“I came to meet with Vincent and talk this over. You see, my father doesn’t know that he’s tended his wife’s grave now for months. Daddy’s the cemetery caretaker,” Beebe added the afterthought. Needlessly for Yates’s benefit, she pointed toward the edge of town, but Yates already knew the graveyard’s location. “I’ve built my courage. I want to set things straight as soon as possible.”
Yates’s head spun while Beebe layered on more dizzying details. “I’m going to go see him now,” she said to Vincent. “He’s at the store. Then, after work, you can meet Daddy and me at the house.”
“Fine,” Vincent said. “That’ll work.”
“Wait a minute,” Yates exclaimed. “The idea of obliterating Terri Miller’s memory and making her into someone else seems criminal.”
Vincent started to speak, but Beebe held up a hand. “This is a lot to accept, but you knew there was more when you came here. Give it time to sink in. Each day will get easier. I needed time, too. Vincent came to me a month after she died. She begged him to keep her secret, but he couldn’t let the situation ride. Daddy may resist. I don’t know. But I will push him toward moving the grave. He’ll need time as well, but I think moving the grave negotiates the best outcome. It will set things right. We can pick up our lives with things in the proper place.”
Yates couldn’t find the words he wanted. Watching him, Beebe’s face softened just as Terri’s would have. He still had Terri. Beebe was so like her.
“Yates, you can still think of her as Terri. Don’t change your memories. Talk about her and use that name. Let your memories live exactly as they are. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
Yates thought about the recommendation. Outside, the sun fought through passing clouds while memories of Terri floated through many happy summers. He heard her voice whisper in his ear once more: “Be a good boy.”
“When do you expect to move the grave?” he asked.
“Realistically, knowing what’s ahead of me with Daddy, around Labor Day.”
Yates nodded. Another week, and the timeline was fitting. The summer exhausted, Terri Miller would slip away right on cue.
* * *
Beebe dwelled on the ordeal ahead of her involving her father. The shrill ring of Vincent’s cell phone cut through those thoughts. He retrieved the device from his shirt pocket and flipped it open.
Instantly, his face changed. “Willa? What’s wrong? What happened?” He stared at a point beyond Beebe as he listened. “Yes. Yes, I can.” He rose out of the folding chair, and the dog lifted his snout off his front legs in response. “I’m at Crossroads. Give me two minutes.” He closed the phone. To Beebe and Yates: “It’s Rev. Razzell.”
Beebe looked at Yates, recognizing the fact that the young man knew the name.
“He’s had some kind of episode,” Vincent explained, jamming the phone back into his pocket.
Simultaneously, Beebe and Yates pushed themselves to their feet, their chairs groaning. “What kind of episode? Can I do anything?” Beebe said. Mosie Razzell was an old friend and trusted advisor. He was also a senior. She was an adjutant to seniors, to Vincent, to Crossroads. It seemed imperative that she be involved.
“Yes. That’s good,” Vincent said. “And Yates. We might need some medical advice.”
The three of them and the dog rushed the door, Vincent ahead of the pack. He opened the door and set the lock. Once Beebe, Yates, and Barleycorn filed out, Vincent pulled the door closed behind him.
“Here’s my car,” he said, directing Beebe toward the passenger door of an older model Chevy. Yates and Barleycorn piled into the back seat.
The curbside parking lane was empty ahead of Vincent so he nudged the car forward and safely around the corner to Standhope without actually maneuvering into traffic. This told Beebe two things: Razzell’s situation was truly urgent as Vincent understood it, and Razzell still lived across from the park, two blocks up.
In those two blocks, Vincent told a story that covered the last three weeks. The story included Beebe’s father, Cliff Walker, and his involvement with an incident that took place in front of the hardware store. Cliff pulled Razzell back after he wandered into traffic. After that, Willa, the woman who called, and her husband, Ned McMitchell, the current minister shepherding Razzell’s former flock, took the reins. They followed up on the older minister, who, rapidly, Willa reported, seemed to “return to his old self.”
“There’s Willa,” Vincent said, pulling to a neck-jarring stop at the curb across the street from the house Beebe remembered as belonging to Razzell. Vincent jumped out.
A young, very pregnant woman stood on the sidewalk. Beebe, Yates, and Barleycorn came around the car. The new arrivals hurried up to the woman.
“Willa, this is Beebe Walker, Cliff Walker’s daughter. And this is Yates Strand.” Willa nodded. She wore a worried expression. One hand fiddled nervously with the hem of her maternity top. “I thought Beebe should come. She’s my new assistant. And Yates is a nurse.”
Willa tugged on Vincent’s arm. “Perfect. You might need an extra set of hands with Mosie.”
Beebe and Yates tarried long enough to exchange ominous looks, then followed in the single-file march up Razzell’s front walk, Beebe holding the anchor spot.
“Ned and I decided to come over and check on Mosie. When we got here, the door was ajar. Ned knocked, but Mosie didn’t answer. We pushed the door open. The entry hall was a mess. Clothes and papers were strewn all around. We followed the path of destruction. Mosie sat in a chair in his bedroom. The room’s condition was worse than the hall’s, and Mosie was stark naked.”
With that news, Beebe grimaced. Both she and Yates pulled up a half second before proceeding on.
Vincent took Willa’s elbow and escorted her up the steps to Razzell’s porch and through the door.
“Mosie seemed to be coming around, out of some fog, when Ned asked me to call you,” Willa said to Vincent.
They walked over and around the detritus on their way through the house. The men went into the bedroom at the end of the hall while Beebe and Willa waited outside. Beebe held Barleycorn on the leash that Yates carried in the pocket of baggy jeans and clipped to the dog before crossing the street outside Razzell’s house.
Willa peeked into the room. “Ned cleaned things up some. There were drawers open and blankets on the floor.”
“Like he was looking for something?” Beebe queried.
“Yeah. Sanity,” Willa replied, absolutely serious. “You didn’t see the look in his eyes.” Willa peeked inside again. “Thank God he’s dressed.”
When Beebe tipped her head to look past the bedroom door, she saw Yates kneeling in front of the drawn face of a man who looked ten years older than he should. Yates took Razzell’s pulse. He spoke to a patient who blinked vacant eyes. “I’m Yates, Rev. Razzell. Remember me from bingo?”
“I do. You have the dog.”
That’s a good sign, Beebe thought, encouraged.
“Right.” Yates turned his head and called, “Barleycorn. Come here, boy.”
Beebe dropped the leash. The dog waddled over, around the foot of the bed. He sniffed the tall man who stood next to Vincent as he passed. Beebe could assume he was Rev. Ned McMitchell.
When the dog sat on his haunches beside Yates, he said, “Barleycorn, meet a new friend.”
The dog raised a paw. After a delay, Razzell took it. The dog seemed to pass a calming influence over Razzell, who then possessed the will to send his gaze out over the width of the room. When he saw Beebe standing beside Willa in the doorway, his facial expression changed to something near horror. He yanked his hand back to his heart. Everyone snapped their eyes around to Beebe.<
br />
Vincent’s voice was tentative, trying to override Razzell’s apparent and unexplainable shock. “You haven’t forgotten Beebe Walker? We talked her into returning to Larkspur. Remember, Ned and I came over. We told you she agreed to help me out at the center.”
Beebe went into the room. “It’s been awhile Rev. Razzell, hasn’t it? I’m sorry you’re not feeling well today.” She had to acknowledge the situation. “If you wouldn’t mind, I’ll come back another time. We can talk about what I missed by being gone so long.”
Razzell stared harder. He leaned forward. “Yes, right. Beebe. Good to see you. You’re correct. I’m not at my best. Another time might be better.” Razzell sat back. His hand found the dog.
With his words of subtle dismissal, Beebe stepped back out of the room, saddened by the sight. Willa followed her down the hall. Together, they straightened the house. Most of the debris littered the carpet. Willa folded a few articles of clothing.
Five minutes later, Vincent joined them. “That was an odd reaction.” He spoke to Beebe.
“I can’t imagine what it meant. The last time I spoke with him, I was deciding to study theology.”
Just then, Willa shuffled back down the hallway in response to Ned’s call.
Even though she was out of earshot, Beebe lowered her voice. “We both know my study of theology was a precursor to disaster.”
“Someday soon, you’ll need to fill me in on why you think disaster is the right word.”
“Well—” Beebe cut off when Ned and Willa McMitchell entered the room. Yates and Barleycorn remained with Razzell.
“I guess we haven’t properly met. I’m Ned McMitchell.”
Beebe shook his extended hand. “Beebe Walker.”
“I’m going to stay with Mosie tonight and make another pitch for intervention.”
“Are you sure?” Vincent said.
Beebe followed the conversation with interest and concern for Razzell. But with Vincent’s question, she stiffened. Her concern shifted to herself. Was Vincent somehow saying he would make himself available to monitor Razzell tonight? If he did, would that preclude him sitting with her when she spoke with her father about Abigail Walker’s body resting in Terri Miller’s grave?
“He gave me a great deal of loving care when I came to First Lutheran so he could retire. He probably just needs a good health checkup. Maybe I’ll call Dr. White.” To Beebe, he said, “He’s Willa’s and my family doctor and a church member. I can tell him what happened. Get some advice.”
Willa touched her husband’s arm. “Maybe you should leave that to Beebe. Those are her duties now.” To Beebe, she said, “If you haven’t guessed, there have been prior discussions about Mosie Razzell.”
“Fine with me if that’s Beebe’s choice,” Ned said, sounding amenable. “I’ll just keep him company tonight.”
“We’ll keep him company,” Willa said, her hand rested on her round belly.
“Your plan is fine with me, Ned. Thanks for the help. I just can’t fathom his peculiar reaction,” Beebe said.
“I don’t think he understood why you were here,” Willa said, “just out of the blue. He doesn’t know you took the new position at Crossroads.”
“No. I mentioned it to him two weeks ago.” Vincent’s expression reflected mounting worry.
“He must have forgot. Given his reaction, it might be best if I team up with one of you the first few times I come back,” Beebe said, her eyes sweeping the faces of those in the tight circle around her.
“We’ll work that out,” Vincent said. “There’s enough of us to keep up with Mosie until you have your reunion with Cliff.”
“You haven’t been home yet?” Willa said.
“Daddy’s working. He was out on a delivery, so I checked in with Vincent.”
“Wow, then this was a bit of a baptism by fire,” Ned said.
Beebe, the minister out of the business, did not grin back at the minister still in.
Pedestal Worthy
Vincent led Beebe, Yates, and Barleycorn across the street to the park. His mention of Beebe’s reunion with her father caused missing segments of Abigail’s story to press uncomfortably against his heart. The full story should be told to Cliff in one sitting, not in piecemeal fashion. To that end, Beebe must hear it first. And Yates.
The contingent followed Vincent to two park benches sitting in front of a stand of walnut trees. The benches were arranged at right angles and facilitated conversation. Along the way, Yates gave a nursing report.
“He was a bit clammy, but no fever I could detect,” said the nurse who lacked instruments for his examination. “His breathing seemed fine until he reacted to Beebe. I still had my finger on his pulse. It shot up to strong and rapid. What was that about?”
“Not a clue,” Beebe said. “We had a good relationship when I was a kid. I’m sure we’ll get back there. If what happened today is important, I’ll let him know I’m open to him raising the issue when he’s ready.”
Vincent suggested Yates allow Barleycorn a few minutes to romp, and the two went off. Vincent and Beebe seated themselves on separate benches. Vincent gave Beebe a bench-side neighborhood tour of who lived in which house, complete with a thumbnail bio.
When Barleycorn raced to Vincent, he corralled the dog’s attention to bring Yates over.
“I kind of like this venue for another talk about Terri. Or Abigail.” Vincent looked from Yates to Beebe.
Yates sat down of his own accord. The dog dropped, panting.
Beebe’s penetrating gaze read Vincent’s face. “Another talk? Haven’t you told us everything you know?” Her question carried a hint of accusation.
“No, not everything. But hear me out before you throw daggers at the messenger.”
“The messenger? You’re an accomplice in disguise.”
Vincent decided not to engage Beebe, letting her tone and characterization roll off his back. “She begged me not to tell any of this. You know how she can be.” For some reason, Vincent turned the last sentence to Yates, not Beebe. The undercurrent said the young man had greater knowledge of Beebe’s mother than Beebe. Vincent steeled himself before he ventured with, “The truth is she licked the addiction. She got the disease breaking up a fight.” Simultaneously, Beebe’s and Yates’s mouths flew open. “Two women were going at it pretty good, scratching, clawing, punching each other. One of them bit her. Broke the skin. The woman was bleeding from a busted lip. She had AIDS.”
Yates spoke first, truly injured. “Why didn’t she tell me? Why let me think she was less than she was, just an old druggie?”
“I asked the same question because she left me with that impression the night I carried her into Crossroads. She said she didn’t want to be looked up to. She was not fit for a pedestal. Those were her words. She meant that nothing she could do could ever pay for abandoning her family, or succumbing to addiction in the first place.”
Time ticked slowly by while Abigail’s rationale sank in. A yellow butterfly frolicked in the grass. Barleycorn stretched his nose, but laying down and panting, couldn’t reach it.
Finally, Beebe spoke. “But if she conquered her addiction, why didn’t she come home?”
“The felony warrant, I expect, if one ever existed. That was my take later, anyway.” Vincent rested his arm across the bench’s seat back.
“We could have gone to her.”
Vincent knew this was a scenario Beebe had not thought through. “You and Cliff would be aiding a felon. She didn’t tell me everything. Time was short.” Vincent saw a wave of anger cross Beebe’s face. The daggers weren’t far behind.
“You knew all this
when you came to my house.”
“I wasn’t supposed to tell any of it. So I told as little as possible. I don’t think you would have appreciated the details as much then. But now, with the two of you together,” Vincent said, flicking a finger at Beebe and Yates seated side by side on the bench, “I truly think it rises to the height of pedestal-worthy.”
“Why do you say that?” Beebe argued.
“She mastered the addiction. She put it behind her.”
“So we’re supposed to feel sorry for her because she got AIDS anyway, trying to do the right thing, trying to keep two women from pounding each other senseless. I suppose there’s a certain worth to that, a certain irony.”
“What if we think about standing her on a short pedestal?” Vincent added a weak smile. It garnered no appreciation from Beebe. “If she tried to stop this fight, she probably inserted herself in other dangerous situations.”
“My father’s.” Yates gave an example. “His car overturned. There was a danger of his car catching fire while she administered what aid she could and while crawling around inside, looking for Dad’s phone to call the accident in.”
“Why didn’t she put her willpower to use while she was here with Daddy and me? She found it on the road? Then she couldn’t come home because she faced jail time? In the end, she died of AIDS anyway.”
“But she did good along the way. She tried—”
Beebe jerked the sentence away from Yates. “She chose to be homeless! She admitted it. She lived on the streets, and she nearly died on the streets.”
“She didn’t live on the streets at the end. I took care of her until she needed more than I could give.” Yates spoke up for himself. “Then she lived at Gaven House.”
“But before that,” Beebe snapped, “she was one of the honored homeless.”
“What happened to coming to terms with your mother’s life?” Yates threw back.
Proper Goodbye Page 12
