Proper Goodbye

by Connie Chappell

“I came to terms with her death. I didn’t know this. Vincent held back.”

  “Well, you know it now.”

  Vincent put up his hands, quieting Beebe and Yates, preventing more harsh words. He also had a gut feeling his next revelation would cause Yates to go on the attack. Tipping his gaze toward the young man, he said, “You said you didn’t know where she lived during the summers at your house. She told me she lived in a room in the back of a hardware store.”

  Vincent watched a hurtful astonishment gouge at Yates. It scraped down his face, dulling his eyes, adding slack to his mouth, then it reversed its momentum. Yates pressed his lips together until they were pursed and hard. His pupils full of something short of fury. “I also didn’t say my father owns a hardware store.” His tone brought Barleycorn’s head off his outstretched legs. The dog studied his master.

  “She didn’t say the store owner and the boy she spent her summers with were connected. I guess I sort of suspected,” Vincent said.

  “My father—” Yates broke off, closing his eyes and looking away.

  “She felt a kinship for you, Yates. Your father must have understood.” Vincent sent his next comment to Beebe. “And she was making up for past sins.”

  Despite Vincent’s attempt to move Terri’s story into an empathetic arena, Yates ignited. “My father knows more.” He dug in his pocket for his phone.

  Turning to Beebe, Vincent said, “I know it’s hard to hear these things, but you should have the whole story before you talk with Cliff.”

  “It’s not whole yet!” Yates got to his feet. “Not until I’ve dragged the rest of it out of Dad.”

  Vincent kept his eyes on Yates’s back as he departed. He thought about Terri, how she hid jewels about herself behind, under a veil of misty secrecy that seemed destined to evaporate.

  * * *

  Yates paced away from the others. Barleycorn followed. Yates listened to ring after ring before he heard his father’s hello. He pictured Arthur Strand lifting the receiver, distracted by the business of running a hardware store. Yates’s opening line was a shot over the bow.

  “You let Terri live in that back room at the store all those summers. Why keep it a secret? She told Vincent all about it before she died. Neither one of you told me. Did Mom know?”

  For a moment, Yates thought the connection went dead, then Arthur cleared his throat. “Terri was something of an enigma for your mother, Yates.”

  “How come? She saved your life. You liked her. She was nothing but good to me. I knew Mom was opposed to her hanging around, but Mom let you win when it came to Terri. I always wondered why. She never let you win.”

  Arthur’s voice was steady, thoughtful. “I had a bit of leverage over her there, son.”

  “What leverage? What do you mean?” Yates stopped. The dog passed him up, nose sniffing the ground. Yates’s free arm crossed his midsection. It held his jumpy stomach in place.

  “You had an uncle from your mom’s side of the family, Stan Fry, who died before Mom and I were married.”

  “Wait. Fry? That wasn’t Mom’s maiden name.”

  “Stan was her stepbrother. They were close. I knew Stan first. He introduced me to Mom.”

  Okay, Yates thought. He barely remembered his maternal grandfather having two marriages, but the question was, “Why did Mom let you win?”

  “You accepted my perspective about Terri, but it was forced on Mom.”

  Yates repeated his father’s mantra. “Help when you can. Don’t judge.”

  “Mom wanted to judge Terri, but I reminded her about Stan.” A second of silence ticked by. “Stan died of an overdose when he was nineteen. Naomi didn’t like that Terri hung around. I told her we’d let Terri hang around because Stan couldn’t. No one helped Stan. We didn’t, and we could have. We got the word he died two weeks after he lay in the morgue as a John Doe.”

  Yates thought that a measure of shame for the long-ago death of her stepbrother allowed his mother to bend just enough to accept Terri.

  “I think your mother fully trusted that Terri would do you no harm.”

  “She would never. I loved her. From the first.” His feelings rushed from him without reserve or embarrassment. Just as hastily, he squinted down at the mysterious side of Terri. There was something about her he could never define as a kid. He couldn’t give it words even now. “After Mom died, why didn’t you let Terri move in?”

  “She didn’t want to. That wasn’t her life. She adopted us, not the other way around, and on her terms.”

  Yates thought about that: Life on her terms. Terri had a mantra, too. A worthy one. Not pedestal-worthy. Terri didn’t want that. Forgiveness doused his initial fury for both Terri and his father. He was glad she had shelter, glad his father provided it. “Did you know she kicked the habit?”

  “Not in so many words, but I never saw her high. She never had the shakes, like she was weaning herself off something in order to spend summers with you. That was an unwritten rule your mother and I insisted on. No drugs if she wanted a relationship with you. But if drugs were behind her—and good for her on that—then the rule and my speech were all for naught.” Arthur Strand spoke of a protected time when Yates was a loved and innocent child. The innocence waned, but the love remained.

  “Why do you think she told Vincent about living at the hardware store?” He got back to the initial reason he called. This time, the question wasn’t delivered as a potshot. He suspected he would not get an answer immediately. His father cleared his throat the way he did when he wanted to interfere in his son’s private life—his grown son’s private life, the son who was twenty-three, a college graduate, and quite capable of taking care of himself and one shaggy dog. “Dad, are we going to do this again?”

  “But I haven’t said anything yet.”

  “You’re going to.” Yates sighed. “Barleycorn and I are fine. We’re eating, sleeping, and washing behind our ears.”

  Arthur didn’t let Yates’s flippant remark trip him up. “What about money? You wanted to go on this quest and do it on your own. I didn’t stop you. But the security deposit your landlady returned isn’t much and won’t go far.”

  “I’m fine, Dad.”

  “You mentioned Vincent twice now. You still at the shelter?”

  “Yes. And my interview is still on at the hospital.”

  A beat passed. “You know I’m proud of you, son.”

  “Sure, Dad. I know,” Yates said, respectful and sincere.

  “See that you don’t forget.” Arthur’s dose of gruffness arrived right on schedule. It always signaled the end of touchy-feely moments. “Now let’s get back on track with Terri. The reason she told Vincent about living at the hardware store is a simple one in my opinion: She wanted you to know.”

  “She knew I would come around Larkspur later?”

  “No one ever knew Terri’s story until she was ready to tell it. We all surmised. We guessed. But our guesses were just animation.”

  “Where did she go when the summers were over?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You must,” Yates hissed. He wanted that puzzle piece of Terri’s life.

  “I don’t, son. That first summer while I was recovering, I told your mother, Terri needs Yates. I won’t stand between them. I don’t know the story, but I trust.”

  Yates and his father talked on some. After they said their goodbyes, Yates returned to Vincent and Beebe, waiting on the benches. He told another sliver of the story, not only Terri’s, but Stan Fry’s, and how that touched his mother. She believed in her husband’s good heart, in his trust. Those two elements bridged the summers that followed.


  Yates looked off toward the horizon. What would he need to bridge this summer? His first one without Terri. She led him to Larkspur and the first half of her life just as surely as she commanded him. She led him to Vincent. To a hospice. No, a shelter, like Yates’s father provided her. Now, Beebe was here.

  Yates’s thought pattern stumbled over Beebe. Terri may have planned for Yates to meet her daughter, but had she known Beebe left town all those years ago? Even if she had, she couldn’t predict Beebe’s return. Were these discoveries coming to light by design, or happenstance? Yates felt a measure of anger rumble when he voted for design. Damn the secrets she kept. Were they absolutely necessary? He guessed not, if she told Vincent, a stranger. It pinched Yates that Terri hadn’t told him. But if she told any of it, if she told just a little, would he have set out for Larkspur, on a homeless journey himself? That struck him. That made him think. He was doing a lot of that lately.

  * * *

  On the short drive back to Crossroads, Beebe apologized for her rough temperament in the park. Yates had been quiet all the way, almost brooding, but he perked up and matched his apology to hers.

  Beebe took Vincent up on his offer to walk her over to McKinley Hardware, where she’d left her car, so they parted company with Yates and Barleycorn.

  Vincent waved away the apology she offered him as they crossed the street. More important to him was the snapshot summary he gave of the stores they passed. The trip was newsy with ownership details. He tied names back to families Beebe might remember from her younger days in Larkspur. Overall, she shook her head more than she nodded. The town had picked up and moved on, just as she had. Either that, or her memory was suspect. In the upcoming weeks, she thought she would enjoy many “aha” moments.

  When they arrived, Vincent stepped inside the store with Beebe.

  “I can’t believe how much things have changed,” Beebe said, laughing a bit nervously. She wondered what seeing her father again would bring in the way of emotions now that she was here and soon to be face to face. Anticipation nibbled at her, despite Vincent’s entertaining attempts to distract. She felt like a total stranger in her hometown, which was easier to accept than in her relationship with her own father. Perhaps that was better stated a non-relationship.

  “It won’t take you long to get re-acclimated, especially with Crossroads as a resource point. The seniors will enroll you in an accelerated course of who begat who, and who’s doing what now.”

  “This will surprise you: I know one person from the old days. My stranger status didn’t extend to Scott Cotter.” She pointed toward the customer service counter, where Scott stood the first time she entered the store two or more hours ago. Their recognition hadn’t been instantaneous. There was the split-second of narrowed eyes before they pointed at each other and in a chorus said, “I remember you.” After they quickly caught up on each other’s lives, she learned her father was out making a delivery.

  “So you know Scott.”

  “We were neighbors during our middle school years,” Beebe explained to Vincent. Scott wasn’t the skinny kid anymore. His dark hair no longer covered his ears, but was prematurely shot through with gray. “Looks like he’s stepped away. I don’t see Daddy either.” Beebe’s gaze careened down those several aisleways within range.

  “Scott’ll be back soon so this is where I leave you. You and Cliff should have your reunion without me gawking and lurking about.” He laid one arm around her shoulders and squeezed. “You still want me there tonight?”

  About a hundred times over the last two weeks, Beebe pictured Vincent beside her when they revealed the news about Abigail’s death to her father. She let no time pass before she said, “Six-thirty. Will that suit?” Her face was angled up to his and the almost curly chestnut hair that wreathed his face.

  “Suits fine.”

  When he turned toward the doors, Beebe grabbed his arm. “Wait,” she said. He gave her an eyebrows-raised expression. “I want to thank you for doing whatever you did to convince Daddy to give up some of Mother’s clothes. I hope my friend Callie didn’t impose too much on my behalf.”

  Vincent’s face and his tone softened. “It was my pleasure, and no imposition. Callie does deserve credit for the idea and reaching out. I hope the quilt serves its purpose for you.”

  “Oh, it’s more for Daddy,” she said, using a flip of her fingers to sweep Vincent’s meaning away. “He’s the one with the rough road ahead.”

  “Callie wanted you to have it.” Vincent layered a bit of firmness to those words.

  “No,” Beebe said, ready to say more when he cut her off.

  “I spoke with her, Beebe. I know her intentions. No doubt Cliff will appreciate the finished product, and it will touch both of you.” He paused to study her. “Don’t shortchange yourself. Don’t do it.” For a long moment, his eyes wouldn’t release hers, then he flicked a glance behind her. “Here comes Scott. Chin up.”

  She complied with his friendly order and added a smile. She was so thankful Vincent still lived in Larkspur. Vincent waved to Scott, who threw up a hand in return.

  “Hi, Scott,” Beebe said, when he was close enough. “Is he back?”

  “You betcha,” Scott said, breezing around her to the customer service desk. He lifted a microphone wired to equipment hidden beneath the desktop. Before she could stop him, he spoke into it, “Cliff. Beebe’s here.”

  Beebe smiled through an inward cringe. A public announcement was not her intended course. His words scratched through speakers all over the store and back in the storeroom. She glanced around. She saw a young female cashier take money from a pre-teen carrying his skateboard under his arm. Intent on their transaction, neither paid any attention to the public address.

  The small store felt a bit more cramped than she remembered. There were two cash registers now. The first row of shelving facing the registers held baskets full of dollar items. She reached this decision based on the yellow price tags wired through the wicker.

  Distant movement in her peripheral vision brought her head around to reveal her first view of her father in over a decade. His long strides bisected the main aisle and warmed her with the comfort of opening a child’s storybook for a one-hundredth reading. How many times as a girl had she stood on the same speckled gray tiles and witnessed her father hurrying to greet her, pulling rawhide gloves off and stuffing them in the back pocket of blue work pants. His first name was stitched in red on a blue striped shirt, just like always. Despite everything, she was so glad to see him.

  But when he glanced up to finally take her in, her outlook changed. She saw his even gait stutter, his expression sag. After their years of estrangement, she lost the knack of reading his emotions with any precision. The hand she raised in greeting rerouted itself of its own accord. In the moment it took for one finger to loop strands of chin-length hair behind her ear, she watched Cliff Walker appear to steel himself, before forging a small smile for his daughter.

  So far, an auspicious beginning and not how she envisioned it, given his recent sacrifice of Abigail’s clothes to be cut and sewed into a quilt. That gift went beyond words. It felt as though he gave up a limb or a vital organ. Now, it took on the connotation of an unwilling act, something wrenched from his grasp.

  Beebe matched her father’s last steps. “Hi, Daddy,” she said, mustering a measure of enthusiasm. She went up on tiptoes, arms stretched toward his shoulders before he bent at the waist to receive her back-patting hug. His embrace did eventually exert pressure. Her heels on the floor again, her chin tipped up, she studied him. She saw that the two swathes of gray around his ears were completely filled in now, but there was no sign of thinning hair. The lines that hours in the sun etched into his skin showed deeper inroads. “You were gone when I got here before
.”

  “You’re a day early,” was his snappish excuse.

  She flinched at his tone. Mouth open, but stymied as to what to say, she was relieved when Scott stepped in with an upbeat reply. “It’s called a surprise, Cliff. It’s a good one.”

  After that, Cliff’s attitude shifted. Beebe believed he received Scott’s padded rebuke as a lesson in manners. Cliff drew a breath. With its exhale, his shoulders relaxed. “Well,” he began anew, “you know Scott.” He raised a hand to indicate the cashier, but waved away that introduction. Her nails garnered her full attention. She employed an emery board with deft capability. Behind her, the kid sailed past the front window on his skateboard. Scott wandered the cashier’s way, leaving the Walkers to their reunion, unchaperoned.

  Cliff looked at his watch. “I have three hours yet till closing. What’s the plan?”

  “When you were out, I went to see Vincent at Crossroads. I’ll tell you more about that tonight, or rather Vincent and I will. I asked him over for my first dinner back. You don’t mind?” She quickly skirted details, which she knew would leave Cliff to believe they related to her new position at the community center.

  “Vincent for dinner is fine,” he said, nodding, but offered nothing more.

  “I’m cooking. I’ll stop for groceries on the way home.”

  “I won’t argue with that. Here, take my keys.”

  If the inference was to rush her off, she received that message. He worked his pickup’s ignition key off the ring. Pocketing that key, he handed over the others. Their eyes met, and she saw gears churning behind his hazel pair. Whatever he was thinking would not and should not be pried out of him here. “Well, see you later, Daddy.”

  She made her way out, her anxiety at full boil. He certainly seemed more amenable to her return when they spoke on the phone than he displayed face to face. She lost ground already, but maybe it was better to start in an inferior position. She knew so many things he did not. Knowing what lay ahead of her, any ground gained at this stage will most likely be trampled by the time he climbed the stairs for bed.