Proper Goodbye

by Connie Chappell

  “What did he say?” Eager for the answer, Beebe leaned forward.

  “Just that it will set things right. Does that help?”

  “I think it does.” Beebe felt she followed the correct path with her “lies at sunset” scenario as an explanation for Cliff’s rationale. “I’m still analyzing since these things are such an odd mix, but I believe they’re all tied together. I’m stuck on how to help Daddy, or fix it. I can’t fix it.” She shook her head as if to erase the implication. “Fix is a bad word. I need him to express himself without the anger. Assign words to the anger he’s feeling. Maybe it’s simple. Simple grief. Maybe I’m over-thinking. I do that. I just need to walk the cemetery and give Daddy’s situation the—” She broke off her ramblings midsentence when her mind flashed with understanding.

  “What is it?” Rosemary’s brows knit.

  “I was going to say, give Daddy’s situation the time it deserves.” New energy emanated from Beebe’s voice. “Time. Time is the missing component. I keep going off on tangents with the glider and the reburial at sunset.”

  “Those aren’t important?”

  “They are. Very. But the time perspective needs singular attention.”

  “You’ve lost me.”

  Before Beebe explained, she made a quick decision to loop Rosemary into the solution. “We,” Beebe began, wagging a finger between the two of them, “we need to remember and consider how thirty years of not knowing what happened to his wife affected Daddy. Of wondering. Of hoping. Of beating himself up for thinking she must be dead, only to revive her spirit in his heart to hope and wonder all over again.”

  While Beebe spoke, she watched as Rosemary’s eyes darkened. Her father’s friend seemed to empathize with the intense emotions that must swirl around Cliff. Over the last thirty years, those emotions moved at a slower pace than today, Beebe thought, but never, for a moment, were they quiet. Always at a simmer. Ready to heat. Prepared to ambush with the slightest provocation. Then the blow came. It had not fallen by degrees, but with one swift motion that sent his emotions into a whirlpool to circle him like prey.

  Now that she imagined it, she felt the pull of the whirlpool. It took real effort to wrench herself back, and that effort forced out her next words. “All he needs is a handhold, Rosemary. The strength of one or two people. To let the dregs of those long, awful years pass.” Beebe envisioned the rough waters receding and sensed acceptance rolling in on the foam of the morning current. She sent a knowing gaze across the table to the woman who rubbed her father’s back earlier, outside the restaurant. “You love my father. I know you do. Will you be a handhold?”

  Rosemary’s reaction spoke in advance of her words. She sat taller. She smiled. Her eyes softened. “Yes. I do love your father. And I will be a handhold. I’ll be one for you, too, if you want one.”

  Beebe waved away any interest in herself. “Just knowing you’ll help Daddy helps me.” Then surprisingly intuitive Rosemary struck on the very thought going through Beebe’s mind.

  “And don’t think that just because I love your father, I want to somehow replace your mother. I’d like to be friends, yes, but it’s been the same thirty years for you. Let me know if I can help.”

  Rosemary’s sentiment dazed Beebe for a moment. In response to her sincere words, she said, “Thank you, Rosemary. I’m sure we can be friends and team our efforts on Daddy’s behalf. He’s going to need strong support. Certain people in this community will talk and say hurtful things.” Mona Gabriel and Mick Nettleman easily slipped to the forefront.

  “Every community has them.”

  “But this is Larkspur, where Daddy and I make our home. We’re a united front, he and I, but he’s hurting. I don’t know how much more he can endure from the neighbors he thought were his friends.” Beebe shifted her sights out the window to quiet Town Street. She remembered Cliff’s comment when she confronted him about the fundraiser for school supplies. That night, he spoke of friends who pitied him. Rosemary was not that kind of friend. Her commitment to Cliff and Beebe confirmed that.

  Still Beebe shivered with her next worried thought. It was a conclusion, really, one that a sixteen-year old missed all those years ago, but the woman with a few trips around the block could perceive. “I think Daddy is afraid of his grief. It terrifies him. That’s why he behaves as he does.”

  Another Emotion Visited

  At McKinley Hardware, Scott Cotter directed Beebe to the electrical aisle. There, she found Cliff mechanically placing packaged light bulbs on a shelf, straight out of a shipping carton.

  “Daddy, can we talk a minute?”

  He gave her a weary smile. “Hi, Beebe.”

  “Daddy? Can we go back to the dock?”

  “What’s wrong?” he asked, low-key.

  “I want to tell you something.”

  “Okay.” He sighed.

  They passed through the dimly lit warehouse. She didn’t want Mona or another board member walking up to her father, blithely mentioning the “perception” problem involving Beebe, Abigail, and Crossroads—and by extension, Vincent—and Cliff be unaware.

  “Something happened while I was at the newspaper, placing the obituary.”

  He frowned.

  “Mona Gabriel came in. You know she’s a member of Crossroads’ board?”

  “Sure.”

  “Well, the other day when I was at the center, Mona dropped by for a minute, and Mr. Fyffe was there. My old algebra teacher. We spoke. He was nice. After Mona left, another man, Mick Nettleman, told me he worked with Mother at the hospital. He did not say nice things.” Cliff frowned. Beebe understood. “You know him.”

  “I do.”

  “He threatened to tell Mona about Mother’s past. Clearly, he did because she caught me down at the newspaper and said she needed to inform the board of the situation with Mother at the next meeting.”

  “She’s trying to cause trouble,” Cliff said, his statement lacking vigor. “Mona sits on several boards. Vincent calls her a board bouncer. You know, a professional board member around town. That’s how she gets the gossip.” He seemed completely uninterested in the fact that the gossip concerned him and his family.

  “Well, if that’s the case,” she said, conceding to his opinion, “Vincent will know how much to worry. He knows the makeup of the board. I just wanted you to be aware that Mona may be spreading the story, and you may hear it from someone who comes in the store.”

  “But you got the obituary placed okay?”

  For a moment, Beebe was speechless, confused by his lackluster concern for a serious problem and his focus on a relatively minor issue in the scope of things. “Yes, Daddy, the death notice will run tomorrow, just like you wanted.”

  “Good,” Cliff said. He showed no anger, but seemed almost lethargic.

  Another emotion visited, Beebe thought. Since she wondered if her words truly sunk in, she decided she’d leave her acceptance of Yates’s father’s attendance at the reburial for later. She suggested reheating the vegetable soup.

  He gave the requisite, “Sounds great.”

  * * *

  Hours later, when steam rose off the soup, Beebe had to climb the stairs to pry Cliff out from behind his bedroom door. She knocked, and true to his words, he joined her at the table “right away.” Dinner conversation was minimal and led by Beebe. She did broach the subject of Yates’s father, Arthur Strand, attending the services. Cliff nodded, thoughtful, his mind elsewhere. He declined a second serving of soup, carried his dishes to the kitchen sink, and then went back upstairs.

  She was running a wet cloth over the table when he returned, carrying a sheaf of papers.

  “I found the
life insurance policy on your mother,” he said.

  So, he’s been sorting through documents, Beebe thought.

  He followed her to the sink, where she ditched the rag and dried her hands on a terrycloth towel hanging nearby.

  “I want to file a claim, but I don’t have an accurate death certificate,” he said. “The one delivered with the body for burial says Terri Miller.”

  Beebe hadn’t thought about the paperwork surrounding her mother’s death being filed and recorded incorrectly. “Surely, we can have it changed. I’ll take care of it, Daddy.”

  “It’s not much.”

  She knew he meant the policy amount. “What will you do with the money?”

  “What everyone else does,” he said grumpily. “Pay for the funeral.”

  “You mean it will go to the cemetery?”

  “Some. And some will go back to town hall. Town coffers pay for indigent burials. Then there’s Hal’s time for the marker. There’s more than needed. So, the remainder will be used for the next indigent burial.”

  “Will you use the same grave for the next indigent burial?” She prodded a bit further toward another comment he made the same night he learned about Abigail.

  “Don’t ask me now what I’m going to do! Your mother hasn’t finished ripping open old wounds yet.” His snappish words told her he still hurt over the many layers of this muddled situation: the empty grave, his tidy nature, the tarnished blot on his cemetery that equaled a scratch on painted metal, one incapable of being rubbed out with a special compound. “There’s always a burial you can’t forget,” he concluded dully.

  Although it appeared Cliff spoke purely for his own benefit, Beebe added a quiet plea. “Try, Daddy.”

  His eyes widened, alive with an intensity that made her recoil. “You know nothing about how hard I’ve tried!”

  He stomped off and left his resentment for her naiveté behind.

  * * *

  The day of the funeral, Beebe crossed the grass. Her father stood on the cemetery road that passed the house, speaking with Hal Garrett, who had just driven in. Before she reached them, Hal drove on, out to the equipment building. The morning paper was folded under Cliff’s arm. The open grave in the Walker plot was ahead of him on the left. The symbolic glider was behind him on the right.

  He heard her approach and turned.

  “Is the obituary in the paper?” she asked, coming up to stand beside him.

  “Yes. It’s very nice. I’m still glad we did it.”

  She thought, Hmm, still glad? Had he wavered at some point? Rather than broach that subject, she chose another and braced herself for his blustery reaction. “May I say a few words at the service?”

  He tipped his chin down to her. “That’s a change in tune. Are you sure you want to?”

  “Yes, Daddy. Not as a minister. Just as a daughter.”

  He sent his eyes to scan the acreage of stones. “So, that means you won’t pray for your mother at the conclusion?”

  “I think a moment of silence would be more appropriate. Please try to understand, I don’t think my prayers have gotten through. Not for some time.”

  He nodded. “It’ll work out, I’m sure.”

  She heard his dismissive tone, but surprised herself when, on tiptoes, she kissed his cheek. “I’m going to Crossroads, then to check on the correction of the death certificate. I’ll be back in plenty of time. There’s gobs of food in the refrigerator if you get hungry. Invite Hal, so you don’t have to eat alone.”

  * * *

  Cliff worked in the block building for an hour or so, dealing with paperwork. Outside, he heard the rumble of an engine float through the open windows. He pushed his chair on casters back to see out the paned glass. Hal and his backhoe marched slowly to Terri Miller’s grave. Cliff scooted the chair back to the desk. Shortly, he would hear the engine idle. That meant Hal was out to spread tarps on the ground nearby. Dirt scooped from the unearthed grave would be mounded there.

  Cliff’s eventual arrival at the site was timed to speak with Hal when he was again out of the backhoe. Hal lowered a long sturdy broom into the open grave. He used it to brush away dirt clinging to the handles of the burial vault. Inside the vault was the casket. Inside the casket lay the remains of Abigail Marie Walker.

  It was the other grave, the one in the Walker plot, and Hal’s duties there that were on Cliff’s mind. He wanted to intercede before Hal wasted his time placing the short scaffolding-like framework around the open grave up near the house. The scaffolding aided in the lowering of the vault.

  “I want to use the leather straps for Abigail, not the scaffolding. Can you work it out?” Even to himself, his words sounded abrupt.

  Many times over the years, Cliff picked up the first ledger for Larkspur Cemetery. Joseph Jenkins, the cemetery’s original caretaker, approached his tallying of accounts more like a diary than a financial recordkeeping. On this day, Cliff was glad for Jenkins’ wordy summaries. Cliff wanted to be a personal part of his wife’s burial. The idea gnawed at him for days now. The ancient leather straps would substitute for the pallbearer ritual that time never forgot.

  “Really?” The tenor of Hal’s voice shot the one-word question up and, when meshed with his facial expression, produced a result that was thoughtfully agreeable.

  Cliff nodded.

  “Well, an old-fashioned service. A nice touch, Cliff. But we’ll need at least four strong men.”

  “We’ve got them. Me. Vincent Bostick. A young man Abigail knew, Yates Strand. And his father, who Yates says wants to come.”

  A flash in Hal’s eyes told Cliff he wanted to know the story of Abigail Walker and the Strands. Too polite to ask, Hal said instead, “If the father doesn’t make it, I can step in. Beebe can ease off the vault handler’s lever until the straps take the weight. It’s a lot of weight. The lever must be moved correctly. So let’s hope the fourth man shows.”

  “It’ll work out, I’m sure.” Those were the same words he said to Beebe earlier. If he maintained positive thoughts, maybe they’d take hold and prop him up, and he’d get through this awful day.

  “By the way,” Hal said, “the obituary was nicely written. Beebe’s hand?”

  Cliff swallowed. His daughter’s sentiment for her mother touched him deeply each time he thought of or read the obituary. “She did a good job.” Despite the complimentary nature of the response he managed, Cliff turned and walked off so Hal wouldn’t see his face crumple. Sunset was hours away, and already, everything was coming down on him.

  He pointed himself in the direction of a walking path. He met up with the path at a century’s-old cypress and stepped behind it. Screened from Hal, he fished a red bandana handkerchief from his back pocket and dried his eyes. Roiling emotions governed his life since he learned about Abigail’s death, but in this moment, those emotions were merely packaging.

  A hot tear streamed his cheek. He spoke aloud all that really mattered. “Thank God, I know where you are, Abigail. I know where you are, and I can keep you with me, always.”

  Thirty years was a long wait. But the wait was over. He would care for Abigail’s grave until the last breath left his body.

  * * *

  Vincent looked up when Beebe stuck her head around the doorframe of his office. He offered her a seat, then listened quietly while she retold her story of running into Mona Gabriel at the newspaper building. When she finished, Vincent added tangential information that shed a new and different light on the overall situation.

  “Mona’s husband’s a doctor,” he said. “Remember Sunday when you asked about a physician on retainer for situations like Razzell’s, and I said that presented a
small problem? Well, the physician the board has in mind is Dr. Hershel Gabriel. His practice is geriatrics.”

  Beebe’s eyes widened. “Sunday, you called him Dr. Gabe, short for Gabriel. I didn’t put it together with Mona.”

  Vincent pushed away the papers stationed in front of him on the table. “Yeah, well, we say retainer, but no money changes hands. It’s an agreement to become involved with some degree of priority given to our seniors. If Mosie’s condition hadn’t cleared itself, we had no one to call. We can’t force a senior to seek medical help, go to the hospital in an ambulance. Your mother, for instance. She told me right out, don’t call for medical aid; she wouldn’t participate. And in her case, the treatment wouldn’t have changed the outcome, just probably made her more comfortable. I can’t even be sure of that. People decide how they want their lives to end when the time comes. I’m not interested in forcing my opinions on them. I hope you don’t either.”

  “I will do my best to encourage attention if it can make a difference, if clearly there’s hope.”

  “I agree. There has to be hope.”

  “That hope comes from medical advice,” Beebe said, sitting back in the chair. “Currently, we’re not set up—with just you and me, and a rookie nurse, if we count Yates—to deal with true life-threatening situations. So many things can influence seniors. They could be the newly infirm, or those heading that direction through lack of intervention, or those having lost companionship—there’s that word again—or those with no family, or family members who don’t care. All these things can bring a senior into the center’s circle of light. On the flip side, as people grow older, family and friends die. Being the last one alive in your group is a lonely prospect. It wears on people quickly.”

  “That speech should spur Crossroads’ active members into action to work to complete the inventory of seniors in this community. The program’s already been approved, and what a benefit to have a general idea of the breadth of population that might tap our services.”