Hal shut down the engine and jumped to the ground. He hurried out, wanting to take Beebe’s end.
“No. I’ve got to do this with Daddy.”
“Do what?” He was still at a loss, but he plugged forward, alongside her.
“This piece of bad history is going in that secondhand grave.”
“Okay,” a puzzled Hal said, drawing out the word. His eyebrows rose so high on his forehead, it looked painful.
Beebe and Cliff sidled up to the open ground. Their eyes met, sending a calculating gaze between them. They positioned the glider over the six-foot deep hole. Cliff nodded, and they dropped the pitifully twisted swing.
Its creak, when it landed, was muffled by the loam. After a second of indecision, the trailing chain scraped over the swing’s metal backrest. A victorious silence rose up from the grave.
Beebe went to her father. They embraced. When they broke from the rocking and back-rubbing hug, the two Walkers began to heal.
Beebe saw movement in her peripheral vision. It was Yates’s jeep. It stopped. Razzell looked out the passenger window. Yates leaned forward, staring. Barleycorn’s head hung out a lowered rear window. Three mouths gaped open. A panting tongue protruded from the dog’s.
Yates climbed out and came over. He looked in the grave and pursed his lips. So much energy flowed through Beebe in the last few minutes that she hadn’t stopped to think that their actions might be perceived by Yates as a desecration of Terri Miller’s memory.
Yates’s eyes shifted from Beebe to Cliff. “There’s a great story here. One, I bet, Terri would appreciate. But right now, I think I’m going to need your help. Mosie wants to see Abigail’s grave.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know, but I bet it’s another great story. I can squeeze you guys in the back with Barleycorn.”
“You sure I won’t set Mosie off?” she asked.
“Not a problem. Detox has finally gotten his wig on straight.” While the young man’s grin was infectious, he followed it up with, “And besides, he specifically mentioned meeting with you.”
Beebe felt her lips part in surprise. Rev. Mosie Razzell definitely turned a corner with his recovery.
Before they piled into the Jeep, Beebe rolled her hand at Hal, giving him the go-ahead to scoop dirt into the open grave.
Just past the Walker plot and its one newly sodded grave, Yates put the Jeep in park. Everyone, including the dog, kept their eyes on Rev. Razzell as they trooped over. He led the entourage.
Beebe reached for Razzell when his face crumpled. He turned wet eyes to Yates. The older man’s words surprised Beebe. Now her mouth gaped. “Barleycorn is Abigail’s dog, not yours.” It was not a question, but a statement of fact.
“No. Not Mother’s dog,” she countered.
“Yeah, he was. She brought him home during my junior year in college,” Yates said. “She was living with me by then. She already named him. When I asked her about the name, she told me the definition for Barleycorn. She found the word—”
Razzell cut him off. “She found the word magical.”
“Yes. The most magical word she ever heard.”
Razzell nodded. Beebe watched his face. For a moment, he left their presence and went off to another place. He came back to them when Barleycorn moaned. The dog lay down on the grave just like he did before. The name on the grave made not the slightest difference.
Razzell turned away, and Yates helped him over to the picnic table. He got him seated, then came around to speak in Beebe’s ear. “Kind of wish we had a swing to sit him in.”
She smiled. “Where were you forty-five minutes ago?”
The others found their place on the two benches.
“Barleycorn is an old word, an old measurement,” Razzell said, speaking to Beebe and Cliff. “Abigail came up on my front porch one afternoon after her shift. I was working a crossword. She was walking just as good as ever, given her broken hip from the car accident. I complimented her. She was slow to get started about why she was there, so I supplemented with the clue for the word I just filled in. I gave her the definition and followed that up with an example: nine barleycorns equal three inches.”
Beebe warmed to the expression on Cliff’s face when Razzell said to him, “She turned to me with childlike delight in her eyes. She said, ‘That’s the most magical word I ever heard.’ I had an impact on her that day. Or I thought I did. Eventually, she told me of her difficulties. The drugs, the stealing, her desire for help.”
Beebe rubbed her father’s back. His wife had asked for help. This was what Cliff so desperately wished had happened.
“I wanted her to stay while I made some calls.” Razzell went on. “I could counsel her soul, but her mind and body needed an expert better than I. She wouldn’t stay. She wanted to get home to Beebe and you. Dinnertime and all that.” He studied the grave. “I thought I made an impact. By the end of the next day, there was a manhunt for Abigail Walker. I failed. I couldn’t even come forward with what I knew. I had no real information on her whereabouts, so I kept quiet.”
“The day after she talked with you,” Beebe said to Razzell, his eyes downcast, “hospital administrators got word of her thefts. That pushed her to run, Rev. Razzell. Not you. Why would she rekindle the Barleycorn memory if she was disappointed in you? She wouldn’t. That was a tribute, I think, to you. You didn’t judge. You instantly wanted to help. That’s how I see Mother responding. You should, too.” She patted his hand. “You are not a failure. Period.”
His eyes came up. “But then you came to me one day after school. You walked up on my porch, looking so like your mother. You wanted my advice about the life of a minister. We talked.”
“We did.”
“But you’re not a minister any longer. You’ve taken a step, or two, back from the church.”
“I have.”
“Another failure for me.”
Beebe watched the old man. She heard his words, but she focused on his slumped shoulders and sunken cheeks, the tiny twitch in his right eye. She looked past the physical, the evidence of recent illness, to his fight for sanity. That fight sapped his strength and deflated his soul. Mosie Razzell would recover because Mosie Razzell had won. Later, she knew Yates would tell him the Terri Miller story that bridged her mother’s life in Larkspur with her death. Her death set so much in motion.
“You’re absolutely not a failure,” Beebe said. “Your guidance was nothing short of exceptional. My decision to study theology was between me and God. And it was God and I who untied that knot, despite the fact that a man named Olney Jones fought against us.” She felt her fondness for Olney grow in her heart. “He was a brave man to stand up to God, but Olney had to understand that God wanted me back in Larkspur. Don’t you see? There’s a place for me here. We’re a tight little group, the four of us.” She smiled over at Yates. “We need each other. We each carry a piece of Mother. But the four of us together bring those pieces back in line and create a whole. We will heal. Scars will form around those four pieces, but we’ll be stronger for this binding of family. A unique family, but family just the same.”
Barleycorn wandered over, his tail wagging mightily, and lay his head on Razzell’s knee. Razzell scooped the dog’s head up into his hands and spoke to him with pride. “Did you hear that, boy? Good news. I’m not a failure.”
With that, Beebe recalculated her math. Five pieces of her mother were gathered. Barleycorn was her dog.
Where Do Old Tombstones Go?
The board meeting adjourned after Vincent’s summary of the new Senior Life programming. Dr. Hershel Gabriel remained throughout, nodding and tacking on brief, but poignant comments. Vincent wondere
d how the physician focused after his wife’s dramatic exit. The walls still rattled from Mona’s door-slamming retreat. She nearly caught Mick Nettleman’s shirttail in the jamb as he raced through behind her. Vincent was just a little anxious about Beebe and Cliff as well.
He stood back with Donald Thorndyke and Ron Smith. They waited for Crossroads’ board members to welcome Dr. Gabriel and shake his hand before filing out. The doctor was not a voting member, but he was a true and necessary asset for Vincent’s programming.
When the four men were all who remained, Vincent stepped over to Gabriel. He issued his own hearty welcome, pumped his hand, and added his appreciation for Gabriel’s close attention to Mosie Razzell.
“Young Yates pulled the load there,” Gabriel said.
“You know, he’s got his interview at Lakeview tomorrow.”
“Yes, he mentioned that.”
“I’m glad you’re on board. We need you,” Vincent said solemnly.
“I hope it’s a long and beneficial relationship. Speaking of relationships…” Gabriel rocked back on his heels and made a tsk sound.
Vincent knew Mona was the subject, but he could think of nothing pertinent to say. Thankfully, Gabriel reclaimed the lead.
“Mona and I will survive. Mona always survives. She shouldn’t be surprised by this turn of events. For weeks, I told her to dial down the rhetoric around town. I specifically cautioned her about this Abigail Walker situation. I overheard her phone calls at home to the board members and pictured disaster hovering. When Donald approached me, it seemed we already etched out very similar scenarios.”
“Gabe indicated he was leaning toward helping us out here. Knowing that consideration, the other board members’ feelings about Mona, and knowing Gabe thought Mona needed a sharp and heavy dose of reality,” Donald Thorndyke said, his droopy left eyelid fully awake, “we sort of plotted against her. In retrospect, I have to say, it feels like a bit of a disservice. But Mona was picking up momentum, like a fully loaded logging truck on a downhill grade.”
“There seemed to be no stopping her. She was going to slam into something.” Ron Smith’s declarative statement was supplemented with his fist striking his open palm.
“No one knows better than I. I better get home,” Gabriel said, although his feet remained firmly planted. “I sort of suspect she’s backed off to coasting right about now.”
“Sorry we left you in this position,” Donald said.
“I knew it was coming. Hopefully, she’ll take heed. The newspaper board has just about had it with her, too.” With that, Gabriel pushed off toward the door. It closed silently behind him.
“So he knew you were plotting against his wife.” Vincent could hold his surprise no longer. His spectacled eyes danced from board chair to legal counsel.
“He did,” Donald confirmed. “I’m sorry we kept it from you and Beebe, but it had to be. It came down quickly. We were dissatisfied with Mona. Other members complained regularly. Our cohesiveness as a group was suffering. I came to the conclusion we needed and wanted her out. I decided to give her enough rope.” He paused. “And she obliged.”
“We’re not totally heartless sons of bitches.” Ron grinned and leaned against what served as the board room table. “I wrote a press release to run in Wednesday’s paper. In the release, Donald reluctantly accepts her resignation. He calls it a great sacrifice. Mona realizes she must step down for a greater benefit to the senior community. Her husband is a fine and dedicated geriatrician, who has graciously aligned himself with Crossroads to provide much-needed medical advice. With the conflict of interest, her integrity simply would not permit her to remain a voting director.”
When Ron’s over-the-top recitation concluded, Vincent said, “It’s more than she deserves.” Memory of her biting comments ranked high.
“But this is how things are done to minimize blowback,” Ron said.
The room breathed quietly for a moment before Donald broke in. “Well. Now the hunt is on for a replacement.”
“It should be a woman,” Vincent said.
“Yeah, and closer to an age that mirrors Crossroads’ membership.”
With that, Donald and Ron said their goodbyes to Vincent. Vincent hung the closed sign. Back in his office, the telephone rang. He raced to answer it. Relief followed shortly thereafter. The caller was Beebe.
* * *
In his bedroom, Cliff Walker pulled a V-neck sweater on over a buttoned-up checkered shirt. He was alone in the house. It was Tuesday night. Beebe helped with bingo.
Cliff straightened the shirt’s collar and the sweater’s sleeves. He gave himself an appraising look in the dresser’s mirror. Cautiously, his eyes traveled to the valet box on the dresser’s surface and the tri-folded paper anchored beneath the box’s front corner. Two weeks passed since he placed it there. Tonight, he thought, it should be put away.
He slipped it out, held it between thumb and fingertips, debating. Slowly, his other hand moved to open the page. He read the contents once more, nodded resolutely, and went to open the closet door. He lifted the lid of the security box he kept there and lay Abigail Walker’s death certificate inside. In consideration of the many years she answered to Terri Miller, Dr. Samuel Jeffers filled that name in the block created for noting alternate identities.
He lowered the lid and pushed gently until he heard and felt the latch catch. Cliff closed the closet door and went downstairs.
When he stepped off the last stair, Rosemary appeared outside the storm door. Both he and the porch light awaited her arrival. Her restaurant was locked up for the night. They planned to see a late movie in the next town over.
Rosemary looked pretty with her thick cord of woven hair pulled forward over her left shoulder. She wore a gray sweater, a string of pearls, black slacks, and flat shoes.
Through the glass, he observed her broad smile and rushed to let her in.
“How did it go?” he said, pulling her to the couch. Rosemary scheduled a meeting for dessert and coffee with Ron Smith and Donald Thorndyke thirty minutes before the restaurant closed.
“They wouldn’t accept any of my rationales. They talked around me the way they do—quite comically, I might add—and called every one of my legitimate rationales crappy excuses. I told them I worried that, as a small business owner, I’d continually run into problems and time issues that would cause me to miss board meetings.”
“And they said?”
“They said the pie and coffee complimented each other perfectly and insisted that I reconsider their invitation to sit on Crossroads’ board. I was not permitted to decline. The whole thing left my head spinning.”
“They are a formidable duo,” Cliff said, watching her catch her face in her hands for all of two seconds before it rebounded.
“When I said I didn’t feel qualified, they turned my words back on me. They said I was a successful small business owner and that, in itself, qualified me to make intelligent decisions.” Her words came hastily. “When I asked, they said my connection to you and your connection to Beebe was not a conflict, but asking, revealed my integrity. Of course, they were really holding this conversation with each other, not me, even though I was right there in the booth. They considered me far removed from any Larkspur generational link since I moved here from Kerr. Then Donald wiped his mouth on a napkin, pushed his plate back, and asked me if I had any hidden agendas.”
“You said no,” Cliff answered. He had no doubt she was an exceptional choice.
“They said they’d see me at the next meeting, in two weeks, and slid out of the booth.”
“This is great,” Cliff said. “Technically, your Beebe’s and Vincent’s boss.”
A laugh bur
st out of her. “You’re in a good mood.” She tilted her head, taking him in. “And quite handsome. You get everything accomplished today you wanted?”
“It’s done,” he said with a weighty exhale of breath. None of the tasks warranted a celebration. “I reimbursed Hal for his time and materials. Well, not for the stone. He found that at an excavation site and set it aside to be a practice piece. It turned out the practice was needed for the real thing.” He knew Rosemary understood he spoke of the Terri Miller marker. “I took a check into town hall with the old invoice and reimbursed the town coffers. That went without a lot of explanation. I told the woman who helped me just what happened. An insurance payment was made, and so, in reality, there was no indigent burial. The town should be paid back. It took no longer than the time needed to print a receipt. The rest of the insurance money was deposited into a new account on the cemetery’s books for future indigent burials. The balance will cover two, three at the most. I feel good about everything, really.”
Quick as a cat, Rosemary pecked him on the cheek.
Cliff shyly looked down. To his surprise, he found he held Rosemary’s hand.
* * *
It was Wednesday afternoon when Yates slowed the Jeep and steered it into Larkspur Cemetery. Up ahead, Beebe watered the sod over Abigail Walker’s grave. He waved through the windshield and waited while she walked the hose back across the road. He reached across the passenger seat and opened the door for her.
She pulled herself inside and closed the door. “Hal called,” she said. “He’s running fifteen minutes behind.”
“No problem,” Yates returned, pressing the accelerator. He followed the long winding cemetery road, then coasted to a stop when the Jeep’s back bumper was positioned in front of the equipment garage’s overhead door.
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