Proper Goodbye

by Connie Chappell

  This morning, they spoke with a better demeanor between them. Her father relegated himself as the alleged wrong-doer.

  “Okay, get your broad shoulders ready. The hotspot that precipitated the dream actually got its legs when Vincent called yesterday morning. I automatically answered the phone ‘Walker residence.’ I only use that greeting here. The dream tripped a memory of the day you called after I got home from school. I said hello.” She looked past her father and drifted back to another season in time. “Your voice was a mix of desperation, hope, disbelief. You spoke one word. Her name. Abigail. I felt your whole world shatter again, standing right there on the kitchen floor when your disappointment registered. It was just me on the phone. Not Mother. She hadn’t come back. Hadn’t come home. What hurt me was that you accused me of sounding like her on purpose. You thought I should have known it was you calling and should have tried not to sound like her. How could I? That wasn’t reasonable, but you scolded me anyway. On that day, ‘Walker residence’ was born. Mother never used that greeting, so I did. For your sake.”

  “It was unfair, what I did. I’m sorry.”

  “You made me feel like a cheap imitation,” Beebe said, remembering her sixteen-year old heavy heart.

  “Don’t say that. You weren’t. I’m sorry. I am.” His eyes reflected his shame. “Okay. Now give me my punishment. What’s the next hotspot on your list?”

  Beebe found compassion. In truth, she revived the compassion she found last night. “If you’re looking for punishment, this will blow you out of the water.”

  Cliff managed a wary look.

  “Do you remember the summer festival the Larkspur Men’s Club held at the high school during my senior year?” She waited for his nod and received a quizzical frown, too. “It was a fundraiser to purchase school supplies for families who struggled financially. Vincent and I went. You knew we were going. You were there, too. You were the handyman. The club hired you to put the games and booths together, but I didn’t know that before I arrived because you didn’t tell me. You just rolled on with your life like I wasn’t part of it.”

  “You called me on it back then.”

  “I was embarrassed. Vincent pointed you out, and I had no idea. But what I didn’t tell you was how I felt after I heard your explanation. Well, it was sort of an explanation. I caught you right outside this door.” She poked a thumb over her shoulder. “Vincent brought me home. I came upstairs. You just finished brushing your teeth. And yes, I called you on it. I asked you why you didn’t tell me. You shrugged it off. You said it wasn’t a big deal. I told you my feelings were hurt. Your response stuck in my heart. Your response made me think of your feelings when I hadn’t before. ‘They pitied me,’ you said.”

  In profile, his jaw tightened.

  “The hall was dark. Just the light from the stairs. Your voice was low and pained. Then you came straight in here and closed the door. I got it then. I knew who ‘they’ were. They were the club members who asked you to join. Membership would have given you a certain status in the community. Mother left, and you never joined. Then you ended up their handyman. That was a comedown.”

  He wiped his nose with the back of his hand.

  “I stood there in the hall and stared at the closed door for a long, long time. I realized you didn’t tell me ahead of time because it would force you to think about their pity because we needed the money. The Walkers were a family who struggled financially,” she said, repeating the words she used earlier. “We didn’t have Mother’s paycheck. I felt self-centered when first I felt justified. You shared a confidence. That confidence was greater, it meant more than my hurt feelings. But how could I have known? I couldn’t know you were calling on the phone, and I couldn’t know your feelings until you confided them. That night, I saw a different side of you.”

  She got up, kissed her father on the top of his bowed head, and quietly left the room.

  Cliff left for the store on time that Friday morning. Beebe sat on the living room couch, reading the Larkspur News. She had another hour before she was due at Crossroads for her first day.

  She heard a vehicle rumble past the house on one of the nearest cemetery roads. Such a happening was only slightly odd. Most visitors used the main entrance farther south. Less than two minutes later, she heard a knock on the kitchen door. She lay the paper aside and went to answer it.

  A tall reedy man stood on the other side of the screen door. He tipped his hat when she stepped down to the mudroom floor. “Remember me, Beebe? Hal Garrett.”

  “Hurdlin’ Hal,” sailed out of her mouth. “Larkspur High track star!”

  “Now, now, you’ll turn my head.” His full grin exposed the space between his front teeth.

  She pushed the door open. “Come in. Have some coffee.”

  “That’s a fine offer.” He followed her into the kitchen. “Cliff said you were moving back.”

  “And here I am.” She pointed him to a chair.

  When she passed the window on the way to retrieve coffee mugs from the dish drainer, she saw a pickup parked on the road that curved out and around the block building. “You help Daddy out now?”

  “I do. Digging the graves and seeing to the markers.”

  She was glad her sixty-six-year old father took on an assistant at some point. She carried the two mugs of coffee to the table.

  “I handle the big equipment. The backhoe loader,” he explained.

  She slid out the silverware drawer. Crossing the floor with spoons in her hand, she noticed his hat lay on the table now, along with two napkins he helpfully pulled from the dispenser that never left the tabletop. He declined cream. The sugar bowl was passed from one to the other.

  “So, last I saw you, you were chasing Lorrie Lamont,” Beebe said, her spoon clipping the side of the mug as she stirred her coffee.

  “Chased her. Caught her,” he said, obviously pleased with himself and his life.

  “Praise be to Coach Fenimore,” Beebe said of the school’s track coach.

  “Not so politically correct by today’s standards, but he got the job done.”

  “What did he call the under-performers?” Beebe cocked her head up, thinking.

  “Pantywaists,” Hal jumped to say. “And if you really disappointed him, flaming pantywaists.”

  “Back then, I suppose that would make any of the boys get the lead out. But today—”

  Grinning, he cut her off. “Today, it’d be a lawsuit in the making.”

  They laughed.

  “It’s nice that you and Lorrie still live here.”

  “Not right after we were married. Lorrie had an airline’s job in Lansing she wanted to pursue. That meant travel for her, so we put off having kids. I went to heavy equipment operator’s school near there, and here we are. We have a ten-year old, raising us.” He grinned.

  “Boy for you, or girl for Lorrie?”

  “A girl who plays with heavy equipment toy trucks. Go figure.”

  “Sounds perfect.” Between the chatter, their coffee disappeared. “More?” Beebe asked, raising her mug.

  “I’m good.”

  “I’m glad you stopped by. I want to make arrangements for a grave,” Beebe said, ever the opportunist.

  “Who are you talking about? Cliff usually leaves paperwork, but I haven’t been back there yet.”

  Beebe assumed the paperwork went to the desk in the block building, the desk on which she observed the computer screen and keyboard. “Now, don’t think I’m going to be involved in cemetery operations. That’s purely you and Daddy. No, this is a special situation. Just this one time. I need a grave dug in our Walker plot.”

  His surpr
ised expression said, “Who died?”

  Beebe passed on that question and kept going. “I’m sure I can count on your discretion about this. The obituary will run Tuesday. There’s a grave out there by the blue spruce. Terri Miller.”

  He nodded slowly, though comprehension had not fully registered.

  “That name was an alias my mother used.”

  “That’s your mother!”

  “Yes, she was brought here for burial.” Beebe decided to skip around the part of the story that involved Vincent, hoping Hal was unaware.

  “I’m so sorry, Beebe. Cliff didn’t say anything.”

  “He only just learned. But now that we know, Daddy and I want the grave moved. Daddy’s decided on private services for Tuesday. I’m sure you don’t work on Sunday and with Labor Day Monday, I thought you should know in order to plan. How do we accomplish this?”

  “Well, I’ll dig the grave today.”

  “Not tomorrow?”

  “Cliff doesn’t like that kind of activity on a Saturday. Folks visit on the weekends, and they don’t need to see the housekeeping phase of things, if you know what I mean.” She nodded. “Then I’ll wait till Tuesday on the disinterment.” He paused. His eyes drifted to a point over Beebe’s shoulder, then returned. “So your mom, huh? That’s gotta be tough. And you’re running an obituary?”

  “Daddy wants it. I was surprised, but I suppose it gives closure. This is her last chapter, and he wants it done right.”

  “Maybe, but—” He winced. “You know.”

  “People will talk.”

  “Some will. I know high school was hard on you.”

  “I’m not so worried about me.”

  “If Cliff’s made this decision, then he’s decided how to handle it, too. I wouldn’t worry.”

  Beebe tossed him a look.

  “But I suppose you are.”

  “A little bit,” Beebe said. She set her coffee cup over to the side. It felt like there should be more, but she just couldn’t share details with Hal Garrett. Abigail Walker’s life while she was away was no one’s affair. After the obituary ran, she could conceivably have dozens of discussions just like this one.

  “You know, since Terri Miller was thought to be indigent, I tried my hand at the old ways. I practiced and engraved that headstone with chisel and hammer.”

  “You’re a craftsman,” Beebe said, truly impressed. “You did a fine job. I’m sorry it won’t stay on the grave.”

  The two people who knew Cliff Walker spoke back and forth with their eyes.

  Then Hal said, “I’ll keep everything to myself.”

  “Thank you,” Beebe mouthed.

  Beebe looked at her watch once she walked Hal to the back door and let him out, then she went to the phone and called Crossroads.

  The phone was answered with the words, “Crossroads. Yates here.”

  “Hi, Yates,” Beebe returned, grinning at his uniqueness. “Vincent around?”

  “No, he just hightailed it out of here when he heard about an auction over in Harrelsburg.”

  “What kind of auction?”

  “Gently-used hospital room accessories.” It sounded like Yates read from some kind of advertisement. Beebe knew Harrelsburg was three hours away. An auction of any length would tie Vincent up all day.

  “Well, I’ll tell you then. I’m ready to leave the house, but I need to stop at McKinley’s to speak with Daddy a minute.” She wanted to fill Cliff in on her conversation with Hal Garrett.

  “Fine with me. Vincent wanted me to tell you he finished writing up the program policies you’ll be implementing. He wants you to read them over this morning.”

  Amenable, Beebe said, “I’ll take care of it first thing.”

  When Beebe arrived at McKinley Hardware, Scott Cotter told her Cliff was out making a quick delivery. She reshuffled her day, asking Scott to let her father know she’d stop back in an hour or so. She’d be over at Crossroads if he asked.

  The senior center’s main room was empty when Beebe entered. As she scanned her surroundings, she saw Barleycorn. Well, his head anyway. He stuck it around a corner from an area behind the kitchen. After eye contact was made, he lifted his nose up and ducked it back from sight in a way that beckoned her. She found Yates cleaning out the storeroom. He anticipated her next question.

  “To make space, now that the painting is done. One of the roof-over-my-head chores.” His extended job description amused Beebe.

  He took a break to show her where Vincent left the reports and led her down a side hall off the main room. Barleycorn trailed dutifully along, his nails tapping the floor tiles. The tight proximity of closed doors in the hall told her the rooms beyond must be small. Her pace slowed with the progression of that thought. Was this the hospice wing?

  She was suddenly aware that behind one of these doors, she suspected her mother died. For some reason, she looked down to Barleycorn. His brown eyes darkened with confirmation. They did not let on which room.

  The walk became burdensome with the additional weight of insight. She knew first-hand now of the depth of pain and sorrow others experienced. It took full effect. She could empathize with the wife who must lay back into the bed where her husband died the night before.

  A few steps ahead, Yates pointed out his room. He opened the door. She glanced quickly around. The room was sparsely furnished and tidy. The next door opened to Vincent’s office. Beebe walked in, passing Yates, then a scarred credenza. Once she was settled into one of the four chairs around the table, Yates disappeared.

  On the tabletop, under an old gray stapler used as a paperweight, were four program descriptions. At the bottom of the pile, as she thumbed through, was Crossroads’ board member listing. She scanned the list first. The president was Donald Thorndyke. Larkspur was such a small town, she thought. Donald’s parents were buried next to Terri Miller’s grave. Other names on the list sounded familiar, but she could only put definition to Ron Smith, the board’s legal counsel. Vincent mentioned his name as the author of her employment agreement.

  Getting down to reading, Beebe made notes on the last page of the program Vincent titled, Registration Canvass. The idea was impressive and would prove time-consuming to ensure that no senior was overlooked. Once the canvass was fully completed, the value of the data collected would be priceless. She had just laid the pen down when Yates appeared in the doorway with the dog.

  “Barleycorn needs a visit to the park. Can you keep an ear tuned out front? Some of the guys just showed up for pool.”

  Beebe agreed.

  The next program description seemed fairly straightforward and limited to just the few months prior to the annual April 15 tax-filing deadline. Folks schooled in completing tax returns would be lined up to assist seniors by appointment.

  Distantly, she heard a commotion from the guys so Beebe wandered out to the main room. She found a woman in a business suit, chatting with the men and checking out the paint job. The wall tint used was a soft blue.

  Beebe instantly recognized one of the three pool players. It was Myron Fyffe, her high school algebra teacher. Her mother’s abandonment led Beebe to adopt a self-protective personae as a student. She stuck to the books, stayed out of everyone’s eye, and, as a result, made the honor roll every semester but one. She carried a solid B in algebra.

  “Do my eyes deceive? Is that Beebe Walker?” Fyffe said, placing forefingers and thumbs on the side stems of his glasses.

  “Mr. Fyffe. Good to see you.”

  He came over, still light on his feet, with his hand jutted out. “Not as good as it is to see you.”

  “Why, thank you,
” she said. He held the hand she gave him in both of his.

  The woman, so out of place in her expensive gabardine jacket and skirt, and fifteen years too young to be of retirement age, showed obvious interest. Beebe turned her attention away from Fyffe. “Hi. Can I help?”

  “Beebe? You’re the one I came to see. My name is Mona Gabriel. I’m a member of Crossroads board of directors,” Mona said.

  Beebe remembered the name from the list Vincent provided. She went to the woman. They shook hands.

  “I knew you were due in,” Mona continued, “so I thought I’d welcome you, see how things are going.”

  “I’m glad you stopped in.” Fortunate timing, Beebe thought. “In fact, I’m familiarizing myself with the programs Vincent designed. I understand the board gave preliminary approval, and it’s my job to implement them.”

  “Implement under Vincent’s guidance,” she corrected.

  “Of course.” Beebe applied a grain of diplomacy. “We’re a small force around here. We stand together.”

  “Fine. Excellent. And again, welcome. See you at the next board meeting.” Turning, she offered the pool players a stylish salute. “Gentlemen,” she said, then clipped on her heels out the door.

  Well, Beebe surmised, watching Mona pass the front window, she would be a personality to deal with.

  “So, you’ve got a job here,” Fyffe said.

  Beebe took a step his way. “Just started.”

  “Good luck. We’ll be the better for your participation.”

  Smiling, she tipped her head in appreciation of his comment, flicked a wave, and returned to her reading.

  She finished just as Yates returned. Barleycorn rushed over to get his ears scratched. “The reports are read,” she said to the young man. “I put a few notes in the margins. I’m going to run back over to McKinley’s and see if Daddy’s back.” When she scooted her chair away from the table, Barleycorn made room for her to stand. She raised her eyebrows to Yates. “You know, I still want you to meet Daddy. I’d love to have you and Vincent for dinner. You can share Terri’s stories.” She used the name he liked best.