Proper Goodbye

by Connie Chappell

  The next morning, after breakfast dishes were washed, Vincent asked Yates to mop and wax the kitchen’s tiled floor. From a large closet off the kitchen, Vincent got out an old-fashioned rope mop, bucket, wax that squirted from a bottle, and a rectangular sponge applicator affixed to the bottom of a long, blue handle.

  Yates looked at the pile of supplies. Leaning on the mop handle, he wanted to ask Vincent, can you say Swiffer?

  Instead, he got to the job. After he mopped and while he waited for the floor to dry, he arranged folding chairs from the main room as a barricade across the six-foot entranceway. The chairs kept Barleycorn out. Thirty minutes later, Yates realized he hadn’t thought things through when he waxed himself into the corner opposite the moveable chair barricade. Finding no other way out and thankful he was alone, he hopped up onto the counter that cordoned off the kitchen from the main room. He waxed the area his feet just occupied as best he could with his stomach pressed to the Formica, his butt wiggling with the effort, and his legs hanging off the other side. Then he and the wax applicator slid down to the main room’s dry floor.

  Barleycorn sauntered over. Yates scratched the dog’s head. “Lesson learned,” he said to the canine.

  * * *

  The Stryker County Health Department occupied the second floor of the Holmes Building in downtown Larkspur. The building was a product of the eighteen-hundreds when fancy woodwork was a common feature. The doors with skeleton key locks and glass knobs sat under transoms and twelve-foot ceilings. Yates entered the door numbered 201 and went straight to the work counter.

  A woman in her mid-forties stood behind the counter, reading some papers. The nametag pinned to her white blouse read Heidi Cranston. Heidi looked up. “Good morning. How can I help you?”

  “I’d like to look through some old birth records.”

  “How old?”

  “Sixty-five to seventy years ago.”

  “Microfilm,” she said declaratively. “You sit over there. I’ll get the reels. Everything’s alphabetical by year. What’s the name?”

  “Terri Miller.”

  “Okay. I’ll be back.”

  A five-foot table sat against the wall perpendicular to the counter. A chair was pushed up to the table, and a microfilm reader occupied the center of the table’s surface.

  Yates leaned his backpack against a table leg, then pulled out and sat in the chair. He always considered Miller Terri’s married name, so a birth record match might prove a false lead. The concept of “married name” sparked an idea. What about marriage certificates as a source? That would mean a trip to another government building, he expected.

  Heidi returned quickly. “These three reels cover the time frame for the entire county.”

  He leaned back, and she threaded the first reel. “Let me know if you have any problems.”

  Yates nodded, although distracted by her comment, “the entire county.” He hadn’t thought in broader terms. Larkspur was just a subset. The phonebook covered Stryker County. But did the Polk Directory, which he remembered now was also referred to as the city directory, cover the county? He might have a hole in his research.

  Twenty minutes later, he rubbed his eyes, tired from staring at the screen, but threaded the third reel anyway.

  When Yates finished and stood up to carry the boxes to the counter, Heidi noticed and meet him there.

  “Any luck?” she asked.

  “None, but I’m wondering about marriage certificates.”

  “For those, you’ll need to go to Probate Court.” Yates was just forming the word, “Where,” when Heidi pointed in a northeasterly direction over his shoulder. “It’s the building diagonally across the street at the corner.”

  The next day, during his break from chores, Yates waited in line at the Stryker County Probate Court clerk’s office behind a man he decided was a local minister turning in paperwork for recent nuptials he performed. The minister and female clerk chatted. She apparently attended the wedding.

  Everyone in this small town knows everyone, Yates concluded. Terri left Larkspur a long time ago. If she’d been notorious, no one seemed to tremble with fear over her name. For example, the day before, the clerk at the Health Department wasn’t struck by fright.

  He stepped up when his turn came, made his request for archived marriage licenses, gave the name Terri Miller, and watched. Nope. This clerk didn’t gasp, draw back, or quake. Instead, she followed the same drill. She pointed to the microfilm viewer on the table where Yates already stowed his pack. A few minutes later, she carried four boxes of film to the counter. He acknowledged experience with threading the machine and gathered up the boxes. The chair in front of the viewer had one short leg. It rocked when he shifted his weight. Again, he kept his eye out for Teresa, as well as Terri.

  Ninety minutes later, he stood outside on the sidewalk. It appeared his escapades raised no red flags around Larkspur, but he gathered no information either. He hit one dead end after another.

  Making a quiet nuisance of himself all over town validated his reason to put off a trip to the cemetery. How could he stare down at Terri’s grave and think of her there? From a conservation standpoint, he told himself he needed to preserve the Jeep’s gas until he had gainful employment. Even he categorized that excuse as lame.

  Angel’s Prayer

  It was midmorning when Vincent poured the last of the coffee from the pot into his mug, overfilling it. He turned too quickly. Brown liquid sloshed out.

  Yates stood at the sink, adding water to Barleycorn’s bowl. He turned the faucet off with force and a forceful, “Aah.”

  Vincent looked over. Yates frowned down at the small puddle. “Look what you did to my floor. That’s going to take off the wax.”

  The domestic complaint sounded so incompatible with the young man that Vincent’s mind was wiped of the ability to formulate speech. He stared, openmouthed.

  When their eyes met a second later, it was quite apparent Yates exaggerated his dismay. A laugh burst out of him. “That sounded just like my mother.”

  “Mine too.” Vincent chuckled.

  “Go on. Get out of my kitchen, and let me clean up this mess. I am so unappreciated.”

  Vincent grinned at the young man’s enjoyable nature. He found he liked Yates very much. While complying with his request to vacate, he heard his phone ring. He took a quick and scalding sip from the mug so he didn’t repeat the incident before hurrying down the hall to his office. He answered the phone with the center’s name, then his.

  A woman identified herself. “My name is Callie MacCallum. You don’t know me, but I’m Beebe’s friend.”

  A folded-over paper towel complete with old coffee rings lay on the tabletop. He set the mug on the makeshift coaster, then sat himself in the chair. The hairs on his arms rose with the ominous introduction.

  “Is something wrong with Beebe? Has something happened? Are you at the retreat?” he wanted to know. Just a few hours earlier, Beebe faxed the signed employment agreement. Now this woman called.

  “No, no, no. It’s nothing like that. No reason for alarm,” she tempered her response. “She’s fine. And, yes, I’m with her.”

  “Good,” gushed out on the breath that emitted his relief. “How can I help you? How do you know about me?”

  “From the fax.”

  “Oh, you know about that.”

  “Yes, I’ll miss her greatly after she moves. Beebe and I have grown close.”

  Vincent knew Beebe traveled for a week of grief counseling, so he ventured with, “You met her through her work?”

  “Yes. Beebe started me sewing quilts as therapy for my grief. Now, I sew them for
those in her counseling groups. They’re memory quilts, made of clothing from the lost loved one.”

  Vincent thought this was dually impressive, both on Callie’s part and on Beebe’s. He suffered grief with his wife’s death. His heart returned to those days when he slept with Carolyn’s down-filled jacket. It was something to hang onto at night when he missed her most. He hoped it would coax her into his dreams. He wanted to remember his wife, healthy and active.

  “Beebe always picks the recipient, collects the clothing, and brings it all to me.”

  “I see.”

  “Good, because I just learned that Beebe’s mother died. She said you knew.”

  Vincent hesitated. He half-wondered if the statement disguised a guess on Callie’s part. In the end, he accepted her words at face value and said, “Yes, I do.”

  “I know her mother’s clothing is still around. That got me thinking. Beebe should have a quilt of her own. I think she desperately needs one although she’d never admit it. Doesn’t that sound like her to you?”

  “I guess I’d agree. That does sound like her. But what are you asking, Callie?” At the caretaker’s house, Vincent knew Abigail’s clothing hung in her closet still. Cliff mentioned it to him once. Vincent could see the progression of events: He repeated the comment to Beebe. She must have told Callie.

  “Part of the success we need for this week can’t be achieved without this gift for Beebe. Can you talk to her father? Explain about the quilts. She’s preached the benefits. I want to sew a quilt in memory of her mother. I need to know in the next day or two that her father is willing to part with some clothing. I want to tell Beebe that a shipment is on its way to my house, that there’s no turning back. The only way to be sure she gets a quilt is to really not let her in on the decision.” Callie paused. “Well, that’s the only way to handle the Beebe I know.”

  With the outset of Callie’s plea for success, Vincent carried the remote phone, pressed to his ear, into his bedroom. He opened the closet door. With his free hand, he squeezed the down jacket that hung inside the closet. A draining sadness overwhelmed him, like the sudden whim that caused him to save the jacket and bring it with him when he moved to the center. Carolyn loved the yellow jacket so.

  With an absent quality in his voice, Vincent replied to Callie’s assessment. “That’s Beebe. Always doing good things for others. She would never ask for herself.”

  “Will you talk with her father then?”

  A direct question, Vincent thought, requiring a direct answer. However, timing was the problem: He would ask Cliff for Abigail’s clothes before he told the husband his wife lay in a grave outside the kitchen door with another woman’s name marking it? Callie did not know that situation, he was sure. Beebe had not told her the full story. His mind ran with a second train of thought. A quilt of Carolyn’s clothes. How he would have treasured that. He lifted the jacket sleeve to his nose. It still smelled of her perfume. He knew it would. When the scent faded, he sprayed more on from the bottle he brought to Crossroads from her vanity. Very selectively, he carried a few items to the center from his other life before he auctioned the house that was the home he shared with Carolyn.

  “Well,” he started. He wanted to fill the growing void in conversation, but Callie had the same idea.

  “I know Beebe’s mother abandoned her and her father. I know it will be painful for her father and difficult for you, but as you said, Beebe would never ask for herself. Beebe cannot leave for Michigan without knowing there’s a quilt in her future. I want her to have that comfort. So will you ask about the clothes?”

  With Carolyn’s lavender scent swirling inside his nose, he said, “Yes. I’ll talk with Cliff.”

  “And get the clothes shipped soon?”

  “I’ll make it a priority. I can’t promise tomorrow, but soon.” Vincent was positively on board, but Cliff was a man who didn’t give anything up easily. Still, he heard relief in Callie’s voice when she spoke.

  “I knew you’d help. She speaks highly of you. Here’s the address.”

  He went back to his office to write the shipping information on a scrap of paper, along with Callie’s cell phone number, just in case. After he hung up, he looked at the mug of, no doubt, cold coffee.

  That evening, when Crossroads was quiet—Yates and the dog played in the park—Vincent rebuilt his strength concerning the quilt. He squeezed the down-filled jacket once more before he wrote a note for Yates, telling him he expected to be back in a couple of hours and leaving his mobile number if he needed to be reached, should a hospice situation arise.

  Vincent fished his car keys out of his jeans. Three good shipping boxes lined the back seat of his car. He repeated his strategy over and over all the way out to the caretaker’s house: Swoop in, convince, act, and retreat.

  He arrived a little after seven and parked in the drive alongside Cliff’s truck. He climbed the steps to the small stoop and knocked at the open front door. Cliff came into view quickly. He appeared to be eating on the run. He carried a hot dog stuffed in a bun. Was he on his way out? Vincent wondered. Possibly to cut grass with the remaining two hours of evening light. Or was there a repair, something that needed fixing?

  But Cliff’s manner was not rushed. He welcomed Vincent and brought him inside. “I boiled some hot dogs and warmed up some baked beans. Have you eaten? I’ve got extra.”

  “No, thanks. I had a bite earlier.”

  Cliff waved Vincent back to the kitchen. They traipsed through the living room and made a left around the dining room table. Cliff continued his after-dinner cleanup chores.

  “Have a seat,” he told Vincent. “Are you here to talk about Beebe? I’ve been meaning to get over to Crossroads to thank you. Beebe told me about the job.”

  “Yeah, I received her signed employment agreement today. She’s ready to start when she gets here.”

  “Seems she got hung up on a counseling job.”

  “She’s filling in for another counselor,” Vincent said, having swooped in, but lingering outside any true effort to convince. He needed to move Cliff toward a serious discussion, one twisted with larceny and subterfuge. He would beg for Abigail’s clothes while harboring a lie. Of sober concern was Beebe, who Callie MacCallum claimed was in need of specialized attention. Vincent’s plea for the clothing might prove too great for a man who, for thirty years, kept such articles belonging to his runaway wife.

  “She called it a retreat. I guess that’s the way they do things now. A bit odd. I didn’t say that to her. You can keep a secret, can’t you?” Cliff laughed as he wrung water out of a dishrag. He ran the rag over the countertop, then threw it over the faucet arm before turning around.

  “Actually, I have a request to make that you may find a bit odd in itself,” Vincent said, intentionally repeating Cliff’s words.

  Cliff’s facial expression switched to quizzical.

  “Sit down, Cliff.”

  Cliff’s eyes remained fixed on Vincent’s while he crossed the linoleum and pulled out a chair from the kitchen table. Beyond Cliff, out the kitchen door, Vincent saw the cemetery. His gaze rushed to the approximate location where the body was buried. He attended the funeral for Terri Miller. Cliff Walker and heavy-equipment operator Hal Garrett stood back, attendees only on behalf of the cemetery association. They had duties to perform. Ned McMitchell officiated. Willa came because the numbers were few. The other four thought Vincent was there just because the woman being buried died in Crossroads’ hospice. That much was a fraction of the truth.

  “There’s a therapy Beebe uses in her counseling classes with some of her clients. She collects clothes belonging to the deceased and has them made into quilts. The quilts are remembrances, of course. Beebe shared her situation conc
erning her mother with a close friend. Callie. She called me today. She’s quite fond of Beebe, and she makes all the quilts.”

  “From the clothes of people who died?”

  Vincent could see Cliff catching on. For everyone but Vincent and Beebe, Abigail Walker was a runaway. No one necessarily knew if she died at some point over the years, but Vincent knew Cliff assumed that happened long ago. And Vincent thought Cliff reentered that frame of mind now. “Callie wants Beebe to have a quilt.”

  Cliff’s gaze dropped to the oaken tabletop.

  “Others on this special counseling trip have quilts. Beebe arranged them.” Vincent waited. Cliff seemed frozen in place. “Abigail’s clothes have provided comfort to you all this time. Can you part with enough to make a quilt?”

  Cliff raised his chin off his chest. “Is Beebe somehow suffering?”

  The word suffering caused Vincent to flash on an old memory. Just as quickly, he swept the memory aside. He kept to his strategy. “I think so. Callie does. Beebe’s coming home. I expect that’s been a trigger of some kind. I hope you think the move is a good one. She can’t help but remember her mother when she thinks of you and this house. This town even. Callie thinks it will help. The quilt won’t be sewed in just a few days, but it’s a thought, a hope, a tie Beebe can hang onto until the quilt arrives.” The table sat next to a window. A bird stopped to eat from the feeder hung on the window frame. “Callie wants the clothes sent right away before the counseling trip ends. I think she wants to use the anticipation of the quilt as a bit of therapy for Beebe.”

  Vincent watched the look in Cliff’s staring eyes intensify.

  With Vincent’s few seconds of silence, his concentration became distracted. The earlier memory flash disturbed him again. He pushed it down. “Have I explained things well enough? Seems like I went all around the barn.” Vincent had no clear sense that he covered the subject adequately, and Cliff studied him still.