by Tena Frank
It did not occur to Harland that the dead are indifferent; the irony escaped him that he chased into death that which had eluded him in life. He could think only of how visitors to the cemetery would see his head stone and know he had been a wealthy and important man.
He commissioned his headstone and revised his will, an ironclad document that could not be challenged. His fortune would be used exactly as he intended after his death. He bequeathed $5,000 each to three local charities, ensuring his name would appear on the wall along with other major benefactors at organization headquarters. Everything he had accumulated during his troubled lifetime would go to good causes, but not all of them charitable. Harland left his mansion, his dream, to the one person who would want it the least, the one person who would recognize the gift as the insult and burden he intended it to be. Along with a sizable trust fund to ensure the upkeep of 305 Chestnut in the decades to come, Harland transferred his house and all his personal belongings to Leland Howard.
Harland thought about his life and how he had expected it to be different. I’m not a bad man. Even if spoken aloud, the thought could not ward off the nagging suspicion that he was, indeed, a bad man.
I’m a go getter. I’m determined and I persevere. That doesn’t make me bad. It gave Harland little pause to acknowledge he had no friends or family. He had convinced himself long ago that he preferred being alone in the world. It freed him of having to make compromises and of dealing with someone else’s need for attention or comfort. Harland didn’t even have pets. He lived in his mansion on the hill on Chestnut Street as a solitary man, often padding around his library at all hours of the night. Of course he would never do such a thing, but if it pleased him to do so, he could even leave his socks and underwear on the floor of the bathroom with impunity—no one would speak a word of it to him.
A cadre of servants met his personal needs. The maid kept the house spotlessly clean. The cook prepared sumptuous meals for him. The gardener maintained the impressive landscaping around his property. A man needs only this and a healthy dose of respect and admiration—at least to Harland Freeman’s way of thinking.
Harland’s house had been completed close to on schedule, and he had moved in on a beautiful autumn day in 1941. The idea for his inaugural party began to form even before the contractors finished the last touches, so while he settled into his mansion, he busied himself with planning the event as well.
Barely two months later, he fussed with the final details prior to the arrival of his guests. Custom-designed invitations printed on parchment had gone out to more than 100 of the most prestigious businessmen in Asheville. RSVPs had arrived in large batches to the surprise and delight of the host. Almost 160 people would soon fill the magnificent rooms, and he expected they would all be quite impressed.
The Christmas decorations rivaled the best he had seen anywhere, with dozens of candles gracing the mantelpieces and tables. Opulent garlands of holly, mistletoe and evergreens covered every available banister inside and out, leaving openings at the newel posts so the intricate carvings in the wood could be admired. The sweet aroma of cinnamon and apple joined that of clove-studded oranges, filling the rooms and wafting out into the mild December night.
A ten-foot Christmas tree stood in the front window, glorious and gleaming with hundreds of tiny lights and one-of-a-kind ornaments. Harland didn’t even like Christmas trees, but to omit one at a holiday party would be a social error of enormous magnitude. This event heralded the inauguration of his architectural masterpiece, and it had to be perfect. He spared no expense or effort to ensure his guests would praise it as the best party of the season.
The incident at Pearl Harbor barely a week earlier threatened to quell the festiveness of the event, but Harland would not change his plans nor lower his expectations simply because a war hovered on the horizon.
As the first guests reached the entrance, Harland took one last look around. He had built his crowning glory. It would quickly become his shame and, ultimately, his undoing, but as he surveyed his estate in that brief moment of joy, probably the only true joy he had ever experienced in his life, he found no hint of what loomed ahead. Moments later, he immersed himself in the prideful celebration of his new home.
“Lovely place, Harland.”
“Beautiful, what you’ve done here.”
“Exquisite!”
“A masterpiece.”
The compliments flowed easily as the guests arrived, and Harland’s pleasure nearly overwhelmed him.
“Thank you,” he effused. “Thank you for coming.”
“Oh, it’s not that grand, is it?” he would say, assuming what he meant to be a humble attitude.
Most of the guests willingly put aside the destruction in the Pacific in favor of more comforting topics, and when the conversation inevitably turned in that direction, someone, often not Harland himself, would redirect it. They all seemed to be having a good time. Some of them chatted easily with him and seemed genuinely interested in what he had to say. Others smiled graciously and complimented him on the food, the cocktails, the furniture and the garden.
Harland floated from room to room engaging in social chit-chat with his guests. At one point, he passed the door to the drawing room. A small group of people had gathered there, talking about the house. He stopped, just out of sight, to hear what they were saying.
“Well, the place is quite grand, you have to give him that,” said Constance Ryland, begrudgingly.
“Yes, I suppose you do. You know Smith’s firm designed the place,” said her husband.
“Yes, I know,” chimed in another female voice, “but I heard he insisted they add some elements of his own design.” Her tone suggested that had not been a good idea.
“Well, yes, and some of them work quite well, I have to admit,” offered another.
Harland could not always tell who said what, but he beamed and leaned in a bit closer so he wouldn’t miss a thing. He wanted to savor this night for a long time. He had sought recognition like this for most of his life. Tonight, it had finally arrived, and he reveled in it.
“That front door is quite something, don’t you think? He made a point to show it to me earlier. He’s obviously very proud of it, but it’s rather ridiculous.”
“What do you mean?”
“The Baroque design is totally out of place. Very ostentatious for a house here in Montford.” Harland recognized the speaker in this case. Thomas Bristol was a local architect of note, and Harland had meant for him to be impressed by the grand door he had designed and which Leland had created exactly to his specifications. Harland pressed against the wall and listened closely as Bristol continued.
“It’s fairly common in the Baroque style to use a pediment, and there are many different styles. Freeman added a swan’s neck design which looks rather feminine coupled with those huge iron hinges and the lockbox. And there’s the silly inscription he added.”
“What inscription? I didn’t see it.” Harland could not place this female voice.
“It says ‘A man’s home is his castle!’ How trite is that?” Harland felt a bit nauseous when he heard the guffaws and tittering coming from the room.
“Apparently he wanted a one-of-a-kind door, and he surely created that!” Bristol finished his monologue with a flourish.
“It’s not really one-of-a-kind, though.” Harland recognized the voice of Constance Ryland, who now spoke for the first time. “I noticed the door when I arrived,” she said, “but it’s not unique to this house.”
Harland froze. What could she possibly mean? He had extensively researched door styles and used what he learned to create an exact design. He had drawn it out himself on paper and given it to Leland.
“Really?” said her husband.
“Yes, really,” Constance continued. “I visited Ellie Howard a few days ago. Her husband recently put a new door on their house. The design is very similar. I’m not fond of the one on this house. It’s too rough and boastful, but the one
on Ellie’s house is graceful, more finely rendered, and it doesn’t have a pediment crowning the door. It’s actually quite beautiful. But then I’m not an expert.”
Harland gasped and went numb. His glass smashed to the floor. He became dizzy and lightheaded and grabbed the door jamb in an attempt to steady himself as the group came rushing out into the hallway. He knew he had gone deathly white, and his body seemed to be collapsing in on itself. He could barely remain standing.
“Are you all right, old fellow?” Mr. Ryland took his elbow to steady him.
“Yes . . . I think so . . . maybe I just . . . yes . . . I’ll be fine.” Harland reeled with the knowledge of Leland’s betrayal.
“Really, old man, perhaps we should call for help . . .”
The women gathered in a huddle near him and made suggestions.
“Get him some water . . .”
“Loosen his tie and cummerbund . . .”
“Maybe he needs a brandy . . .”
The men supported Harland and led him to the midnight blue velvet settee he had procured from the same company used to supply furniture for the prestigious Kenilworth Inn. He sank onto the sofa and quickly grabbed his chest. It had just occurred to him he might be able to convince them he was having a mild heart attack. He rallied all the focus he could.
“I think I’m okay,” he said. “Just some palpitations. Nothing serious, I’m sure.”
“You look a fright, man, like you’ve had quite a shock.”
“No, just some palpitations. I’ve been seeing my doctor about them just recently,” Harland lied.
“We’ll call him. Who is your doctor?”
“No need,” said Harland. “I just need to rest. This has happened before. I just need to rest.”
He persevered, and the men helped him up to his room, Harland feigning weakness and exhaustion all the way. They brought him a brandy and saw to it he settled in comfortably. He requested their assistance in informing his guests the party should continue in his absence.
The men finally left him to himself and he sat alone in his opulent bedroom, vacillating between rage, disbelief and mortification.
How could Leland have done that? What would possess him to make a door for his little shack like the one he made for Harland’s stately mansion? Leland could not help but know an entrance like that was completely out of place on a working class bungalow sitting at the edge of the commercial district.
He continued to steam and brood while his guests slowly drifted out, eventually leaving the remains of the party behind. He had a vague awareness of the help cleaning up and letting themselves out. Finally he sat alone in the house. He imagined retribution, what it would look like, how good it would feel. He would sue Leland and ruin him. He would confront him face-to-face and beat him to a pulp. He would broadcast across town the truth kept hidden all these years and everyone would finally know. Harland knew he would never do that, add to his own shame in such a way, but he would find a means of landing a fatal blow to Leland. There must be a way, something so unthinkable it would make Leland suffer as he himself now suffered.
As he rambled through various scenarios, it suddenly occurred to him why Leland had done what he had done. And as much as Harland hated Leland for it, he knew he had deserved it. He did not accept it and he would surely find a way to retaliate, but he understood it, and in that same moment, he understood Leland had finally beaten him. His unassuming, self-effacing, plain and simple, much despised cousin had won.
Leland had transformed his precious and beautiful creation—his castle entrance—into something ugly and spiteful, just as Harland had turned his own creation—the innocent child—into a tool to once again manipulate Ellie into giving him what he wanted! A fleeting moment of self-loathing flooded over him, then thankfully passed, and he resolved himself to getting his revenge regardless of his own complicity in the matter.
Harland’s chance to confront the issue came a few days later when he cornered Leland at the hardware store.
“How dare you, Leland Howard! You intentionally humiliated me.”
“What do you mean?” Caught off guard, Leland instinctively cringed as he turned to face Harland.
“I know what you did. Someone mentioned it at my party last week. You stole my idea for the door and put the same design on your pitiful little place.” Harland loomed over Leland, fists clenched.
Leland mustered as much forcefulness as possible. “I take strong exception to your tone, Harland. Step back!”
“Not until you make a public apology! You’ll not treat me with such disrespect and get away with it.”
“You’ll get no apology from me. I did the work exactly as you requested. You had no complaints when I finished the job.”
“But you copied it! I wanted something unique, and you deprived me of that!”
Leland stood his ground. “Actually, Harland, I didn’t copy your idea exactly. My door is a much better creation than yours—more artistic and finely done, more refined.”
“You bast . . . you fool! You’ll pay dearly for this, Leland, I promise you.”
“Well, I guess I can rest assured you’ll never again manipulate my wife into convincing me to work for you.” An unfamiliar boldness had taken hold of Leland, and he seemed pleased as Harland’s face flushed a deep crimson.
“You . . . you damn fool! You impudent bore! I tell you, Leland Howard, you’ll pay dearly for what you’ve done. You wait and see!”
With that, Harland stormed out, leaving Leland to wonder what kind of revenge Harland had in mind. Lacking the imagination of a man like Harland, a man who had felt thwarted his entire life, Leland’s idea of the impending revenge fell astonishingly short of its reality.
For almost two months following his last conversation with Leland, Harland worked diligently to finalize every detail of his plan. Now only one act remained to carry out his elaborate scheme. He carefully positioned the wicker armchair with its thick cushions covered in royal blue duck cloth before his massive front door and settled into it. A strange mix of dread, excitement and self-satisfaction caused him to shudder as he placed the pearl-handled pistol into his mouth and quickly pulled the trigger. Blood and brain exploded out the back of his skull and splattered against the door. When the police finally arrived, the hand-tooled crevices of the door had soaked in the stain of Harland’s short and pitiful life.
TWENTY-SEVEN
2004
Cally strolled down Haywood Street and stopped at nearly every window, peering in at the goods on display. Maybe I’ll take weaving classes. The idea captivated her as she studied the huge loom in the window at Earth Guild. Pausing in front of Mobilia, just down the street, she allowed herself to imagine making a home in Asheville. That white leather sofa would be great in a big open room with hardwood floors. Totally impractical. I want a dog . . . and maybe a cat, too. White furniture will never work. That contemporary look doesn’t suit me anyway. She thought of Laurel. Maybe if Cally stayed and her happiness returned and she didn’t work so hard all the time, Laurel would come and join her. She breathed into the feeling of loneliness enveloping her. I’ll be all right. I just need to keep moving forward, not backward.
She stepped into the recessed entryway of the store to get a better look at a table in the back. Something caught her eye and she looked down at the golden letters embedded in the floor. They jumped out at her.
J. C. PENNEY
COMPANY INC.
Cally gasped as she flashed back to being a very young child tracing those letters with her little fingers while her mother urged her to hurry up. The next day Cally would go to school for the first time, and her mother had agreed to buy her the shoes in the window at Penney’s. Cally’s fascination with the letters in the smooth floor quickly subsided in favor of the coveted red shoes.
The childhood memory had taken Cally completely by surprise. Until that moment, she felt like a visitor in Asheville, an interested tourist just like the hundreds of others enjoying the sh
ops housed in the beautifully restored downtown. She sat on the bench outside Mobilia and willed herself to remember. Everything looked so different now, but the old department store helped her gain her bearings.
This used to be her neighborhood. Even as a little girl she roamed through town by herself, and she had spent many afternoons meandering home from school by way of the old shops on Haywood Street. She knew all the nooks and crannies back then, but most of them had disappeared or become unrecognizable. The stores she visited today had been reclaimed from the ruins of a defunct commercial center that had come close to being lost forever once the major businesses fled to the shopping malls on the outskirts of town. That had occurred after Cally had been spirited away by her mother long ago.
She stopped for tea and a scone at Malaprop’s. She remembered this building. It once housed the Asheville Hotel, and she could still bring up the smell of the cigar-smoke-filled lobby. She bought scented candles and a yummy body wash at Sensibilities, imagining a long relaxing bath when she got back to the hotel.
Continuing down the street, she came to an abrupt halt in front of the library. When did this happen? She looked at the name on the building—Pack Memorial Library. She remembered that name from her childhood, but not this building. She stepped into the entrance and paused before continuing into the library itself. I know I have it here somewhere. I always keep it with me . . .
Cally fished around in her bag and pulled out the pouch containing all her membership cards. Why do I have all this stuff? I rarely use any of it! Finally, tucked away in a protected slot with a frequent flyer card from a long-gone airline, Cally found what she wanted. She had few mementos from her childhood in Asheville and she cherished them all equally. One was the tattered library card she pulled carefully from its hiding place. Clasping it close to her heart, she stepped across the threshold.
After more than an hour of rummaging through the library, she decided to head back to the hotel. She had enough reading material to keep her busy for a few days. The eclectic mix included an old classic, My Antonia by Willa Cather, the most recent Harry Potter installment and a book about the history of Asheville. When her turn arrived, she approached the counter hesitantly, clutching her library card. I hope this still works. I doubt they let strangers check books out.