When they worked the straps free and Hal retrieved them, Beebe moved to the head of the grave. Cliff watched, quite aware she carried no Bible, but the story she told got its beginnings from the Great Book.
“I thought and thought what I would say at this moment with Mother’s family standing here.” She raised her hands to include the men on both sides of the grave, then interlaced her fingers in front of her. “No matter what words I began to organize, a memory of a small boy, a six-year old towhead named Jonah Young, pushed every grouping of words aside and looked up at me.
“When I left my last church, Trydestone, I accepted the position of grief counselor for Swanson Funeral Home. I was inside the carriage house behind Swanson’s on a Monday morning, oh,” she thought, “about three weeks later, getting the room ready for the morning’s session. From behind me, I heard Jonah’s voice call my name. I asked my parishioners to call me Pastor Beebe, so that’s what rung out in triplicate, as Jonah liked to do. I turned around to find him racing across the room. His mother, Lynn, followed in close pursuit. Jonah didn’t disappoint. He did what he did every time he stood in my company. He grabbed my hand and swung it. Every time, that connection captivated my attention.”
Cliff watched his daughter’s right hand drop and swing at her side. She remained lost inside herself for a second before continuing.
“After my last sermon at Trydestone, Lynn explained that Jonah begged her to bring him to see me with every Sunday that followed. She told him he had to wait till his spring break from school. So that Monday, he was dressed and ready, and Lynn brought him over.” Her gaze scanned the circle of faces. “Jonah was a part of my life at Trydestone from my initial Sunday. I remember retreating to my office to pray and ready myself to meet my congregation for the first time from the pulpit. When I opened my office door, there stood Jonah. His white shirt was tucked into navy pants, his shoes were shined, and his face glowed. It was so clean.”
She smiled down at the memory, and Cliff imagined the multitudes of people, young and old, that his ordained daughter encountered and touched.
“I hadn’t yet matched up children with parents,” she went on, “so he took my hand, and together we walked the side corridor to the pastor’s door that led straight in to the front of the auditorium. Jonah spotted his parents in one of the front pews and off he skipped. The next Sunday, and every Sunday after, the same thing happened. Jonah stood outside my door. He raised his hand. He wanted to walk me into services again. Why not? In that moment, I thought: Let the children lead them. I told him that morning while we strolled along the corridor that there was a story in the Bible about another Jonah. Of course, he wanted to hear the story right then, but I asked him to wait. The next Sunday, the sermon was about one of the Bible’s most recognizable stories: Jonah and the whale. The story begins with God’s command that Jonah preach repentance to the wicked Ninevites. God’s Jonah found this unbearable, so instead, he ran away from the Lord.”
In the dim of the evening with a sprinkling of fireflies joining the gathering, Cliff watched Beebe’s eyes glaze.
“Partway through Jonah’s tale, an odd thing happened. I sensed I would follow suit. After that sermon, every time Jonah dropped my hand and skipped away, I felt the need to escape from Trydestone. In the Bible story, God sent a whale to save Jonah. I wonder if God didn’t send Jonah Young to save me, or at least to prepare me for this day. I savored Jonah’s dimpled grin that first day of spring break and his choking hug ’round my neck. It upset me for weeks to realize I hadn’t given Jonah a proper goodbye, a moment just between the two of us. Something seemed unfinished in his life; so much so that he begged his mother to come find me. We meet people. We touch their lives. Some connections become special, meant to grow and blossom. Why does it happen? How do we find them? Who brings us together? The answer to those questions are not as important as realizing that those special people are to be cherished.”
Beebe reached out a hand to Cliff, then to Vincent. They took hers before grasping hands with Yates and Arthur Strand, who stretched arms across the recently dug grave to complete the circle.
“Today, I stand here at Mother’s grave with those people who cherished her, and she cherished them. This is a proper goodbye.”
As if Arthur Strand had some innate sense that Cliff Walker wanted a graveside service that included a prayer, he converted all that Beebe said to that prayer with one word.
Head bowed, eyes closed, he said, “Amen.”
The word was repeated in unison by Yates and Vincent, and finally Cliff. He squeezed his daughter’s hand as he said it.
From nowhere, Hal stepped up with two long-stemmed roses. He handed one to Cliff and one to Beebe. He must have kept them all this time beside him on the vault trailer’s seat.
When Beebe kissed the scarlet bloom and handed it to Cliff, he passed the one he held to Yates. Taking Beebe’s, Cliff kissed it and let it fall into his wife’s grave. Yates and Arthur Strand followed suit. The second rose fell on top of the first.
Cliff raised his head to witness the stunning vista across the road. The sun ducked down behind a border of trees. The full foliage glowed a burnt orange, outlined with the slightest trimming of crimson.
“It’s beautiful, Daddy,” Beebe said, observing the same scene.
“Your words were beautiful, too. Perfect. Thoughtful.” Beebe stepped forward for a hug. With his mouth close to her ear, he said, “I do wish I heard you preach, just once.”
“Daddy, you just did,” Beebe said, tightening her embrace.
Wigged Out
The morning after the funeral, Yates left Barleycorn to bark at Rev. Razzell’s front door. Yates couldn’t raise him by knocking, so he tried looking through the windows. He found no success until he discovered the back door unlocked. He let himself in, then Barleycorn. The rooms he walked through looked much the same as the previous day, but Razzell occupied none of them.
The two men, fifty years apart in age, decided on a schedule of morning visits. For two days, all went well.
Yates raced directly to Razzell’s bedroom at the end of the hall. From several steps away, he saw layers of clothing and papers littering the floor.
“Not again,” he prayed, but the undeniable signs were there. He bit his lip and slowed his pace. When he reached the doorway, he stopped and looked inside. Razzell, wearing nothing but a brown sock on his left foot, sat as limp as a ragdoll in the chair across the room. His white hair looked tousled from sleep, but the bed was still made and covered with clothes. Most of the dresser drawers hung open and were empty. It appeared to Yates that Razzell flung armfuls of clothing up in the air. In Razzell’s state at the time, he must have enjoyed watching the clothes rain down. Somehow, Yates could tell by the room’s condition that Razzell had not been in a state of fury, rather, he, in effect, wigged out.
In as normal a tone as Yates could muster, he spoke to Razzell. “Hey, Mosie,” he said, carefully making his way to the man. He grabbed Razzell’s robe off the bed, shaking off a half-unfolded dress shirt. “What’re you doing? Barleycorn’s here.”
Razzell blinked his empty stare away. His eyes raised to Yates.
“Here, let’s get this around you.” Yates used the robe more like a blanket. He covered Razzell’s genitals and legs, then tucked the robe into the cushioned chair to insure it stayed in place.
A full three seconds passed. Yates watched realization dawn on Razzell’s face. The minister nearly cried. “I did it again, didn’t I?” He scanned the trashed room, took in his state of undress, and lifted sad eyes to Yates. “I never remember taking my clothes off.” Razzell understood he participated in a repeat performance.
Yates squatted down. That was an invitation for the big dog to come over. “Barleycorn’s g
oing to stay with you while I go out and get you some breakfast. Just stay in the chair. Don’t get up until I get back.” He tipped his head to find Razzell’s eyes. He thought shame caused the older man to withdraw his gaze. “Okay?” Yates said, smiling.
Razzell nodded briskly, then glanced away. Barleycorn scooted in to take Yates’s place when he rose and stepped back. The dog lay his nose on Razzell’s robe-covered knee. For that, he was rewarded. Razzell scratched his head.
Out in the kitchen, Yates made toast and tea and called Vincent at Crossroads. Their conversation was short. True to his word, Vincent’s call to Dr. Hershel Gabriel produced the tall, distinguished physician standing on Razzell’s doorstep within forty-five minutes.
Gabriel placed his medical bag on the nightstand. He examined Razzell, who wore pajamas now and sat propped against pillows and the headboard. The room was tidier. Doctor and patient talked. Yates looked up from folding clothes at the foot of the bed when Gabriel asked about Razzell’s medications. He studied the older man for a handful of seconds. Gabriel completed the standard examination. He returned his stethoscope to his bag, then broke the tongue depressor used for Razzell’s throat exam. He removed his Latex gloves and quite nimbly captured the depressor’s two halves within the inside-out ball of Latex, all while he reassured his patient.
“We’re going to get you better, Mosie. Just leave it to me. And to your buddy Yates, here. And Barleycorn.” Gabriel reached out to pet the dog, who kept a close watch on the proceedings. “We’re your medical team.”
“I’ll show you out, Dr. Gabriel,” Yates said. But when the men were out in the hall, Yates motioned the doctor into Razzell’s bathroom. “Mosie wasn’t exactly truthful about his medications. I saw all this when I brought him in to brush his teeth.” Yates spoke quietly and opened the medicine cabinet door. A dozen orange pharmacy jars lined the shelves. “Look, different doctors, different pharmacies, conflicting side effects.” He picked up bottles and set them down. “Sleeping pills. Antidepressants. Some good stuff, yes, vitamins and supplements. But if he’s taking all this…” Yates’s question trailed off.
The nurse-to-be saw the alarm in the doctor’s face as he read the labels Yates faced forward.
“For some reason, he rips off his clothes and trashes the place,” Yates added in frustrated summary.
“I can’t explain that, specifically. In medical terms, though, his mind tries to cope with all the mixed meds. It can function for a while, then it—well, short-circuits—is the best description. We need to get him off this medication, slowly. He’ll go through withdrawal.”
“At his age, what will that do? Will it be difficult?”
“It’s difficult at any age. He’ll probably think he’s got the flu. Let him.” Gabriel’s manner of speech assigned Yates the job of carrying out his orders. “Push rest, fluids, small meals, soup.”
“I can move in here and monitor him constantly.” Yates felt his heartbeat quicken as he absorbed the implied urgency and the importance of his role.
“Who have you got if you need help?”
“Well, the McMitchells, Vincent, and Vincent’s new assistant, Beebe Walker.” Yates was hesitant to suggest Beebe. Razzell didn’t always show a good reaction to her, but if Yates needed errands run on Razzell’s behalf, other background duties undertaken, or advice issued, Beebe would certainly step up if asked.
“That sounds fine. I wouldn’t suggest strangers be inside the house. On top of everything, we don’t want him agitated.” He paused. “Beebe Walker, huh? My wife Mona is a member of Crossroads’ board, you know. She mentioned Beebe.”
Yates bit his lip. Given the agitation comment, then specifically calling Beebe out made Yates wonder what passed between husband and wife. Mona witnessing Razzell’s reactions to Beebe couldn’t possibly be the issue because she’d never been present. Yates decided to glaze over the doctor’s aside. “Don’t worry. I’ll sleep in the chair in his room. Barleycorn will alert me if Mosie makes a move in the night.”
“Given the situation, I want to get a physician on the phone from mental health to give me a course of action.”
“Mental health? He’s not crazy. It’s the meds.”
Gabriel sent him a look that said, “Think about it, Yates.”
“Of course, that makes sense. The meds have made his mind sick.”
“The reduction of the meds must be strictly choreographed. I’ll get you the dosages recommended. Don’t let him get a hold of these bottles.” Gabriel wagged a finger at the cabinet. “Hmm. I wonder about caffeine and sugar. There’s no way to know his daily consumption. Best to let the mental health physician decide on that as well. When he’s drug-free, I’ll take the pills for proper disposal. We don’t flush them anymore.”
“I know.” As a nursing student, he read article after article about how flushed medication tainted local water supplies. Proper disposal, these days, meant burning the medications at extremely high temperatures in a controlled environment and by law enforcement agencies.
Yates watched Gabriel make notes of the medication names and their strengths. One by one, Yates set pill bottles back in the medicine cabinet. Ninety minutes later, a uniform-clad worker from Gabriel’s office showed up at the door with a timeline and a pill cutter. The timeline covered five days for a slow, steady reduction.
Yates called Vincent in order to get some food in the house. “Bring Barleycorn’s kibble and bowls. Bring my clothes. What the hell, bring everything. I have so little. I might as well move out of Crossroads.”
* * *
Vincent was bent over the bed in Yates’s room. He shoved the young man’s shaving kit into the bottom of his backpack. A folded-over pair of jeans went in next. He threw underwear in, then squeezed two T-shirts on top. He looked around for anything he missed.
Beebe appeared in the doorway. “Hey, what are you doing in here?” In the next instant, she and her worried frown stepped into the room. “What’s going on?”
“Mosie had a real bad spell. Yates found him and called. I got Dr. Gabriel over there. Evidently, Mosie’s been self-medicating,” Vincent said of Rev. Razzell.
“What?”
“Yates found pills in his bathroom. With his nursing knowledge, he was concerned. Dr. Gabe says Yates was right with his diagnosis. Mosie takes too much of the bad combination and makes himself dopy.”
“So?” She pointed to the backpack Vincent zipped closed.
He hung the pack on his shoulder. Beebe followed him through the center to the kitchen for Barleycorn’s possessions. Along the way, he explained, “Yates is going to move in. Dr. Gabe has a plan to get Mosie off the medication. The withdrawal won’t be fun. Yates is willing to take that on and follow doctor’s orders to the letter.”
“I want to help. This is my program to implement.”
To Beebe’s firm statement, Vincent smiled and handed her Barleycorn’s water dish.
“I want to do more than this.” Beebe grinned. She dumped the remainder of the dog’s morning drink into the sink and shook off water droplets. Being a good sport, she carried the stacked dog bowls in one hand and a half-full sack of kibble in the other.
“You’ll oversee and document. Dr. Gabe approved Yates as primary because Mosie seems close to him. The McMitchells and I are backup if Yates needs assistance to get him through. The estimate is five days.”
“I’m proud of Yates for wanting to take on a project of this proportion.”
Vincent knew Beebe would not be proud of him if he didn’t share Yates’s decision to keep Beebe at arm’s length of Razzell and that the reasoning for that was derived from Dr. Gabe’s agitation comment. “You’ll oversee and document,” Vincent said, slowing his words to match his pa
ce through the community room, “because Yates said Dr. Gabe mentioned to him that he and Mona had a conversation about you at some point.”
Beebe’s mouth flew open.
“Dr. Gabe was cryptic, but I thought Yates should know the position Mona’s taking, which, although the good doctor didn’t elaborate, is what Gabby must have gabbed.”
“So, Dr. Gabe is an enemy, too.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“Do you think he used Yates as a backdoor effort to get to you?”
“I don’t know that either.”
“This may interfere with getting Dr. Gabe to act as the center’s medical advisor?”
“Slow down, Beebe. I’m not going to speculate any further than to relate Yates’s decision about you and Mosie, which was made for Mosie’s benefit. You know that. Yates would never hurt your feelings purposefully. But I will go out on a limb and confirm that Mona’s the interferer here. And then, yes, I’ll scoot out a little bit further and say I know Dr. Gabe can think for himself.” Vincent grabbed Beebe’s elbow and steered her toward the front door. “Now, come on. Let’s go. Yates is waiting.”
He flipped the reversible message sign to the CLOSED side, let a solemn Beebe out, and then, from the stoop, tested the lock.
Beebe led him to her car parked at the curb. Quickly, Vincent loaded the backpack on the floorboard behind the front seat. When he reached for the dog bowl, Beebe wouldn’t release it. His eyes met hers.
“Prepare yourself, Vincent. In addition to Dr. Gabe’s cryptic assessment, I came over here to tell you something.”
“What?” he said warily.
“Daddy came to me before the funeral. He wants the name on the death certificate corrected. I made that request of the county coroner. I provided background information. Which means I had to mention you and Crossroads and Mother’s statements to you.”
Proper Goodbye Page 26