by Tena Frank
Signed: Harland Clayton Freeman December 19, 1940
FIFTY
2004
Neither woman seemed able to speak when Cally finished reading Harland’s note. Until that moment, he had not been a main character in the story Tate had pieced together about 305 Chestnut Street, even though he had built the place. Now everything had shifted.
The world’s tipped sideways. Somehow, Tate understood that Ellie had secured the confession and that it had been a high price for Harland to pay.
Tate watched Cally closely. After placing the note back in the envelope, Cally had stuffed all the items from the secret compartment into her jacket pocket, closed the drawer and stepped a few paces away. She now sat cross-legged on the floor with her back to Tate, rocking herself gently.
Tate stayed put and sat quietly while several chains of thought fought for dominance in her busy mind. Fragments of the puzzle banged into each other and began arranging themselves in appropriate alignment with the other pieces, spreading out in a vast, shifting, three-dimensional tableau. Ellie, Harland, Leland, Clayton, murder, love, desperation, anger, revenge, suicide, doors, secret pacts, facts, conjecture . . . all of them falling into place and fitting together finally into a comprehensible whole. She did not know all the details. Nonetheless, Tate began to understand the saga from beginning to end. But putting it into words . . . how could she possibly do that? Maybe in the end it wasn’t even important. Each of the players had done what they’d done. They made decisions and set themselves on a path. A path that led to this moment. None of it mattered except Cally. And Leland. And the house at 305 Chestnut Street.
And me. I matter, too. At least I should. But why? None of this really has to do with me, does it?
Cally rose and turned to Tate. “This changes everything.” She said this quietly then turned and walked back toward the shop entrance.
Both women took the ride back to town in near silence. Tate drove on autopilot as she rambled through memories from her childhood.
As a child, her family had visited the farms of her two great-grandmothers several times a year. She had been allowed to wander those farms alone, meandering through the pastures and outbuildings, often for hours at a time. During those visits Tate had experienced a freedom and adventure missing from her usual home life.
In Grandma Strauss’ barn, strips of wood nailed to support beams formed a steep ladder up to the hayloft. After scaling to what seemed like a dizzying height, Tate would sink into the scratchy, sweet hay and bury herself, with only her nose and eyes still visible. Lying there, she listened to the rhythm of her own breath, to the chirps and buzz of birds and insects, the creaking of old timbers and the rustling of small animals scurrying through the dark corners of the cavernous building.
Cally’s voice broke through Tate’s reverie as they reached the outskirts of Asheville. “You seem really far away.”
“I was.” Tate sighed, but did not speak.
“Away where?”
“My grandma’s house. Grandma Strauss, actually my great-grandmother. I was at her farm, laying in the hayloft in her barn. It was one of my favorite places.”
“What did you like about it?”
“Pretty much everything. The smells were amazing. Cow manure, decaying straw, weathered wood, old leather yokes and saddles . . .”
“You liked the smell of manure?” Cally’s question signaled her disbelief.
“Well, yeah. I did. I know that sounds weird, but fresh cow manure has this pungent, earthy aroma that has a way of anchoring you to the land, if you know what I mean.”
“Sounds yucky, but it’s obviously a fond memory for you. What else do you remember?”
“It’s odd. I don’t have a lot of memories about my childhood, just some snapshots of different places and events. I remember the outhouse. I clearly didn’t like that! It was spooky to have to use it for a bathroom, especially at night. But she had cows and a horse, pigs, barn cats, a huge garden. The old water trough for the horse had a big fish swimming in it. It was a magical place for a kid. You learn a lot about life being on a farm even briefly, and we visited often.”
Cally shifted in her seat a bit and seemed to visibly release some of the tension she had been holding ever since Tate had picked her up earlier that afternoon. “I’ve only lived in Asheville and Los Angeles. In fact, I don’t remember ever being on a farm. There was a neighbor near Nana’s house here in town who had chickens. I got to help them collect the eggs once. That was fun.”
“Well, then, sounds like a trip to a working farm should be in your future, Cally.”
“I can’t think about going anywhere just now. I’m exhausted. Tell me more about your grandmother’s farm, please.”
Tate thought about Cally’s request. Should she tell more of her pleasant memories from childhood or dip into the tightly held stories buried in her past? Tate did not easily open herself to others, but the possibility of doing so now, with Cally, kept creeping into her awareness. And after the revelations Cally had just endured, Tate’s secrets seemed small in comparison, but they loomed large for her.
“What if I told you about something awful I did once? Would you hate me?”
Cally had not been fully engaged in the conversation until now. She sat up straight and stared at Tate. “I would love to hear about it, though I can’t imagine you ever doing anything awful.”
“We all have a dark side, Cally. Or at least memories of things we wish we could take back.”
“Yeah, I guess we all do.”
“I usually learn from my mistakes and move on. I don’t hang onto things much, you know? But there’s this one thing that happened at Grandma Strauss’ farm that I’m still ashamed of to this day.”
“I want to know all of you, Tate, not just the good part, which is what I see all the time. Tell me, please.”
“Well . . . I . . . when I was little I . . .” Tate cleared her throat and her grip tightened on the steering wheel.
Cally waited quietly for Tate to continue.
“When I was maybe 9 or 10, we were visiting Grandma Strauss. I went out to the barn like I often did. There was a new litter of kittens, maybe a couple of months old. We weren’t allowed to have pets at home, and I wanted to play with one of them really bad. Barn cats are only semi-tame. I’d tried to catch one many times before, but they always got away. That day, I saw one playing with a half-dead mouse, and I pounced before it could scramble out of reach.” Tate could feel the lump growing in her throat and the heat of shame rising up her chest and covering her face. “This is hard to tell.”
“Take your time.” Cally had never seen Tate so upset.
Tate took a couple of deep breaths before continuing. “So, I grabbed this little kitten and held her tight. She was a gray tabby, really tiny, and so cute. I remembered someone telling me that cats always land on their feet, and I wanted to see if that was true. I threw her up in the air as high as I could and it was just like they said. She flipped in the air and landed right-side up. I found this thrilling. As soon as she hit the ground, I grabbed her and threw her up again, even higher.”
Tate glanced quickly at Cally. She saw in her friend’s face anticipation and concern—and enough acceptance that she felt willing to continue.
“I think the kitten must have been scared nearly to death and disoriented, because this time she landed squarely on her nose and it began bleeding. I thought I had killed her and I tried to pick her up again. I think I wanted to cuddle her, you know, rock her and soothe her the way a mother does an injured child. But she got away, and all I saw were the little drops of blood she left behind.” Guilt coursed through Tate’s body, transporting her back to the instant the kitten had hit the floor of the barn and sprinted away. She tried unsuccessfully to stem the tears forming in her eyes.
Cally touched her arm gently. “That must have been awful.”
“Way past awful. I don’t know which was worse—feeling sick that I had hurt an innocent animal or being
terrified that my dad would find out and I’d get a whipping.”
“You got a whipping?” Cally seemed shocked.
“No, not that time. He didn’t find out about the kitten. I don’t think anyone did. I snuck back out the barn a couple of times to look for her, but I never saw her again.”
Cally did not ask about the whipping. Instead, she let Tate finish her story. “Do you think the kitten died?”
“Probably not. At least now, as an adult, I imagine she just got bruised and more than likely healed just fine. Every time I remember that day though, I still get this sick feeling in my stomach, this overwhelming feeling of shame and guilt, just like I had in that moment. I’ve never told anyone about it before.”
“Thank you for telling me, Tate.”
“You don’t hate me? Think I’m an awful person?”
“You were a kid. You were as innocent as that kitten. You didn’t intentionally hurt her.”
“No, it was definitely not intentional, but that didn’t change the impact on the kitten. I’ve carried that lesson through my whole life.”
“It made you a better person, I think.”
“I hope it did, but I’m not always so sure.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I don’t intentionally go around hurting people. I learned that day to think about what I do and that my actions may impact others in ways I can’t predict. But I also believe other people are responsible for how they feel about something I may have done that they find aggravating.”
“I’m not sure I follow. Give me an example.”
Tate thought for a moment before answering. “Okay, so say I’m having a really bad day. I’m in physical pain or I’ve just gotten some distressing news . . . something like that. You call me up and I answer and snap out a greeting that oozes with my frustration or whatever it is . . .”
“Okay.”
“. . . and you don’t understand why I’m snapping . . .”
“Yeah . . .”
“. . . well, a situation like that could go in a bunch of different directions. You could assume I’m having a bad day and ask me what’s wrong. You could assume I’m angry at you and you could get angry right back at me. You could take it as a personal slight and silently add it to the list of grievances you’re collecting against me. Or any number of other responses, right?”
“You think I’m collecting grievances?”
“No, of course not. Maybe once you’ve known me for longer you might. I hope not, but . . . people do collect grievances, don’t they?”
“Okay, I see what you’re saying . . .”
“So, all I did was express what I was feeling in the moment, unfiltered. You hear what I say, how I say it, and you make an assumption about what it means to you or about you. And if you take it personally, you may get annoyed with me and then blame me for upsetting you. But if you do that, it really isn’t the result of what I said or did, it’s the result of the story you made up about it and what it means to you.”
“You really believe that?”
“I really, truly do.”
“But you snapped at me for no reason. Hypothetically.”
“See, that’s just it, Cally. I snapped. I didn’t snap at you in the sense of targeting you with my bad mood. I just expressed my raw feelings and you happened to be the one who heard them. If I hadn’t answered the phone in this scenario, or if you hadn’t called, or if someone had knocked on my door unexpectedly . . . it could have been anyone or no one who heard that expression of whatever I was feeling. I didn’t do anything other than not greet you in the friendly way you would have liked me to.”
“So what if I said that to you? ‘Tate, you didn’t greet me the way I wanted you to.’”
“I would recognize the truth in your words and apologize. And I probably would explain and beg your forgiveness!”
“So no matter what happens, it’s not your fault?”
“No, that’s not what I’m saying. Sometimes I do things even when I know they’ll come to a bad end, or when I should be aware of that possibility. Still, I do them anyway. And if that’s the case, I take responsibility. Like this afternoon. You made it clear you wanted time to yourself, but I talked you into going to the salvage company with me.”
“But I’m glad you did. Now I am, anyway.”
“But you didn’t want to go, and I knew that, and still I pushed my agenda. That was putting my needs above yours. We all do that, and sometimes, like this one, it works out okay. But if it hadn’t, I’d be apologizing all over the place to you right now for having pressured you into going.”
“I’m glad you pushed me, Tate.”
“Okay, thanks for that. But there are other times when I do something and realize after the fact that I should have thought it out better first. I hurt someone, and it wasn’t intentional, but it still resulted from my actions. I own it when I do something like that, and I try to make amends.”
“Well, I think I understand better than when we started this conversation. You don’t intentionally do hurtful things most of the time. When someone gets upset and you didn’t do anything wrong, you don’t let them put it on you. You sometimes are pushy and you own it. And sometimes you should think more before you act. Have I got it right?”
“Pretty close! And I don’t kowtow to many of the social conventions about being nice and sweet and all that crap, either.”
Cally noticed the tight smile beginning to curl the corners of Tate’s mouth. “So, I guess we’re done being serious, right?”
Tate’s smile morphed into a grimace. “Yeah. I can only handle self-disclosure in small doses, and this has been a really big one!”
“Thanks for opening up to me some. It helps me to know you better.”
“I trust you in ways I don’t trust many people, Cally. That says more about you than it does about me.”
They lapsed back into quiet for the remainder of the trip. Tate thought about how easily Cally had understood the point she was making about one person being held responsible for another person’s feelings. If how one feels is the result of what she thinks—and Tate had no doubt at all that was the case—then what one feels about any particular situation lies directly in her own control. Change your thoughts and you change your feelings. Change your feelings and you gain control of your life.
Tate had done just that with years of practice, and she found it puzzling that so many people chose to hang onto the belief that they would be happier if only other people treated them the way they wanted. In Tate’s world, if you don’t like how someone treats you, you simply stop hanging out with them. Undoubtedly, that accounted for her shortage of close friends.
Tate eased the truck into the crowded drive in front of the Princess Hotel. “How are you doing, Cally?”
“I can’t really tell. I’m pretty much of a mess, I think.”
“That trip to Conservation Salvage was an emotional roller coaster for me. I can barely imagine what it was like for you.”
“And that’s only part of it.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. That was the end of what had already been a very full day for me.”
“Oh, right. You never told me what you did today.”
Tate expected an answer that did not materialize. She waited, her anticipation building steadily. “Cally?”
“I went to that house today, Tate. I know time is running out.”
“Oh! Wow!” The news rocked Tate to the core. “And then I forced you to find the fireplace and its contents! I’m so sorry, Cally.”
“Actually, it’s okay, Tate. I wouldn’t have chosen it, but I’m glad I . . . I’m glad you found it and took me there. It’s just that . . . I don’t know . . . I always imagined somewhere in the back of my mind, in my heart, all the good things Gamma left for me. It never occurred to me that I’d find them after so long and . . . and it wouldn’t be only good things. That note was so . . . shocking. I’m not sure . . .” Cally trailed off into thought
.
“Not sure of what, Cally?”
“I’m not sure . . . who I am. I guess that’s it. Leland is not my grandfather. This man named Harland is. And what he said in that note. Why would he say all that? And why would Gamma hide it away for me to find someday?”
Tate felt herself gearing up to come to Cally’s rescue. She would reframe the situation, point out that Leland was, in fact, the grandfather Cally had known all her life and maybe he hadn’t been Clayton’s biological father, but he had been his real father, and he had been and still was a wonderful grandfather to Cally. She felt all this gathering and about to burst out of her mouth in a rush when she remembered that sometimes the kindest thing she could do for another person was to let them feel bad. Allow them the time and space and support to move through their feelings at their own pace. So she sat back, took Cally’s hand in hers and allowed her friend to cry.
Several minutes passed before Cally spoke again. “You’re not going to believe this, Tate. I don’t . . . but I want to do one more thing today. Actually, two more things.”
“Really? What?”
“Well, I haven’t eaten since Dawn fixed me breakfast this morning, and I’m starving. So I’d like to get some dinner. Something quick and easy. And . . .”
“And . . .?”
“I want to see Gamma’s house. Your house.”
FIFTY-ONE
2004
