“I see.” He thought the situation a messy one to clean up. He handled the bowl now, and placed it on the back seat. The kibble went in next.
“I was clear that Mother used the name, Terri Miller, for at least ten years. She was insistent it go on the death certificate.”
Vincent stepped back, and Beebe closed the door. “Don’t worry. It’ll be fine. That’s exactly what happened.”
“We’ve got your story, and Yates can corroborate. Arthur, if we need him.” She walked around the rear bumper to the driver’s door.
“It’s a simple case of putting both names on the certificate.” He sent his words over the top of the red car.
“That’s what I think.”
“Abigail Walker, A.K.A. Terri Miller.”
At Rev. Mosie Razzell’s house, Beebe parked. Items from the back seat were unloaded. The front door stood wide open so they walked straight into the house. Yates must have heard their footsteps because he was out of the chair in Razzell’s room and coming around the foot of the bed, heading their way, when Vincent stepped into the bedroom. The seventy-eight-year old man lay under a sheet, his eyes half-closed.
Before speaking to Vincent and Beebe, Yates stopped to assist Razzell in raising his head. A glass of water sat within easy reach on the nightstand. With Yates’s urging, the patient took three sips from the straw. Vincent thought Razzell seemed only semiconscious if he could interpret the faraway look in his eyes and the lethargy of his reactions.
The appearance of Barleycorn, who wandered around the footboard, sparked Razzell’s attention. The dog came to Beebe and whined. His tail wagged. She held his dog food bag.
Over on the bed, Razzell pushed the water glass away, spilling some. His eyes were wild with fear. White stubble covered his jowls and chin. He fought the bedclothes. His voice trembled. He spoke directly to Beebe. “It can’t be. Why are you here? Why are you doing this to me? Abi—” He bit off the rest.
After a split-second delay, Beebe took a step. “Rev. Razzell, it’s me. Beebe Walker.”
Razzell reared back, still frightened, clutching the sheet. “No. No. Barleycorn. Where’s Barleycorn?”
Yates, a little flustered, moved to usher Beebe from the room in order to calm his patient. Belatedly, Vincent realized he and Beebe should have remembered that she needed to keep her distance. This was just the kind of agitation it was better for Razzell to avoid.
“She’s taking his food,” Razzell exclaimed.
Vincent read the silent exchange between Yates and Beebe. Yates gave her a “We need to play his game” look and took the bag out of her hand. Then Yates whispered, “I’ll be out in a minute. We can talk.”
Vincent waited with Beebe in the living room. He turned around when Yates came in.
“Did he start to call me Abigail?” Beebe asked the young man.
“He wigged out. That makes him confused. The meds have caused his mind to short-circuit. I just gave him the first dose from Dr. Anthony’s instructions. He’s the physician Dr. Gabe contacted at mental health. Mosie will sleep some now. Barleycorn’s with him.”
“If the medication is the problem, why give him more? That can’t be right,” Vincent argued.
Yates repeated what he heard from Gabriel on the subject. Vincent translated that to mean Razzell couldn’t quit cold turkey. “Stay in touch. Call if you need anything. I may just stop by periodically. Can I let myself in?”
“Sure. Five days from now, I hope Mosie’s himself.” Yates shrugged. “Of course, I don’t know what that looks like.”
“I wonder if something happened that pushed him to escalate his medication.” Vincent scratched his jawline. “We need to get to the bottom of that. He didn’t just start popping pills for no reason. Just looking at his eyes, I can tell he’s worse than the last time.” Then he grinned at Yates. “Wigged out. Is that a medical term you learned in college?”
Tormented Days
From Cliff’s position at the rear of McKinley’s main aisle, he stood with his back to the double doors, ready to push through into the warehouse and drag two large, but empty cartons with him. He had a view of Scott Cotter, waving his arms wildly. He wanted Cliff’s attention. Cliff lifted his chin, and Scott held up the telephone receiver at the customer service desk. Cliff pushed the two cartons to one side and went up front to take the call.
The receiver he picked up lay on the waist-high desktop. Scott stepped away. Cliff answered with his full name and, “How can I help you?”
“This is Allen Barker.”
Allen Barker was one of McKinley’s customers over in Newton. His tone told Cliff something was wrong. Automatically, Cliff picked up an ink pen laying on the counter next to a box of 500-count trimming nails.
“I just got around to looking at the order you delivered this morning, and I checked the paperwork. It was four bags of cement and two bags of gray grout, Cliff. You brought four bags of grout and no cement. I need that cement. I can’t grout the tiles until I lay the tiles. That’s how it works.”
Cliff’s eyes closed against Allen’s grating voice and condescending attitude. “Yes, Allen, I understand. I’m sorry for the mix-up.” The order Cliff delivered also included three tins of a product to keep water from penetrating the handmade Saltillo Mexican tiles the customer wanted laid on a large outside patio. Two dozen boxes of twelve-inch square tiles were delivered, too.
“I paid the delivery fee. I’m not going to pay it again.”
“Of course, you won’t. Should I run the cement out today?”
“There’ll be too much downtime if I hold my guys and wait for you to get here. You’ve got the cement, don’t you?” Allen asked as if Cliff was dim-witted.
“Sure. It was my mistake.” Cliff fought to keep his reply respectful. He wanted to throw back the argument that it was an honest mistake, like Allen never screwed anything up. “Will you be back at the site first thing tomorrow?”
“I’ll be here until the job is done.”
“Then look for me before nine tomorrow,” Cliff said, wanting to move the conversation to a conclusion. “I’ll load the cement in the van tonight so I can get moving right away.”
Two insults back, Cliff stretched out his arm toward the day’s delivery slips where they lay in a file tray. The limitation of the telephone cord and the grinding machine for keys immediately to his right worked together to shorten his reach.
“Get it right this time, Cliff.”
His arm at an awkward angle, Cliff caught the edge of the tray and scooted it just enough so he could pinch Allen’s order between two fingertips. “Yes, Allen. I will. Sorry this happened. I’ll make it right.”
“You bet you will.” With that final jab, Allen hung up.
A dial tone buzzed in Cliff’s ear as he drew his arm back, his eye on the snagged delivery slip. Cliff’s anger reheated when he noticed Allen’s signature in the corner confirming delivery. If Allen compared the written order with the products delivered, he would have caught the error immediately. Cliff could have returned to McKinley’s for the cement and made a second trip. But oh no, this foul-up was totally Cliff’s fault. Cliff made a mental note of the route his argument would take tomorrow with the belligerent Allen just as his elbow chucked the box of nails off the counter.
Something near rage bored into the top of Cliff’s head as he watched an exploding scatter of five hundred nails skitter across the waxed floor and up to a pair of brown loafers.
“Are those my nails?”
He looked up to see another man employing a disgruntled tone. Quickly, he returned the receiver to its cradle and slapped the delivery slip down on the desktop. “I’m sorry, sir. My elbow cau
ght the box.”
“I went back for some wood glue. I told Scott I’d be right back,” the man said as if this accident was foisted on him personally and with pleasure, like Cliff relished the idea of sweeping up all these nails. “Yeah well, Scott’s not here,” was all Cliff could think to say and not take a bite out of the customer. And by the way, where was Scott? If he’d stayed up front, he could have handed Cliff the delivery slip and none of this would have happened.
Cliff glanced over to the cash register girl for some form of assistance, but she tapped out a message with flying thumbs into her phone, oblivious and most probably useless.
He returned his attention to the customer. In as courteous a tone as he could manage, he said, “Let me get you another box.” He used the side of his booted foot to scoot the largest portion of the nails up toward the counter, clearing a pathway. Spilled nails could be slippery underfoot. The man did not attempt to duplicate Cliff’s method. He just stepped out of the way when Cliff’s boot-scraping progress reached him.
They stood near the front door. A “wet floor” warning sign hung on a wall hook. Cliff rushed to retrieve it. The sign received a lot of wintertime use on snowy days, but set open now, it would at least alert incoming customers.
“Just let me get this in place, then—” He broke off. He couldn’t get the hinged sign to cooperate. Twice, he tried to catch the sign’s rubber feet on the floor and stretch the sign open. The man sighed his impatience at the delay for safety’s sake. Finally, Cliff opened it manually and lowered it to the floor.
That done, he raced off for the replacement box of nails and cut down the lawn and gardening aisle, his frustration mounting to full peak. A plastic watering can sat on the floor where a customer left it. He wanted to kick it. It begged to be kicked. He was nearly ready to pull his foot back when a woman walked within view. Dousing the urge, he walked past her. The simple act of nodding to the woman felt like some inner shell cracked.
He couldn’t process. Things wouldn’t stay pigeonholed. They flopped about. In his mind, he tacked up the jobs in an orderly fashion before him: the replacement box of nails, then a broom to sweep up the contents from the broken box, then the cement loaded in the van.
It seemed to Cliff he slogged around in a wet-concrete concoction made from the four bags he hadn’t delivered to Allen Barker. The concoction covered his shoes, working against him, threatening to stop him permanently, hold him fast to these last tormented days.
He arrived at his destination. The next box of trimming nails on the shelf was pushed back from the front. He started to reach in through the tunnel between other stocked boxes, but stopped. He let his wrist hang on the shelf’s edge. He felt so tired. He closed his eyes to his trembling hand and heaved one wrenching sob. Thank God, no one heard his suffering.
* * *
Beebe stood at the cemetery’s back gate. She drew her gaze away from the apple orchard across the road, ready to walk back to the house. Her pink clogs were silent company on the narrow asphalt lane. She let her eyes rake the landscape and came up with Hal Garrett’s truck, partially backed through the raised overhead door at the equipment garage. She picked up her pace. She wanted to thank him. Earlier in the day, he put in another appearance and installed her mother’s headstone.
She eased through the opening between the truck and garage wall. Hal was bent over an old army footlocker. The lid was up. He dug through and pulled out a small cloth tarp. From the color splotches smeared across both sides, it served itself well as a drop cloth.
When Beebe spoke Hal’s name, he jumped. “Sorry,” she said, grinning.
“Oh, geez.” He lay a fist at his heart as if to steady its beating. “I thought you were Cliff.”
Her grin faded, and she walked over. “Why? Are you hiding something in there?”
He looked her dead in the eye. “No. I’m hiding something over here. Well, not hiding, really, just keeping it out of sight for a little while. I thought it was best.”
He led her and her piqued curiosity toward a dark corner. A wheelbarrow leaned upright against the wall. The wheelbarrow shared its spot with a sledge hammer, rake, shovel, and an ancient hand-held piece of equipment. Attached to its wooden handle was a long, narrow rod made of forged steel and used to pierce the ground. It was pushed through to determine if a casket rested beneath the earth. The need for such a device came, most probably, during a time when the records weren’t so meticulously maintained, somewhere after Joseph Jenkins and before Clifford Walker.
Beebe felt her face form a questioning look. She saw nothing worth warranting Hal’s nervous spirit until he lowered the wheelbarrow and rolled it several feet away. In the shadowy gloom, Beebe recognized the Terri Miller grave marker.
“Your father hasn’t mentioned it. You know,” he said, shrugging, “we’ve never had a gravestone leftover before. And with it being this one...”
Beebe laid a hand on Hal’s arm. “You did the right thing. This is cemetery business, and Daddy decides such things. Especially this one. But let’s keep it covered for another few weeks. Maybe he’ll ask sooner.”
Hal went to retrieve the tarp, half-draped over the footlocker’s edge. Beebe stared at the hand-chiseled marker. There was no need to force her father into a decision. Decisions were difficult enough while he grieved. This decision would touch that place where bereavement still dug at his heart. It would be better if that wound healed some.
Hal folded the tarp down to size and tucked it around the marker. Beebe did her part so they were equal cohorts. She wheeled the barrow over, but then repositioned it, laying it on its side for better coverage. They both dusted their hands, then climbed into Hal’s truck for the ride back.
The truck was parked beside the block building, and they stood at the door. Hal sorted through his keys for the proper one when they heard the office phone ringing inside.
“I need to catch this call,” he said, jamming a key into the lock. He rushed through the door and snatched up the phone, saying hello. “Yeah, Bill, what’s the word?...Okay…That’s the address…Not until Monday, huh?...Okay, if that’s the soonest…Sure…No, we’ve got nothing pending. Thanks, Bill.” Hal replaced the receiver and said, “You saw the backhoe sitting out there?”
Although inside the building, Beebe turned her head toward the place where she remembered the backhoe sat on an internal cemetery road. “Uh-huh. Why? Is there something wrong?”
“Alternator belt broke. It started okay this morning. I got your mother’s site filled in,” he said, seating himself in the swivel desk chair. “Another maintenance item caught my eye on the way over to the old grave. I turned the backhoe off while I took care of that. The thing wouldn’t start again. It was running off the battery by then. I walked back and found the broken belt.”
Beebe leaned an elbow on the olive drab file cabinet. “So? You can’t get a replacement before Monday?”
“I gave Cliff a call at the store when I suspected the delay. He wasn’t happy.”
“It can’t be helped.”
“Oh, I understand. This is a beautiful cemetery. A piece of heavy equipment sitting for days detracts from that.”
“Still, it can’t be helped.” Neither could Cliff help his dark disposition, but she could help. In fact, she should have already found a grief counseling group so he could attend the minute she got him to admit the benefit.
“He’s not himself. I understand. He’ll come around. He just needs some time. The new belt will be here by late afternoon Monday. I’ll get back over here, get it put on, then charge the battery. I should be able to finish the job at the other grave before dark.”
As she nodded in agreement, she heard a raised voice outside. Hal heard it, too. He pushed the door open and steppe
d out ahead of Beebe. They both stopped in their tracks.
Angry words spewed from Cliff Walker. He yanked at a long hose connected to the back of the house. A kink in the hose caught on the glider’s leg. He whipped the hose, but the gyration that created died before it reached the kink. Swearing, he threw the nozzle down and stormed off toward the swing.
“It’s the sod on Abigail’s grave,” Hal said. “He’s right to water it. We need to keep it going if there’s no rain.”
Beebe’s gaze traveled over to the Walker plot. The area disturbed for the burial was level and covered with sod.
Beside her, Hal made no further comment about Cliff’s poor showing. His remark reminded her that the job wasn’t done just because the burial ritual was complete. Tending to Abigail’s grave was a task that would continue indefinitely.
“He’s got a hatred for that glider that’s tied to Mother and this whole thing,” Beebe said.
“He’ll get better. Things will calm down for him in a week. You’ll see.”
Hal’s simple conclusion brought Beebe’s eyes up to the man’s solemn face. In Beebe’s estimation, there were complexities involved that would take root like the sod, would grow and flourish, and would become a covering over a bereft Cliff for a long time to come.
Cliff twisted the kink out of the hose. Beebe thought he must know she and Hal watched. She called over. “Hi, Daddy. We didn’t know you were home.”
Hal bravely stayed on-point long enough to absorb Cliff’s glare, then Hurdlin’ Hal retreated inside the block building.
Beebe’s bravery didn’t materialize either. She knew better than to console or counsel Cliff when he adopted a hateful frame of mind. She bypassed him, stepped over the hose with one Mother-May-I giant step, and went inside. She anticipated another evening spoiled by a sulking Cliff. He would let his fight with the hose be the tangible reason. If he didn’t, he might be forced to acknowledge that behind the fight, a grieving man cried out for help.
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