Final Rights

by Tena Frank

  Leland learned many things from his mother and father. He grew into a hard-working, trustworthy, reticent man who knew how to hold his feelings close to his chest. Yes, he could be stubborn at times—everyone knew that. But other passions of Leland’s life remained hidden.

  Timber rattlesnakes, though dwindling in numbers, still populate the forests of Western North Carolina. Their distinctive chevron markings make them easily identifiable while still providing excellent camouflage. This allows them to move inconspicuously through their habitat largely undisturbed as they go about their simple lives. Mild-mannered by nature, they avoid confrontation, always preferring an easy avenue of escape if one exists. Once cornered, however, they are fierce. Only the truly foolhardy will fail to back away once the warning rattle sounds, for the timber rattlesnake’s bite is precisely aimed and potentially lethal to the unwary trespasser. The same held true for Leland Howard.

  SIXTEEN

  1944

  Clayton Samuel Howard’s propensity for trouble developed early and reached maturity long before he did. He had been hauled into police headquarters the first time at age 11, after bloodying the nose of Jimmy Boykins, who lived a few doors down from the Howard’s. Jimmy Boykins, the local bully who had been harassing the neighborhood kids for years, made Clayton one of his favorite targets. He humiliated the boy with taunts and teases about his looks. Clay’s good looks would develop as he matured. Until then he was a gangly, skinny kid with protruding teeth, arms too long for his body and raging insecurity, an easy target for any bully. Jimmy pushed Clayton off his bike, causing scraped knees and road rash on Clayton’s right forearm that left a scar. He stole Clayton’s scooter, wrecked it, then brought it back, leaving it broken on the front lawn. The pranks and damages escalated a bit each time until Clayton finally struck back.

  One quiet afternoon, when Jimmy Boykins started taunting Clayton about his clothes, the boy turned quietly away as usual, face reddened with embarrassment at his weakness, tears filling his dark eyes. But instead of slinking away, he picked up a thick, fallen tree branch from the side of the road and walked up behind Jimmy Boykins, who now swaggered along laughing heartily. Without thought or warning, Clayton whacked his tormentor hard on the back of the head. The resounding crack filled the still air and sank into Clayton’s very soul.

  Jimmy Boykins fell face-first to the street, breaking his nose on the curb. He rolled over—groaning, dazed—and looked up. Clayton loomed over him, tree branch raised for the second blow, face a mask of maliciousness, the rage built up over years now spewing out through wild eyes. Jimmy cringed, raising his arms to cover his face, hoping the blow didn’t kill him. He waited. He opened his eyes to see Clayton’s face contorted in a vicious ear-to-ear grin as he slowly dropped the branch and sauntered away.

  Clayton had found his power that day, or rather it had found him. In a perfect world, power is used for good, but Clayton did not live in a perfect world.

  When Ellie and Leland picked up their son from the police station, they were solicitous and protective. They explained to the police in great detail all the grief Jimmy Boykins had rained down on their son, and how they were not surprised he had finally responded. Yes, perhaps he’d responded rather drastically. Yes, they did know Jimmy Boykins lay in the hospital with a severe concussion, broken nose and split-open eye. But Clayton had not hit him a second time when he could have, they argued. He had knocked down the boy who had been making his life miserable. He had done no more than defend himself. Too bad he had used the big branch, but please understand, they reasoned, Jimmy Boykins was three inches taller than Clayton and weighed at least twenty pounds more. Clayton had to make sure he hit him hard enough to knock him down, once he had decided to hit him at all.

  Yes, yes, they would see to it the boy knew what he’d done was wrong. Clayton already showed remorse. They’d give him a good talking to, just as the arresting officer had done. They’d put him on restrictions and mete out the punishment he deserved.

  As they walked home, their young son between them, both Ellie and Leland noticed the difference in how he walked. He stood up straight now, shoulders back, chin raised, facing the world head-on instead of shying away as usual—a good sign, they decided later as they rehashed the grueling day now behind them. A good sign. They were sure of it. Still, it nagged at Ellie that while Clayton seemed contrite, he also seemed smug and proud of himself in a quiet, secretive way.

  Wishes die hard, especially those for a perfect child, those born deep in the fertile soil of a mother’s heart, those fed by love and hope. Ellie’s wishes for Clayton were of such a nature, and she held fast to them.

  Her wishes for Clayton carried her through when she retrieved him from the police department the second time after he had broken three windows in the local grocery store for no apparent reason.

  When the next incident occurred, Ellie reviewed all the wonderful things she remembered from the boy’s infancy—his gleaming hair tinged with red in the sunlight, the big laughing eyes and the fruity smell of his tiny body when she lifted him out of the bath, the joy she felt as he laughed and squirmed in her arms. Ellie tried hard to remember every amazing experience with this boy from the moment of his birth and to squeeze out of her mind all the other things she had come to associate with him—the moodiness, the hard glint in those beautiful dark eyes when someone crossed him, the huddled tenseness ready to explode into some kind of mischief. And after every incident, Clayton became himself again—the sweet boy who loved his mother, a joy to have around.

  Surely that’s all it was—mischief—Clayton’s way of getting even with the world he felt had let him down. And the world had let her child down in some very real ways.

  Ellie knew that at least part of the blame lay with her. Keeping secrets always takes a toll on the ones you love. She had learned that lesson very well over the years.

  She and Leland had forged a decent life. Of course, Ellie had wanted something different for herself, but she had to admit they had created a good existence. Leland provided for his family, though he never pushed himself to the level of success she envisioned for him.

  A fine craftsman, one of the best in the entire region, his work graced most of the fancy homes in town. He held a notable reputation for his fireplace mantels, unique tables, comfortable chairs and a wide variety of one-of-a-kind furnishings. An ambitious man could have turned those skills into a great fortune, but Leland preferred a leisurely pace of work dedicated to meticulous detail. Ambition did not suit him.

  “I’ll get it done when I get it done.” This response to being pressured to hurry up had become Leland’s signature, and it irritated Ellie greatly.

  Leland seemed content to stay in the little log cabin where he had lived with his parents, and then Ellie, since his boyhood. He had finally agreed to build a new house on the front of the property, but it had taken him almost five years to complete it. Ellie had not hurried him to finish the house because it disappointed her as soon as she realized what he had planned.

  Her husband, despite being a master craftsman, had created for her one of the smallest and simplest houses on the block. A boring structure even before completion, it would never be more than the most basic of dwellings. In the beginning, she had tried to sway him to a grander plan, but he would have no part of it. Simple, solid, basic. He would provide his family with that. Pretentiousness belonged to the wealthy, not to simple folk like him and Ellie.

  Simple folk. Ellie associated that description with people who had no aspirations, no gumption. Ellie had once dreamed of graduating high school and heading to the big city. Any big city would do. Having been isolated in the Western North Carolina mountains her entire life, Ellie knew of the outside world only what she read in her favorite magazines and gleaned from her conversations with visitors to Asheville.

  Maybe she would go to Knoxville, or Atlanta, or maybe even New York City. She would find a way to leave as soon as she graduated, and she would go to a place where she
could live a life as big as her imagination.

  Harland Freeman could have been her ticket out of town—at least she thought so on their first and only date. Surely Harland would not want to stay in Asheville. He had big plans for himself, too, and together they could break free.

  When Harland dumped her, Ellie ditched her grand plans. She picked Leland for her husband, married him and left school behind, but she did not give up her dreams. She just modified them. And she kept modifying them over the years to reconcile the chasm between living big and living simple. Her dream for a beautiful house had been transformed into the reality of the inelegant structure where they now lived. She had more space, and even better, she now had her own home since Arlen and Mary Alice chose to continue living in the cabin in the back. Still, Ellie had to resign herself to the house as she had done with so many other things since the day she was married. She made do with less than what she truly wanted.

  At 17 years old, Clayton had become more than Ellie could handle. Yes, a mother could have dreams, but a child had no obligation to fulfill them. This knowledge crushed Ellie, who loved her child deeply. But even she had to admit that her love could not heal his wounds.

  Clay, as he insisted on being called, slipped in and out of puzzling spells Ellie could not understand. In a bad spell, he kept the schedule he preferred, and no amount of limit setting by Ellie or Leland could control him. He continued to go to school, but only because he now held the title of neighborhood bully and school gave him ample opportunity to act out his new role. Even the older and the bigger kids steered clear of Clayton. He had no real friends, only a small group of weaker boys who attached themselves to him to avoid being his target.

  Ellie began noticing small quirks in Clayton’s behavior long before the full-blown pattern had emerged. The compliant, sweet child she knew so well seemed to slip away quietly and in his place Ellie faced a stubborn, demanding and angry version of the boy.

  “Clayton, please . . .”

  “Clay! I keep telling you it’s ‘Clay’!”

  “Okay . . . Clay. I’m just trying to help. Tell me what’s wrong,” Ellie pleaded.

  “Nothing! Everything! Leave me alone, Maw!”

  Ellie cringed. “Please don’t call me Maw, Clay. You don’t like Clayton and I don’t like Maw.” She sought a fine balance between indignation, fear and motherly concern. Her son lay sobbing on the bed where he had hurled himself after bursting through the front door moments earlier.

  “LEAVE ME ALONE! Get out! Get out NOW!”

  His voice took on the threatening tone she had heard before, and it sent her scurrying out of his room, shutting the door as she left.

  Ellie sank into her favorite chair and began weeping. Soon, maybe tonight, maybe in the next day or two, he would come back to her, meek and apologetic. He would beg forgiveness and she would give it, even though it became more difficult each time to do so.

  Once it had been easy, back when he could be found working at her side in the garden or spending hours with her reading, baking and playing games they created just for the two of them. When he wasn’t in school or with her, he could be found in the workshop with Leland, quietly whittling intricate figures from leftover wood and then proudly presenting them to Ellie.

  His shyness came from Leland. He learned at his father’s side how to be still in the presence of others, listening silently to what they said but saying nothing of his own. By the time he reached 6, Clayton could sit in a room with others and all but disappear. While charming behavior in a little boy, it seemed ominous in a brooding teenager.

  And Clayton brooded a lot. “He’s feeling tired,” she would tell Leland when he asked why Clayton spent half the day in bed. “I think he’s coming down with something.” She tried to believe her own explanations, but doubt and worry kept gnawing at her.

  When he beat up Jimmy Boykins, her concern escalated. She watched him more closely, looking for signs of trouble. She found plenty of them and busily went about searching for ways to counteract them. A bout of depression on his part prompted her to bake his favorite pie. His signs of irritation led to her efforts to soothe him. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t. And as he grew older, her attempts became more ineffectual, leaving her feeling helpless and desperate, just as she did at this moment, sitting in her chair listening to the wracking sobs coming from his bedroom. Is it reasonable to remain hopeful when so much of one’s experience points in a different direction? This life question surfaced for Ellie once again, as it often had in recent years when her son returned home in such a distressed state.

  Clayton emerged from his room the following morning sheepish and tousled, still wearing his street clothes. Ellie expected as much. She had been awake most of the night herself while her son wrestled with his demons behind his closed door. He had finally quieted down about 3 a.m. and Ellie had slept fitfully before arising a few hours later.

  “What happened yesterday, Clay?” Ellie blurted out the question even though she had intended to wait until Clayton offered an explanation.

  “I’m sorry, Mom. Really. I messed up again.”

  “How? What did you do?”

  “Really bad this time . . .”

  “Clay, please tell me what happened.” Ellie had seen her son through more scuffles than she could count. She recognized all of his common responses—remorse, indignation, sadness, justification—but this time she noticed something unusual. Fear.

  “You’re scaring me, Clay. Please . . .” Ellie pleaded.

  “It’s bad, Mom. You’ll hate me . . .” She waited. The possibility of hating her son had ceased feeling foreign to her. She just now realized this and wondered when it had happened.

  “I kissed that girl who lives down the street.”

  Ellie puzzled over this admission. Why should a boy of 17 be afraid because he had kissed a girl?

  “You kissed who? Sheila?” The only possibility Ellie could come up with lived two blocks over. She knew Clay had a bit of a crush on Sheila which the girl did not share.

  “No . . . not her.”

  What is he talking about? Who? Why was he so upset last night? Something’s really wrong! Ellie took a deep slow breath, attempting to stem the panic she felt building. Clayton kept his head down, avoiding eye contact.

  “That new girl who moved in a couple months ago.”

  Without warning, Ellie felt her body become leaden and anchored to the floor. At the same moment, her consciousness flew free of its bodily cage, swooped out of the room and down the street to the gate of the house four doors down. There she saw Emily Brown quietly playing in the front yard. She had built a small fort with lawn chairs and a sheet. Under it she sat with her cat and three dolls, having a tea party.

  “That’s a silly game for a 12-year-old,” Ellie mused.

  “What?” Clayton looked at his mother, surprised by the unexpected and seemingly unrelated response.

  Ellie abruptly dropped back into her body and broke into uncontrolled sobs as the full import of what had happened—what her son had done—flooded over her.

  “Clayton! No! She’s only 12 years old!” The resounding smack of her open hand landing squarely on Clayton’s face filled her with loathing and resolve.

  Later that day, Ellie made her way to the Browns’. She apologized to her neighbors on behalf of her son, promised he would never bother their daughter again and begged their forgiveness.

  “Oh, he won’t be coming back here, that’s for sure,” offered Mr. Brown. “I made it clear to him it wasn’t safe.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Ellie, alert to his threatening tone.

  “I mean no disrespect to you, Mrs. Howard. Truly I don’t. But I took your son by the collar when I caught him with my Emily and shook him up real good. I put the fear of the Almighty in him and told him if ever I see him within sight of my daughter, I’ll shoot him dead. I showed him my shotgun so he’d know I mean business. Good day to you, and don’t think I don’t mean what I just sai
d.”

  Ellie had no doubt Mr. Brown would keep his word.

  SEVENTEEN

  2004

  Tate finally arrived at the Princess Hotel the following afternoon, even though she intended to go first thing in the morning. Discussions with Dave delayed her and just when she finished with him, she ran into Mazie again. They chatted for several minutes before Tate began filling Mazie in on what she had learned about Leland Howard.

  “I ’member him, too,” Mazie said. “Not very well, though.”

  “You’re just full of surprises, Mazie!”

  “Well, it was a small town back then. Everbody knew everbody.”

  “I guess so. Tell me about him.”

  “Don’t ’member much, but I know his wife was kilt. Her son did it, or so I remember. Big scandal.”

  “Her son did it?”

  “Yep. High on drugs, I think, or mebbe jus’ crazy.”

  “This is getting to me, Mazie. Only yesterday I learned Leland had a child. His name was Clayton. He apparently died the same day Leland’s wife was killed. I found that shocking, now you’re telling me Clayton killed his own mother? My head might explode!”

  “I don’t know the details, mind you, but that Clayton boy was a hoodlum.”

  “How did he die? What happened to him?”

  “I seem to ’member somethin’ about him killin’ hisself. I just know he died the same day and then Mr. Howard broke down and disappeared not long after.”

  “The more I learn about these people, the more I want to know. It’s starting to drive me a little crazy!”

  “You’re like a dog with a bone, Tate. Can’t let go, can you?”

  “Nope, guess not. I’m gonna keep going until it comes to an end, somehow or another.”