Mona opened her mouth to respond, but didn’t when Ron stretched his neck to a point beyond her. Mona’s husband, Dr. Hershel Gabriel, and a woman with long, dark curly hair walked past Crossroads’ window. Ron shot a glance down the table to Donald. Board members’ heads swiveled in all directions, finally to focus on the two who entered. Dr. Gabriel closed the door behind them.
Several people talked at once. Husband barely glanced at wife. Ron was up quickly. He moved two more chairs to the corner of the table across from Beebe and Vincent for the new arrivals.
Even before Donald Thorndyke introduced the woman, Beebe knew who she was. She looked more like her mother, Patsy Thorndyke, than Donald did, and she had now reached the age her mother attained when Beebe last saw Patsy.
“You all know Dr. Gabriel and my sister, Melinda,” Donald said. He leaned his head out for a view of Dr. Gabriel. “Thank you, Gabe, for driving her here.” He gave himself a moment. “When Mona called with her plans to prosecute Beebe and Vincent, I well remembered the days when Abigail Walker fled our community. Good people are often placed in complex positions with complicated decisions to make. As was Abigail Walker. As was Vincent Bostick. As was my sister. Melinda asked to come here today to add her words personally to this discussion.”
Stunned, Beebe’s heart nearly stopped. She felt a shift in the proceedings. Donald, at least, changed sides in this sham, which, Beebe decided, was a word of which he would approve.
Melinda stood. Closer, Beebe saw the dark hair was streaked with gray. Melinda was years past fifty. Her face was rounder, her eyes sadder than Beebe remembered. Those eyes were tipped to Beebe.
“I’m a nurse. I worked at Lakeview Hospital with your mother.” Abigail Walker’s nursing career had a ten-year tenure over Melinda’s. “I remember her return to work after the car accident. I liked her very much, and I was the one who reported the theft of drugs.” She swallowed. “I thought I saw her substitute meds once. After that, I watched closer. I saw her repeat the process several times. I debated, but I reported it.” She turned her head toward the others at the table. “If any of you have come through your lives without facing a decision like that, then count yourselves lucky. It took me days to decide, to find the courage, and I blame myself for the results. I had two choices: I could go to the administration, or I could go to Abigail. Clearly, I didn’t have the courage to go to Abigail and disregard hospital policy. I went up the ladder. Rumors spread, and Abigail was off the floor by the time the hospital’s CEO came looking for her. Police officers showed up a moment later. I was so ashamed of myself at that moment, I wanted to run, too. I understood exactly what happened. Abigail’s accident, the pain, the reliance on medicine to relieve that pain, but she was to be treated like a criminal, not like a human being who needed our help. The hospital protected my identity. My family knew, but the hospital would not protect Abigail. That was disillusioning, and I never forgot.”
Melinda held the members’ rapt attention. Based on Dr. Gabriel’s concentration, this was the first time he heard Melinda’s story.
Donald startled Beebe when he spoke. “With my family’s involvement, Mona, should I resign from this board?” The question was expressed evenly, without malice.
Every head turned to Mona, who threw her shoulders back. Beebe saw Mona’s mind slip into gear. One glance at her husband told Beebe no help would come Mona’s way from him.
“Well, no,” Mona stammered. “There’s no real connection.”
“But the perception, Mona? With this community’s long memory, and as you would have us believe, a long and spiteful one, what about the perception?” He allowed two beats to pass while Mona stiffened to stubborn silence. “Well, let’s put my resignation on the back burner for a while, shall we? I invited Dr. Jeffers to attend and speak to us.”
Jeffers rose. Beebe turned. His position placed him over her left shoulder. He spoke directly to her.
“Let me express, again, my condolences on the loss of your mother.” Then Jeffers’ composure slipped with a grin to the others. “What goes on in the world outside my autopsy suite is quite—in a word—alive. I must get out more, and I plan to.” Hands in his pockets, he began in earnest. “Beebe’s request to correct the name on Terri Miller’s death certificate to her mother’s name and the explanation behind it prompted me to contact Donald. He asked if I’d bring my decision to the meeting today. The decision I bring is not about the death certificate. That will be handled privately with Beebe. The decision I came with concerns the need this county has to inform hospices of the legal aspects affecting their function and the policies of the coroner’s office so the two don’t conflict. That has been lacking. I see the need to educate. I’m hoping Crossroads will host directors from similar agencies so I can be involved, answer questions, skim the ethics, and create ongoing communication. As I said, I feel the lapse resides on my side, and I want to rectify that.”
Donald cleared his throat. “With the details to be worked out later, does this board agree to host as many meetings as Dr. Jeffers finds necessary to open a line of communication between hospices and the like with the coroner’s office? All in favor?” Hands shot up. “Opposed?” None. “Unanimously carried, Dr. Jeffers. You have our thanks. I’m sure from Dr. Jeffers’ talks, we’ll learn that we need to set policy for Crossroads so our employees have guidance and our agency does not again find itself in conflict with the coroner’s office. One other thing. Will you speak to patients’ rights?”
“We’ve talked.” Ron Smith took the question. His chair creaked as he motioned to Jeffers with the hand that boasted an onyx pinky ring. “We’ll handle these meetings with a tag-team approach. I’ll add the patients’ side of things for a nicely balanced presentation.”
“Fine. Excellent. We’re in good hands,” Donald said, as Jeffers resumed his seat. “Dr. Gabe? Something to say?”
Gabriel got to his feet. “Dr. Jeffers, I am very pleased to hear your plans for in-service meetings. Well done.” Head down, lower lip out, obviously in thought, he took a step away from his chair. His comments started with an intake of breath. “Daily life is a real challenge for our seniors. The last chapter of that challenge is often told on the autopsy table. I complement each of you for your desire to provide Larkspur seniors with so many possibilities here to improve their quality of long life. There is a beloved senior in this community with whom I had the opportunity in the last few days to spend time. I couldn’t give my full attention, by any means, so representatives of this agency stepped in and provided amazing care with a full recovery. I am so impressed with Crossroads’ superior personnel and the results they gleaned that I spent a great deal of time considering a true opportunity opened to me by Vincent on Chairman Thorndyke’s behalf. Well,” he smiled, “it was months ago now. If the offer still stands, I would like to sign on as Crossroads’ medical liaison, to support senior programming as it relates to geriatric needs.”
Donald clapped his hands. “This vote will be an easy one, I’m sure. We need this association with Dr. Gabriel, just as we need a working relationship with Dr. Jeffers. Although I’d like to see more of Gabe than Sam, in the professional arena, of course. You’re more than welcome, Dr. Jeffers, to join the crowd on bingo night. All in favor of accepting Dr. Hershel Gabriel as our physician-on-call?” Hands raised. “Opposed?”
The entire group watched Mona. Her focus pierced the tabletop in front of her.
“Abstentions?” Donald queried. The question seemed to hang in the air.
Beebe thought she could almost see Mona’s anger burning behind her eyes. The tips of her hair would smolder next. As Beebe rankled earlier with conspiracy, Mona must suffer the same. Her husband participated in battle against her. This was public humiliation, and her husband spoke not one word in her defense. But then, humiliation was a two-way st
reet, Beebe thought. She felt a pang of sorrow for Gabriel as well. His wife was an object of disrespect among Crossroads’ board members.
“Our dear Mona has obviously concluded that her husband’s involvement as service provider will create an irresolvable conflict of interest for her as a principal board member.” Sitting sideways to the table, Ron Smith put his elbow on the faux Formica top and led his eyes around to Mona’s. “That resignation you saw coming,” he paused, “I believe it’s yours.”
Conspiracy was exactly the name of the game for the entire ordeal. The game’s goal: bait a trap for Mona Gabriel. Beebe’s first encounter with Ron Smith revealed his cruel streak. He matched it with a crooked smile. What a force the man would be in a courtroom.
From the faces around the table, Beebe saw not one morsel of disgust over the attorney’s malicious intent, but a moment of emotional release, of internal glee. These people suffered a long and trying history with Mona Gabriel.
The savoring of Mona’s demise was cut short when Rosemary Olmsted burst through Crossroads’ door. Her frazzled look was emphasized by deep lines cutting into her face. She came from the diner. Rosemary’s apron was still tied around her waist.
“Oh, excuse me.” Rosemary wrung her hands. “I’m so sorry. Beebe? Can you step out?”
Vincent came with Beebe. They huddled on the sidewalk while Rosemary hurried into an explanation. “Cliff was just at the diner. He’s upset. He headed home. It’s Abigail. It’s everything. The glider. The grave. How he wished Abigail had asked for help from someone. Anyone. The death certificate delay. Everything’s collapsing around him.”
Beebe’s gaze shot to Vincent. His brown eyes reflected his concern.
“Go,” he said. “Call me later. Call me if you need help.”
Inching toward the door, Beebe said, “I don’t have my car keys.” Her purse was inside.
Vincent stopped her. He dug in his pocket. “Here, take mine.”
The translation meant every second was important. But Beebe took time to put a hand on both Vincent’s and Rosemary’s arms. “Thank you. Thank you.”
At a trot, she crossed the street to Vincent’s car.
Secondhand Grave
Yates entered Razzell’s bedroom. “How do you feel?” he asked Razzell, who was dressed and sat in the room’s upholstered chair, reading National Geographic. “We could walk to the park. Let Barleycorn play.”
The dog’s ears perked when he heard his name. He lay on the carpeting beside the chair. Yates’s first weekend in the house was behind him. Since then, the reverend’s overall health and stamina seemed greatly improved. He spent most of the day resting, but not in bed.
“Let’s sit on the front porch,” Razzell said. “Barleycorn can amuse himself in the yard.”
“Deal.” Yates hoped for a little more, but the compromise was welcome. He handed Razzell a comb and grinned. “Here, make yourself presentable in case some women walk by. It’s shady out front. I’ll get your sweater.”
Out in the living room, Yates pulled the lightweight tan sweater from the couch where it occupied the far cushion since Yates arrived six days ago. A folded section of newspaper, unseen all this time, slipped off the couch onto the floor. Yates picked it up and stared at Abigail Walker’s obituary.
He looked back down the hall, wondering about the man who knew her. Yates thought there were probably papers all over town folded in the same manner when the death notice ran. He decided to leave the matter. He called the dog. Barleycorn appeared with Razzell close behind. Yates thought his patient’s gait was good. Stronger. His eyes were clear. He needed a little weight.
“Here, let me help you get this on.”
Together, they worked the sweater over his arms and back. A few seconds later, Razzell was settled out on the porch, sitting in a webbed lawn chair. Barleycorn had his nose stuffed in the bushes.
“I’m going to pour us some juice,” Yates said. “I’ll be right back.”
“No, wait. I think I can do without juice for a minute.”
Yates, surprised by the determination riding his tone, leaned back on the porch railing and watched the man. The man watched the dog.
“Barleycorn is an unusual name. Do you know its meaning?”
Yates did. Terri told him the meaning when she first came home with the mutt. “It’s an old unit of linear measure equal to one-third inch.”
The expression on Razzell’s face seemed to flatten out. Yates first thought the reverend was just disappointed that he knew the answer, but then he repeated Yates’s next sentence with him, word for word. “Nine barleycorns equals three inches.”
Yates stared at the man who struggled so hard to return clarity to his life over the past days. “How did you know I was going to say that?”
The answer to Yates’s question came in the form of a tear rolling off Razzell’s cheek. “Yates,” he said, “I need a lift somewhere. Will you drive me?”
“I guess,” Yates said, confused. “Can Barleycorn come with us?”
“Yes, please, bring the dog. It’s time to speak with Beebe.”
* * *
Beebe skidded Vincent’s car to a stop on the service road alongside the caretaker’s house. Out of the driver’s seat, she winged the door closed and ran to her father. Cliff lifted a sledge hammer over his head. It fell on the glider. Both swing and framework lay on the ground. By the looks of the poor mangled metal object, Cliff made contact a half dozen times.
“Daddy, what are you doing?”
When he reared the hammer again, she jumped back. “Why can’t something go right for me?” he complained. “I’ve done nothing.”
“Daddy, you’re going to hurt yourself.”
Out on the cemetery road, Beebe saw Hal Garrett, his head under the hood of the backhoe. Couldn’t he hear the hammer hitting the metal? Then she heard the backhoe’s motor rev and knew it shunted Cliff’s racket from Hal’s ears.
“Your mother left. You left. I’ve been here. Now I’m just trying to pick up the pieces.” He groaned with the effort to slam the sledge hammer again at one of the glider’s legs. “Do something nice for the cemetery, for future indigents, now that I know the story of one, of what happens.” Breathing hard, he let the hammer head rest on the ground while he voiced his conclusion a second time. “I’ve done nothing.”
She became panic-stricken when he got his grip around the hammer again. “Daddy, please stop!”
“No.”
She looked down to Hal, still oblivious. Cliff slammed the heavy mallet against a cross-member. It screeched in pain. “Daddy, will you stop.”
“No.”
“All right. Go ahead. You know,” she said pointedly, frustrated, “because you’re right. You did nothing when Mother was getting hooked on drugs.” Boy, she was going to have to apologize for this later, but she had to jolt him free of his destructive path. The glider was a lost cause, but his actions were feeding his mood, his psyche, and his soul.
Cliff glared at his daughter and reiterated his feeble excuse. “She told me lies, in this glider, night after night. It will never end.”
“It will end. You need to talk about this. Give it time.”
“No. I like this better.” He got the sledge hammer over his shoulder.
“Smashing the hell out of the glider?” She dodged a piece of flying metal. “We’ll find a grief support group.” In that odd, bizarre instant, Beebe thought everything seemed to happen for a reason. She triangulated between the broken backhoe, the open grave, and the smashed-up glider. The solution was so obvious. She and her father must bury the memories and the lies in that grave.
A g
ood two-hundred yards away, Hal closed the backhoe’s hood. He climbed onto the seat and gunned the engine.
“Wait, Daddy. Stop. We’ve got to catch Hal.”
“No. One more.”
The hammer head rested on the ground. Beebe slapped at her father’s hand. “Stop. Help me,” she pleaded.
She reached for one end of the swing and lifted it and her eyes to the befuddlement on Cliff’s face. “Do you want to bury the memories and the lies?” He stood dumbfounded, arms at his sides. “Grab the other end. We need to get this to Hal.”
“Hal? What are you talking about?” The hammer’s handle fell back onto the grass with a soft thud.
“We’re going to take care of things ourselves and right now. We’re going to bury this swing in that grave.” Her head swung fore and aft. “It’s fitting, don’t you think? The memories of the lies told on this glider buried in the once-used grave you don’t know what to do with. Don’t you see? We can solve everything. Grab it. We’ve got to hurry.”
Beebe saw realization and a new purpose flood hungrily into Cliff’s body. Leaving the crushed framework behind, they lugged the dented and paint-chipped swing. Father and daughter traipsed off in an awkward sidestepping march that the cemetery, in all its years, never before witnessed.
The words, one has to be flexible, ran through Beebe’s mind. She once thought the glider would be an instrument to measure her father’s return from grief. One day, he would sit on it of his own accord, and she’d know progress was made. She guessed if her father sledge-hammered the hell out of it, that was another form of measurement. She flexed her thinking and reasoned this latter, more aggressive form made all the sense in the world.
A section of chain dragged the asphalt, but Beebe kept her eyes glued to Hal and his progress to position the heavy piece of equipment near the loose mound of dirt he would scoop back into the empty grave. Luckily, Hal stopped to use his forearm to wipe sweat off his face. Beebe could almost see his eyes cover the distance to the unusual sight she and her father presented.
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