Proper Goodbye

by Connie Chappell

  “I mean, get in league with her, when you knew the story.”

  “Beebe, you’ve got to forgive.”

  That stopped her, but she offered not a shred of compliance.

  “What about your father?”

  “What about him? He’s blissfully ignorant. Why ruin that?”

  “You don’t get it, or you don’t want to: He’s caring for her grave. He doesn’t know his wife is buried under the headstone engraved Terri Miller. How long can you let that go on?”

  Ever since Beebe was quite little, her father acted as caretaker for Larkspur Cemetery.

  “Me. You’re putting this on me. You did this. You let it get this far. You tell him. He wasn’t there for me after Mother left.”

  “Aw, come on,” he said, getting up and crossing the room, “that was thirty years ago. Give it up. He tried. He misses you. You two should have had the counseling you’re giving people now. You just need some time to think about this. It’s a lot to digest. You’ll reconsider.”

  “I doubt that day will come.”

  The eyes he turned on her were so full of disbelief bordering on horror that she found it hard to keep from dropping her gaze. “What’s happened to you? Why aren’t you with the church any longer?” He gave those questions a good long wait, but Beebe couldn’t find the desire, because it required strength, to answer. When he moved toward the door, she thought he accepted the impasse. She was wrong. “I refuse to give up so easily. Please, Beebe, think about coming home. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  Beebe pushed herself off the couch. “Give it longer than that.”

  Shaking his head, Vincent Bostick let himself out.

  Before he was off the porch, Beebe felt her knees unhinge. She put a hand down to the couch arm to ease her collapse onto the cushion.

  Way too much baggage churned inside her. Her mother. Her father. All the reasons she chose the church. All the reasons she left it...rocked her life again.

  * * *

  About once every six weeks, Cliff Walker drove with Rosemary Olmsted and Vincent Bostick to Newton, Michigan, after Sunday services for the barbeque ribs at Omar’s. They always felt a little overdressed for Omar’s when they wedged themselves into the restaurant’s dingy lobby, but not after they crowded around one of the small round tables in the main room. By then, they’d donned the bibs provided and sported the same uniform as all the other diners.

  The threesome decided to make the trip to Omar’s on the first Sunday in July. Their routine varied in two respects: First, Vincent drove his own car, so he could continue on to the auction house down the pike in Harrelsburg. The second change-up was Rosemary’s request to stop at Larkspur Lake on the way back to walk the trail winding through the quiet, recreational area. Rosemary didn’t ask to stop until they passed the main entrance and were coming up on a lesser-used road with little parking.

  Cliff’s stomach fluttered when he heard her idea, but he acquiesced. He would have rather just taken Rosemary on home. He pulled off the county road and onto the back lake road. His was the only vehicle parked on the dirt shoulder, and they were the only walkers. A fickle breeze, warm, then cool, escorted them along the trail.

  “Don’t you think Vincent seemed a little quiet at lunch? I really had to push him to get him to come with us,” Rosemary said, squinting up to Cliff and blocking the afternoon sun with her hand.

  He stood a shade over six foot. At fifty-eight, she remained easy on the eyes, although she carried a few extra pounds. The cause was probably Omar’s ribs; the cure was probably a little extra exercise on Sunday afternoons.

  “I suppose he just wanted to get to the auction house,” Cliff said.

  “I thought he was just there.”

  “Evidently, the auctioneer has more items Crossroads could use.” Cliff knew that as Crossroad’s director, Vincent tried to outfit the organization’s hospice and senior center with gently-used furniture. He was bound by a meager budget.

  “Yeah, well, he’s a good man.” Rosemary elbowed Cliff. “You’re a good man, too.” Then Cliff felt her fingertips glide across his palm and slip between his digits.

  Uh-oh, Cliff thought. He should have listened to his stomach, which fluttered wildly again, instead of allowing Rosemary to lure him to the unpopulated side of the lake. “What’s this?” he asked, in stride, holding up his hand loosely laced to hers.

  “Can I hold your hand?”

  Now she asked permission, he thought. “You already are.” He didn’t furnish consent.

  “Don’t like the forward girls?” Her face creased where her smile made inroads.

  “I don’t quite think of you as a girl.”

  “What am I then? Just a buddy. Like Vincent. We could have something here if you’d let it happen. It doesn’t need to always be the three of us.”

  He turned away from the impossible scenario she described. He looked out across the rippling water, fully aware her eyes hung on him. He felt her warm palm against his, the pressure of her fingertips. He debated his answer. She tugged him to a stop.

  “They call it taking the next step. Let’s try. Don’t say no. Say you’ll think about it.”

  “Everything will change.”

  “We won’t let it.”

  “I like our friendship the way it is.” He pulled his hand from hers.

  She stared at her empty hand. “Now, I’ve ruined it, I suppose.”

  “No, not at all.”

  “You don’t embrace change, Cliff Walker. I know that. I also know what’s best. I see right through you. We could be good together. And it’s high time we got together.”

  Rosemary, normally on target with her ideas and insights, missed the mark on this occasion. Despite his wife’s long absence, he was not tempted to enter a relationship. Without trying, his spark for Abigail Walker never went out. It felt like betrayal to even hold hands with another woman. Everything about Rosemary’s hand felt foreign. If blindfolded, he swore he would know if Abigail’s fingers slipped through his.

  “Take some time,” Rosemary said. “Think about it.”

  “I don’t need time. We can’t date.”

  “What would be different, except that Vincent may or may not be there, depending. And you’d kiss me at the end of the evening. Of course, Vincent wouldn’t be there for that.” She feigned shyness by digging her toe in the dirt. “We’re private people. I get that.”

  “Rosemary, ah…”

  She grabbed his hand again. “Think about it.”

  “Geez, you’re pushy for a Sunday-after-church buddy,” he said teasingly.

  She looked up at him with those soft gray eyes that signaled she was a good person. She lay her other hand gently on his cheek. “Think about it,” she repeated. “Now, take me home. These shoes were a bad choice for this much walking.” She chortled.

  With that, she released her hold on him and turned. Her skirt twirled. She headed back up the path, ahead of him. She gave him no choice but to follow.

  It was true. Cliff Walker and Rosemary Olmstead were private people. Rosemary moved to Larkspur from Kerr, forty miles north and a jog east, ten years ago. Someone wanted the family restaurant she owned in Kerr for a development deal. The money was good, so she took it, looked around, and purchased the empty downtown diner in Larkspur.

  In contrast to Cliff’s one-and-only hometown life, Larkspur represented a bold new start for Rosemary. She was a woman of determination. That quality notwithstanding, his decision was already made. The buddy system would prevail.

  Wandering Delirium

  It was Tuesday. Vincent Bostick steered his freshly serviced Che
vy down Town Street. He spent the last hour at the Lube and Oil, south of Larkspur’s city limits. Since his stomach was sending out hints that he should not turn up Standhope, but hurry on to Rosemary’s before the lunchtime rush, he followed that course.

  A month and a half passed since his visit to Beebe Walker. The only thing shorter than his engagement to Beebe was the conversation in her living room.

  He stayed in town for two days and attempted to pursue a resolution to his request, but his calls went unanswered. On the third day, he drove to her street and parked several houses down. He called again. Her car sat in the driveway, but she didn’t pick up. Two weeks later, he reached out from Larkspur, and three weeks after that. Every attempt went to voice mail. He always left a message.

  All the while, he tried to conduct himself as normally as possible with Cliff. Since he hadn’t mentioned his visit to Cliff’s daughter, Vincent merely loaded more secrets into the gaping barrier between them. Granted, only Vincent perceived the barrier’s existence, and only Vincent heard Beebe’s silence.

  The downtown restaurant lay within his sights, just a half block away, when a man with a full crop of white hair stumbled out between a van and a tall truck parked at the curb. The truck was delivering to McKinley’s Hardware. Right behind the older man came a lanky gent, wearing a McKinley uniform shirt, his two arms outstretched toward the first man’s shoulders. Vincent’s heart leapt. Fear endorphins produced instantaneous reactions: His foot slammed the brake pedal to the floor. His arms stiffened, and his grip tightened on the wheel. With his backbone pressed into the seat cushion, he got the Chevy’s bumper stopped just inches from striking both men.

  He recognized the older one as Reverend Mosie Razzell, the former pastor of First Lutheran Church. Cliff Walker, Beebe’s father, wore the McKinley uniform. He worked his duties as the cemetery’s caretaker around his full-time job at the hardware store.

  Vincent threw the car door open and got out with only a few seconds delay. He needed to get his breathing jump-started again and yank the transmission into park. Cliff tugged on Rev. Razzell, trying to get him back to the curb, but the seventy-seven-year old man resisted. He looked frightened of Cliff and slapped at his arms.

  Vincent rounded the car’s fender. “I nearly ran you both down,” he chided before the scene playing out in the middle of the street registered.

  This was the first time he observed Razzell’s odd behavior. Others had to some degree. The majority of them were seniors who were in and out of Crossroads as Razzell was. None reported anything as serious as the situation Vincent just witnessed.

  Razzell was a golden fixture in Larkspur and of an age that made him unwilling to accept the idea of dementia. Vincent hated the thought, but what other explanation could there be. Neither was he particularly enamored by the fight—fistfight, most likely—that would ensue trying to get the obstinate senior before a geriatrician.

  Razzell whipped his head around at the sound of Vincent’s voice, then he gave Cliff a double-take. Razzell knitted his brows. It appeared to Vincent that Razzell struggled to bring Cliff into focus, slow on recognizing him. “Well,” Razzell stammered, then picked up some steam, “it’s Cliff’s fault.”

  The reverend’s tentative blame-passing bounced off patient Cliff with his one-track mind. “Come on, Mosie. Come back up on the sidewalk, so Vincent can get through. We’re blocking traffic.” Two vertical worry lines cut into the space between Cliff’s dark brows.

  Vincent saw that a second car waited. He and Cliff each took one of Razzell’s arms and led him to safety. Razzell seemed to stare hard at the curb before he lifted his foot.

  “Let me get out of the road. Stay here, Rev. Razzell, until I get back. Wait for me. Okay?” Vincent said.

  Razzell gave him a jumpy nod, his eyes unfocused behind rimless glasses.

  Vincent found a parking place for his car four spaces up. He hurried back along the sidewalk. Razzell still fussed with Cliff.

  “I saw him out here,” Cliff said to Vincent when he reached them. “He nearly tripped over the ramp.”

  An angled metal ramp jutted down from the back of the delivery truck to the asphalt. Crossing here meant Razzell attempted to jaywalk. Where was he headed? A women’s dress shop faced the hardware store across the street. That didn’t make sense.

  “It shouldn’t be there, in the road,” Razzell argued.

  “You’re right,” Vincent said. He looked inside the truck’s doorway. An orange traffic cone sat there. Grabbing it, he marked the obstruction. Razzell still seemed flustered to Vincent, now by how quickly Vincent solved Razzell’s immense problem. “It’s lunchtime, Reverend. I thought I’d stop at Rosemary’s. Cliff, can you get away?” Good manners required Vincent to include him. “We’ll all go. My treat. It’s Tuesday. Rosemary serves Swiss steak on Tuesday.”

  “I don’t want to eat. I’m not hungry.” At that moment, a transformation occurred. Razzell’s long distinguished face took sturdy form. He puffed out his chest, as round as a robin’s and clothed in a button-down shirt. “Will you unhand me?” He glared at Cliff, who dropped his arm. “What, were you going to carry me off against my will?” His next salvo fired at Vincent. “And I’ve got plenty of food in my Frigidaire. I’ll feed myself, if you don’t mind. I can’t imagine what got into you two.” He employed his contagious grin. “But I forgive you. Bingo tonight, Vincent?”

  “Yeah, sure.” A confused Vincent flashed a tentative smile. Behind Razzell, Vincent watched Cliff scratch his head, which Vincent interpreted as Cliff also wondering about the minister’s sudden clarity of mind.

  Razzell’s expression was a pleasant one when he turned to Cliff with a question. “Why don’t you come?”

  Vincent clenched his teeth. He hoped Cliff wouldn’t accept the invitation. He still avoided Beebe’s father when he wasn’t literally running into him.

  “Thanks for asking, but I can’t manage tonight,” Cliff said.

  “The cemetery?”

  “Keeps me busy.”

  “You’re one of God’s good servants.” Razzell patted Cliff’s arm. To Vincent, he said, “See you at Crossroads.”

  Off Razzell strode, toward home, agile, like a twenty-year old.

  “That was bizarre,” Cliff said, staring after Rev. Mosie Razzell, now out of hearing distance.

  “I’ll keep my eye on Mosie. Something’s definitely wrong there. Crossroads needs to be involved.”

  Vincent’s mind was conjuring up something like a Facebook page for each senior in Larkspur. Access to the individualized page would be limited to Crossroads. There, he could cross-reference, make comments, and add tickler notes. The idea felt like a top-notch organizational tool. While it still rummaged around for size and color, the newborn idea already gained weight. Crossroads’ board of directors would no doubt bless his official proposal at the next meeting, then he could put the full force of Crossroads behind getting Razzell in front of medical attention.

  “Well, how about lunch?” Vincent felt he had to follow through on his invitation despite his ongoing efforts to steer his guilt about the Terri Miller/Abigail Walker situation around Cliff. To add to his guilt, Vincent felt relief when Cliff turned him down.

  “The delivery needs tending to.” Contrary to his answer, Cliff gave a long look down to Rosemary’s.

  * * *

  Vincent walked back up the sidewalk, passing his car. He crossed Town at the intersection, then waited for the walk light at Cramer, crossed again, and pushed through the door into the diner. An array of delicious smells teased his palate, pushing all guilty thoughts about Cliff Walker off to the side.

  For over three months, he kept Abigail Walker’s death a secret from her husband. Was he really oblig
ed to keep a deathbed promise? He wrestled with that on a continuous basis. If Beebe would simply relent, find some compassion for her father, and come home, they could team up to break the news. Whether she wrestled too, or buried the obligation, he didn’t know. All was mum on the Beebe front. In the meantime, though, Cliff Walker remained innocently unaware.

  Although Rosemary handled all the waitressing chores, she would have been easily recognizable to Vincent when he entered if the restaurant employed a host of female wait staff. A woman in a spiffy white uniform dress and starched apron with its neatly tied bow, faced away from the door. The long, thick honey-brown braid that plunged down her back would always set Rosemary apart in a crowd. The cord of hair nearly met the knotted bow. She poured coffee from one glass pot into another. She set the empty pot on the coffee machine’s burner, then flipped the switch. Immediately, the machine began filling the pot with brewed coffee.

  Turning, she spied him. “Hey, Vincent. A booth?”

  Four of the eight booths along the windows were taken, but several empty seats remained at the counter. It would be easier to talk with Rosemary from there. He took the seat most segregated from the other diners.

  “Just you today?” she asked.

  “Afraid so.”

  “Why is that? Why just one?”

  “I tried to increase my number, but no takers.”

  “Who refused you? What woman would turn you down?”

  “Boy, did you get that wrong!” Vincent’s tone was upbeat, but mentally, he wondered how Rosemary could slip like this.

  Vincent’s wife, Carolyn, died seven years ago, three years after Rosemary’s arrival in Larkspur. Carolyn had been thirty-six. Vincent remembered those days after he lost his wife. He wore wrinkled clothes and kept a messy house. Most days, his face carried stubble, and his hair was generally in need of a barber.

  Carolyn had also been a Larkspur transplant. She relocated to care for her uncle in his waning years. In her free time, the young woman wrote and published poetry. They met when he redelivered a poetry periodical mistakenly left in his mailbox, a block from its intended destination. After Uncle Karl’s passing and a short courtship, they married. Carolyn’s headaches preceded the vision problems. All the medical tests led to the same diagnosis: a fast-growing and inoperable brain tumor. The only course of action the oncologist offered was a chance to slow the tumor down. After four chemotherapy sessions, weight-loss, and hair-loss, the tumor’s rampage remained unstilted.