“Well. No. It surprises me. I would have thought the…” she paused for a word search.
“Notoriety?”
“No. The undue attention isn’t necessary. This is a private matter. A family matter.”
“That’s not how things are done in Larkspur. Better get it out in the open. There’s value in that.” The two Walkers eyed each other. He referred to their discussion upstairs, how past secrets cost them so much. He sensed she understood his meaning.
“You’re right, really.” She threw her shoulders back. “People will know then that we’re grieving and give us some space, make allowances.”
“Allowances for what?” His question came out snappishly, and she snapped right back.
“You’re going to need time, Daddy. Don’t pretend Mother’s death will roll off your back, and you’ll just swim quietly away.”
“We’ll see what happens.” Roughly, Cliff got his cereal bowl in hand. When he pushed his chair back, the legs scraping viciously across the aged flooring, synonymous with drawing old battle lines in the dirt. He nearly spilled several swallows of milk he’d have drunk from the bowl if Beebe hadn’t been there, pushing the issue of his expected grief. He set the dish on the porcelain with more care. The sink faced the window and graveyard. His gaze darted from the sycamore, to the glider, to the blue spruce, and that grave.
He would cling to the safety of routine. He could do nothing for the situation or himself by sitting at home, grieving. Just as his fingers touched his key ring that lay on the counter by the door, Beebe angled in again.
“Let me take care of writing the obituary. You can read it when I’m done.”
This was her peace offering. He nodded, pressed the keys into his palm, and went out into the August morning.
* * *
Cliff steered McKinley’s delivery van into its parking place behind the store. He opened the door and dropped his feet to the pavement. His knees were old, but they took his weight without complaint.
All the way back from Newton, a hamlet just off County Road 810, he kept his speed below the limit. The entire round trip was spent reliving the hateful part of his life. Deep down, he just wanted the hurt to go away. As for the memories: If he could remember without the tightening clamp crushing his heart in the process, he thought he might just survive the recent blow that did buckle his knees in the cemetery.
He climbed the dock stairs, let himself in the walk-through door to lay the clipboard, paperwork, and van keys on the back workbench, then he retraced his steps. He continued down the alley, his head tipped to the graveled passage, hands deep in his pockets.
Two minutes ago, he waited for a green light at the intersection south of the store and his wandering spirit focused on Rosemary’s at the end of the block. In his heart, there was no greater comfort than putting his work boots under Rosemary’s counter and his hands around a warm mug of her coffee. That luxury didn’t exist today.
Rosemary beamed at him when he dragged through the door. “I kind of thought I’d have seen you for lunch,” she said.
“I made a delivery over in Newton and ate there.” He slid onto a stool and put his feet on the rail just above the floor. His eyes met her gray ones. Her intuitiveness took over.
“What’s wrong? Is Beebe coming in today as planned?” she asked.
“She got here yesterday. Ahead of schedule.”
“She did.” A beat passed. “Okay.” She studied him a moment longer. “Then, let’s go back to my first question: What’s wrong?”
Cliff fiddled with the salt shaker. “Is Larry here? Can you get away for a half hour?”
She didn’t hesitate. “Doable,” she said.
Rosemary went back to the kitchen to let her employee know she’d be off the premises. She returned minus her apron, and they headed out the restaurant’s swinging front door.
He hooked a thumb down the side street. “Why don’t we walk over to the park?”
“Sure, that’s fine.” He matched his pace to hers. The sidewalk was narrow. She brushed against him. “Tell me what’s going on,” she said quietly.
He held his story back. A dog barked. Three boys on bikes rode by. The half block behind the restaurant was lined with old doubles. At the curb, gnarly trees shaded the street. They crossed Battlefield. Cliff began to talk a block later, just as they entered Engle Park.
“It seems Beebe’s reason for coming back was twofold,” he said, leading her around a hedgerow and onto an asphalt walkway.
“She took the job with Vincent at Crossroads. What else?”
“Vincent and Beebe sat me down after dinner last night to tell me that Abigail died.”
Beside him, Rosemary’s step faltered with his unfettered revelation. She stumbled over her words, too. “Died? When? How did they know?”
“She came back, Rosemary. Abigail came back to Larkspur in March.” Retelling the sad tale issued the same kick in the gut he felt last night when he sat across from Beebe and Vincent. He pressed his right arm against his side, but his fist trembled still.
Rosemary grabbed his elbow, stopping him. He would have trudged on and on. He felt her worried eyes hanging on him. She pulled him toward one of the park’s benches. “Sit down,” she said, “before you collapse.”
Rosemary was rarely speechless, but the circumstances of Abigail’s return achieved that state. Even her expressive hands lay still in her lap.
“Vincent’s conscience got the best of him. He didn’t know how to tell me, so he went to Beebe for help. She put him off. Couldn’t deal with her mother, or me, the both of us. She was at odds with her own life.”
“Till recently,” Rosemary managed.
“Yeah. They hooked up again when Vincent got funding for an assistant. Five months passed.” He bent the fingers of his right hand around the front edge of the bench’s seat. They shook shamelessly. He let them.
“You have every right to be angry and hurt over this. All of it. It’s difficult,” she said.
“That’s the thing. I can push myself into anger. I should rightfully feel damn offended. It was an insult. But part of me could just let this float away and never think of it again.”
“Avoidance instead of acceptance. That doesn’t sound right, Cliff.”
Stepping over that assessment, he said, “The grave will be moved, of course, to the family plot, and a new headstone erected. Beebe wants that.”
“You do, too?”
“Yeah. I think that’s all I need to get through this. And I want the town to know. Beebe’s taking today to write an obituary.”
“An obituary? Why? That’s not necessary. Why go public?”
“That’s the way things are done. There is no reason to hide from this. Someone will get a breath of something. Someone will walk by and see the grave. No, better to get out in front of this. I just wanted you to know.” He swallowed. Abigail’s death would fit into Rosemary’s plan. “Since our last conversation, and your thoughts of—”
“A relationship.”
“Well,” he started, his mouth drying a bit. “Things are going to be messy for a while.”
When he thought she would repeat “avoidance, instead of acceptance,” she made a show of looking around for gawkers.
“Speaking of going public,” she said.
He had to admit, from the moment she pulled his trembling hand into her lap and held it tight, he felt a binding of the strength Rosemary possessed.
* * *
After he returned from the Walkers, Vincent and sleep remained strangers for most of the night. They were separated by chatter inside his head. Randomly, Terri, Cl
iff, Beebe, even Carolyn, and occasionally Yates, popped up. Their nattering felt like border attacks, vying for his defenses, but he lay on the hot sheets without any. There was no remedy, no fix for the situation. Weary and overburdened, he imagined wild scenarios requiring super-human Vincent Bostick feats. Carolyn always said he took on too much when others were involved and gave up a piece of himself every time. When would there be nothing left? After her death, he threw himself into his work at the center. Wasn’t he just begging to be eaten alive?
He awoke in fetal position, clinging to the top sheet like it was a shield deflecting rocks and spears. He looked at the bedside clock. Of course, he overslept. He knew his entire day would now become a race to stay ahead of a road roller.
Shaved and dressed, Vincent was coming down the hall when he saw Yates staring out the picture window to Battlefield. Listlessly, Yates shuffled to the front door. Beside him, even the dog moped.
Vincent looked around the community room. He was disappointed to see that while he overslept, Yates had not taken up any of his duties. That was not like him. When Vincent looked back, he saw the tail end of man and dog going out the door. This was odder still. Visits to the park were better served via the facility’s alleyway door, making the trip a half a block closer.
As Vincent crossed the room to peek out the window, he saw Yates passing, again in the opposite direction a trip to the park would take. Stepping to the door, Vincent opened it and peered out. Yates’s motivation took him as far as the sidewalk bench stationed at the far end of the building. He stared down at the bench for the longest time. When he reached the decision to sit, he eased himself down. Vincent knew why. He did not want to jostle the memory of Terri sitting there. Yates watched the people passing by. The town percolated, not knowing a young man grieved.
Yates mentioned his drive to Larkspur Cemetery yesterday. His comments were sparse, and Vincent hadn’t pressed.
He stepped out.
The activity caught Yates’s eye. “You’re up.”
“Yeah. I think we can both say yesterday was a little out of the norm.”
“A little,” Yates confirmed.
“Who are we fooling? It was a lot out of the norm.” Vincent waited until Yates patted the other seat, then he knew Yates cleared his mind of Terri’s presence beside him.
Yates’s movement attracted Barleycorn’s sad eyes. Vincent reached down to scratch the dog’s noggin. Perhaps, if they were inside, he would have shown similar comfort to Yates. But outside, he diverted it toward his pet instead, hoping its benefits would soak into the young man by osmosis.
Sitting back, Vincent said, “You miss her, don’t you?”
“I think about her every day. Mom, too,” Yates said, uninhibited. “Can I tell you something, just between us?”
“Sure.”
“Beebe’s going to make it harder because she looks so much like her. Her actions. Everything.”
“I think you’ll get past that in a hurry. You’ll come to know Beebe for the kind of person she is, and you’ll separate the two just enough to make things easier on you.”
“I suppose. But right now.” He shook his head. “Geez.”
“Listen to me, Yates. Someday down the road and not too far in the distance, you’ll find yourself making that same comparison, and it will be a happy one. A beat will pass. Then it will occur to you the comparison didn’t bring you down. That beat means progress has been made in conquering your grief.” Vincent threw up his hands. “Let’s just say it, you’re grieving. My wife’s been gone seven years. These circumstances have stirred up my memories, too. It happens. But the human spirit is an amazing thing. And the women who we’ve lost would not want us to dwell on our sorrow.”
“I’m not dwelling, but I can’t seem to work up any energy. It was the same when Mom died.”
Three men crossing the street distracted Vincent. They were the pool-playing group, and they gave him an idea.
“Oh, and Beebe called a little while ago,” Yates was saying. “I asked her, but she’s not coming in today.”
The mention of Beebe’s name tagged Vincent’s attention. “She got home a day early, so I wasn’t expecting her to begin work till tomorrow.” But that didn’t mean grief wasn’t making the rounds out in the caretaker’s house, he thought.
“She wants you to call.”
He would, but first, he tracked the men coming their way. They were all in a good mood, and he was confident it would rub off on Yates. Already, Barleycorn’s tail thumped the sidewalk. Calling them over, he said, “Morning, guys. Have I got a deal for you.”
Everyone in the circle around him perked. Vincent suggested that today’s game be painting the community room, the job that got pushed to the wayside yesterday by the needs of a senior. Vincent left Rev. Razzell’s name out of it. All the men rolled up their sleeves without complaint. Five men could knock the painting out in no time. Before he picked up a brush, he went to his office and put in a call to Beebe. It was just after ten.
When she answered, “Walker residence,” he said, “Sorry it took so long to get back to you. How’s it going?”
“I’m just walking around inside the house, absorbing the place again, wondering about Daddy, and when to get Yates involved. He said he would speak with Daddy.”
“I’ll help anyway I can. You know that,” he said, being true to his super-human self, despite the wakeful night and other wakeful nights that might lie ahead.
“Vincent, your responsibility ended last night. You told Daddy all you knew.”
“I don’t think Cliff is ready to absolve me that easily.”
“Well, no, not in Daddy’s mind. He still blames us. I don’t want him to take that attitude with Yates. He’s too fragile right now.”
Vincent felt certain she referred to Yates, but Cliff was fragile, too. Certainly, she understood that. He listened while Beebe told him about her conversation with Cliff at breakfast, about moving the grave and the obituary she wanted to complete that day. “An obituary. I wasn’t ready for that. That will set the town rocking.”
“Not with everyone. A lot of people don’t know the story.”
“But a lot of people do,” Vincent said. “They’ll tell the others. I’m sorry to say this, but I hope you’re ready for flashbacks to high school. Sounds like you’re rushing through everything with your mom.”
“There’s a process Daddy is used to. Structure. He wants to stick to it. Like—”
“Like you all had a normal life, and your mother’s ended on a normal note.”
“It’s all very new to him right now. He’s only talking about routines and rituals. More must be going on inside his head. Someday, it’s going to slam him hard.”
“Would you rather have the grave and the obit out of the way when it does?”
“I would, now that you put it that way.”
“Then get past these two things and wait for the fallout.”
“I tried to bring up Yates this morning. Before I even got the news out that there’s another person involved, he shut me down. He said I should hold everything until tonight.”
“So, he’s over at the store?”
Beebe’s answer told him his assumption was on target. “Wouldn’t be distracted from his day.”
Vincent’s eyes shot to the open office door. He heard a whoop from the men in the main room. Barleycorn barked his typical series of three. “Maybe it’s for the best. Despite everything, Yates is having a pretty good time right now.”
“I hear something going on, and Barleycorn’s in the middle of it.”
“We didn’t get the painting done yesterday after the rush over to Mosie’
s, so the pool-playing crowd agreed to pitch in today. They gave us yesterday for the center to be closed, but I knew they wouldn’t forgive us for today. They rallied around the project, and Yates is getting the treatment.”
“Which means?”
“Good-natured teasing. They’re an outstanding bunch.”
“You know Yates came out to the cemetery yesterday?”
“After the fact. How’d it go?” He was eager to hear another point of view.
“We had a private moment…”
Beebe’s end of the conversation faltered there, although the hesitation combined with the choice words said so much. He could have picked up the ball conversationally and told her about the board meeting the Monday after next, but there was time for that. The thought of a bunch of new faces bearing down might not be what she needed. As she said, she had an obituary to write. Vincent walked that road with Carolyn. It was one fraught with the perils of too many memories, not the right words, and tears staining the paper.
Forgiveness
Beebe talked to Vincent on the kitchen phone. It was the black, wall-mounted model of ancient days. Its rotary dial would stump today’s kids. She hadn’t hung up right away after Vincent disconnected. The curly cord that kissed the floor when the receiver was cradled on its hook also stretched to the farthest cabinet and countertop.
While Vincent spoke, Beebe leaned against that far counter. She looked back along the cord strung like a taut clothesline through the kitchen. Memories dangled from the wire, alive and bouncing with her every movement.
Her mother talking on this phone was a common sight from Beebe’s childhood. Just about the time Beebe turned fourteen, the year of Abigail’s car accident, she grew tall enough to walk into the outstretched cord and play-act a choking scene. Her mother teased her in return, rushing to wrap a section of cord around her neck and follow that up with a strong hug. Most times, the caller didn’t mind the interruption. Most times, the caller was Grandma Emma Walker, Abigail’s mother-in-law. Even as a young teenager, Beebe knew about mother-in-law jokes. Somehow it happened that Emma and Abigail became dear friends. No joke. After Abigail ran away, the phone cord hung lifeless day after day. A week later, her grandmother took matters into her own hands and began calling regularly, after school. The seed of tradition took root and grew. The relationship blossomed. Beebe prayed nothing would change that highlight to her day.
Proper Goodbye Page 16