Final Rights

by Tena Frank

  “Obviously it was published before the original house was torn down,” Carla added.

  “Okay, I know what to do next. I think I know who can help me.”

  “Who’s that?”

  Jim Kitching. I bought the place from him, and my bet is he knows its history. Thanks again Carla. You’ve been very helpful, as usual.”

  “Anytime you need anything, let me know. I’m always happy to see you.”

  “I’m sure I’ll be back. In any case, I’ll let you know what I find out, if you’re interested.”

  “You know I’m interested, Tate.” Carla’s comment hung expectantly in the air, but Tate chose not to address it in the personal way it had been offered.

  “Okay. You’ll hear from me again, then.”

  Tate made two phone calls as soon as she left the library. Cally did not answer, so Tate left a message. Jim Kitching answered on the first ring.

  “Hey, Tate. Haven’t heard from you in ages.”

  “You said if I ever needed anything to call, so I’m calling. I have a kazillion questions about the duplex on Maplewood—the one next door to me.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Well, I know you moved it. It used to be over on Cumberland Street, right? What do you know about the house, Jim? I mean before you relocated it. Like who owned it or anything?”

  “Yeah. The short story is they were going to tear it down when they decided to put the Interstate through the middle of town. I bought it really cheap. Well, me and my partners. The old place on that lot had burned down a long time before that and . . . you know, Tate, this isn’t going to be a short story after all. How about I meet you over there and we walk the property and I’ll tell you what I know.”

  “Great! How about today? I’m renovating the place, and I have lots of questions, like I said.”

  “Well, sure, I guess I can come over today. Sounds like you’re in a big hurry! What’s up?”

  “I’ll tell you when you get here.”

  “Okay, then. I’m out picking up some supplies and I could stop by in about an hour.”

  Tate and Jim stood just inside the door of the apartment. Dave had made a lot of progress. The trim around the new windows in the kitchen area had been replaced. Oak cabinets and sparkling countertops now filled two walls. The dishwasher had been installed along with an up-to-date gas range, large refrigerator, a deep double sink and new lighting.

  Jim looked around. “Jeez. This looks great! You’ve put a lot of work and money into this place.”

  “Whadda ya think? Am I doing it justice?”

  “More than justice. Wish I could of done this when I moved the place here. But we had to make it livable on the cheap. We were working with a loan that required we create affordable housing, so I cut a lot of corners to meet the budget. If it wasn’t essential, I didn’t do it.”

  “Well, that explains a lot, then. When we pulled up the old carpet and vinyl we found these beautiful floors underneath. They’re heart pine.”

  “Yeah, I remember that now. But they had been cut up so bad in some places, we just covered it up.”

  “I can understand why, after seeing what was under the stuff we pulled up. I’m putting carpet back down in the hallway and bedrooms, but I’ve decided to salvage the floor in this room.”

  “That’ll be nice. I hated to put down that vinyl and carpet, but it cost half what it would have to resurrect the wood.”

  “I think it’ll look beautiful when this area is refinished. That’ll happen next week, I hope. Depends on how long it takes to get everything else done so we can begin the finishing up. I hope to have a new tenant in here next month.”

  “What happened to Kristin? Why’d she move?”

  “She was a real trip, Jim. She couldn’t stand me. In fact, most of the neighbors are ticked off because I started moving the old tenants out and fixing these places up. That surprised me, actually. I would’ve thought they’d be happy to be rid of the boozers and brawlers from downstairs.”

  “People don’t like change, even if it’s for the better.”

  “Mazie said basically the same thing.”

  “You’ve met her then?”

  “Sure have. She came over offering sweet tea not long after I moved in, and now we’re buddies.”

  “I’ll have to stop by and say hello. Used to see her all the time when I was here taking care of the place. She’s a sweet thing, isn’t she?”

  “Really sweet. I can only hope I’m as feisty and functional as she is when I reach that age.”

  “So what did happen to Kristin? I’m surprised she left. She grew up in this place and then when her mother remarried, she stayed here with her baby.”

  “Well, I finally asked her to leave. I don’t know how she was with you, but she was really difficult to deal with. Demanding, complaining constantly about one thing or another. She wanted the place fixed up like I’d done with the other units, but she didn’t want to pay more rent. She finally left, but not without leaving a mess behind.”

  “What kind of mess?”

  “Personal stuff, a refrigerator full of moldy food, things like that.”

  “Sorry she caused you problems. She was a pretty good tenant for me, though.”

  Tate trailed along as Jim walked through the apartment, commenting on the work he had done to save the house from demolition, all the planning and preparation, building the new foundation which now housed the downstairs apartment, and the major production of loading the house onto a huge truck and hauling it from Cumberland to Maplewood.

  “Sounds like a lot of work, Jim, but it also sounds like you had a passion for it.”

  “I sure did. I’ve lived here in Ashevull my whole life, except when I went away to college. I hated seeing the old places torn down so they could put that highway right through the middle a town. They did a lot of destruction in the name of modernization.”

  “Well that brings us right to the point of my asking you to come over here today. You know that old place over in Montford they want to tear down? Big house, up on a hill on Chestnut Street?”

  “Yeah, I’ve been seeing that on the news lately. What’s your connection?”

  “Well, this house is actually the connection, though I’ve only recently figured that out.”

  “This place? How so?”

  “This house was built by Leland Howard. He was a master woodworker back in the ‘30s and up until he dropped out of sight after his wife was killed. He’s also the man who owns the derelict place over in Montford. I’m not going into the whole story—it’s way too long and convoluted. If you want to hear it, maybe we could do that over a drink or lunch sometime. What I’m wondering about right now is what changes have been made to this place.” They had finished the tour of the apartment and returned to the open living room and kitchen area. ”What can you tell me about that?”

  “Well, I did a lot of rearranging to make the place more usable. There used to be a doorway there.” Jim indicated the wall with the new sink and stove. “And the bathroom was on the left down the hall. And there were only two bedrooms.”

  “Sounds like it took a lot of work.”

  “Yeah, and I did it all myself, pretty much. Maybe I should a kept ‘em, but I got busy with other things and they took up too much of my time.”

  “You clearly loved them, Jim. I’m glad I bought them from you.”

  “I’m glad you got ’em, too, Tate. You’re doing right by them.”

  Tate brought their attention back to the wood floors. She gestured to the small rectangular depression at the entrance to the hallway. “We have to patch that one spot. I wonder why the boards were cut out there, though.”

  “They weren’t cut out. There used to be a fireplace there.”

  “I knew it! My carpenter said there was probably a fireplace here at some point a long time ago. What happened to it?”

  “Yeah, there was a fireplace there, but we took it out. It was a beautiful old thing, wit
h a slate hearth and a carved mantel. Shame to let it go, but we needed the space, and you don’t want a fireplace in a rental unit, believe me.”

  “So you just ripped it out?” Tate’s voice was edgy as she tried to hide her disbelief.

  “Oh, no, we didn’t destroy it! I would never do something like that!”

  “So where is it?” Tate’s heart raced. It isn’t gone. It may not be here, but it’s somewhere, and I’m going to find it.

  “We sold it to an architectural salvage company, along with the original cabinetry.”

  An original Leland Howard mantelpiece. “What happened to it? Do you know?”

  “Don’t rightly know, but unless someone bought it, it’s probably still at the salvage warehouse.”

  “What warehouse would that be?”

  “Conservation Salvage, up in Weaverville. That guy has every kind of thing you can imagine from the old houses that were torn down.”

  “Jim, I can’t thank you enough. I owe you lunch, for sure. Maybe we’ll have it right here in this apartment once it’s finished. I make a mean turkey and cheese sandwich!”

  “I’ll take you up on that. We’ll have to invite Mazie to join us. I’m gonna stop over there now and say hello. See ya’ around.”

  “You sure will, Jim. Thanks again.”

  Tate dropped down to the floor and leaned against the wall. She closed her eyes and let all the information she’d just learned swirl through her head. She began constructing her to-do list as she sat in the empty, unfinished apartment. I’ll go to Conservation Salvage right now. Maybe the mantel is still there. Please let it be there. Have to call Cally. Need to take her to see the place on Chestnut. What if I don’t find the fireplace? What if I do find it? Will Cally’s things still be in the compartment? Unlikely, not after all this time. She needs a lawyer to get control of that trust. We need to visit Leland again. I’m starving. I need to eat something before I head out.

  She pressed the heels of her hands into her eye sockets and massaged them slowly trying to slow down her racing thoughts. One thing at a time. Lunch first, then Conservation Salvage, and I’ll try Cally while I’m on my way there.

  FORTY-SIX

  1921

  Even though the calendar said Tuesday, Mary Alice Clayton Howard carefully laid out her Sunday-best dress on the bed. With her husband and son at work in the shed behind the cabin, she had privacy and quiet. She warmed a teakettle of water and poured it into the chipped porcelain washbasin, then quickly bathed herself. She took special care with her grooming, smoothing the fabric of her dress after slipping it over her head, cleaning the dust from her only pair of shoes and tucking stray hairs into the bun of coiled braid nestled at the back of her neck.

  Once satisfied she had done all she could to make herself presentable, she went to the cupboard and took out her cherished sugar bowl. A long crack ran halfway down the side, and she cradled the vessel gently so as not to further the damage. The bowl came into the family as a wedding gift to Mary Alice’s great-grandmother. It had been handed down through three generations of Clayton women before reaching her, and each one had treasured it. The last had been Aunt Ida—the only woman to actually mother her—and now it belonged to Mary Alice.

  She lifted the lid and removed a small roll of bills. She spread them out on the table and counted. She still had forty-seven dollars and a few coins, about three dollars less than Arlen had given her when they sold her aunt and uncle’s homestead in the mountains.

  Her husband treated her well. Mary Alice smiled as she clutched the money to her bosom and thought about how easily he had agreed to split it with her right down the middle. No other man she had ever known would have done such a thing. No woman she knew had ever been the recipient of generosity like this from a father or a husband. She had been blessed to find him and blessed with all he provided her—not just this money, but safety and love and a beautiful son, too.

  But the sugar bowl was not a bank and having the money so closely at hand proved to be a great temptation, an emotion Mary Alice deplored and had given into only once. Shortly after the family moved to Asheville, before Arlen had established his business and at a time when provisions had almost run out, she had succumbed and used almost three dollars to stock up on cornmeal, flour, beans, coffee and sugar. She did not feel guilty about the meal, flour and beans. She had used them along with the eggs from her chickens and the preserved vegetables and smoked meat they had brought with them when they moved to town to feed the family until Arlen found steady work. She could even justify the coffee. A pound brewed weak and the grounds used twice would last almost two months, and Arlen loved his coffee. The sugar, though, that was pure indulgence, easily done without by all of them. She should never have spent thirty-five cents to buy sugar. After that misstep, she vowed never to be led into temptation so easily again. It had taken several weeks to settle her mind about what needed to be done, and now she was about to do it.

  Her decision had been hastened a bit by the appearance at her door only days before of her sister, Eulah Mae. Mary Alice did not recognize the unkempt, mumbling creature at first. Then Eulah Mae glared at her and demanded to be let in. “Show some ’ospitality to yer sister, Mary Alice!” she demanded.

  Mary Alice flatly refused. “I want no part a you, Eulah Mae. Go away and don’t come back to my door ever again.” She had not been face-to-face with her sister since leaving for the mountains nearly thirty years earlier, but she had heard about Crazy Eulah and even seen her from afar while shopping downtown a few weeks earlier.

  “Here ya are, livin’ in this fancy house and me strugglin’ fer a bite to eat and a warm place to sleep. Show some compassion, won’cha?”

  “I gladly left ya behind all those years ago, Eulah, and I ain’t about to pick ya back up now. Go away.”

  “Then gimme some money, sister. I bet you got some hidden away somewheres. Up in yer cupboard? That’s whar Ma keeped hers when she had some.”

  “You’ll get nothin’ from me, Eulah Mae.” With that Mary Alice shut the door in her sister’s face and dropped the latch on the inside. And she settled on the details of her plan to put distance between herself and temptation while simultaneously moving her money out of harm’s way—said harm taking the form of her estranged sister.

  Mary Alice took the bills from the table and put them in a hidden pocket in the seam of her dress as she left the house.

  “You off, then?” Arlen stepped onto the porch just as Mary Alice closed the door.

  “I am.”

  “Ya look lovely and determined, Mrs. Howard.”

  “That I am, Mr. Howard.”

  “And yer sure you’ll go by yerself? You’ll not need me to come along?”

  “I’ll not need yer company but I thank ya fer offerin’.” No reason for Mary Alice to say she didn’t want her husband’s assistance, that she eagerly anticipated carrying her business out on her own.

  “I’ll see ya at suppertime then, I s’pose.”

  “And don’ stay too late in that workshop. I’m cookin’ up somethin’ special fer ya.”

  Mary Alice chose the most direct route to her destination. She would make the necessary detours to pick up the few items she planned to purchase on her way back home. She walked briskly up Haywood Street and turned on Patton Avenue to reach the American National Bank building. She stood across the street for a few moments while summoning the courage to enter the lobby where she then waited her turn to see a clerk. She approached the window when beckoned by the teller and spread her money out carefully on the counter.

  “I’m here to open me a savin’s account.” She stood straight and tall, weathered hands clasped tightly at her waist, shoulders squared as if she expected a fight.

  “I can’t help you with that . . .”

  Mary Alice had been building up the courage to carry out her plan for weeks, and she waded into the fray before the teller could finish. “Why not? ’Cuz I’m a woman?”

  “Oh! No, ma’am!�
�� Mary Alice’s unexpected forcefulness flustered the teller.

  Mary Alice studied the young man standing behind the bars of his cage as she read his name tag. “Then why? My money’s no good here, Mr. Meeks? Is that it?” The teller’s face had reddened under her assault, highlighting the clusters of pimples on his flat forehead and broad nose. Limp hair the color of a field mouse hung in a clump over his right ear, having escaped from the slick layer of pomade meant to keep it under control. He wore an ill-fitting suit jacket on his thin, slumping frame. Mary Alice felt a bit sorry for him, but she meant to do the business she had come here to do and he would not stand in her way if she held any sway in the matter.

  “No, ma’am. That’s not it at all.” The boy looked as if he may begin crying, and Mary Alice felt her resolve slipping. “I’m just a teller, ma’am, and a new one at that. This is my first day at the window by myself, so I wouldn’t know how to help you even if they’d let me. You’ll have to see the assistant manager to open a new account.” The teller motioned toward a man sitting at a large wooden desk on the opposite side of the lobby.

  Mary Alice felt the tears welling up in her eyes as she thanked the teller and turned quickly away, the money clutched in her hands. She felt remorseful for having spoken to the young man the way she had. Her mistaken assumption about how to open an account had led to the exchange between them and she felt foolish as a result. Her courage spent on the unnecessary encounter, she now approached the assistant manager hesitantly. He gestured toward the sturdy, leather-upholstered chair in front of his desk, and she quickly sat down.

  “How may I help you?”

  “Is a woman allowed to open a savings account in her own name at this bank?”

  Mary Alice had intended all along to simply present herself as a valid customer like any man would do. Arlen had gladly given her the money and made it known it was hers to do with as she pleased. Why should she not be able to open an account? But she also knew banking was a man’s world. She glanced at the other customers, all men, which proved her point.