointment. He shrank away from her and ran as fast as his broken body would carry him out of the house and along the familiar path to the park, to the good place. Maybe he would find the peace he pursued there.
The ancient old tree welcomed him as usual. No recriminations, no judgments. He pulled the weathered bench over to the old swing, climbed up and wrapped the thick rope twice around his neck. He spoke his final words into the clear, sweet air as he stepped off the bench. “I’m sorry, Maw. I tried to be good. I love you.”
THIRTY-FOUR
1962
Richard Price handled funeral arrangements for Ellie and Clayton who were buried side-by-side on a sloping meadow in Riverside Cemetery. Leland attended the services, still in a daze, and said his final farewell to Ellie while standing on the exact spot where he would one day rest beside her. But contrary to his wishes, much time would pass before he joined her there.
All members of the Price household rallied to create a sanctuary for Leland, who, despite their best efforts, refused consolation. He slept fitfully in the luxurious guest room, roamed restlessly through the verdant gardens and consumed only the barest minimum of food and water.
None of those things that sustain life seemed relevant to Leland, whose internal battle between putting a decisive end to his keening grief or living in unabated sorrow raged on for several days. Ultimately, his final promise to Ellie tethered him reluctantly to survival. He must see to it that Cally got her things. Then he would find his way to Ellie. With his mission clear in his mind, he could finally begin formulating a coherent plan.
The next day, Leland rose early, bathed and put on clean clothes for the first time since leaving his own home. Exhausted by the effort, he sat in the courtyard, listening to the early morning songs of the birds and dozed in and out until his friend joined him, followed shortly by the housekeeper carrying a breakfast tray for the two of them.
“I’m hungry,” Leland said in an unsteady voice. This revelation surprised both of them, though it pleased only Richard.
“That’s a good sign, Leland. And I see you put on different clothes today—another good sign.”
“I’ll have some coffee,” Leland said as the strong aroma whetted his appetite. He took a small bite of scrambled eggs. Weakened by days of little sleep or food, Leland’s hand trembled, prompting Richard to pour the coffee, taking care to fill Leland’s cup only halfway.
“I want to go back to my house today.”
“I hoped to get the place cleaned up before you went back, Leland. Why not stay with us? You’re welcome here for as long as you want.”
“I need to get some things for Cally. I promised.”
Richard Price’s stomach churned. He had dreaded this moment ever since he learned Cally was gone, too.
“Can’t that wait awhile, Leland? You need to get your strength back.”
“I promised Ellie.” Three simple words, yet they weighed heavily on Leland. Not just any promise—his last promise, and he intended to keep it. “I’m going today. It’s not far. I’ll walk over.”
Leland had no idea if he would be able to walk the half mile to his house, but he sensed Richard’s reluctance to help. He would go on his own if he must. Cally would get her things. And he wanted to see her, to try to explain. How do you explain death to a seven year old?
“What things, Leland? I could pick them up for you and get them to her.” Richard didn’t know how he would accomplish that since he didn’t know where to find Cally. He’d just heard all the rumors racing through town about the tragic events surrounding Ellie’s and Clayton’s deaths, among them that Rita and Cally had abruptly left Asheville the following day. He had avoided telling Leland for obvious reasons.
“I can do it, Richard. I don’t want to stay there. I’ll get the things, take them to Cally’s house, then come back here.” Leland had eaten a few more bites of breakfast. He took a sip of coffee and rose to go, determined to carry out his task.
“Leland . . . I need to tell you . . .” Richard’s voice cracked as he choked back tears.
“What?” What now? Alarm shot through Leland’s whole being. Something was wrong. How could anything else be wrong? “. . . Richard?”
