Proper Goodbye

by Connie Chappell

  “We’re getting a little far afield from the perception situation.” Beebe emphasized Mona’s word choice, using it to clarify.

  “Right, and I’d prefer to call it the Moaning Mona situation. The problem is not you or perception; it’s her. I’d like to get an opinion from the board’s attorney. You haven’t met Ron Smith yet. Mona shouldn’t go around speaking publicly as if she’s speaking for the board.”

  “She didn’t. She was clear. She wants to raise the matter at the next board meeting.”

  “Well, we’ll head it off. Ron should be made aware. Gabby—”

  “Gabby?”

  “Yeah. Another Mona nickname used by many, just not to her face.”

  “Gabby and Dr. Gabe,” Beebe said with a giggle.

  “Gabby doesn’t want it to look to the board members that her committee’s choice was a poor one. She doesn’t want the spray-back to get on her.”

  “Then why bring it up?

  “Honestly, she can’t help herself. She thinks this is juicy, and she wants to be in the middle of things. Always. She’ll play both sides of the street, mark my words. A few wanted to wait to interview you. Ron and Mona followed my recommendation. Events from thirty years ago, when you were a child, are not germane. We can turn this around.”

  “Mother’s obituary will fuel the flames under this, don’t you think?”

  “You knew it would. Cliff knew it.” He shrugged. “Nothing new. You were upfront. That plays in our favor.”

  “Well, I was upfront accidentally. Daddy wanted it out in the open. He wanted the community to know the end of that ancient story. He wanted to follow standard procedure. This is what people do when there’s a death.”

  “Timing. Coincidence. It’s just as much my fault as anyone’s.”

  “Why is it your fault?”

  “I asked you to come back because your mother died. Then I offered you the job to keep you here. I struck the match.”

  Beebe patted Vincent’s hand. “Mother struck the match. None of this can be laid at your feet. It’s just like Daddy said: For a while, the obituary in the paper will stir those in the community who remember. A week, maybe, then people forget. Daddy and I are not going to hide. So let’s you and I bring it up with the board. I’m willing to let them vote again on my suitability for the work. My contract can begin after Monday’s meeting. Everyone can have their say, ask me questions, whatever.”

  “I’d like Ron’s opinion first. He may agree, but he’s level-headed. I think he can paint a clear picture of the situation Mona is tainting for the members, and almost in words of praise for her.”

  “That, I’d like to see.”

  “Oh, you will. If anyone can turn a phrase, it’s Ron Smith.”

  “Hmm. I feel better.”

  “This little hiccup will pass. Be ready with your thoughts on the programming. I want you to dazzle the board with your insight and creativity.”

  “A Razzell dazzle.” She winked.

  “Something like that.”

  “That reminds me. What about confidentiality matters and privacy issues? Rev. Razzell, for instance. I don’t think he’d want the board to know the level of care or his medical history without his consent.”

  “I agree. I assumed that, but didn’t stress it to the board. Another matter for Ron. And you get credit for the thought. We need a policy in writing. More will evolve as time goes on and we get experience under our belts.”

  “Oh, please, I don’t wear a belt these days.” She patted her belly.

  Vincent was happy to have her back. She was the best choice, and he would do whatever was necessary to smooth out the road before her, one that currently included a hairpin turn for her mother’s funeral. Yeah, he worried, a hairpin turn at dusk. Those can be dangerous. He would stick close, very close for the next few days.

  Sunset

  Beebe stepped out onto Battlefield without saying a word to Vincent about her next task. At some point, he might become involved with the death certificate issue. She didn’t know.

  She felt the oddest sensation on her walk to the Holmes Building, where the health department was housed. She felt, well, discombobulated was how she’d describe it. A crazy word for the crazy feeling. She shook her shoulders. She walked faster. She couldn’t outrun it. The feeling persisted. She was dogged by her mother’s death revisiting her, tension with her father, reasons for denial, numbness, fear, and anger, perhaps not quite depression. Those emotions were the full menu of grief’s first two stages before recovery kicked in.

  At the door to the Holmes Building, she rolled her neck without relief, then pulled the door open. She read the lobby registry, then shuffled into an elevator to the second floor.

  She wondered if it was considered poor manners to discuss the life insurance before the funeral. Maybe some kind of social blunder. She guessed not. Those gears needed to turn, in most cases, to pay the funeral home, medical bills, and the deceased’s debts. In reality, the life insurance policy was a side matter. She wouldn’t mention it. A death certificate simply should be correct. The closest the certificate might get to correct is one that documented both names: Abigail Marie Tanner Walker, and Terri Miller, scribed as an “also known as.” That may be the only way to satisfy the powers that be.

  Earlier in the morning, she saw the insurance policy lying on Cliff’s dresser when she went in with clean shirts. His idea for use of the money was laudable. When it came time in the future to put the funds to good use, he would look back, she hoped, and see a positive track running from Mother’s life. A benefit paid forward.

  The door to the health department in the old building stood wide. She entered and was immediately noticed by one of the clerks behind the counter. When the clerk rose, Beebe recognized her from high school. She was Heidi Wells back then. Beebe couldn’t say she and Heidi were close friends. Beebe had no real close friends until Vincent in high school. It was alphabetical order that placed Heidi and Beebe in close proximity. Always Walker, then Wells for those teachers who followed the ABCs for their seating chart.

  “Heidi!” Beebe said.

  “Beebe!” the other woman cheered, rushing over. Her face slackened when she reached out to Beebe’s forearms resting on the old scarred wooden countertop. “I’m so sorry about your mother. I just saw it in the paper. How sad.”

  “Thank you. Of course, you remember what happened back in high school.”

  “The whole situation was a shame. Just terrible. Well, now it’s over,” she said, always a silver-lining kind of person. “You’re dealing with it. And your father. How’s he doing?”

  “As you said, we’re dealing with it.” Beebe pointed to the nametag pinned to Heidi’s striped cotton shirt. “Looks like you married Bud Cranston. I can see you two together.”

  “Better be able to see it.” With a smile, she leaned forward. “We’ve got five kids.”

  “Five!”

  “And two dogs. The kids would hate it that I didn’t include Bossy and Spike as members of the family.”

  “Sounds perfect.”

  “It is. So, are you back in Larkspur because of your mother?”

  “Yes, and no. I’m back because I took a job over at Crossroads.”

  “Working with Vincent. That’ll be nice.”

  “So far, so good. I’m still getting started. But, back to Mother.”

  Heidi’s eyes widened inquisitively.

  “I have a bit of a story to tell and, hopefully, you can give me advice.”

  “I’ll try.”

  Just then, a man appeared at Beebe’s elbow.

  Heidi turned.
“Alice, can you help this gentlemen? Come around, Beebe. We’ll use this office over here.” She gestured Beebe toward the pass-through at the end of the counter.

  Inside the cramped office with the door closed, Heidi went behind the desk. Beebe slid onto the padded metal chair that faced her.

  “Daddy and I had no further connection with Mother after she left,” Beebe said, “but when she got sick, and it was apparent she would not recover, she came back to Larkspur. She learned that Crossroads was a hospice, and she showed up on Vincent’s doorstep one evening. Vincent never met my mother, and I’m sure her appearance had changed. She was homeless, as I understand, and now ill.” Beebe watched and appreciated Heidi’s empathetic expression. “She told Vincent her name was Terri Miller.”

  “Terri Miller!” Heidi jerked her shoulders straight.

  “You know that name?”

  “There was a young man in here, maybe ten days ago, asking for records for that name.”

  Beebe nodded. “Yates Strand. I met him. He can corroborate that Mother used the name Terri Miller for at least ten years. Perhaps the entire time she was gone, I don’t know. Her last request to Vincent was that Terri Miller be the name that carried through to her grave. Before she died, she did tell him who she was, and she begged him to keep her secret. She didn’t want Daddy or me to know. It’s been hard. Vincent said he didn’t think she wanted to intrude, but she obviously wanted to be back home and be buried here. Vincent tried to keep her secret, but he couldn’t.”

  “What an awful position for Vincent! With you, your father, and Crossroads.” Heidi’s hands were in motion. “And your father’s position. Oh my stars. To find his wife buried in the cemetery. Of course, this has been hard.”

  “Now, you see, Daddy knows, and he wants things made right. He wants a death certificate with her true name on it. How do I get the certificate corrected?” Beebe reached down to her purse sitting on the floor and pulled out the folded certificate by an exposed corner.

  “The coroner signed the death certificate,” Heidi said, scanning it. “He must be notified, and he must issue the replacement if one is to be issued. He’s going to ask questions. He’s a stickler for accuracy, protocol, rules.”

  That sounded ominous, Beebe thought, but stoked her resolve. “Well, okay. I’ll take him on. What do I do? Should I meet with him? Is there a form of some kind?”

  “You should write out the background. You can do it now if you want,” she said, her palms touching the desktop, “or bring it back in. I’ll attach it to a copy of the certificate and take it to him.”

  “Should I take it? Can you make an appointment for me? I just don’t want this to sit around on his desk.”

  “I doubt it will. He’s going to ask questions.”

  Beebe smiled at the repeated phrasing. That was Heidi. She remembered Heidi’s mumbled comments made from the school desk behind Beebe’s. “What about some kind of affidavit from Vincent and Yates to go with my statement?” Beebe thought Ron Smith could be encouraged to help.

  “Let’s keep it simple at first. Let Dr. Jeffers take the lead.”

  “Dr. Jeffers? I don’t know that name.”

  “Comes from over in Butler. He resides here now. But Larkspur and Butler are still Stryker County.”

  Beebe nodded her understanding of public office requirements. “Well, I’d like my statement to be neat, so I’ll print something up and come back.”

  The women rose, and Heidi came around the desk. “You have my sympathies.” She patted Beebe’s arm and offered a wan smile.

  The gestures were two points against Mona Gabriel’s assertion that the Walkers would present a perception problem in an unforgiving community.

  * * *

  Cliff was filling a glass with water at the kitchen sink when he heard the front door open and close. Beebe called out.

  The two Walkers sat at the kitchen table while Beebe explained everything she learned at the health department. She asked him for patience. Her intention was either an appeasing one or a convincing one when she said, “Dr. Jeffers is fond of rules. In his job, he has to be.”

  Cliff got it. He was also fond of rules. In the cemetery business, he had to be. And, really, how far was the coroner’s business from the cemetery business?

  Beebe went straight upstairs to her laptop to write the statement for Dr. Jeffers. The next time father and daughter saw each other, they were dressed for Abigail Walker’s second funeral.

  A two-car convoy pulled onto the cemetery road alongside the house a few minutes after eight. Vincent got out of the lead car. Yates Strand and a man Cliff guessed to be forty-five or forty-six opened doors to a black sedan.

  Cliff and Beebe met Arthur Strand, standing in the grass of their front yard. The man limped, not badly, but noticeably. Beebe invited everyone inside. Cliff watched Vincent slip away, back to his car, where he retrieved a bouquet of flowers. He would spend a few minutes with his beloved Carolyn.

  While Beebe served everyone either coffee or lemonade and laid the dining room table with a selection of sweets from the bakery, Cliff and Arthur stood in the living room, talking.

  “I’m glad you came,” Cliff said to the elder Strand. Arthur’s nodding head stopped, surprised when Cliff corrected himself. “No. I’m glad you wanted to come.”

  “Yates says he’s told you about Terri’s—” Arthur cut off with an instant look of regret over the perceived fumble with the name.

  “In this house, either name is accepted without reservation,” Cliff said with genuine sincerity.

  “Well, anyway, you know how we Strands appreciated and loved Terri Miller. She was integral to our lives for so many years. When my Naomi got so sick, we couldn’t have survived as well as we did without Terri.” He cocked his head up to Cliff, wearing a near frown. “I know this must seem very strange to you.”

  “At first, yes. But I’d rather know the story than spend the rest of my life wondering. That’s what the last thirty years were. Wondering.”

  Arthur’s bobbing head dropped, his chin to his chest. “Yes,” he said. He understood.

  “If only she’d reached out to me when the addiction took hold. If I’d forced the issue. In the back of my mind, I knew. If only she’d gone to someone for help here in Larkspur if she couldn’t come to me. I just wish that had happened. Knowing that would somehow soothe my heart more than I could say.” Cliff found he could easily share his deepest emotions with this man who knew his wife. “But, then look at her influence on your life, her nursing skills put to work for your wife’s care.”

  Arthur sipped his lemonade. “It’s one of those things. We didn’t deserve to have her if it meant you and Beebe lived without. But it wouldn’t be truthful if I said Yates and I could have endured my wife’s illness on our own. Terri was a blessing during those horrible, horrible days.”

  Cliff did not know what it was like to care for a loved one from illness to death. Yates did. Arthur did. Just then, Vincent appeared in the dining room. Cliff thought of Carolyn. Cliff did all he could for Vincent and Carolyn through her decline, but he didn’t bear the true weight there. It was painful enough for him, but it was not a husband’s unbearable suffering for the helplessness and hopelessness felt deep in his soul.

  After a moment, Cliff said, “Abigail conquered her addiction. She got help somewhere. I just wish the help started here.”

  “Completely understood.”

  Vincent took on the duties of lookout. He informed Cliff when the vault handler crept toward the house, a burial vault suspended from a crane-like arm preceding the handler.

  The fivesome quietly and reverently filed outside, their pace a match for the vault handler’s trudge.
They formed a straight line to receive Abigail Marie Tanner Walker. No one spoke. They watched, then participated in the grimly odd procession. When Hal Garrett drove the handler past them, Cliff and Beebe broke ranks. Yates and Arthur formed the next row. Vincent anchored the rear.

  Before Vincent and the Strands arrived by car, Hal positioned a solid, one-piece wooden framework around the grave cut in the Walker plot. While the soon-to-be graveside party was gathered in the living room, Cliff explained the ritual of the long leather straps. He compared the duty of the four men to pallbearers. Cliff, working across from Vincent, and Yates across from his father, would very slowly and cautiously lower the vault of the woman with two names into the grave. No need to worry. The straps would move smoothly over the wooden framework’s edge.

  Once Cliff completed the explanation and saw everyone understood and approved, Beebe spoke. She stood beside him. “It’s our job to keep the old ways in good repair,” she said.

  Her repetition of his words from a day long past stunned him into speechlessness, a condition that lasted until after the service concluded.

  From the controls inside the handler, Hal positioned the vault over the grave to a place several inches below the ground line. The men held the two leather straps taut while Hal lowered the vault by increments until the straps and the men took the weight. He jumped down and expertly released the chains attached to the vault handles. “Slowly, gentlemen,” Hal said before he climbed into the idling vehicle and backed away what would be an intrusion on the ceremony.

  Cliff caught the eye of the other three men. With darkness waiting in the wings, the ground received Abigail Walker.

  The weight was more than Cliff could ever have anticipated. His heels dug into the grass, his knees bent. His shoulders ached down into his back. The width of one hand after another, red and cramping, the ungodly job continued. He stared into the grave. He could do nothing but stare into the grave. Soon strain absorbed every joint. He gritted his teeth. His neck muscles tensed until he thought he could not breathe. Then all that had been the pain of burying his wife reached bottom. The leather strap went slack.