by Tena Frank
“Oh, yes, I remember. But Prince Charming finally found you, Connie. Quite a catch, that Phillip, and not only because he’s rich.”
“I have to agree with you on that, Ellie. I still wonder what I did to deserve ending up where I am. Don’t you?”
“I know exactly what I did.” Matter-of-fact. Nothing more needed saying.
“Oh, right.” Connie blushed at her misstep. Ellie had never shared the details of her pregnancy and marriage, and Connie had always respected Ellie’s decision not to discuss it.
Connie quickly changed the subject. “Well, what have you been doing to keep busy while I’ve been away?”
“The same stuff really. Nothing interesting. I cook, clean, do the laundry, try to keep my son out of trouble and my husband happy. It’s not a bad existence, really.”
“Your life sounds appealing to me sometimes. I get tired of the whole society routine everyone expects of us. I think Phillip would like to leave it all behind, too.”
“Seems like all those parties would be fun. Don’t you meet interesting people?”
“Sometimes, of course. There’s the occasional celebrity—a couple of years ago I met Helen Forrest, who sang with Benny Goodman—but quite often it’s just the same crowd discussing the same things. Everyone trying to impress everyone else. I find it quite tiresome. But I have to go, whether I want to or not.”
“It’s really that bad?”
“Let me give you an example. We went to the grand opening at Harland Freeman’s house just before Christmas. You must remember him—such a bore in high school. Everyone wanted to see that place, you know? It’s really quite garish, but if all your friends are going . . . well, as bad as it sounds, I didn’t want to miss out.” Connie chuckled at her own inconsistency. “So we went. Everyone was being polite and commenting on the place, discussing anything, really, just to not think about the War, and someone brought up the door that Leland made.”
Ellie tensed up, not sure she wanted to hear what came next. “Really? People noticed it, then?”
“Oh yes. They noticed all right. Harland made a point to brag to Thomas Bristol. Anyway, everyone thought the design was unique, and then I told them about the door on your house.”
“You didn’t!”
“Of course, I did! Yours is really much prettier, I think.”
“Did he hear you? Does he know?”
“Ellie, you’re upset . . .”
“Oh . . . no . . .” Ellie tried to act nonchalant. “. . . no, I just wondered what he said when he heard your comment.”
“I’m not sure he heard it. He wasn’t in the room. In fact, just then he had some kind of episode in the hallway outside. The men took him up to his room and helped him settle in. We all left soon after.”
Ellie paled.
“Come to think of it,” Connie went on, “maybe that party wasn’t so boring after all!” Connie’s lighthearted laughter did little to dispel the worry building in Ellie’s mind as they went back to preparing for the dance.
As if in response to Ellie’s prediction of the previous day, fat, wet, heavy snowflakes began falling copiously early in the afternoon on February 13, 1942. They formed the last image to register in Harland Freeman’s brain before he closed his eyes and pulled the trigger of the gun in his mouth. Moments before that irreversible act, he fleetingly considered delaying his suicide because of the unanticipated storm, but Harland had never been a man to second guess himself once he made a decision. A modicum of foresight would likely have swayed him, but the only accommodation he made for the unexpected weather was to cover himself from foot to armpit in a warm woolen throw after carefully positioning his chair before the front door of his mansion. The blanketing snow muffled the sound of the gunshot, which thus alerted no one to his demise other than the squirrels, already scurrying for cover from the encroaching blizzard.
Snow fell for twelve hours straight. By the following morning, it had transformed the neighborhood into a hushed winter wonderland, with willowy hedges bent low, shrubs camouflaged as snow drifts, and streets and sidewalks swathed in pristine, untrammeled snowy splendor. For nearly a full day after his death, Harland’s body remained undiscovered.
The sun finally dispersed the thick cloud cover and broke through by mid-morning on Valentine’s Day, revealing the streets as ideal paths for cross-country skiers and kids on sleds, along with bundled-up neighbors walking their dogs. Several such adventurers passed by Harland’s house but took no notice of anything out of the ordinary. Harland’s poor social skills and generally unfriendly style had resulted in everyone who lived nearby avoiding him whenever possible, so the fact his body went unnoticed for so long came as little surprise to anyone when news began spreading about his death later in the day.
Luckily for Harland, who had never liked dogs, those four-legged creatures do not squelch their natural curiosity and joy like their human counterparts do, nor do they parcel out their love grudgingly. So it happened that a frisky young Labrador retriever finally brought attention to the dead body sitting on the porch of the house at 305 Chestnut Street.
Sensing the chance of a new playmate, the dog broke loose from the middle-aged woman on the other end of the leash, bounded across the lawn and up the steps, stopping just short of jumping into Harland’s cold lap. Yelping and wagging its whole body, the dog refused to leave Harland’s side, forcing the woman to make her way up the treacherous walk to fetch him, apologizing all the way to the unresponsive Harland for intruding on his privacy. She wondered why he would be sitting so still in such inclement weather, until she realized as she reached the steps that Harland was dead. She grabbed for her dog, but the pup remained by Harland’s side, licking his hand and pawing at him, showering all his love and attention on the still, cold body in those last moments before the world knew Harland Freeman as a corpse instead of a man. The woman finally pulled the dog away and rushed back to her house to call for help, barely able to contain herself long enough to do so.
The police eventually arrived, and in short order a crowd had gathered on the street.
“How long has he been there, do you think?”
“Someone killed him, right?”
“Why’s he sitting out there like that?”
“Was he murdered? Surely not!”
“More’n likely he deserved it.”
“I hope he went quietly.”
“He was a mean man. Prob’ly just got what was comin’ to him.”
“Oh, I don’t like to think he suffered.”
“When did it happen?”
“Why did it happen?”
“How did it happen?”
Of course, most of those questions would remain unanswered for quite some time, opening the door for wild speculation on the circumstances leading up to the highly unusual event. Numerous theories and spurious facts emerged as the news swept through the city. Few if any who heard the story felt saddened by Harland’s abrupt and dramatic departure. Some worried about their jobs at Freeman’s Mercantile; others schemed to purchase the successful business before someone else could swoop in ahead of them. No one knew of surviving family to whom one could offer false condolences or press for information. There would be no funeral, no final goodbyes, no mourning period.
At least not for most. For a very few others, the suffering which began the day news arrived of Harland’s death lasted in one form or another for the rest of their lives. But each of them would grieve in isolation and for very different reasons.
For Leland Howard, induction into the tiny group took place a week later and came in the form of a visit from a member of Paige & Schmidt, the legal firm responsible for handling Harland’s estate. At Ellie’s urging, Leland finally let the man into the house. The tone for the unwelcome meeting established itself quickly.
“Mr. Freeman’s will is explicit, Mr. Howard. The house at 305 Chestnut Street is now held in a trust of which you are the sole beneficiary.”
“That can’t be. I don’t want
the place. I want nothing to do with anything involving that despicable man.” This level of anger surprised even Leland.
“Now, Mr. Howard, you’re speaking about a dead man . . .”
“Dead or not, doesn’t change who he was when he was alive!”
“Leland, please. I know this is upsetting, but please don’t lash out so.” Ellie sat in the background and had not spoken until this moment.
“I don’t care, Ellie. He had no right to burden me so. What did I ever do . . . this is an act of hatred on his part, not kindness. You know that man never had a generous bone in his body.”
“Mr. Howard, he was your cousin, was he not?” the attorney pleaded.
“Being blood relation don’t make somebody a good man. Our mothers couldn’t abide one another, and neither could we. We never had what you would call a family relationship.”
“Didn’t you help him build that house? I seem to remember him mentioning so when we were drawing up his will . . .”
“NOT! BY! CHOICE!” Leland uttered this response with controlled rage, all the while staring angrily in Ellie’s direction.
“Leland, I’m sorry . . .”
“Not by choice . . .” Leland said in a more measured tone, “. . . but yes, I did do some of the work on that place. Still, it doesn’t mean I want anything to do with it now. It’s a cursed house, and I don’t want the aggravation.”
“What do you mean, ‘cursed’?”
“Well, he killed himself there, didn’t he? What would you call it?”
The attorney took a deep breath and struggled to maintain his composure. He had a job to do. He had been sent to deliver the details of Mr. Freeman’s will to the beneficiary. He never expected it to be fraught with such resistance and difficulty.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Howard. I can see this is not welcome news. Still, the will is, as I said, explicit. The house is held in trust for you.”
“Well, then, I’ll give it away just like he did! Ellie, who should I give that place to? It’s rightly your decision, don’t you think? You’re the one insisted I do that work for him.”
Leland directed the full force of his anger at Ellie for the first time in their entire life together. He wanted this to be her fault. Hers or Harland’s, but not his, definitely not his.
Leland’s precisely aimed fury landed squarely on its target, shattering Ellie’s emotional armor instantly. She began sobbing uncontrollably. Leland immediately backed down, shocked at his wife’s crying, something he had seen on only the rarest of occasions and never with such abandon.
“My god, what am I doing? Ellie, I’m so sorry! Please—don’t cry.” Leland moved to console Ellie, who sat hunched up, hands covering her face. He saw before him a vulnerable girl, not the tough and distant wife he had grown accustomed to over the years. He kneeled down, wrapped his arms around her shoulders and pulled her in close, cradling her and rocking gently. Together they wept, finally letting go of the festering suspicions, regrets and disappointments built up during the course of their marriage—wounds, big and small, now revealed without naming, and finally exposed for healing.
The attorney, ready to bolt from the overwhelming display of emotion, nonetheless held himself in his seat and waited for it to pass. When it did, Leland gave Ellie a gentle kiss on top of her bent head, returned to his own chair, blew his nose loudly into his handkerchief, then addressed the lawyer.
“As I was saying, I’d like to give the house away myself. How do I go about doing that?”
“Well, you won’t be happy to hear you can’t.”
“Of course, I can. If I own it, I can do whatever I want with it.”
“Not in this case, I’m afraid. The trust Mr. Freeman created will stay in effect for as long as you’re alive. You cannot sell the house or in any other way convey it out of the trust. You can do whatever else you want with it, but it belongs to you until you pass. You have the right to pass it on to whomever you please in your own will.”
“What if it burns down?” Leland blurted out this possibility even before he became aware of the plan hatching in his mind.
“I must caution you, Mr. Howard, not to make such suggestions.”
“I’m not . . . no, not suggesting I’d burn it down. I’m sorry. That came out wrong,” he lied. “I mean, what if something happens to the house and it’s not there anymore?”
“The property would still belong to you, Mr. Howard. The terms of the trust are ironclad.”
Indignation and disbelief finally took their toll on Leland. He sank back into his chair, feeling trapped and helpless. Ellie, still pulled back into herself, sat staring blankly at the knotted hands in her lap.
“Maybe I have no choice but to own it, sir, but I can tell you this,” Leland continued, “I won’t have nothin’ to do with that house. Not now. Not ever. It can sit there and rot on its foundation for all I care.”
“I understand what you’re saying, Mr. Howard, but it won’t rot. Mr. Freeman made arrangements for it to be taken care of regardless. He left a sizable fortune which also comes to you as his beneficiary and only surviving relative. Along with the house, the money will be held in a trust and used to maintain the property. If there is any money left when you pass, what remains will be part of your estate.”
“There’s no escaping then?”
“No sir. I’m sorry. It’s yours, like it or not.”
Leland sat in silence, contemplating the unavoidable impact of his inherited prison, as the lawyer found his own way out.
Ellie remained quiet, choosing not to educate the attorney about Harland’s surviving relatives.
Leland spent the following days secluded in his workshop, trying to make sense of the vindictive nature of the terms of Harland’s will. He wanted desperately to find himself innocent, undeserving of such diabolical retribution. What did I do that was so bad? I should never have made that door. I said nope then went back on my own word. Maybe I deserve this after all. I should’ve stood my ground. Maybe Ellie was right. Ellie was wrong! She made me do the work after I said nope. It’s her fault, then, not mine.
These thoughts, among many others, fought their way back and forth through Leland’s mind, sometimes convincing him he had been wronged by Harland, other times persuading him of his own culpability in the matter. And throughout it all, Ellie remained a constant. His attempts to hold her responsible, to hate her for her role in his misery, always fell apart, rendered impotent by his enduring love for her.
Eventually, Leland resigned himself to his fate. He owned the wretched house on Chestnut Street. Even if he could not change that fact, he would do his best to forget about it and continue on with his life as it had been before his unfortunate change in circumstances. What made his intention virtually impossible to achieve was the door that greeted him each time he entered his own humble abode. The door with the carved fittings and scrolled panels so much like those on his loathsome inheritance, yet so much finer. The one he had meticulously constructed and installed on the house he built for Ellie in an act of defiance unlike any he had ever committed before.
Harland’s words came back in a rush: “You’ll pay dearly for this Leland, I promise you.” Harland had carried out his threat. Leland would pay dearly, and he could do nothing about it.
He now cringed at the sight of that door, intuitively knowing he himself had struck the fatal blow that led to a wintery end for a cold-hearted man—a man whose death resulted from humiliation much more than from the bullet which shattered his skull.
From that day forward, Leland never again entered his own home through the front door.
THIRTY-EIGHT
1942
It is often hard to know where the paths we forge will lead us. Our intentions are usually clear, but every decision, mundane or monumental, alters our course. At any moment, we may find ourselves lost in unfamiliar territory with little idea how we ended up there. For Marie Eleanor Vance Howard that moment occurred after the attorney from Paige & Schmidt retreated
and her husband left her alone in her living room.
She sat there awash in a flood of emotions she had kept deeply buried her entire adult life. Most perplexing of all, she found joy romping freely amid the turbulence. A wave of despair or grief or rage would threaten to pull her under, and then joy would pop her back to the surface. She would descend into disbelief, fury, guilt—and then unbidden, irrepressible exuberance would save her again. She was astonished when she finally realized the source of her elation. Ellie loved her husband!
Over the course of almost fifteen years together, Ellie had developed many feelings for Leland. Originally it was little more than a marriage of convenience, but Ellie had come to appreciate him; she had grown dependent upon him in many ways. She couldn’t have asked for a better father for Clayton, especially now as the boy became harder and harder to manage. Leland’s craftsmanship provided a good income for them; his even-temperedness contributed to a peaceful home life.
However, not all her opinions about Leland were favorable. She also saw him as meek and compliant—always the follower, never the leader. This left her in charge, a state of affairs she simultaneously nurtured and resented. If he had not been so willing to do whatever she asked, he would never have taken the job for Harland, no matter how she had tried to convince him. Maybe none of this would have happened if he had stuck to his refusal to work on that damnable house. He just had to put that same door on our house! I told him not to. I knew it would lead to trouble. If only . . . no, this is not his fault. I shouldn’t have made him do it. Back into guilt and resentment and then, again, her heart flew open and love rushed in! I truly love him!
Ellie had wanted to be in love for as long as she could remember. Bits and pieces of her girlhood dreams floated back to her, and she pictured herself singing on a Broadway stage, or traveling the world with a dashing partner, or swimming in silky Caribbean waters under a full moon—all versions of the exotic life she once imagined. But regardless of where she found herself or who accompanied her in these fantasies, she was always in love.
