Proper Goodbye

by Connie Chappell

  She worked to catch it. “Rev. Razzell! What’s wrong?”

  “It’s my fault. Stay away.”

  Her heart lurched. She squinted at his collapsed expression, his chastisement of her replaced with fear.

  “What does that mean, Rev. Razzell? What’s your fault?” For a second, their eyes met and held. She innately knew he had not employed “fault” to construe a connection to nearly knocking the container from her hands.

  “Go away. Get out.” He pushed her toward the door, fumbled with the handle, then pushed her out to the porch.

  For two seconds, before the door slammed, she stared back at the man, wondering about his state of mind, wondering if he should be left alone.

  Those thoughts and others spun around in Beebe’s head all the way down Razzell’s driveway. She looked back at the house before stepping behind a thick evergreen. The tree would block her actions, just in case the retired minister watched through a slit in closed curtains. She set the container of pot roast down in the grass to search her shoulder bag. With her cell phone in hand, she noted the time when the screen lit.

  Vincent answered her call on the second ring. “My visit inside Rev. Razzell’s house lasted three minutes. He was dressed, but not himself.”

  “He wasn’t lucid?”

  “I honestly can’t say. But it was odd. For all intents and purposes, he threw me out.”

  “My God! What do you recommend we do?”

  She bit her lip. This was not a spoiled-child situation where producing the cried-for object only further engrained the unwelcomed behavior. “Come over. Bring Yates and the dog. Does he know what Mosie’s asked of him?”

  “I told him,” Vincent said plainly.

  Beebe rushed on, her thoughts jumping ahead in Razzell’s therapy. “Maybe after two or three visits, Yates and I can sit with him for a rational discussion. Your protocols mentioned medical evaluations to go with the program. Is a physician on board?”

  “We need to retain one. Dr. Gabe’s the one I’d like to have. That presents a small problem though.”

  “Either the problem gets resolved, or we find another doctor. Rev. Razzell isn’t a simple case of senior loneliness, where a meal here, some groceries there, or running the vacuum does the trick.”

  Vincent’s sigh was audible through the phone. “To repeat Ned’s description, Mosie is baptism by fire.”

  Beebe didn’t like the expression the first time around. She substituted, “A hurdle right out of the gate.”

  Since her departure from the church, she no longer peppered her speech with biblical overtones.

  * * *

  Yates noticed Beebe first. Waving back, she waited several houses down from Razzell’s house. He elbowed Vincent and tipped his head her direction. The two men and a leashed Barleycorn altered their course.

  Beebe met them halfway. “I moved the car so he wouldn’t think I was stalking him and call the cops. I didn’t realize you’d come this way.”

  “I had to go to the park to get them,” Vincent explained.

  Yates, a little overwhelmed by the request immediately before him and more than a little overwhelmed by the live-in companion idea, remained quiet. Barleycorn panted, needing water after his romp in the park.

  “Did Vincent fill you in?” Beebe asked.

  “I understood what he said, but I don’t understand why Rev. Razzell became so attached to Barleycorn and me.”

  “None of us understand that. But it’s not a bad thing. It’s kismet. Karma. Something. You’ll find you have it with certain patients, don’t you think?”

  “I suppose you’re right.”

  “Are you willing to try?” she asked him.

  Try, Yates repeated to himself. Not a permanent arrangement, not yet. He wanted to ease in slowly. It felt daunting, but he was willing to try. He was also a bit tongue-tied.

  Beebe, with her counseling experience, made sure he understood Razzell’s wants and needs were not all that mattered here. “No decision has to be made today. You and Barleycorn must benefit as well. Get to know Rev. Razzell better. There’s no rush. You’ve got the invitation. You’re testing the waters, spending more time each day. Mention your interview. Tell him a job is important, necessary in your life. Tell him you need time to think. You are not required to do this, Yates. Negotiate if you feel that’s necessary. Promise continued contact. Daily, unless something prevents it. Playtime in the park with Barleycorn.”

  “That’s good.” Yates jumped on the idea Beebe threw out. He liked the expansion of possibilities outside Razzell’s house. “Do I wait for him to ask me directly?”

  “I think you’ll know how to play that. He made the offer through Ned. He didn’t want me to show up, so he’s holding out for you. Get him to talk. Listen. Both of you, listen on all levels.” She drove the point home. “What is he saying?”

  When Beebe included Vincent in today’s equation, Yates said, “You’ll go in with me?” His nervousness crept up little by little, although he was not a stranger to responsibility. There was his mother’s illness and Terri’s. Their bodies gave out. For Rev. Razzell, it appeared that his mind was suffering. That had not been proved medically. But still, he would bet that something physically on this earth caused it. If that something was brought into the light, that something might also illuminate Razzell’s discomfort around Beebe. It was not too far afield to think Razzell’s situation moved down a psychological path. Beebe might be thinking the same since she asked Vincent and him to listen on all levels.

  “Sure, I’ll go in,” Vincent said. “After that, we’ll see where Mosie leads us.”

  Yes. Yates liked that premise. He reached down to pat Barleycorn’s shoulder. Let Razzell lead. They would learn more that way.

  “I’m going to head out,” Beebe said. “I’ll wait for you, where? The center is locked, isn’t it?”

  “We’ll come through the park. If it takes too long and you go on, I’ll call. Okay?”

  “Fine,” she said, backing away.

  The men and the dog walked on.

  “So, what should I say? I don’t know how to start the conversation,” Yates said.

  “We can’t pretend this is a normal visit.”

  “He’s not going to believe that,” Yates agreed.

  “Then we’ll go with absolute honesty.”

  “Honesty like, hi, we think you’re nuts and came to help?” Yates rolled his eyes.

  Vincent grinned. “Professional honesty might be a better choice.”

  When they reached the walkway leading to Razzell’s front door, Vincent let Yates and Barleycorn go first. Barleycorn sat next to Yates on the stoop. Yates knocked, then knocked again. Barleycorn barked at the unanswered door. That brought Razzell.

  When the door opened wide, Yates, still without an opening line, let the leash fall. Barleycorn raced in, then Yates had his icebreaker. “Barleycorn to the rescue.”

  Razzell’s features softened. “Thank you, son. I so needed rescuing right now.”

  “Barleycorn could use a little rescuing, too. He needs a drink. A big drink.”

  Vincent followed Yates inside. Yates moved in the direction of the kitchen, slipping his backpack off his shoulder. It was standard practice that he carry the dog’s bowl for playtime in the park. There, he filled the bowl with water from a drinking fountain. That didn’t happen today. Vincent arrived after Beebe’s call and rushed Barleycorn and him across the street.

  Razzell stepped in. “No. Let me. You’re my guests.”

  Barleycorn watched Yates pass his bowl. The dog padded after Razzell onto the kitchen linoleum. Wh
en Yates heard water running, he tipped his head toward the other room, indicating that he and Vincent should follow.

  “Barleycorn is not a neat drinker,” Yates said to Razzell. “Better not get your living room carpet wet.”

  “Fine,” Razzell said. He carefully lowered the dish to the flooring. Barleycorn lapped up the water with zest. “I’ll fill it up, boy, as many times as it takes.” When the hound drank the dish dry, Razzell repeated the exercise.

  The three men took seats around the kitchen table. Barleycorn lay his belly on the cool floor, his eyes half-closed.

  On this visit, Yates saw another side of the senior. All Yates did was ask if Razzell ever had a dog. Razzell took it from there. His mind was sharp about a dog from his youth. The stories began with a spotted brute misnamed Sweet Pea and ended when Razzell’s father came home from the war. At some point, Vincent got up and ran paper towels through the puddle on the floor around the dog’s water dish.

  “Despite the fact that Sweet Pea was Father’s dog, and they were always like this,” Razzell said, holding up his hand, the first two fingers crossed, “she and I got into boyhood scrapes anyway. No matter that we spent a Saturday afternoon together, traipsing through the woods, when we got back home and she saw Father, she ran to his side and stayed there.”

  Yates felt his eyebrows draw down when he saw the expression on Razzell’s face slip. He wondered if the older man was about to experience another episode. When Razzell took up his story again, Yates decided the shift was emotional, not mental.

  “Then the world changed when the war brought in the United States. Father became a soldier. I was the man of the house while he was gone, and Sweet Pea got old.” His next words were reticent, his gaze far-off. “After Father mustered out, Mother and I got him home from the train station and steered all the talk toward other things. Father drove the car into the garage. It was big and stuffed with junk, but his eyes went straight to it, half hidden on a nail. Sweet Pea’s collar. We were going to sit him down on the bench under the oak tree and tell him. All that stuff in the garage,” Razzell said, shaking his head, “and his eye went straight to it.”

  If Yates had any question about the man’s lucidity on this day, it was thoroughly trounced when Razzell tied his closing sentence back to Yates’s conversation starter. “So to answer your question,” he said, “no, I never really had a dog of my own.”

  A solemn moment passed, then Yates said, “How about tomorrow, Barleycorn and I come back for a visit and another talk?”

  “I’d like that. We can talk about the companion idea. I counted on Ned to pass the word, but I know a smart young man like you will take time to consider.” The reverend gave Yates and Barleycorn a true smile. He was fully energized again. He looked down at the dog, who raised his head. “Right, Barleycorn? Make sure you weigh in, too.”

  “Would you like to walk to the park and watch him play tomorrow?” Yates made the offer Beebe suggested. Although he pushed for Vincent’s accompaniment with Razzell on this visit, he thought he and Razzell would make better progress alone.

  “Most definitely.”

  Yates returned his smile. He categorized Rev. Razzell a first-rate mystery. And he thought Razzell knew it, meaning the mystery would not be solved until Razzell was ready.

  He reclaimed Barleycorn’s bowl and his backpack. The dog’s leash was clipped on at the front door. The men said their goodbyes. Yates and Vincent walked across to Engle Park where Beebe waited at the squared-up benches.

  When Yates got close enough, he dropped the leash. Barleycorn announced his and Vincent’s return to Beebe. She watched two boys pass the football, safely out of reach of any “Hail Mary” throws. Her purse and a clear plastic dish with a blue lid occupied the seat beside her. Barleycorn immediately took an interest in the dish.

  “What happened? How’d it go?” Beebe said, roughing up the dog’s fur.

  Yates sprawled onto the seat beside her, and Vincent grabbed the other bench for himself. “In my opinion,” he said, “fine.”

  “He was calm?” Beebe gave Yates a curious look.

  “He wouldn’t answer the door until Barleycorn barked. I don’t know if that was just how it seemed, or if it took him time to get there.”

  “So what’s your evaluation?” Beebe asked.

  Yates noticed Barleycorn trying to get the dish between his teeth. “Barleycorn, leave that alone.”

  “Oh,” Beebe said. “He can have this. It’s pot roast. Is that okay?”

  “Sure. He’s never had a Sunday meal like this before.”

  The dog’s tail wagged madly in anticipation of tasting what his nose already told him was a canine’s delight. Beebe managed to get the lid off and the dish on the ground before Barleycorn pounced. He ate with fervor. Chasing the bowl around didn’t seem to distract him in the least.

  Back on the subject of Rev. Mosie Razzell, Beebe frowned. “He nearly knocked the dish out of my hand when I offered it to him. Then he said, ‘It’s my fault. Go away.’”

  “Meaning it’s your fault or his fault?” Vincent asked, lifting his eyeglasses into his wavy hair.

  “His fault. What did he mean?”

  “I can’t imagine.”

  Vincent glanced at Yates, who shrugged. “I couldn’t even guess.”

  “I’ve been sitting here, thinking about it. The last time I spent any time with Rev. Razzell, I was seventeen and considering the ministry as a career. I went to talk with him about that. Today, for the short while I was inside, he chastised me for not going to church this morning. I told him something like God and I got our wires crossed. I wasn’t specific. I couldn’t imagine he understood that to mean I’d broken with the church. But if he did know somehow, maybe he thought sending me in that direction as a career path, when it didn’t suit, was his fault.”

  Vincent made a face. “Unlikely. I can see the connections, but…”

  “It doesn’t seem to gel, does it?” Beebe seemingly made her decision. “Should we try to get to the bottom of it, or leave it?”

  Yates tabbed back into his prior thoughts of the mystery surrounding the senior. “You’re sure he has guilt about something?”

  “Yes.” Beebe was adamant. “He smacked at the dish and told me to get out and stay away.” She looked past Yates to Vincent. “I know I told you I wasn’t sure about his lucidity, but I’ve had time to think. He was fine, mentally. He was angry. The guilt was real.”

  “I like the old guy,” Yates said, feeling an inner spirit lift. “It seems mean to grill him over it. We’ve got to wait him out. Maybe he’ll confess whatever was his fault, if confess is the right word.”

  “The companionship idea took a step. Razzell, Yates, and Barleycorn made a date for the park tomorrow,” Vincent said to Beebe.

  Beebe laughed. “You’ve definitely got a leg up on me. I nearly didn’t get out before the door slammed.”

  Vincent pointed at Beebe. “You, my friend, have been Razzelled.” His eyebrow arched over the animated expression.

  “Is that what you call it?” She laughed again, and Yates with her.

  The plastic pot roast dish, now empty, skidded to a stop at Yates’s feet, followed by the dog lunging for it. “No, Barleycorn. What have you done?” He wrestled it free of the dog’s clenched snout and held it up, the rim fluted by teeth marks.

  Beebe didn’t seem to mind. She took the dish and tossed it for Barleycorn to chase.

  Which he happily did.

  Offense and Defense

  On Labor Day morning, Beebe and her father met at the top of the stairs. She was surprised to see he was dressed for work. “You’re going into McKinley’s today?”

&nb
sp; “I thought I would.”

  “But it’s a holiday,” Beebe said.

  “The store’s open. People do odd jobs on the holidays. That never changes.”

  The inference here, Beebe thought, was that she had. No doubt Beebe’s swearing off Sunday church services was the very change he intimated.

  Cliff led the way downstairs and entered the kitchen ahead of her. “I made a change in Abigail’s obituary. Just one word.” He took the typed page from his breast pocket and unfolded it. He handed her the sheet. Near the bottom, he struck through the word rising. With his revision, the sentence read:

  With the setting sun, Abigail Marie Walker shall be interred in Larkspur Cemetery with private services.

  “Setting sun?” Beebe queried.

  “Services will be held just before dusk.”

  “Did you give Pastor McMitchell that detail Sunday?”

  “No.”

  “No? Why not?” She squinted one eye.

  “Why would I?”

  “Didn’t you ask him to preside?”

  His hazel eyes were firmly latched to hers. “I didn’t think I needed to. I thought you would do it. Ned said a few words when Terri Miller was buried. I thought you’d speak for your mother. I didn’t know you’d stopped being a minister.”

  Beebe bit her tongue. The fact was he did know. Was he embarrassed of the need to line up Ned and admit his minister daughter lost her faith? Now, he could author a new chapter in his lifelong disappointment with her. His cross words were matched with a swift walk toward the mudroom and side porch.

  “Will you phone Ned McMitchell?” she called after him, knowing better than to make that contact herself.

  The answer she got was the slap of the door.

  Beebe swore. Her fingernails bit into her palms when she squeezed her fists tight. She tried not to let her anger with her father’s stubborn silence mount to fury. He was grieving, she reminded herself. And the situation was so bizarre. She had months to come to terms with the idea of Abigail Walker reappearing as Terri Miller; Cliff, only five days. The poor man, she thought scornfully, was saddled with a daughter struggling with her life’s work and just at the time when a minister in the family was a needed resource.