by Tena Frank
He took the tattered old paper from her and turned it over delicately in his hands, but he did not open it. “Yes, this one. I found it after . . . well, you know. I didn’t know what happened to you. I gave it to your mother’s mother and hoped she would send it to you. I never knew if you got it. I’m glad you did.”
“I didn’t know where it came from. I only found it recently, after my mother died. She had it hidden away with some other keepsakes. Will you tell me where you found it, how you found it?”
A pained expression filled Richard Price’s face. He leaned forward, using his carved walking stick for support. “After Ellie was . . . after she . . .” He paused, tears forming in the corner of his eyes. “. . . after it happened, I brought Leland here. He was devastated, could barely speak, wouldn’t eat . . .”
“He said you took care of him . . .”
“As much as he would let us do, we did. Part of that was to clean up the house, his house. He never went back there, you know.”
“I didn’t know. . .”
“Of course, how would you? Well, I went to clean up the house, put things in order. I found the note tucked under the pillow on the bed. I knew Ellie had written it, and I think she had done it just before she died. So I figured it was important to her that you get it.”
“Oh, I had that same feeling! Somehow I just knew she had written it in her last minutes!” Cally barely controlled her tears.
“So it did mean something to you. Good.” Richard Price handed the note back to Cally.
“You never read it? You don’t know what it says?”
“Certainly not. It was intended for you, not for me.”
“Mr. Price, it means more than I can say.” Cally choked back the emotions flooding over her as she read Ellie’s last words aloud. “I think it refers to the old fireplace in their house. It had a secret compartment, and she kept things in there, things she said were just for me.”
“Ah, yes. Leland is fond of his secret compartments. He put them in most everything he built. Your friend here knows about them, too.” He gave a nod in Tate’s direction.
“And I love them! Can I show Cally the desk?”
“Please do. I’d join you but I’m too unsteady on my feet. Remember how to open it, do you?”
“I think so.” Tate took Cally to the desk and after some initial confusion and a couple of hints from Richard Price, she revealed the secret compartment.
“Oh, that is so incredible!” Cally clapped her hands gleefully.
“You know, Cally, I think that desk belongs to you.” Cally turned to Richard Price, mouth agape.
“What? No, of course not. It’s yours.”
“You’re right. It has been mine for a very long time. But I don’t have that long left, and it should go to someone who loves it as much as I have. I think that’s you.”
“Your children, your family—they should have it.”
“There’s no one left who’d appreciate it for anything other than its monetary value. It’s a work of art made with love, and it deserves to be loved by someone who understands its true value, not the price it would bring at auction. Will you take it?”
Cally looked at Mr. Price, then at Tate. “Well, that settles it then. I have to buy a house and settle down here in Asheville!”
“That seems a bit impulsive, Cally. Don’t you want to think about it?” Even as Tate voiced her words of caution, she knew Cally had already decided.
“I’ve been thinking about it, Tate. Ever since I got here, I haven’t thought about much else, except Gampa. What I should do, where I would be happy, how I want to live the rest of my life . . .” She lovingly stroked the time-worn desktop. “Mr. Price, I would be honored to own this beautiful desk made by my grandfather. Can I leave it with you until we both agree the time is right for me to take it?”
“It will remain in my safekeeping until you’re ready. Now, shall I tell you what I know about your grandfather?”
“Yes!” Tate and Cally uttered the affirmation simultaneously and they settled into comfortable chairs to hear his story.
FORTY-THREE
1942
Harland Freeman took special care to prepare himself for the next-to-last most important day of his life. He bathed and groomed himself meticulously, then dressed in his finest clothing. His muted blue, cotton shirt coordinated perfectly with his hand-tailored suit constructed of fine, homespun wool in Hoover Gray from the Biltmore Industries’ looms. The color of the fabric had been created specifically for Herbert Hoover, and Harland had chosen it carefully. The double-breasted jacket with its thick padded shoulders narrowed at the waist, giving Harland the larger-than-life look he wanted. He added a matching vest, wide tie, black wing-tip shoes and engraved gold cufflinks.
Once dressed, he surveyed himself in the mirror. He posed with and without the black Fedora and decided the effect of adding the hat enhanced his overall image, especially when worn fashionably tipped over his right eye. Satisfied with his appearance, he descended the stairs, plucked his new walking stick with the large, silver, bird’s-head handle from the stand just inside the massive front door and struck out for his destination.
He paraded along Chestnut Street, marking each pace by swinging his stick up to waist height then clicking the metal tip on the pavement on the down stroke. The pretentious nods he offered to the occasional passersby were met with mixed reactions, and one man, who he recognized as his neighbor from two doors down, actually crossed the street to avoid greeting him. Undeterred by the intentional slight, he continued on his way.
He entered the iron gates at Riverside Cemetery and paused, giving himself time to savor the view. The winter air smelled crisp and spicy, and he inhaled it deeply into his lungs. His eyes scanned the rolling hills and took in the vast array of monuments sweeping down the embankment to the industrial area hugging the banks of the French Broad River. Paupers rested forgotten in the insignificant graves strung along the bottom of the hill. Somewhere among them lay both of his parents. He had never bothered to search for their graves, and now he turned away in disgust.
He walked purposefully to the top of a knoll near the entrance, the favored final resting place for the likes of the Wolfe family—Thomas had been buried there a few years before—the Von Rucks, Westalls and other noted Asheville elite. A beautiful spot, surely, but not what he wanted.
He crossed the small winding road to an adjacent section of the cemetery. There on a gentle slope with an unencumbered view of the mountains, he found the Ryland family plot. He circled the area carefully, studying the headstones and monuments for their size, style, wording and craftsmanship.
Constance Ryland had shunned him since their high school days. Regardless of his rise in status, she had chosen a friendship with the lowly Ellie Howard rather than him. Constance had come to represent in Harland’s mind every person who had ever shunned or scorned him, and she would be the one to pay for all their sins. She had stood with them in his library, at his party, drinking his wine when she uttered the words that decimated his life and ultimately led to his premature need for a burial site for himself. In that moment a powerful hatred for her invaded him and set him on his final path. Once carried out, his vengeful plan would even the score and tie her to him for eternity, and what made that such a perfect outcome as he saw it was the fact she could do nothing to avoid the fate he planned for her.
He lingered as he surveyed his surroundings, even resting briefly against the shoulder-high marker bearing the name of Constance’s father-in-law, before he settled on his decision. Then he walked to the cemetery office and purchased three adjacent plots immediately in front of the Rylands. He would visit the funeral parlor the next day and finalize the plans for his burial.
Something close to joy overtook Harland as he walked home. He imagined Constance’s horror when she realized what he had done, how outraged everyone would be by his final act of retribution. They had shunned him in life, but they would be unable to forget him in dea
th. And finally, he wouldn’t care a whit about what they said about him.
Upon his return home, Harland took great care to ensure everything was in its proper place. He returned the cane to the stand by the door, handle turned just so, and placed the cufflinks in precise alignment in the silk-lined case sitting atop his dresser. He hung the suit, vest and shirt in an emptied section of the closet where they would be easily found. He positioned his shoes immediately beneath the cuffs of his pants and draped the tie over the shoulder of the jacket. To guarantee his directions were followed exactly, Harland left a detailed note tucked loosely in one of his shoes. Unfortunately, Harland failed to anticipate the difficulty the undertaker would experience trying to make him look good in his casket once he had blown part of his skull and brain away.
“Well, I certainly didn’t think I’d be dealing with this man again so soon.” The funeral director held the note from Harland in his hand and spoke aloud as he sat alone in his office. Only four days previously, Harland had marched into his establishment asking questions about his services and prices.
“I’d like to make burial arrangements,” he’d said.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Has there been a death in the family?” The Director assumed his most soothing tone, the one he reserved for the grieving.
“Not yet. I want to make plans for my own interment, when the time comes, of course.” Harland made it a point to use the less common term for burial, an elitist choice apparently lost on the Director.
“We certainly can help you with that. Are you ill?”
“Illness has nothing to do with it, my man. I just want to make sure it’s done right, so I’m making the arrangements myself. Can’t leave an important thing like that to anyone else, now can I?”
“Oh, well . . . usually it is the family members left behind who take on that role, but . . .”
“Like I said, better to do it myself than take chances.” Harland found no reason to tell the Director the true reason for taking matters into his own hands—there was no one else who would do it if he didn’t.
“Of course. Well, then, let me show you around.” The Director led Harland to one of two viewing rooms.
“We have two choices for visitation. This is the larger room, and there’s another just here . . .”
“Won’t be needing a viewing room. You’ll just be seeing to my burial. There will be no funeral services.”
“I don’t understand. You’ll want your family and friends . . .”
“There’ll be no family, no friends, no clergy. Just your staff seeing to preparing me and getting me into the ground over there at Riverside Cemetery. I have a choice plot. Three, actually, and I’ll be buried in the middle one, so there’s one left vacant on each side of me.”
“Yes . . . I see. It’s common for plots to be set aside for family members who . . .”
“No family members! I don’t like to be crowded, so I’m to be placed in the middle and the ones on either side will remain empty!”
“Uh . . .” Nonplussed by Harland’s commanding style and highly unusual request, the Director fumbled for words. “Uh, I . . .”
“Well, man, can you do it or not?”
The Director inhaled deeply and rubbed his hand over his eyes. In his line of business, he typically dealt with people at the most vulnerable and needy times of their lives. They welcomed his comforting style and eloquent gestures of support. His melodious voice calmed them. They often wept, the women especially, and gratefully accepted his handkerchief to wipe away their tears. This man fell so far from the norm the Director had no tools to deal with him.
“Uh . . .”
Harland stared hard at the Director and seemed to relish his discomfort.
The Director took another deep breath and with it recaptured his composure. “Yes, of course I can do as you ask.”
“Well then, let’s discuss the details.”
The Director spent the next hour with Harland as he chose his coffin—the most stylish one available from the highest-priced group—and ordered an extravagant and expensive monument. Now, only days later, he sat in his office, having just returned from Montford with Harland’s body and his instructions.
A photograph of the Director’s dearly departed mother rested on the corner of his desk. He fervently believed she watched over him from her vantage point in Heaven. He spoke to the image now, as he had the habit of doing when the strain of his work felt heavy. “At least this will be the end of it for me as well as for him. And I doubt you’ll have to worry about dealing with him up there!”
Harland’s burial occurred as he had instructed, with no fanfare, no exequy or ceremony of any kind. That left the staff from the funeral home and the cemetery to search for alternate ways of getting the sense of closure usually provided by ritual. Having been denied that, they felt no connection to the person of Harland and little responsibility for the body of Harland. They put him in the ground and covered him with dirt. They laid the sod back down over him and saw to the placing of his monument. Having fulfilled their duties, they turned their backs and left him alone.
As per his instructions, a rectangular perimeter of stones reaching eight inches above the ground outlined the three plots where Harland lay. This well-defined border warned anyone who thought about stepping onto his land not to tread on private property. Long benches supported by small pillars spread out on each side of his pedestal monument, so the structure stretched the full length of the three spaces. While the seating invited visitors, the boundary shouted KEEP OUT!
Atop the monument rested a bronze urn draped with a laurel wreath. A polished text panel contained his epitaph, which read:
Harland Clayton Freeman
B: March 21, 1910 – D: February 13, 1942
I stand by all I did
Disapproval does not trouble me now I am dead
Harland could not know while composing his plagiarized sentiment that even in death he would pay the consequences he had earned in life.
Winter gave way to a dazzling spring, then an early and brilliant summer. Dogwood, poplar, ginkgo and ancient oaks dressed the hillsides of the cemetery in color. Always a peaceful place, Riverside Cemetery proved most beautiful in spring.
Harland’s monument stood almost ten feet tall from its base to the tip of the urn. Nothing within twenty yards rose to this height, so it commanded the entire slope. Regardless of the sun’s position in the sky, at some point during every day, the pedestal’s shadow poked its way into the Ryland family plot, thus stealing a bit of the beauty of each day from them. This punishment would last even longer than that which he had settled upon Leland Howard. Leland would die one day and be released from the burden placed upon him, but no means of escape existed for the Rylands—at least none Harland could imagine.
Although Asheville is blessed with an ideal climate, it is not immune to occasionally destructive weather events, and it was exactly that—an unpredictable summer storm of massive proportion—that eventually rescued the Rylands from Harland’s wrath.
The birds and squirrels sounded the initial warning as they scurried for cover. Human inhabitants of the city noticed the gathering storm when thick, white clouds, their bellies colored golden by the sun, began accumulating in the western sky in mid-morning on a particularly warm day in early June. By that afternoon, a towering thunderhead with an anvil stretching as far as could be seen marched steadily toward the city, spawning several tornadoes in Tennessee as it approached. Though the mountains proved disruptive enough to the rotation of the storm to prevent the formation of additional funnel clouds, they did not mitigate the heavy rain, golf ball-sized hail or blinding flashes of lightning.
The bolt that reached down from the sky to destroy Harland’s avengement did what all lightning does. It sought out the high pointy object standing in the open field, attracted especially by the imposing bronze urn. The charge toppled the vessel and pierced the heart of the granite pedestal, leaving a deep fissure in its wake. Weather continue
d its work, filling the crevice with water, then freezing it during the cold winter that ensued. Amid the blazing color of the following spring, the stone finally gave way and Harland’s monument, the one he intended to serve as an enduring reminder of his disdain for those who had shunned him, broke apart and tumbled across his grave. Decades later, when someone finally came looking for him, they found a thick carpet of deep green ivy obscuring the entire gravesite.
FORTY-FOUR
2004
Richard Price began at the beginning, telling Tate and Cally how he and Leland had met and the slow development of their friendship, about Leland’s growing popularity as a craftsman, his lack of ego, his family life with Ellie and Clayton.
“I never knew a man who loved his wife more deeply than your grandfather loved your grandmother. Frankly, I never understood it. Always seemed to me that she was cool toward him.”
“I remember her as loving and out-going,” Cally countered.
“With you and your father, she was, until Clayton started getting into so much trouble.”
“What kind of trouble? He used drugs, didn’t he.”
“I don’t know the details. But yes, he probably used drugs. He was what they called a Greaser back then—one of the bad boys—and seemed proud of it. Hung out with the wrong crowd, always getting into scrapes, got hauled off to jail more’n once.”
“I don’t remember him very well. Gamma always sent him away if he showed up at the house when I was there. In any case, he never tried to be a father to me.”
“None of that mattered to Leland. He loved Ellie and he loved Clayton—stood by him no matter what kind of trouble that boy got into.”
“Gampa was always gentle and loving. I scratched my initials into the mantel and instead of getting mad, he taught me to whittle.”