Last Goodbyes

By Craig Conrad

Dutch Verlander's life was winding down and drastically changing. Retirement was only a step away, and old age had snuck up on him and was smiling at him with the grin of a child molester. Like a man falling from a great height and the sudden change of direction at the end, he saw his life taking on a new direction, one he did not like or want:

• Language: English
• Publisher: Conrad Press
• Release date: Sep 30, 2022
• ISBN: 9781955243810

Craig Conrad

Author resides in Milwaukee. Wisconsin, has been hooked on mysteries and supernatural thrillers since reading his first H.P. Lovecraft novel. He has written twenty novels, fourteen of them are Paul Rice novels, his reluctant paranormal investigator, with cameo appearances in two others that feature two of his war buddies along with two Dutch Verlander stories, and a collection of short stories.

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Last Goodbye

Last Goodbyes

Craig Conrad

Copyright © 2022 Conrad Press

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CONTENTS

PART 1

August and September    17

PART 2

September and October    159

Norma

Always and Forever

It is never any good dwelling on

Goodbyes. It is not the being together

That is prolongs, it is the parting.

–Elizabeth Asquith Bibesco

Only a moment, a moment of

Strength, of romance, of glamour – of

Youth! . . . A flick of sunshine upon a

Strange shore, the time to remember,

The time for a sigh, and goodbye!

Night – goodbye. . .

–Joseph Conrad

PROLOGUE

October

Bye bye, love.

Bye bye, happiness

Hello loneliness.

I think I’m gonna cry.

Bye bye sweet caress.

Hello emptiness.

I feel like I could die.

Bye bye, my love, goodbye.

-Everly Brothers’s Bye Bye Love

FROM THE HIGH WINDOWS of my hospital room, I could look down and see one of the parking lots and part of the street beyond where it was visible through the breaks in the trees. My gunshot wounds were well on the mend, and I was expecting to be released any day now. The doctors seem to be keeping me here more for the gallons of polluted river-water I had swallowed than for the wounds I sustained.

It could have been worse. I guess, I could have been dead. There were moments I felt like I already was, being that the supposed best time of my life was long past, if you could call my screwed up, unfulfilling youth as the best of times, and the start of the worst of times. Here I was fifty-nine and had never had a lasting relationship with a woman. Somewhere along the flow of years, old age had snuck up on me, and I could feel the bite of its oncoming inexorable debilitation. Old age and gradual infirmity were smiling at me with the grin of a child molester. Aging diminishes life, and a reduced life pales your interest and cause to go on living – maybe that’s why people are really die. Among other things, I felt this deeply, especially for the last several years, and that wan only part of my problem.

Experts say that when you fall from an extreme height, it’s not the fall that kills you but the sudden change in direction. My life was taking a sudden change in direction. I felt the full impact of it about two years ago, that’s when my friend, Dinky Martin, came back into my life after a year’s absence. Not that the fall wasn’t happening long before that. I just didn’t realize the duration of it. I guess you could say it was my fall from grace – if I was ever in that state – into hardening despair and disillusionment.

There were no around-the-clock crowds to visit me at the hospital, but my door did open occasionally, mostly for the police. Besides pestering me, they did manage to close the book on the AC-DC killer. My sister visited me every day.

My nieces several times and brought my mother. Much to my surprise, Dr. Whitaker came every day too. I was wrong about her. Karla wasn’t the ice princess I envisioned her to be, but a warm and caring person, sometimes a little misguided by the rules of her profession.

No one came from work, although the story was in the papers, except Joe Connely. I suppose Rosemount Memorial Hospital is a little out of the way and hard to find if you’re not familiar with its location. Carrol never came. But why would she after she dumped me. Then again, I don’t think she would have anyway, even if we were still talking. Most likely, she had other interests now, and I was already history.

It grew dark and started to rain. A wind began to blow, occasionally driving the rain against the windows. Below, the tops of the cars glistened with moisture, and the street turned black and shiny.

I thought about Donna too, deciding to give up on this love thing. Waiting for love to show up was like waiting for Godot, and he never showed up either. I guess some of us aren’t meant for the lovebug. We just seem to get a bad bite and never enjoy the warmth of its emotion, only the insanity. My mind riffled through lots of thoughts, sitting in bed and watching the rainfall, waiting for my emotional dust to settle. Rainy days do that to me, make me think, I mean. Some people find the rain romantic; it always reminded me that even nature has bad days. There was still an absence of feeling about my friends. But I knew that would eventually pass, and grief would set in. Right now, it was numbing to think about it. The hurt would come later, and I knew this was one wound that would always be there.

Old hopes and old dreams drifted through my mind as well, those that I could recall. Most had faded on me over the years, so much so that I hardly remembered them anymore.

I wondered if I learned anything from all this? I don’t know. If this was a novel instead of real life, I’d be expected to change, but what do you really learn in life? Only that you got smart too late to do anything about the people and circumstances you encountered along the way. Too bad people don’t wear labels, so you could tell in advance what’s inside of them, letting you know beforehand just what to expect. That way, you wouldn’t waste spending time with the wrong ones. But the way things are. Life is a dice game. You roll the dice every time you get involved, and I seem to always crap out.

And if this was a novel and I was writing it – and I’ve thought about it, believe me – I’d probably say it all started with the murder of Amanda Rule, or Jake Wesphal’s death.

But I’m not writing one and looking back it now. I’d have to say it really started with Johnny Falk’s funeral ad Marlene Possey’s icy prophecy, which came true up to a point. The only thing she was wrong about was that the bad happenings didn’t stop at three. But everything snowballed after that like a very long, bad dream.

Joseph Conrad said that we live our dreams. If that’s true, the last several months have been one hell of nightmare.

The rain became heavier, falling in long, gray sheets. A wind-burst drove it hard, splattering it against the windows. I watched the rain for a long time. It had rained that day at the funeral parlor too.

PART I

August and September

Cyd Charisse and Virginia Mayo

1

IT WAS A LONG gray day, full of rain and a chilling wind that had bite of fall to it. It was the kind of day that made you melancholy, bringing on a depression that caused you to look back and wonder what you did with your life, now that you were in that aged state where whenever you went out someplace you had to stop at least once to piss; or maybe it was just postaging angst brought on by rainy weather. Usually, a rainy day doesn’t bring on the blues, but it was the start of another workweek, and that was always depressing, and I was going to a funeral parlor, which was even more depressing.

I pulled into The Church and Chapel lot and parked, hurrying inside as gray curtains of rain pelted down and bounced off the parking lot’s black surface. Inside the entrance, I shook off the rain and looked around. The place was crowded with flowers and people. I recognized many of the faces from work. With lots of smiles and head-nods, I moved toward the front of the room and viewed the casket where Johnny reposed. The casket was surprisingly open.

I looked at Johnny for a long moment. Here was a young man, just barely thirty, who had taken his life because of a woman. The story goes that his wife was leaving him, and he chose this as a solution. It’s strange the things a man will do for the love of a woman. Then who am I to talk. This past year, I was going through pain, humiliation, and embarrassment for the love of a woman half my age. And they call women the weaker sex.

The morticians had done a good job preparing the body for viewing, but then all the damage was done to rear of Johnny’s head. He had stuck a gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger, blowing out the back of his skull. It was a small-caliber bullet, but it still killed him.

Looking at him lying there started to get to me and I turned away, winding a path through the crowd toward the exit, nodding again and talking briefly to some of Johnny’s fellow employees who came to pay their respects. Some of them worked for me at the post office.

Marlene Possey was one of them and worked on the same letter-sorting machine Johnny had. She was a tall, attractive, young woman with long brown hair and a Gene Tierney overbite.

I’m glad you came, she said. Johnny would like that. He thought very highly of you. When you took over the crew, he said that at last we had a supervisor who cared about us.

That’s nice to hear, I said. I just wish he would have talked to me before he decided to do something like this.

I wish he would have too, she said. He was very despondent over his wife leaving him.

That’s what I heard, I said.

She looked at me closely. Are you all right? You look a little pale.

I smiled. "Probably just a Geritol deficiency."

Marlene smiled back and then looked toward the casket and back to me, the smile gone from her face. It’s a shame and a waste. she lamented. I only hope it’s not the start of something.

I frowned. Like what?

You know, she said, Bad things come in threes. Death seems to follow that way too.

Well, let’s hope it doesn’t happen that way, I said.

Yes, she said, let’s hope. She smiled again and walked away, toward the casket.

I left the funeral parlor and ran to my car, jumping inside. The rain was still heavy, bouncing spears of water off the blacktop. I sat there for a moment before I turned on the ignition. For some reason, Marlene’s parting words struck an uneasy cord deep in my body, and I hoped they wouldn’t turn out to be prophetic.

A sudden knock on my car window brought me out of my reverie. I jerked my head around and rolled the window down. It was Joe Connely, fellow supervisor, and all-around good guy.

Christ Verlander, you old warhorse, you look like shit, he said bending into the window.

People have been telling me that lately, I said. What are you doing here? I saw some squirrels gathering nuts on the way over here. I see they missed you.

He laughed. He wore a corduroy fedora and a raincoat and looked like a short, fat, wet version of Jackie Gleeson.

How’s it going, Dutch? he asked. You still down at the asylum with all the inmates?

Joe and I had worked together as clerks and for a while supervised together until he wrote for a station job and got shipped out to the Hampton branch several years ago.

Yeah, still there, he said, but not much longer.

You can’t retire, he said. You’re a post office icon.

I smiled. Some icon. They won’t remember me for a nanosecond the minute I step out the door.

I don’t think so. What makes you say that?

The nature of the beast. Human nature being what it is, people have extremely short memory spans.

He shook his head. I hate to see you go. You and I are the last of the tarnished knights in a rust-decaying world.

You’re waxing poetic, I said with a grin.

Yeah, well, it’s a hidden talent I rarely show to people. What are you gonna do after you leave?

I shrugged. I don’t know. Maybe I’ll become a judge and get my own TV show.

God, there’s enough of them on the tube already. But I guess there’s always room for one more. He gave me a serious look. Are they fucking with you yet?

I looked back at him. They’re always fucking with you. You know that.

I mean more than usual. You know the short-timer’s treatment.

Not so far. I supposed I’ve got that to look forward to. What about you? How long have you got to go?

Two more years, he said, then I pull the hook.

He hunched his shoulders against the rain and looked up at the funeral parlor building. Who’s all in there?

Half the post office, I said.

Any of our clan?

I shook my head. No. You’re the only other supervisor I’ve seen.

Yeah, well, most of our ranks are filled with new, young blood. They didn’t know Johnny Falk.

Or didn’t care to, I thought. Most of the newer supervisors seemed to disassociate themselves from their employees, incapable of any empathy toward them.

I didn’t know you knew Johnny, I said.

He’s occasionally worked for me down at the station when management would send a clerk out to help sort the email. I thought I’d pay my respects. He met my eyes. Johnny liked working for you. He told me that.

I nodded. I liked him too, I said, thinking. There are still a few of the old guard left. I’m surprised none of them showed up.

He shrugged. Maybe they will later. Then again, maybe they don’t like funerals. It reminds them of their own mortality.

Rain drifted in through the window, wetting the inside of the car door.

You believe that? I asked.

He shrugged again. Why not? But it shouldn’t. Everything dies eventually.

He straightened up and gave the building another look. Well, I’d better go in. see you, Dutch. Keep your asshole covered down there.

Yeah, see you, I said and watched him walk away and enter the funeral parlor.

I rolled up the window.

Everything dies. I ran the thought over in my mind.

I remember the first time I learned that.

2

WHAT’S THE MATTER WITH it? Dinky Martin said, poking the motionless rabbit with a stick.

Yeah, it’s not moving, DeeDee Shepherd said.

It’s dead, you dumb dodos, bespectacled Tommy Murray said.

It’s what I asked.

Yeah, what does that mean? Dinky asked.

Geez, you guys are sure dumb, Tommy went on. Don’t you know everything dies?

Everything? I asked.

Yeah, everything, Tommy said. animals, bugs, even people. Everything dies. They stop living.

Who told you that? DeeDee asked.

My father.

I don’t believe that. Dinky said and kicked at the rabbit trying to make it move.

Oh yeah, Tommy said, looking at the three of us aggressively. Then why isn’t the rabbit moving? It’s dead, that’s why. Boy, you guys don’t know nothin’. He kicked at the rabbit defiantly and walked away, back to the center of the school’s playground. We huddled together in the far northwestern corner of the school fence and watched him leave.

You think that’s true? Dinky said looking at me.

I don’t know, I said

You think that will happen to us? DeeDee asked the question we were all thinking

I shrugged.

We won’t let it. Dinky said. Nothing’s gonna break us up.

It was DeeDee’s turn to shrug. My dad says we won’t be together anymore in another five or ten years. We’ll drift apart when we get older.

We won’t let that happen either. I said.

How we gonna stop it? DeeDee said, searching my face.

We’ll swear to it, I said. That way nothing can ever break us up, We’ll always be friends. Well always be together.

I swear, but no bad words, Dinky said.

Just say what I say, I said.

We all joined hands like the Three Musketeers and swore, with all the sincerity a third-grader could muster, to always remain friends and stay together, no matter what.

3

JOHN VERLANDER SAT IN his wheelchair and watched the visiting nurse, through an Alzheimer’s fog, administer to her duties. This one’s name was Mary Sills. The other nurse was Sally Dello. Mary in the morning and Sally in the evening. Three times a week of Mary; twice a week for Sally. Mary was the friendlier of the two, more down-to-earth and caring. Sally was not as warm, more the cold professional, more governed by the strict rules of her nursing duties.

It’s almost lunchtime, John, Mary said, approaching his chair. Would you like something to eat? Would you like me to make you a hot dog? I know you like them.

John looked at her with a blank stare, like he was trying to rouse himself from sleep.

Would you like a hot dog? Mary said again.

Would you like a hot dog? John repeated.

I’m asking you that, John, Mary said. You need to give me an answer.

He looked at her as if he were seeing her for the first time, then nodded once very slowly, and mumbled, Yes.

Mary Smiled and patted his shoulder. One hot dog coming up.

John watched he disappear into the small kitchen, making noise at the refrigerator and stove, rattling some dishes and pans from the cabinets. His eyes traveled around the living room. This was his most recent prison; the first was his mind. He knew he wasn’t thinking straight anymore. His memories were mixed up with present events, so much so that at times he couldn’t distinguish past from present.

His mind betrayed him, refusing to function in a normal manner. That was worst than the wheelchair he was now confined in, worst than the house. At least it was his house, and the prison, though confining, was comfortable and the atmosphere friendly and not strange. He knew every nook and cranny, could find his way around blindfolded. And now with macular degeneration making a strong showing, the familiarity was a blessing in disguise. He could still see somewhat, but everything was mostly a blur unless he was right on top of it, like watching the big forty-two-inch, flat-screen TV that Chris had hot for him.

He looked out the picture window at the bright sunlight and the green line of Lombardy poplars growing twenty feet from the house that gave him privacy from his nosey neighbor, Mrs. Brody, a widow. He would have liked to go outside and enjoy the weather, but the house wasn’t built for a wheelchair, there were no outside ramps – not yet, anyway. His eyes settled on the telephone, and he felt a strong urge to call his sister. Betty. Giving in to the impulse, he wheeled himself over and picked up the phone, but he couldn’t make out the large old-folk’s numerals, and he couldn’t remember her number. Chris would know. Maybe Mary would too. No. A vague reminder crossed his mind. Chris warned him about asking the nurses to do that. He said it would . . . what? Cause trouble. That’s what he said.

He returned the phone to its cradle and backed the chair away. Chris could make the call for him when he visited again. Yes, Chris could do that. But there was something else, something Chris said about Betty. What was it now? He made a hard frown, trying to push the thought forward. Dead. Chris said she was dead. But that wasn’t true. Why did Chris tell him that?

Mary returned with his hot dog, covered with a thin strip of mustard and resting on a napkin-wrapped saucer.

Here you are, John, Mary said, and placed the plate in his hands.

He took it and looked up at her. Do you think? he started to say, but didn’t finish.

Do I think what, dear Mary asked.

Do you think?

Yes?

He wanted to ask her if Betty was still alive, but didn’t. Chris wouldn’t like it. He bit into his hot dog and didn’t say anything more. Chris was wrong. He knew his sister was alive. He knew it.

4

LATER THAT NIGHT, I took the phone away from my father and pressed it to my ear.

Hello, the voice on the other end said, who is this?

Sorry, I said, I must have called the wrong number. I returned the phone to its cradle. My dad was trying to call the dead again.

What are you doing? he said. I want to talk to Betty.

Dad, Betty’s dead. She died ten years ago.

No! he shouted, she’s not!

Yes, she is, I said.

He looked at me with a stern, unbelieving face. She’s not. She’s not dead.

She’s dead, I said softly. You’re getting your thoughts mixed up again.

He hung his head, his chin resting on his chest. She’s not, he repeated. She’s not. He said something else, but I couldn’t make it out. Most times he spoke so softly that I was hard to pick up, or else it came out in gibberish.

What did you say, Dad? I asked, bending over to his wheelchair to hear him. Tears streaked from his eyes. He was crying.

I’m sorry, he said.

For what? You can’t help it.

I had just finished cleaning him up after he fouled himself and put clean pajamas on him, throwing the soiled pair in a plastic bag to be taken home and washed. Have Rock, will travel. I was the official laundryman for both my father and mother, although, my sister did their wash too, whenever she visited.

I put the soiled, disposable underwear in the kitchen trash bag and took that outside to the garbage container so there wouldn’t be any telltale smell of evidence for the visiting nurse to discover when she stopped by in the morning. Lately, this was happening more frequently, and I was beginning to worry that the nurses might find him that way and put him in the hospital because he couldn’t take care of his bathroom chores.

His doctor, Dr. Whitaker, had my dad on Aricept and Mirtazapine for his dementia, which had to be taken before his bedtime, causing me to check in on him every night before work to administer the pills. If he wasn’t able to get to the bathroom and kept soiling himself, I’d probably have to start checking on him in the mornings too, beginning tomorrow. The last time