Proper Goodbye

by Connie Chappell

  “But you were a minister, for heaven’s sake.” That did it. He saw her eyes narrow. His one-sided argument had an opponent now.

  The lilt to her words was gone. “Yes, and God found me guilty of a litany of crimes and unpardonable sins. Then He spoke to the deacons board and got them to fire my ass,” she said with shock-value added. His eyes widened, and she read his thoughts. “The new Beebe has learned to swear.”

  “I don’t know where this attitude is coming from, but I guess I’d just as soon you did stay home.”

  “I’m pretty sure my attitude comes through the Walker line.”

  He took a step. “We’re not going to make living in one house work if we can’t find common ground.”

  She gave him a defiant look. “Leave me alone about Sundays, and we’ll be fine.”

  “I don’t know how you’re going to get along in this town if you don’t go to church.”

  In a heartbeat, Cliff watched Beebe resolve her anger, something he could rarely do. “Daddy, really? That’s a bit of an exaggeration. Not everyone in Larkspur goes to church. I’ll get along fine. Enjoy the sermon,” she said. “I’m sorry I snapped.”

  Then she straightened his necktie. Her mother always did that.

  * * *

  Cliff whipped his pickup into the church’s parking lot and drove straight to the last row, parking with his back to the building. For a long time, he stared across to the ivy-covered sidewall of a brick apartment house. He fumed. He couldn’t even slow it to a simmer.

  A snapshot from yesterday flashed through his mind: Beebe perched in that glider, setting it into motion with those god-awful pink clogs.

  That scene fizzled when conjured imagery appeared. A scoop of loose dirt fell from Hal Garrett’s backhoe, dug from his wife’s “final resting place.” Abigail’s death brought new breadth to the meaning behind that phrase. All this represented the future rising up to haunt him in its unending horror.

  Around and around, it went. A dizzying carousel ride. The past, the future. Beebe, the glider. The empty grave, a simple sifting of dirt—when there was nothing simple about it.

  With a glance in the rearview mirror, he saw Rosemary and Vincent, heads together in conversation. Alternately, they sent worried glances his way. He stayed in the truck too long to deny anything was wrong. Rosemary separated from Vincent. She wound through the cars. He snagged his Bible and climbed down.

  She rounded the truck’s side panel, her own Bible and purse strap corralled at her bent elbow. “Cliff, is everything all right?”

  “Sure. Let’s go in.” He started to move, but she blocked his path.

  “No, I don’t think so. By the vibes I’m getting, you might punch out a deacon for saying good morning. It’s not a good morning, is it? And where’s Beebe?”

  He followed her questions up with a nervous array of ear-pulling, collar-stretching, and quick thinking.

  Ever intuitive, she posed an option to her own questions before he answered. “Do you want to skip services? Play hooky? We could.”

  That suggestion evoked a fiery response. “I’m not going to change my life because of Beebe.”

  “So this,” her one free hand indicated his rigid posture, “is Beebe’s fault?”

  “She says since the church fired her ass, she takes Sundays for herself.”

  Rosemary emitted a quick chuckle. “She didn’t say that.” He shot her a look that peeled the amusement right off her face. “Maybe she did.”

  “She could have told me she didn’t plan on attending church. I get ready. Search the house. No Beebe. She’s outside, picking weeds out of the flowers.” Anger elevated his voice a few decibels.

  “Cliff, you need to calm down. Just do it. Just let it go.” Rosemary closed her eyes, letting her head loll this way and that. Eyes open again and realizing the futility of her example, she pushed on, “Look, Beebe had her own life away from Larkspur. Things happened to her. They couldn’t have been easy to handle. She gave up the ministry. Wow! I think about that, and I can only compare it to no longer knowing how to breathe.” She shook his arm playfully. “Come on. Give Beebe a break. Let her take the time she needs.”

  “Yeah, well, we all need time.” He spat the words before he thought. They raised Rosemary’s awareness antennae.

  “Is there something else? More than your disagreement with Beebe?” She leveled a pair of unwavering gray eyes on him.

  Scenes flipped through his mind. Beebe’s pink clog tipped to the grassy earth, then a shovel full of dirt fell, taking his heart with it. He couldn’t even begin to put his feelings into words so he didn’t try. “Are you going to walk in with me?” he said, sidestepping her. He could see her thought processes grind forward, but apparently, she couldn’t find words either. He tried a small smile. “Forget it. I’m sorry. I’m past it.” He added light-hearted banter. “All the deacons are safe in my company.”

  She wasn’t fooled, but she put one foot out, then the other. Side by side, Cliff and Rosemary cut an angle to the corner of the church. Vincent waited, leaning against the railing for the front steps. His eyebrows went up, a silent appeal for an explanation.

  “Good morning, Vincent,” Cliff said, several degrees too cheerful.

  “Hey, Cliff,” Vincent said, not sounding genuine either.

  As Cliff passed him, he observed Vincent flick a look to Rosemary and imagined her nearly imperceptible head shake, clueing him in not to elicit details.

  Cliff mounted the cement stairs, head high. His burden churned inside him still.

  * * *

  After services at First Lutheran Church, Vincent followed Rosemary and Cliff down the main aisle and into the line that formed to shake hands with Ned McMitchell. Rosemary, then Cliff complimented First Lutheran’s pastor on his fine sermon addressing obedience to God’s teachings. They stopped and turned when Ned asked Vincent a question.

  “Can you stay a minute?”

  “Sure. No problem.” Vincent wandered a step or two away with his friends.

  “Should we wait?” Rosemary said.

  “No. Go ahead. I don’t know how long I’ll be.” Vincent meant their usual after-church trek to a restaurant in a nearby town for dinner.

  He pushed them off, shoved his hands into his pockets, and ambled over to an unoccupied spot in the vestibule. Half a minute later, Willa McMitchell separated herself from a small group she conversed with and came over.

  “How do you feel?” Vincent asked the preacher’s pregnant wife.

  “The baby and I think we’re in for a hot one.”

  He smiled. “Babies are so smart these days. Probably all owed to the mother’s genes.”

  “I do what I can.”

  “And a little more,” he judged.

  “Ned asked you to wait?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He said he would. Did Rev. Razzell leave already?”

  Vincent nodded. Razzell and his white head of hair were several places ahead of him in line. “Is that what this is about?”

  Willa’s mouth opened, then she saw her husband walking their way. He put a hand on both Vincent’s and Willa’s shoulders. “We need to talk about Mosie.”

  The three of them adjourned to the pastor’s office. It was large with a nicely apportioned sitting area. A couch and two chairs were stationed around a coffee table. The McMitchells took the chairs, leaving Vincent the couch.

  “Between us,” Ned said, “we’ve all been over to Mosie’s since his Wednesday meltdown. And we’ve all pushed him to consider Crossroads’ senior watch program.”

  “I don’t think Mosie likes
the title,” Willa said.

  “Beebe fine-tuned it to Senior Life,” Vincent said.

  Willa nodded approvingly. “Better.”

  “Mosie came to me just before services. He said the strangest thing. He wants Yates to be his companion, like the program calls for.” Ned sent a look toward his wife.

  “Companion is better.” Willa nodded again.

  “And there’s more,” Ned went on. “He said he’d even let Yates and Barleycorn live in his house.”

  “He’d give Yates a home?” Vincent said, surprised. “What, some kind of compensation?”

  Willa spoke up. “But this is good. For Mosie, of course, if Yates accepts, and it would solve Yates’s homeless problem.”

  “The program doesn’t call for live-in companions. That’s not how it was designed. It calls for seniors to step in and assist other seniors,” Vincent said.

  “Well, Mosie wants Yates and the dog.” Ned tugged his ear.

  “But Yates hasn’t even been back to see him. All he did was take his pulse.”

  “Yates was kind to him,” Willa said. “Ned told Mosie Yates is a nurse and looking for work. That must have got him thinking.”

  “He’s got an interview at Lakeview next week,” Vincent said, speaking of Larkspur’s only hospital. He turned his next question to Ned. “Did Mosie say why Yates?”

  “I asked him. He clammed up. Just Yates was all he’d say. Then, almost scornfully, he added, ‘and the dog.’ But I can see what you’re saying, if it’s a senior-to-senior program.”

  “Hmm,” Vincent said. “It’s Beebe’s program to implement. Protocol says I should speak to her first. I’m sure she knew this wasn’t going to be a five-day-a-week job, so I’ll get with her this afternoon.” He got up. “More than the senior-to-senior thing, my concern is, if Yates gets the hospital job and these arrangements with Mosie go forward, they’ll be short-term. That might do more harm than good.”

  “Yes, I thought of that,” Ned said. “Yates will have a presence, then withdraw.”

  “Mosie’s needs seem most definitely headed down the long-term road,” Willa said, rubbing her belly. “I suppose it’s too much to expect Yates to do both. He’s young. When would he get to have any fun in his life?”

  Vincent left the two McMitchells in the pastor’s office. He walked down the hall toward the vestibule while he chewed on Willa’s last question. He thought he’d head on out to Beebe’s. He knew Cliff and Rosemary were off together for dinner. That was a common occurrence. If not for the impromptu meeting about Mosie, he would have accepted the dinner invitation and joined them.

  After the church’s front door closed behind him, Vincent decided one thing: He definitely wouldn’t mention church. He suspected that topic was the impetus behind Cliff’s mood earlier when he barreled into the lot. Beebe bit Vincent’s head off before about the subject. Shades of his to-hell-in-a-hand-basket visit in her Maryland living room remained fresh in his mind.

  Barleycorn to

  the Rescue

  Beebe jumped back to consciousness. From the glider where she apparently dozed off, she came out of her haze to see Vincent’s face staring down.

  “Oh, Vincent, where’s Daddy?” Beebe twisted in her seat toward the driveway, only her car and Vincent’s sat there. “Daddy and I quarreled.” She barely got the last word out before she understood from the expression on his face that he was fully aware of the situation. “He told you?”

  Vincent laughed. “We’re talking about Cliff, here. He’s not the most open man on the planet. It didn’t require too much of a leap.”

  “I wanted to make amends so I put in a pot roast as soon as he left, but he didn’t come home.”

  “Well, it’s sort of a tradition to eat out after church around here. I would have gone too, but Ned and Willa stopped me.”

  “He went out? We never did that when I was a kid.”

  “Well, things are different. I’m sure he wanted to introduce you to Rosemary Olmsted. It’s usually the three of us.”

  “Who’s Rosemary?”

  “She owns the diner downtown. Nice lady.”

  “I guess I missed that introduction.” Beebe was curious about the woman, but she fed her curiosity into another subject. “So, what did Ned and Willa have to say? Can I offer you some dinner?”

  “Sorry, I grabbed a burger.” Vincent jerked his head back toward town. “I didn’t know there’d be pot roast.”

  “Don’t worry. It will keep.”

  “Anyway, Ned, Willa, and I had a conversation about Mosie Razzell. Ned and Willa have checked in on Mosie since Wednesday’s incident as promised. Ned pushed the new programming you’ll oversee. This morning before the service, Mosie told Ned he’d like to have Yates and the dog be his companions.”

  Beebe sat up straighter. “That’s strange. That doesn’t sound like Mosie. He’s going from one extreme to the other.”

  “I agree. That’s why I’m here. I told Ned and Willa you needed to evaluate—well, because,” he shrugged, “it’s your job.”

  “Well, the first thing I see is, the program was written to place seniors in a position to assist other seniors,” she said, getting up. “This pairing would derail the program before it got started.” Beebe paced some. She thought. Then she stopped and turned to face Vincent, smiling.

  “What?” he said.

  “As I understand it, the program, as it’s written, hasn’t been approved by the board yet.”

  Vincent perked. “Right! So why not sneak this in at the last minute.”

  “I can’t imagine there’ll be an epidemic of young men with dogs around to be parceled out to seniors.”

  “So, this is probably a one-time deviation.”

  “And what a great idea if it works.” She felt her excitement dim. “The real problem is, will Yates have the time when he starts working, if not at the hospital, then somewhere? I’d hate to not use Yates—if he’s willing—if it means Rev. Razzell loses ground at the outset. I do think it would behoove us to get on this while the good reverend is in this mindset.” She snapped her eyes up to Vincent. “I know! I’ll pack up some of my pot roast and give him a visit. He doesn’t go with the crowd for Sunday dinner?”

  “No, I expect you’ll find him at home. With his clothes on.”

  Beebe laughed. “Oh, please, don’t even joke about that.” Vincent followed her inside the warm kitchen. “If Yates would rather not live with Mosie, I still think the combo plan is a good one,” she said, finding a plastic container sized for a large serving of pot roast.

  “Combo plan? What do you mean?”

  She expanded on the initial idea she first mentioned in Razzell’s living room. “Yates and Barleycorn could visit Mosie. The next time, the two of them and me. If Yates gets the job and is on shift, Barleycorn and I could go. You know, mix it up. See how that works.”

  “I can see each situation we uncover with a Larkspur senior will require a tailor-made course of companionship. Ned coined the word companion earlier when he spoke of Mosie and Yates.”

  While Vincent talked, Beebe pulled the roaster pan of meat and vegetables out of the oven and spooned a generous serving into the clear plastic dish. She fitted a lid over the container. “We’ll try that word out. Of course, I knew Rev. Razzell years ago, but I need to get some sense of him now and, hopefully, in a lucid moment.”

  Beebe turned the oven dial off, then made room in the refrigerator for the large pan. She’d store the food better when she got back.

  At their cars, Vincent said, “Good luck. Let me know how it goes.”

  “Are you going to say anything to Yates
?”

  “Since we’re deviating from programs, I thought I might, Beebs.”

  Beebs, she thought. Hearing him use her nickname warmed her. She began to feel immensely rewarded for the position she undertook with Crossroads.

  Vincent’s car was out in the road facing town when Beebe looked down her chunky frame to her pink clogs. She ran upstairs and quickly changed into a loose cotton dress and sandals before driving to the reverend’s house. She stood on his stoop, checked her watch, and then rang the doorbell.

  Razzell answered promptly, fully dressed in church clothes.

  “Hi, Rev. Razzell. May I come in?”

  She observed his somewhat quizzical expression, but took hold of the door when it was unlatched. The dark room she stepped into was simply untidy, not crazily chaotic. Somehow, she knew the difference. Several sections of the newspaper were spread about, folded on the couch, over the chair arm, his suit coat draped the wing of a wingback chair.

  He closed the door, cutting off the light beaming through the doorframe. It was then that she saw recognition in his face. She wondered if, while she stood silhouetted by the sun on the porch, he hadn’t realized who she was.

  She offered the pot roast. “There’s extra because Daddy went out to dinner.” She covered their quarrelling by saying, “We got our wires crossed.”

  His hands remained at his sides. “You didn’t attend church, young lady. I saw Cliff. I didn’t see you.”

  “No, I didn’t attend. God and I have gotten our wires crossed somehow, too,” she said, lightheartedly repeating the theme. “Have you eaten? Are you hungry? I could put this in the microwave. We can talk while you eat.”

  “No.”

  She had started to pick a path to the kitchen, then, with the blunt answer, stopped. “We could talk first, then I can warm it for you before I leave.”

  “No!” He swatted at the plastic dish, jarring it loose.