Final Rights

by Tena Frank

  “Hi, Gampa.” Cally’s soft voice filled the space between them and Leland looked up at her. He studied her face carefully, and Cally worried that he didn’t recognize her. “It’s Cally, Gampa. I brought you brownies just like I promised.”

  Leland turned his gaze to Tate and Dorothy, then back to Cally. Without speaking, he slowly rose from his chair and reached for a hug from Cally. “I didn’t know if you’d come back. I thought it was a dream.”

  Cally wrapped her arms around the frail old man and held him gently. Tears filled the eyes of both as they shared an embrace five decades in the making.

  Dorothy excused herself to break up a squabble between two residents on the other side of the room, and Tate found a seat a discreet distance away, giving Cally and Leland their privacy.

  Cally pulled up a chair close to Leland’s and leaned into him as they talked. Old people develop a particular aroma, often unpleasant, but in Leland’s case, he smelled much like the wood he so carefully worked—a hint of age, yes, but also a sweet, earthy mustiness that at first reminded Cally of hiking through the northwestern forests with Lauren, but then took her back to her childhood. She remembered the workshop, remembered sitting in the old rocking chair, whittling away on little wood scraps Leland provided and being lulled to sleep by the rasping hum of sandpaper on wood as Leland created his masterpieces.

  “I loved the workshop, Gampa. I miss it.”

  Leland continued working on the ornament in his hand. “That was a long time ago, Cally. Best not to remember too much.”

  “I wish I didn’t, but I do. At least I remember as much as I can. Mom took me away and I didn’t understand, never have until just recently. I know a lot about what happened now. And I have so many questions . . .” She waited, hoping Leland would offer answers. “. . . and I want to ask you about . . . Gamma, and . . . and so much. Can I ask, Gampa?”

  “I’m an old man with a broken heart . . .”

  “It hurts you to talk about it, doesn’t it? Oh, I’m so sorry, Gampa. I didn’t mean to . . .”

  “Sweet child . . . you were always such a dear thing. Ellie loved you, we both loved you so much. You were her pride and joy, even more’n Clayton . . .” Leland grasped Cally’s hand and blinked back tears.

  “Don’t talk if you don’t want to, Gampa. I love you and I don’t ever want to make you sad.”

  “Best not to remember too much. That’s what I been doin’ ever since . . .”

  Cally waited quietly, holding Leland’s hand.

  Leland sighed. “. . . well, since Ellie . . .” He could not complete the sentence. “I don’t remember the funeral. I know I was there, but I can’t remember it. Richard Price would know.”

  “Is he that man who lived in the big house near you and Gamma?”

  “Good friend. He took care of me after Ellie . . . I went to his house for a while and then I fell and . . . somehow I ended up here. This is a good place. How long’ve I been here?”

  Cally feared the strain of their conversation was taking its toll on Leland, so she changed the subject. She picked up one of the ornaments he had finished. “These are beautiful, Gampa.” Three had been completed with one more in process. All shared common elements of design while retaining unique features.

  “They’re for Christmas. I carve ’em and the girls paint ’em.” Leland nodded to a table across the room where Cally saw two old women dabbing red, green and white paint on Leland’s creations. Personally, Cally liked them better without the paint, but she kept her opinion to herself; then Leland spoke again.

  “They’re better without paint, but everone wants shiny things for Christmas.”

  Cally burst out laughing. “I was just thinking the same thing! They’re so beautiful with the natural wood colors showing. This one looks like cherry, but those others are something else, maybe birch?”

  “Pine. Some basswood, too, but mostly pine. But that cherry one . . .” Leland picked it up and turned it in his hands, holding it up to the light, sniffing it for the sweet scent. “. . . this one’s for you, just like I promised. See, I don’t forget everthing.”

  “It’s beautiful, Gampa. I love it.”

  “Alls it needs is a clear finish, but wipe it on with a cloth so it don’t drip.”

  “Oh, I remember seeing you do that when I was a very little girl! I’ll do it just like you say.” Even tiny flashes of her childhood, such as this one, filled Cally’s heart with joy. “And I have something for you, too.”

  “You brought me a treat?”

  “I sure did.” Cally opened the package of brownies and Leland peeked in.

  “I thought so. I could smell ’em. Wondered when you’d get around to giving ’em to me.” He chose a brownie with no hard edges, picked it up carefully, inhaled its aroma, then took a small bite. His face lit up in a big smile, his blue eyes sparkled. “There’s cinnamon in ’em—just like Ellie’s!”

  “Yes, I remembered Gamma teaching me that. Is it good?”

  “Did you make ’em?”

  “I had help from the cook at the hotel where I’m staying. We used her recipe, but I added the cinnamon. I haven’t tasted them yet.”

  “Well, you should, and give one to your friend there.” Leland pointed at Tate, who had dozed off in her chair in the sun.

  Cally chuckled. “Do you think I should wake her up? I already did that once today.”

  “I bet she won’t wanna miss out on brownies. Besides, I need to talk to her.”

  Cally approached Tate and called to her softly. “Tate, Gampa is asking for you.”

  Tate opened her eyes and stretched, cat-like. “I was snoozing. The sun coming through the windows here is delightful.”

  “I can see that. You looked quite peaceful.”

  “He’s asking for me? Why?”

  “He wants you to try the brownies and says he needs to talk to you.”

  “Mr. Howard, nice to see you again.” Tate truly enjoyed being around Leland Howard. He’s like the grandfather I always wish I had. Tate’s grandfathers, both of them, had been mean men with abrasive personalities and harsh words for small children who dared approach them. She had learned early on to steer clear of them whenever her parents took her and her siblings for a visit.

  “And you, too, Mrs . . . no, don’t tell me . . .” Leland struggled to recall her name. “. . . Mrs. Martin?”

  “Marlowe. Tate Marlowe. But you can call me whatever you like.”

  “Yes. Mrs. Marlowe. Now I remember. Have a brownie? My granddaughter here made ’em herself!”

  “I know she did, and they smell wonderful.” Tate bit into one of the soft, fudgy brownies and nearly swooned. “They’re even better than I expected!”

  “Why thank you, both of you.” Cally beamed.

  Leland began reciting the chain of events since Tate’s first visit, looking to her for confirmation of each part. “You came here by yourself, then you brought me peanut butter cookies, then you brought me my granddaughter.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Why did you come the first time?” Leland’s directness never failed to catch Tate a bit off guard.

  “Well, that’s an easy question to answer and a hard one at the same time.”

  “Should be easy. What’s hard about it?”

  “I don’t want to upset you again like I did the first time I was here.”

  “You asked about a house.”

  “That’s right.” Tate’s eagerness to get answers to her questions proved difficult to control, but she held back, determined to let Leland lead the conversation.

  “That house I built?” he asked.

  Tate vividly remembered her first meeting with Leland Howard. She had asked about 305 Chestnut Street, not the house he had built, the one she now owned. So she lied. “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  There seemed no alternative but to answer Leland’s questions directly, so Tate continued with the deception, convinced it would eventually lead to some of the answer
s she sought. “I own it now.”

  “You own the house I built for Ellie?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you like it?”

  “Well, yes. But I think it’s a lot different now.”

  “How’s it differ’nt?”

  Leland’s questions felt a bit like an interrogation, but his wavering voice and sad eyes eased her discomfort. “Mr. Howard, I’m not sure how much to say. I don’t want to stir up anything for you that you don’t want to talk about.”

  “I do want. I been fergittin’ much too long. It’s time to remember again.”

  “Well, it’s different in lots of ways. It’s been moved, for one thing.”

  “What do you mean, moved?”

  “It used to be on Cumberland, right?”

  “Yes. We lived at Number 8 Cumberland. In front of the old cabin, the workshop.”

  “That was before they put the expressway through.”

  “What expressway?”

  “I-240. It’s a huge highway. It goes right through where your old neighborhood was and wiped it out. But they moved your house over to Maplewood. That’s where it is now, where it was when I bought it last year.”

  Leland looked befuddled. He put his head in his hands and rubbed his scalp along the hairline, then pulled his palms slowly down over his face, covering his eyes and massaging his temples with his thumbs before looking back at Tate. “They moved my house?”

  “Yes, sir. It musta been a real sight to see.” Tate offered a smile, hoping to ease the shocking information.

  “Yes, it woulda been that!” Leland smiled back, but behind the slight upturned curve of his lips lurked a tightness that Tate read as a combination of disbelief and sadness. Leland reached for her hand, and she pulled her chair closer to him.

  “The workshop—did they move that, too?”

  “I don’t think so.” Tate paused, dreading what she had to say next. She gently squeezed Leland’s hand. “They probably tore it down.”

  Leland began weeping. “I grew up there.” Tate could tell the news landed heavily on Leland.

  Cally sat close by listening intently. “Are you okay, Gampa? You don’t have to talk about this. We can come back another time . . .”

  “I’m okay, Cally.” He breathed a heavy sigh, letting go of the sadness a bit, and turned back to Tate. “How else is it differ’nt? Besides bein’ moved?”

  Tate made a point of speaking softly and slowly, hoping to minimize the impact of her message. “Well, from what I can tell, the inside has been changed a lot, too. The hallway was moved and it has three bedrooms. I think an old back porch was closed in at some point to create the third one . . .”

  “Is that front door still there?”

  Tate’s mouth dropped open and she turned wide-eyed to Cally, who also looked astonished.

  “It has a beautiful door, with an old lock and hinges and scroll work around the panels . . .” Tate could hardly believe Leland himself had broached the topic that had been plaguing her for what seemed like forever—why did her house and the one on Chestnut have such similar doors? She held her breath, waiting for his response.

  “Beautiful, maybe. But a big mistake.”

  “What do you mean, a mistake?”

  “That’s not a story I can tell. I only did one mean-spirited thing in my whole life and that door was it.” Leland hung his head and dropped his hands into his lap.

  Tate and Cally simply stared at one another. Tate shrugged her shoulders, a gesture that said “I don’t know what to do,” and Cally did the same, as if to say “Me, neither.” They waited.

  “You have questions, Mrs. Marlowe, and you, too, Cally. I can’t answer no more of ’em right now.”

  “Oh, of course.” Tate patted Leland’s hand. “We can go. We’ll come back soon . . .”

  “I can’t answer ’em, but Richard Price can. He’ll tell you what I can’t if you want him to.”

  “Are you sure, Gampa?” Cally moved to stand behind Leland, her arms over his shoulders. She bent over and rested her cheek against his hair, then rocked very slightly back and forth, cradling him.

  Leland cupped his hands around Cally’s forearms and swayed with her. “Richard Price’ll tell you. Secrets need to be told sometimes, and now’s the time for mine. You go talk to him.”

  “He’s so tired,” Cally mouthed to Tate. “We should go.” Tate nodded and said her goodbye to Leland, then stepped away as Cally did the same.

  Tate motioned for Dorothy, who had been keeping an eye on them during their entire visit. “He’s exhausted, I think. He told us a lot just now, stuff he’s kept buried a long time. I’m a little worried that it may have been too much for him.”

  “Don’t you worry. We’ll take care of him.” Dorothy looked at Cally as she joined them. “You come back again soon, please. He was so happy after your last visit. I know it means the world to him to see you.”

  “If it means even half as much to him as it does to me, then that’s way more than a world! That’s a whole universe.” Cally reached for Dorothy who pulled her into the kind of embrace a mother gives her child.

  Tate watched, perplexed. How can anyone surrender to another so completely? And Cally barely knows her.

  No one could explain that to her, not even Richard Price. But there were so many questions he would be able to answer, and Tate itched to ask them.

  FORTY-TWO

  2004

  “Oh my god, Cally. That was amazing!” Tate sank into the driver’s seat of the truck and turned the key just long enough to open the windows. A chill filled the sunny November afternoon and it felt invigorating.

  Cally leaned her back against the passenger door and curled up in the seat. “Yeah! Astonishing. Incredible. Unbelievable . . . I guess that’s enough superlatives, don’tcha think?” They both laughed.

  “Do you have any more of those brownies? I need a sugar fix!”

  “Nope. But I could use a strong cup of coffee right about now. Is there someplace close?”

  “I think there’s a little café in a strip mall just up the road.”

  “That’ll do. Let’s go.” Cally straightened herself and reached for the seat belt as Tate buckled up, cranked the key and put the truck in gear. Tate had remembered correctly. She pulled into a parking space at the front door of the coffee shop. With the lunch hour well behind them, the café had only two other customers so they had their choice of seating. They slid into a booth near the plate-glass windows and looked at the menu.

  “Did you see that display case on the way in? Those pies look yummy.” Tate’s mouth watered at the thought of a slice of the pumpkin or the Key lime pies she’d seen.

  “Yeah, I did see them. But I think I’ll go for some of that cheesecake. I can’t believe I’m hungry.”

  While Cally seemed genuinely surprised that she wanted food in the middle of the afternoon, Tate felt long overdue for a snack even though she’d had a brownie so recently. The waitress took their order and within a couple of minutes delivered fresh pastries and steaming coffee.

  Tate took a bite of pumpkin pie and found its rich creaminess satisfying. “Um, this is good. Just what I needed. I know I shouldn’t be eating this, but really, that was an emotional whirlwind of a visit. I need sustenance!” Tate offered this editorial comment in a lighthearted manner prompted by her belief that the best defense is a good offense. It seemed to work, because Cally showed no interest in discussing Tate’s eating habits.

  “Whirlwind is right. He’s a sharp old man, for sure. When we first got there, I thought he didn’t recognize me. He studied me so intently, you know?”

  “I saw that. I think he can’t quite believe you’ve come back after all these years.”

  “Well, he can’t be any more surprised than I was to learn he’s still alive. Oh, Tate. I can’t thank you enough. I don’t think I would ever have found him if I hadn’t met you. I believed they were all gone for so long I don’t know if I’d have even thought to look for him,
really.”

  “Your mom never talked about the people here?”

  “She mentioned her mother sometimes. Nana—that’s what I called her. She’d send cards and presents sometimes for my birthday and Christmas. I honestly don’t know what happened to Mom’s dad. I think he left Nana not long after we went to California. Mom never told me the whole story about anything.”

  “What happened to Nana?”

  “She died a long time ago, fifteen or twenty years, maybe more. I tried to get Mom to come back for the funeral, but she wouldn’t. Of course by that time she was pretty far gone herself, what with the drinking and all.”

  “I’m so sorry, Cally. You’ve had a tough time of it.”

  “Not any more so than most other people. My hunch is you’ve had your own challenges . . .”

  Tate felt the familiar clenching in her stomach, the closing off.

  “. . . I know. You don’t like to talk about it, so I won’t press.”

  The tightness eased. “Well, we have plenty of other stuff to talk about. Richard Price for example. Do you want to go see him?”

  Not only did Cally want to meet Richard Price, she seemed as eager as Tate to go that very afternoon. Tate put in the call and Mr. Price offered the hoped-for invitation. They finished their dessert and coffee. Less than an hour later, the housekeeper escorted them to the library where their host greeted them.

  “I called Forest Glen right after I spoke with you, Mrs. Marlowe. The nurse, Dorothy, I think her name is, she checked with Leland and he did indeed give me permission to tell you what I know. I understand you have a lot of questions for me. But first, I want to hear from this lovely young lady.” He turned his attention to Cally. “You’re Cally, then?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m Leland’s granddaughter.”

  “Oh, I know who you are, my dear. Did you ever get the note I sent?”

  “Note? I didn’t ever get a note from you.”

  “Not from me. The note from Ellie.”

  Cally gasped and burst into tears. She rummaged through her bag, found the note and handed it to Mr. Price. “This one, you mean? You sent this to me?”