by Tena Frank
“You are most certainly welcome to open an account with us, Mrs. . . .?” The assistant manager smiled at her, friendly like, and waited for her to give her name.
“Mrs. Arlen Howard. But I’d like the name on the account to be mine, if that’s possible. Mrs. Mary Alice Howard.”
“Of course it is! Let’s just get this paperwork filled out, shall we?”
Less than half an hour later, Mary Alice stepped back into the sunlight with her new passbook. She opened it and read it slowly, brushing her fingers lightly over the writing where it said “Mrs. Mary Alice Howard” on the line at the top of the first page and “$47.32” in the column provided for a record of the deposits.
“Forty-seven dollars and thirty two cents! In my own bank account!” Mary Alice had never done anything like this in her entire life. She had heard about and seen women stepping out of the traditional roles assigned them and doing outrageous things—dressing in scandalously short skirts, dancing into the night, smoking cigarettes, doing business in a man’s world—she’d heard about these things and while she considered most of them shameful, she also felt exhilarated to have joined the ranks of non-traditional women. Opening a bank account in her own name may seem small by comparison to, say, driving an automobile, but for Mary Alice it would be the greatest departure from convention she would ever undertake.
Her plan was clear. She would make a trip to the bank at the end of every month and have the interest her money earned posted to her passbook. The money would grow and one day she would have something valuable to hand down to the next generation—something in addition to a cherished, cracked sugar bowl.
Mary Alice’s monthly ritual grew over the years. At first, she hurried to the bank to have the interest on her account posted, then rushed back home to hide the passbook away. Arlen never asked her about the money, and she offered him no information about it. She wanted this one thing for herself. Over time, she became more secure in her monthly trips, often stopping for tea or to do a bit of shopping, always after seeing the new amount printed neatly in the “Deposits” column. Mary Alice never took anything out of the account, so the “Withdrawals” column remained empty. By October of 1930, her $47.32 had grown to almost $75.00. Mary Alice could not have been prouder of her accomplishment, which made the fall, when it came three weeks later, all the more devastating.
In November of 1930, more than a year after the national stock market crashed, the collapsing economy flooded Asheville. Central Bank and Trust failed to open for business on November 20, and American National Bank followed suit the next day. Mary Alice’s money simply disappeared. She believed her pride had led to her downfall, and she never again engaged in the world of money. Even when American National reopened its doors and began refunding some money to its depositors, her shame kept her from laying claim to what belonged to her. Even the pleading of her daughter-in-law, Ellie, did not sway her.
“Mother, why just let the money go to waste?”
“A man’s world is not for a woman!”
“Money is not a man’s world anymore. You have a right to what’s owed you!”
“My pride in stepping out a my place brought me shame and regret. I wasted good money tryin’ to git more. I’ll not be doin’ that agin.”
Many versions of this conversation took place between Mary Alice and Ellie over the years until finally Mary Alice gave in. She would not have an account in her name, but she would make her claim and give the money to Ellie to do with as she pleased. It had been meant for the next generation anyway, and now that Leland and Ellie had a child, the time had come. The two women went to the bank together and left with half the money Mary Alice had lost six years earlier.
Ellie took the money as she had promised Mary Alice she would do and opened an account at Asheville Federal Savings and Loan. Following in Mary Alice’s footsteps, she let the account slowly grow until she transferred it to her granddaughter’s name in 1961.
The passbook took its place in the secret compartment along with Ellie’s other valuable possessions, all the things she intended to give Cally one day. Ellie daydreamed about how she would present the gift. Perhaps she would wrap everything up in one fancy package and give it to Cally at her high school graduation. Better yet, she would save the precious items for Cally’s wedding day. Or maybe she would give them to the girl one at a time on ordinary days and special occasions alike, until she had presented all of them—the diamond ring from her mother, the hair comb from her grandmother, the passbook with a tidy sum of money to usher Cally into whatever life she chose and, of course, the note which would shake things up so badly but which would also finally let the truth be known.
She did not know for sure when she would give Cally all these things, but she knew she would see to it they did not go to Clayton. They would absolutely not be thrown away on drugs and alcohol just to appease her son’s addictions. She would make sure they went to someone who deserved them, no matter what it took to do so.
FORTY-SEVEN
2004
Tate decided to take the scenic route to Weaverville, so she headed north on Merrimon Avenue, which wound past a beautiful lake and park before the landscape turned into a smattering of tiny strip malls, family restaurants, tire stores and a variety of other shops that catered to the needs and fancies of the local population. She noted several places along the way that she wanted to visit, including a small Mexican taqueria and tienda, a farmer’s market and a cheese store. Today would not be the day for meandering and poking into new and interesting corners of the city. Today her focus lay entirely on finding the missing fireplace.
Conservation Salvage occupied a small storefront on Main Street in Weaverville. Tate stepped through the door and into another era. There is a particular aroma that heralds the slow passing of time and this placed exuded it. Tate inhaled the heavy fustiness deep into her lungs. Just as pheromones attract potential mates in the animal world, this scent excites the senses of antique lovers and bargain hunters, drawing them into the recesses of tiny shops and huge warehouses alike. Tate understood how one could get lost in the mysteries of a place such as this. At least a dozen old tables filled the shop, their entire surfaces covered with boxes and trays of old doorknobs, rusting hinges, crystals that had once adorned chandeliers and lamps, old tools—many rusting and all obsolete—and countless other artifacts of days gone by. Likewise, the walls held several glass-front display cases filled with salvaged items from another time. However, she did not see a single mantel and her heart fell at the thought that what she came looking for might not be here.
A man behind the counter looked up briefly before continuing his conversation with another customer. “I’ll be with you shortly.”
“No rush. I’ll just look around.” Tate studied the man quickly. Much like the merchandise filling his store, he had an aura of oldness about him. Though more than six feet tall by Tate’s estimation, he stood slump-shouldered and head bent, thus giving the appearance of a much shorter man. Deep creases radiated out from the corners of his eyes and mouth and his thick, dark hair had been slicked back off his face. One chunk had fallen loose and rested against the edge of his black-rimmed glasses, which sat askew on his nose. Tate guessed his appearance belied his real age. No more than 50, give or take a couple of years, I’ll bet. Having summed up the proprietor, she turned her attention to the array of objects on display until he turned his attention to her several minutes later.
“Looking for anything in particular?”
Tate noticed a surprising clarity in his deep blue eyes, which reaffirmed her conclusion about his age. “Actually, yes. Something very particular. I’m looking for a fireplace you would have purchased probably ten years ago or so.”
“Well, that is very specific! Tell me more about it.”
Without a moment’s thought, Tate launched into her story. “I own a small house that was moved to its current location about a decade ago. It used to be on Cumberland Street in Asheville and now it’s
over on Maplewood. There was a fireplace in it when it was originally built, and the man who moved it sent me here. His name is Jim Kitching. He said you bought the mantel from him when they were remodeling the interior of the house.”
The man watched her intently, and she stopped abruptly as she realized he did not need all the information she had given him. “Sorry! That’s probably more than you need to know.”
“No, it’s fine. I have a lot of old mantels in the back. I don’t recall a Jim Kitching, but I buy from so many different people I could never remember all of them. Let’s look around.”
He headed through an opening at the back of the room and into a wide hallway created by crude shelves along each side, which were filled with stacks of furniture, mostly wooden chairs in a bewildering variety of styles. The store front gave the impression of a small shop, and Tate had not previously noticed the entryway to the cavernous warehouse space in the back. Her hopes for finding the mantel were re-ignited. They had just stepped into the warehouse when a tinkling chime from the old-fashioned bell attached to the top of the front door announced another customer.
Tate noticed the proprietor’s dilemma—continue on with her or return to the front of the store. “Seems to be a busy day for you. Is it always like this?”
“I wish it was! I’ll be right back . . . if you can wait a moment that is . . .” The man hesitated, as if worried he would lose one customer by attending to another.
“No hurry. I’ll need some time to look around. If you point me in the direction, I’ll find my way.”
“Are you sure? I can just see to them and come right back.”
“I’m sure. I just want to poke around a bit. By the way, my name is Tate.” She offered her hand and the man shook it gently.
“I’m John. John Hathburn.”
“Nice to meet you, John.”
“Likewise, Tate.” He looked thoughtful for a moment then obviously decided she could be trusted on her own.
“Okay, follow this hall down to the end and take a right. You’ll pass through the hutches and cabinets and then take another right and you’ll find the mantels. There’re probably a hundred or more back there.”
John returned to the front of the shop and Tate headed in the direction he had indicated. A hundred or more. This is going to be a challenge!
As she walked through the conglomeration of artifacts lining the aisles, Tate flashed back on memories from her childhood. A heavy farmhouse table reminded her of a rambling kitchen with a wood-burning cook stove at her great-Grandma Marlowe’s farmhouse. The unforgettable taste of sandwiches made of brown sugar heaped onto homemade white bread slathered with butter that she had helped her grandmother churn the day before jumped into her mind and made her salivate. Passing a china cabinet with peeling veneer, she heard the clink of heavy, cut glass candy dishes and cruets as her other great-grandmother, Grandma Strauss, placed them carefully on the delicate shelves of the breakfront in the cramped dining room after letting Tate hold them and run her tiny fingers over the etched crevices that created snowflake-like designs.
Along with these distinct recollections came the feeling of excitement and curiosity she had felt every time her family visited those precious old women. She freely explored their farms, climbed trees, spied on sows wallowing in mud and nursing piglets and watched a golden carp swim in the water tank where the horse took long draughts of cool, dark water. These images of her early life and dozens of others flashed and flickered through her consciousness and stirred up a deep yearning.
As she turned the corner that led to the collection of mantels, she stopped short and caught her breath. Stacked three or four deep on both sides of the corridor all the way to the back wall stood a dizzying array of fireplaces. “Wow! This could take the rest of the day!”
Tate whispered these words into the stillness surrounding her. A row of horizontal windows placed a couple of feet below the ceiling and caked with decades of dirt allowed thin shafts of sunlight to filter in slanted streaks to the floor below. Specks of dust filled the streaming light and floated about lazily like tiny feathers drifting along on imperceptible currents. As she exhaled, her breath sent them scurrying in fascinating corkscrews and swirls. She recalled exploring Grandma Strauss’s cavernous barn, the scent of fresh hay, the crackling of straw, the creak of the old tractor as she climbed onto the metal seat—and the dust motes scattering frantically as she blew her breath into the beams of light filtering down through the cracks in the roof.
She allowed herself to live there in the memory for a few moments, as a child surrounded by wonder and amazed by her power to make things happen in the world around her. She blew her breath into the air again now as an adult who had grown into her power and also had learned not everything would bend to her will as easily as tiny particles of dust held captive in sunlight. She allowed herself to feel the beauty of innocence and the burden of experience all in the same moment. She watched the swirling vortex she had created and felt a sadness permeate both body and mind. They were all gone now—the people and places that had been her refuge as a child—so she breathed into the pain and refocused on the task ahead.
Tate spent a few moments surveying the dozens of mantels stacked against the walls. She began visually sorting them into groups. Big, small, fancy, plain, older, newer—and as she did so, her plan began falling into place. No need to look at the huge, ornate items constructed of mahogany or teak. Leland would have used wood native to the mountains around Asheville, and he would have designed a mantel to fit his modest home both in size and style. As she looked around, those criteria narrowed her search down considerably. Additionally, it made the search easier since all the oversized mantels hugged the walls and the medium and small-sized ones stood in the first and second rows. Tate did not claim to be psychic, but she often knew in advance when something was about to happen, and she had that sense now. She would find the mantel. It was right here, right in front of her, waiting to be rescued.
She began picking her way through the pieces on the left side of the aisle. She quickly assessed each one, passing up many for their simplicity or shoddy workmanship and looking more carefully at those she thought could have been made by Leland. Several promising possibilities ultimately proved disappointing. She continued her detailed search for close to half an hour, wishing she had the dimensions of the space in the floor where the fireplace once sat and also chastising herself for not having brought along a flashlight. When she reached the far wall, she turned and headed back, inspecting every promising item on the other side. She had nearly returned to her starting point when her heart began pounding rapidly.
Wedged in the second row and half-hidden by the broken specimen in front of it, she spied a dust-covered mantel about the right size and made of what she believed to be cherry. She stepped as close to it as she could, working her toe into a small opening so she could lean in even more. She brushed dirt off the top of the mantel and saw the distinctive color and grain of cherry wood. Inspection of the details along the rim revealed a design reminiscent of the one she had seen on the mantel at the Princess Hotel. She sucked in her breath and closed her eyes, both hands resting on the mantel. This is it. I know it is!
The problem lay in proving her belief. Only one thing would verify her find, and it would be extremely difficult to see. She stepped back and assessed the possibility of moving the mantel out of the tight slot it occupied. That would require clearing the space in front of it and swiveling it out so she could see the side. Just then, John Hathburn returned.
“You could not have better timing! This might be it. I have to see the side of it, down near the bottom. Can you help me?”
“That’s pretty heavy stuff there. I’ll get someone to come over and . . .”
“I’m strong, John. I’m really strong! If we work together we might be able to move it out just a little so I can see the side. Do you have a flashlight?” Tate realized her excitement may sound like bossiness to John. “I mean . . .
oh! I’m just so excited. Can we try to do it ourselves? I can barely stand the suspense.”
“Well, if I can move this one out first . . .”
“I can help! Let’s do it together.” Tate grasped one end of the obstructing piece and began lifting. John’s eyes registered his surprise at her strength, and he quickly took the other end. In moments, they had shifted the first mantel out of the way. Together they worked Tate’s prize out of its position and slid it part way into the aisle, its right side exposed. Tate dropped to her knees and, using the sleeve of her sweatshirt, wiped cobwebs and layers of dirt away.
“I knew it!” Her squeal reverberated through the huge room. “Look!”
John knelt down beside her and looked where Tate pointed. “C-A-T. Looks like someone’s initials.”
“That’s exactly what it is—the initials of someone who will be ecstatic to see this again!” Then Tate burst into tears leaving John to stare at her in astonishment.
“What’s wrong? Did you hurt yourself?” John seemed flustered and fidgeted around her as if looking for open wounds.
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine. You’re bawling like a baby!”
John’s comment startled Tate and she began laughing through her tears, which seemed to confuse him even more. “John, I’m okay. Really I am. It’s just that . . .” She sniveled and wiped away tears. “. . . I can’t even explain what’s going on with me right now, but it’s all old stuff. Finding this just opened so many old wounds and memories, and I’m swirling in them right now. Can I just sit alone for a bit? I’ll come out in a few minutes. Please?” Tate recognized the pleading in her voice and it increased her already extreme discomfort at expressing raw emotion in front of a stranger. She rarely did that even in isolation.
John stood his ground, unwilling to leave a crying woman sitting on the bare floor unattended. “Let me help you up.”
