by Tena Frank
“He was proud of that incident. Did you know that?”
“Proud? He should have been furious.”
“Nope. He told me about it, even showed me your handiwork. Thought it showed a love of the wood and some initiative. That’s what he said about it. Clayton never took to the woodworking. Leland saw a chance for the family tradition to continue through you.”
“Mr. Price, will you tell me about the day she died. The day they died? And what happened after that?” Cally reached for Tate as she asked.
Providing comfort to others had always been one of Tate’s strengths. She usually did it with words, but now she simply folded her hand around Cally’s delicate fingers.
“Those are painful memories, but you deserve to know. He called me. I went to the house immediately, and he was lying on the bed with Ellie in his arms. I knew she was gone, but he continued to cradle her until the police arrived. They took her away, but he didn’t want to leave. Before I could convince him to come with me, they came back and told us they’d found your father in the park where he’d hung himself.”
“He killed her, didn’t he?”
“Yes, he did. Your grandfather saw Clayton running out the door, and he admitted it.”
“It must have been terrible for him, for both of them. You can’t kill your own mother and not feel tortured.”
Tate listened to Cally and marveled at her stoicism and the compassion she expressed for Clayton. Tate would never be so forgiving toward those responsible for the crushing losses she had suffered.
Richard Price continued. “I don’t know what went on in his mind. And I had Leland to take care of, so I focused on that. He had been at my house for several days, and not doing well, as I said. He finally came out for breakfast one morning. He was intent on going back to the place to get some things for you. I’m not sure what, but it was really important to him. I had to tell him you were gone and I didn’t know where. That’s when he took a bad fall on the terrace. Hit his head and passed out. He went to the hospital, and it became apparent he was slipping into a deep depression.”
The old man leaned back in his chair and breathed deeply. Cally and Tate exchanged glances and waited to see if he would continue.
“I talked to the doctors about bringing him back here, but they thought he was a suicide risk, so they sent him off to the state hospital. He languished there. They did their best to treat him, but he never pulled out of the depression completely.”
“How did he end up at Forest Glen?” Cally tried to keep her questions to a minimum, since Mr. Price was already giving them so much information, but this one was important to her.
“Well, over the months it became obvious he’d probably never live on his own again. He didn’t want to go back to work. I knew he couldn’t stay in that hospital. I had to get him to someplace better.”
“Forest Glen seems like a very nice place. The staff is good to him.”
“It has always been one of the best retirement facilities. But he didn’t have any money.”
“I have been wondering how his care is paid for.”
“Well, he was a master craftsman. You know that, don’t you?”
“Yes. Tate has told me some about his work.”
“He had a workshop full of finished pieces. ‘My little projects’ he always called them. He did his work for money, of course, but he spent a lot of time making the things he wanted to make, even if no one had commissioned them.”
“I have very fond memories of that workshop. I’d sit with him. I remember lots of things stacked up along the walls, many of them draped with old sheets. There was all kinds of wood and sawdust all over the floor . . . he’d lay his tools out in neat rows and carefully put each one back in place when he finished with it. I think I learned my own sense of orderliness from Gampa.”
“Well, those ‘little projects’ became highly valuable after he stopped working. People were clamoring for anything made by Leland Howard. Leland allowed me to take care of his financial matters. In fact, he was happy to turn it all over to me. I was able to sell everything he had made, put the house on the market, sold off most of their personal items . . .”
“I wondered what happened to their things.” Cally teared up again.
“I’m sorry, Cally. I would have saved them for you, but Rita just whisked you away. Your Grandma Thornton wouldn’t tell me where you were. She just said you were gone and never coming back. So I did what I thought should be done. I sold everything I could and invested the money for Leland’s care.”
“It’s okay, Mr. Price. Really it is. I have the note from Gamma, some childhood memories, a few things Mom left. And now I have Gampa again. I really couldn’t ask for much more.”
Tate had chosen to remain quiet throughout the conversation until now. “I have a question, if I may.” There was one crucial issue Richard Price had not mentioned.
“If I can answer it, I will. Leland told me to tell all the secrets.”
“The house over on Chestnut Street. It’s in Leland’s name. Why didn’t you sell it?”
“Well, Ms. Marlowe, that’s a long story.”
“We’ve got time, don’t we, Cally? If you’re up to telling us more, that is, Mr. Price.”
“Yes, plenty of time!” Cally said.
“Well then. Let’s have some tea. It’s a relief to talk about this after all this time.” Richard Price rang for the housekeeper, who took his request for strong tea and a ‘little nibble,’ both of which arrived a few minutes later as promised.
“Freeman was a contrary old scoundrel if ever there was one.”
Cally turned to Tate, a puzzled look on her face.
“Oh, I never told you! The man who built that house was named Harland Freeman.”
“How much does she know?” Richard Price put the question to Tate.
“Almost as much as I do. I just don’t think I ever mentioned Mr. Freeman to her.”
“Well, everyone found him unlikable, Leland more so than others. They were cousins, you know.”
“Cousins?” Tate could not squelch her excitement. “They were cousins? How were they connected?”
“Leland’s mother was Mary Alice. She left town when she was quite young. Went to live with an old aunt and uncle up in the woods. Leland was born on the old homestead, and they moved back to town when he was 8 or 9.”
That’s why I never found a birth record. Tate would fill Cally in on that later. “Who were Harland’s parents?”
“Mother was Eulah Mae, Mary Alice’s older sister. Crazy Eulah everyone called her. Father was a layabout most of the time. Worked here and there but never steady. When Mary Alice and her family moved back to town, she’d have nothing to do with Eulah Mae. So the boys, Leland and Harland, never spent time together. Leland’s dislike for Harland was mutual.
Tate could not hold back her next question. “Then why on earth would he give the house to Leland?”
Cally sat back and let Tate take the lead. Tate’s passion for the house on Chestnut clearly outweighed Cally’s interest in the place.
“I’m not sure what all happened between the two of them. They had no use for each other, that’s for sure. At least until Freeman wanted his special door when he was building that monstrosity . . .”
“It is a strange place, for sure. But not monstrous exactly . . .” Tate reminded herself not to interrupt again. “I’m sorry. Go on, please.”
“Never could figure out why Leland did that work. He didn’t want to, but somehow he felt pressured. I always sensed it had something to do with Ellie, though I can’t imagine what that would be. Anyway, Leland took the job, but then he also put a door very similar to the one he made for Freeman on his own house over on Cumberland.”
“I own that house now. I think I told you when I visited you the first time.”
“Yes, I remember that. Same door, almost. Rumor had it at the time that Freeman was furious when he found out. Wasn’t even a couple months later he shot himself. Tr
ansferred the house to Leland, but made it so it couldn’t ever be sold long as Leland was alive. Leland felt like it was an anchor around his neck. He always hated the place and wouldn’t even travel down the street in front of it anymore.”
“Wow. He must have had a powerful aversion to it.”
“No more’n his aversion to Freeman himself, I can tell you that.”
Tate offered more information. “I met the man who used to tend the lawn over there a couple of days ago. He says there were some lawyers involved but they stopped paying him a long time ago.”
“Paige and Schmidt. Those hooligans!”
“Hooligans? What’d they do?”
“Not much of anything in the last few years before they closed up shop. That was the problem. Let things slip and got sued a couple times. They finally shut the doors and left town. That was the last anyone heard of them.”
“I went to the courthouse and saw the trust, the one holding the house for Leland. At one point there was money in it, too. Any idea what happened to it?”
“I should have done more about that when the lawyers dropped the ball. But I had a stroke—that’s what left me like this.” He opened his arms, hands palms-up in a gesture of helplessness, and looked down at his legs. “But Leland would never even talk about the place, and I wasn’t ever involved. So I chose to stay out of it. Maybe a lawyer could help you figure out if there’s anything left and where it is.”
“That’s a good idea. I could sure use some help. We could use some help, that is, assuming Cally wants to pursue it.”
Richard Price locked his eyes on Tate and paused before speaking again. “You’re intent on saving that old place. Why?”
“The place haunts me, pure and simple. But there’s another reason, too, one I just realized. I have to save it because it belongs to someone.” Tate turned slowly to Cally and touched her shoulder. “I think it belongs to you, now, Cally.”
Cally hung her head and cried quietly. “That was just dawning on me, Tate. I think it’s time for me to go see the place, don’t you?”
“Yes, if you’re up to it.”
Cally turned to Mr. Price. “You’ve had a long afternoon with us here. You must be ready for us to leave.”
“I’ve told you most of what I can, and it’s a bigger relief than I expected. I think I’m ready for a nap. Old men need to rest a lot, you know.” His impish quality peeked out through his watery eyes, and Tate was happy to see their visit had not worn him out enough to quell his playfulness.
“You have been so generous with your time, Mr. Price. I can’t thank you enough for everything you’ve shared with us.” Tate’s words fell far short of expressing the extent of her gratitude.
As they left the library, Mr. Price called after them. “You’ll come back again, won’t you? Both of you?”
“I certainly will, if you’ll have me. And I’ll bring treats next time,” promised Tate.
“Me, too!” Cally chimed in. “I’ll come to visit you and my desk!”
As they walked to the truck, Cally asked to see the house on Chestnut Street. Tate drove by slowly and stopped at the curb. However, Cally made no move to get out and look around. Instead, she gazed intently at the old place then sighed deeply, as if a heavy weight pressed down on her.
“You don’t want to see it?” Tate asked.
“Oh, yes, I do. But I’m exhausted. I want to see it when I can really take it in. Could we do that another time?”
“Absolutely. Just let me know when.” As Tate pulled away, she glanced at the house through the rearview mirror. I’ll bring her back. I promise. A sudden chill ran down Tate’s spine and she had a strange sensation that the house understood.
A short drive brought them to the Princess Hotel. “I’ll call you soon, Tate. Okay?”
“Okay, Cally. Whenever you’re ready, we’ll look at that house, and if you want, I’ll show you my place, too. Ellie and Leland’s old place.”
“I’ll really need to rest up then. All this is . . . it’s wearing me out.”
“Take your time. I’ll be here when you’re ready.”
Cally looked at Tate a long time before speaking again. “You’re probably the best friend I’ve ever had, do you know that?”
These words instantly sank roots deep into Tate’s heart. “That’s probably the nicest thing you could have said to me, do you know that?”
They smiled at each other. Tate noticed a feeling of deep satisfaction suffusing her body as she drove home. I’m happy. I’m really happy! She couldn’t remember the last time she had felt this way.
FORTY-FIVE
2004
Tate reached down and gave the wheel a good spin. Her flipper landed on $450. “I’ll take a ‘T.’”
“Yes, there’s one ‘T.’” Pat Sajak smiled at her, and Vanna White touched the square on the puzzle board, illuminating the ‘T.’
Tate spun again, this time landing on $1,500. Oh, this is good. “I’ll have an ‘H.’”
“There are two ‘Hs,’” crooned Pat Sajak.
Tate had already racked up $3,450. Her palms left faint wet handprints on the counter in front of her as she made her next move. “I’d like to buy an ‘E.’”
“There are five ‘Es,’” Pat said as Vanna White quickly touched the squares and clapped her hands.
Tate spun again, landing on the $500 space. The lights on the wheel flashed brightly. Tate felt odd as if suspended in this place and happy to be here, finally, but not at all sure how it had happened. Don’t freak out. Just keep playing. “I’ll take an ‘R,’ please.”
“Yes, there are two ‘Rs.’” Pat Sajak smiled. “You’re doing just fine.” Tate’s nerves made her freeze for a moment. “Spin or solve,” coached Pat Sajak.
“I’ll have to spin.” Worry crept into Tate’s voice. I feel really wonky. Gotta stay focused. She took a deep breath to steady herself. She stood on the platform behind the player’s desk, yet she also felt like a spectator suspended above and off to the side of the scene. She reached down and spun the wheel again.
Pat Sajak and the audience oohed as the flipper caught on the $600 side of the peg and held, narrowly avoiding slipping over to the “Bankrupt” side.
Tate strained to make sense of the puzzle. It read:
_ h e r e’ _ t h e _ _ r e _ _ _ _ e?
Where’s the . . . Tate tried frantically to fill in the blank spaces.
Tate intended to call an ‘S,’ so she was horrified when she opened her mouth and said: “I’ll take an ‘L.’”
Pat Sajak paused, then pronounced: “Yes . . . there’s one ‘L.’”
As Vanna White illuminated the letter, Pat Sajak bought her some time by saying: “It’s a phrase. Spin or solve or buy a vowel.”
Tate hesitated. “I’ll buy an . . . ‘A.’” She couldn’t shake the nauseating sensation of floating just above the floor.
“Yes, there’s an ‘A.’” Pat Sajak seemed amused as Vanna White made another square spring to life. Stumped, Tate could not figure out the last word in the phrase.
Spin or solve, just don’t panic. Tate hesitated. “I’d like to buy a vowel, Pat.” ‘I’or ‘O’? Tate struggled to decide. “I’ll take an ‘I.’”
Again Pat Sajak—and Spirit—smiled upon her. “Yes, there is an ‘I.’ That’s the last of the vowels. Spin or solve.”
Suddenly the puzzle sorted itself out and the missing letters popped into place in Tate’s mind. “Pat! I’d like to solve the puzzle.”
“Please do.”
“Where’s the fireplace?”
Tate struggled up out of the dream just as she was about to be congratulated in person by Pat Sajak. Vanna White’s figure faded away, still happily applauding Tate’s success, and Tate forced her eyes open. The clock read 8:45 a.m. and she felt hungry. She started laughing softly to herself. Well, at least I finally made it to Wheel of Fortune! Wonder how much money I won? As her feet touched the floor, a new thought flashed into her awareness. “Where’s t
he fireplace,” she said aloud. “Yeah! Just exactly where is the fireplace?”
The excitement of her dream quickly gave way to a thrilling idea. The fireplace may not be in the house next door, but it had to be somewhere—she believed without question that no one could possibly have destroyed a work by Leland Howard—and she set herself the challenge of finding it.
Less than two hours later, Tate and Carla walked through the stacks at the library, searching for Cabins & Castles, a book containing a historical overview and records of individual properties in Asheville and Buncombe County, mostly ones constructed prior to 1930. Carla had pointed them in that direction when Tate showed up asking for help in finding information about the house she owned.
“It’s a great resource,” Carla told Tate. “It may have something in it about your place.” She pulled the book off the shelf and they sat down at the nearest table. Carla leafed through the book then turned it toward Tate, who sat across the desk. “Here. This is your place on Maplewood, right?”
Tate looked at the old black-and-white photograph of a fancy house with no resemblance whatsoever to the one she owned. She read the address printed in the caption—her address. “It’s the right address, but it’s not the same house.” Tate read parts of the description in a hushed voice.
. . . a story-and-half weatherboarded house on a high frame basement . . . intersecting gable roof . . . vertical boards in the gables, set inside a flat frieze frame, end in a sawtooth pattern.
“I don’t know what much of this means since I don’t speak Architecture. But this is definitely not my house.” Tate slid the book back to Carla, who tapped the picture of the house that once occupied the lot on Maplewood.
“I wonder what happened.”
“Oh! Of course—it couldn’t be the same house, because mine was moved there!”
“Well, that clears things up.”
“Sometimes I can be dense. I knew the house had been moved, but this book was published before that happened.”
