by Tena Frank
Unexpected memories of being taught to read and write by Lee Lou filled Tate’s thought as she carved out a picnic area in the living room of the house that once belonged to Leland and Ellie—the house Tate now called her own and the one that served as the closest thing to a real home Cally could remember.
Their plans had been formulated quickly as they sat outside the Princess Hotel. Cally wanted time to shower and change clothes. Tate wanted the same as well as leeway to prepare the apartment so that Cally would be able to look around without stumbling over equipment and materials.
Cally arrived just as Tate finished, and the aroma of Chinese take-out filled the open space when Cally entered toting two large bags of steaming food.
“I have to confess. I was so hungry I gobbled down an egg roll on the way here!” Cally offered the bags to Tate who began unpacking them and spreading the boxes of food out on the recently installed countertop.
“It’s a little chilly in here, but I brought a couple of extra space heaters over, and it should be warming up pretty soon. Do you want a wrap?” Tate offered Cally one of the small throws she had picked up from her house next door.
“No, I think I’m okay, but thanks.” Cally stopped and looked slowly around the large, open living and kitchen area. “This is so different from when Gamma and Gampa lived here. Are you sure it’s the same place?”
“Yeah, it is. I know it has been changed a lot . . .” Tate pointed to the main entrance. “But I’ll bet you remember that.”
Cally walked over to the massive door and slowly traced the delicate scroll work that framed the panels with her finger. “Oh yes, I remember this very well. Gampa made it, but he never seemed to like it very much.”
“Really? That surprises me. It’s an amazing piece, and he obviously took great pains to construct it.”
“Yes, but remember what he said? When we asked him about it? He said the door was a mistake and the only mean-spirited thing he’d ever done.”
“Oh, you’re right. I’d forgotten that. I wonder what he meant.”
“I don’t know, but it is beautiful. Much more so than the one on the other house.”
“Okay, Cally. I know you’re starving and I’m pretty hungry myself. Let’s have some of this food, and I want to hear all about it.”
Over a spread of egg rolls, hot and sour soup, vegetable lo mein, chicken with mixed vegetables and brown rice, Cally related the events of her day to Tate. She shared her awareness of the similarities between her mother’s deteriorated condition from alcohol abuse and depression and the old house on Chestnut Street.
“I didn’t want to want the place, Tate. I went there to confirm the decision I’d already made not to try to claim it. I knew that would disappoint you, but it just seemed so overwhelming and, really, that place is kind of weird. You know that, don’t you?”
“Yes, of course. Weird, but compelling, too. At least for me, and I hoped it would be for you as well.”
“I walked around it. I noticed how a neighbor on the street scurried away when he saw me there. That’s when it hit me that people treat that house like they treated Mom. I had another one of my crying fits, right there on the back porch. When I finally sat up and saw that kitchen, it took my breath away!”
“Yeah, the kitchen got to me, too!”
Cally paused and pushed some cold food around on her plate with her chopsticks. “Well, I started looking at it differently then. I knew it would be mine one day, like it or not, and I left there ready to do whatever was necessary to keep it.”
Tate noticed that Cally sounded resigned, not excited. “You don’t seem so happy about that decision, though.”
“I was when I left there. Until I read that note.” Cally leaned back against the wall and released a deep sigh.
“When we were at the salvage company you said ‘this changes everything.’ What did you mean?” Tate braced herself to hear an answer she hoped would not come. Please, Cally, help me save that house. This thought surprised Tate, since she rarely wanted help from anyone.
“Well, Leland is not really my grandfather. I can’t even begin to make sense of that!”
“But he is, Cally, in every way that’s important. And from what that note says, he was a good father to Clayton as well.”
“That house . . . I had hopes for it before . . . now it feels, well, haunted! I don’t think I could live in a place where a greedy, arrogant man—one who happens to be my biological grandfather, no less!—killed himself. And why did he give the place to Leland? That just seems cruel since they obviously hated each other.”
Tate took time to respond. She looked around the room where they sat and reviewed in her mind how it differed from what she had purchased less than a year earlier. “I’m not going to try to sway your decision, Cally. But I believe a house reflects the character of the people who live in it. This place for example. You know what it was like when you were a child and Ellie and Leland lived here. You loved the place. You still think of Asheville, and even this house, I bet, as home, right?”
Cally surveyed the room. “Well, yes. Sort of.”
“That’s the spot where the fireplace used to be.” Tate indicated the missing floor boards at the hallway entrance and the space just to the right of it. “And you sat right about there when you carved your initials. It was a much different place, then, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, it was. It was home, like you said.”
“And then Ellie and Leland were gone, you were gone, other people lived here, and the place took on an entirely different feel. When I bought it, this place was a dump. The people who lived downstairs had filled the backyard with broken down trucks and cars, discarded furniture, at least a dozen old tires and I’m betting a thousand beer cans and bottles they’d thrown into the bushes.”
“No way!”
“Yes. It was awful. They got into drunken brawls in the street all hours of the night. The cops were here routinely breaking things up. This place would have scared the pants off you.”
“Why did you buy it?”
“Because I saw immediately what it could be. Just like I did when I saw the place on Chestnut. And I knew I could make it a happy, peaceful place again.”
“And you have.”
“And I have. And someone could do the same for Harland’s house. Whatever unhappiness it has soaked up since it was built, in all those decades that it has sat empty and unloved, it doesn’t matter. It can be a happy, vibrant place filled with joy if someone makes it that.”
“But he must have been a horrible person. I hate being related to him. If a house can hold a person’s energy, then that place reflects all his negative traits, doesn’t it?”
“Cally, we can’t ever know what drove Harland Freeman. But I truly believe that each and every one of us, even the most detestable among us, does the very best he can at any given moment. Why not give him, and the house, the benefit of the doubt?”
“I wish I knew more about him. You really think he had good qualities, too?”
Tate suddenly remembered her recent conversation with Mazie. “Actually, I know someone who can tell you a lot about Harland Freeman. Her name is Mazie and she lives right across the street! I’ll take you to meet her if you want.”
“Now?”
“No, not now. Mazie is up there in years and is likely asleep by now. Or nodding out in front of the TV. Soon, though. If you want.”
“Yes, I think that would be good. But, Tate. I still don’t really understand why you seem so gung ho about that old place.”
“Actually, it is routed in my very earliest years. I was just thinking about it before you got here.”
“Tell me, then.”
Tate shared her memories of Lee Lou and her own personalized Head Start program with Cally, and as she did so, she felt her heart open a bit more to this woman whom she had met only days before.
Tate’s closeness with Cally and her willingness to share such personal parts of herself came as a surprise. A lifetime of believ
ing she could depend on no one but herself had ensured that Tate would have countless experiences to confirm that tightly held conviction. The permeable barrier she had constructed to protect herself allowed support to flow in one direction only. Tate could reach out and care for others but she would rarely accept the same from them. She had diligently devised numerous ways to deflect nearly every offer of help she saw coming, and those defenses had become so much a part of her that she no longer recognized them as things of her own creation.
Cally willingly shared some of the most painful aspects of her life with Tate. She cried openly, laughed easily and seemed to flow through her emotional landscape without much resistance. Tate could not imagine doing the same, but as she became more comfortable with Cally, she felt herself softening.
Tate moved slowly from her thoughts back to the room as Cally took her hand and laid her head on Tate’s shoulder.
“You seemed a long way away for a minute, Tate.”
“I was just thinking about how the Universe brings people together. A few days ago, you didn’t exist for me, and now you’re changing how I see life.”
“Really? How so?”
“I’m so independent. Have been pretty much all my life. I don’t let many people in beyond the surface, and I certainly don’t look to others for support when I’m going through something difficult.”
“Yeah, that’s pretty obvious.”
“But it feels different with you, Cally. I feel different. I tell you things about my life and it feels good to do that. Maybe that’s why we were thrown together, so we could heal each other. And Leland, too.”
“Yes. And maybe that house.”
“Yes, Cally, that house. We could heal it, too.”
FIFTY-TWO
2005
Cally parked her car on a side street and entered Riverside Cemetery on foot. Having suffered through what seemed like a brutal winter to her, especially after living in California for most of her life, she felt grateful for the warm February sun and unseasonably mild temperature. Still, she wrapped the cashmere scarf more tightly around her neck and tucked her gloved hands into the pockets of her puffy, thermal jacket to protect against the cold breeze rustling through the barren shrubs at the entrance.
She followed the path taken by most first-time visitors and history buffs who seek out this expansive memorial to Asheville’s history—a loop around the Wolfe family plot, past the Von Ruck mausoleum, along the winding paths girdling the rolling hills that contain the final resting places of Asheville citizens dating back to the early 1800s. Cally had learned that some of the remains interred there even predated the establishment of Riverside in 1885. As the city’s need for space grew, the bones of the dead had been moved from the burying grounds surrounding the churches in the heart of town and relocated to the new graveyard established on the edge of Montford.
Cally resisted the pressure she felt to hurry to the cemetery office for help in finding the gravesites she had come looking for. Instead, she strolled past headstones with names like Clingman, Vance, Patton, Merrimon, Rankin, McCormick—monikers that lived on as names of the streets, structures and geography of Asheville and Western North Carolina. Finally, after exploring for more than an hour, she felt ready to find her grandparents.
The office occupied a squat brick building adjacent to the Jewish section of the cemetery. As Cally entered, she was greeted by a middle-aged man dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt.
“How can I help you?” He offered his hand and Cally shook it, relieved to find a friendly, outgoing man rather than the ashen, somber creature she had imagined would hold the position of Cemetery Manager.
“I’m looking for a grave. Actually two of them.”
“Names?”
“They’re my grandparents . . . but they’re not buried together . . .” Cally suddenly felt nervous.
“No problem. I just need to know their names.”
“Well . . . my grandfather was Harland Freeman . . . I mean he was my biological grandfather, not my real grandfather . . .” Cally stopped abruptly and turned to leave “. . . never mind. I think I’ll just go.”
“Doesn’t matter. I can still help you find him.”
Cally hesitated at the door and took a deep breath to steady herself. “Okay. Sorry about giving you all that personal information. Just their names, then. Harland Freeman. He was buried here in 1942. And Ellie . . . Marie Eleanor Howard. In 1962.”
Cally left the office ten minutes later, map in hand, and headed toward Harland’s grave. She made a couple of passes through the area where she expected to find it without success. Then she remembered part of her conversation with Mazie Daniels. Tate had taken Cally to meet Mazie the day after they found the mantle.
After telling Cally about Harland’s earliest years, Mazie related how he had been ostracized by the business community he hoped would accept him. “Anyone who didn’t hate him ’fore hated him after they saw that awful tombstone he put on his grave.”
“Why did he do that?”
“Can’t say why. He left his life with my family behind long ’fore that. People didn’t like him ’cause he was pompous and self-centered, but he thought it was ’cause they held his past against him. Maybe they did, but even so, he wasn’t a likable man. Everthing he did just pushed everone farther away.”
“What about you, Mazie?” Cally had liked Mazie immediately and recognized that telling Harland’s story still stirred up emotions for the old woman.
“He pushed me away, too. I tried not ta turn my back on him, but . . . anyway, he put that huge tombstone right up in front a the Rylands’ plot, and it overshadowed ’em. I think he prob’ly did that on purpose. But then it fell down and people started fergitten about him. That house of his over on Chestnut is the only thing left and it’s an eyesore. Folks can’t wait to be rid of it. Most of ’em ain’t never heard a Harland and don’t know that was his place.”
Thinking of Mazie brought a smile to Cally as she retraced her steps and found the Ryland family plot. From that vantage point, she easily located the crumpled monument, overgrown with ivy, which sat a few paces along the slope. She looked across the gentle hills of Riverside, the afternoon sun in her face, and thought what a beautiful resting place Harland had chosen.
Unfortunately, the peaceful view proved no match for the swirling emotions that enveloped Cally. Sadness, anger and confusion fought for dominance, but Cally’s resolve won the battle as she approached the fallen marker. She tugged thick vines away from the stone until she had uncovered most of the old granite. Then she sat on one of the moss-covered benches that bracketed Harland’s grave.
“You don’t know me, but I’m your granddaughter.” Cally’s words came out in a ragged whisper, and she looked around to see if anyone had heard her. Harland certainly couldn’t, but Cally spoke for her own benefit, not his.
“Mazie told me about you. You were a pretty despicable character from what I understand.” Cally rubbed debris off the headstone so she could read what had been inscribed. “Even that epitaph. ‘I stand by all I did . . .’ What was that about, anyway?
“I wanted to hate you like everyone else did. But I know you had a difficult childhood. I know about Crazy Eulah, the old shack, all of it.” Cally thought about her own childhood—the losses she had suffered, the challenges of growing up with an alcoholic mother, being ripped away from her home and her loved ones. Her experiences had shaped her and Harland’s had shaped him. Everyone, even Harland, deserved forgiveness. And Cally was the only one left to provide it. As this awareness flooded over her, Cally’s heart began to open.
“I wish things had been better for you. But I’m also glad I was born, and that wouldn’t have happened without you. So I’ve decided not to hate you. I think you’ve always wanted to be accepted. So now you are, Grandfather. By me.”
As Cally spoke her thoughts and feelings aloud, the anger and sadness she had carried for so long began draining away. She ran through all that had changed
for her since hearing Mazie’s story about Harland’s tombstone. That tale had set her on the path to Riverside Cemetery. It had also sealed her decision to remain in Asheville and help Tate save Harland’s house.
In the months since, Cally had moved from the Princess Hotel into the apartment that had once been Leland and Ellie’s house. She planned to stay there until renovations were completed on the house on Chestnut Street. She liked living next door to Tate, and though Cally thought it unlikely they would ever become romantically involved, their friendship had deepened steadily as the weeks passed.
With the help of a savvy lawyer, Cally had gained control of the trust Harland had created and the sizable amount of cash that remained in the trust’s bank account. She used some of the money to pay delinquent taxes, thwarting the neighbors’ hopes for demolition. Scott returned to work on the property after Cally paid him much more than what he was owed from his work a decade earlier. He immediately began clearing the land around the house of dead vegetation, and the yard now awaited new plantings which would arrive as soon as the weather permitted. Cally expected by mid-spring the house would be fully renovated and ready for move-in.
It had not all been easy though. The challenges of working with architects, adhering to city laws governing work in the Montford historic district, trying to make friends with the neighbors who resented her squashing their hopes for new development on her land—all of it proved to be exhausting and frustrating at times. Still, her plans continued to move forward and she inched steadily closer to creating a new home for herself in Asheville.
Cally now understood what Tate had known when she first saw the house on Chestnut Street, that new life could be breathed into it and it could be a happy and welcoming place. It could—and would—become Home. Cally told all this to Harland, and as she did so, she felt herself settling deeper into her new life.
But more of her past remained to be found, and it lay down the hill. A few minutes later, she sat on the ground in disbelief staring at twin headstones: