Alexander S. Bauer - Oak

Oak

by Alexander S. Bauer

Copyright 2013 Alexander S. Bauer

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1981

Here lies William Maxwell, beloved husband,father, friend.

Born - 1915

Died - 1975

Jonathon never liked his friend's tombstone.He didn't like the idea of it, that his friend lay buried beneath,and he didn't like the tombstone itself. Dark gray and filled withwhat seemed like an excessive amount of blank space. It was cold, adepressing marker of what lay beneath, not a celebration of thelife that had preceded it.

The ground in front of the stone lay bare,decaying beneath the shade of a large oak as that particular areaof the cemetery aged, and new tendrils sprouted from the farreaches, extending the inexorable grip of death out into the restof the town. Jonathon laid his collection down, the same one hebrought every year. A map, printed in words neither could read, amemento of their time spent overseas in the second World War and anunopened beer, an everlasting symbol of the bond they'd shared.

He sighed, standing silent for severalmoments. Only once in the six years since his friend's death couldhe recall speaking to the stony grave. It seemed pointless, and italways made him uncomfortable. Even as friends, they'd shared fewwords in life. Why change that after one of them had passed?

William had never been the same since thatfateful day back in sixty-six, when he'd stumbled onto the body ofa boy hanging from the very tree beneath which Jonathon currentlystood. A rambunctious twelve year old known well in town, no onehad seen suicide coming. William had seemed particularly distraughtover it, refusing to speak about the incident and taking anythoughts he might have held to the ground with him.

After several minutes, the cool spring breezecaused Jonathon to shudder and he decided that he'd lingered longenough. As he walked away, he heard a full metallic thud. The beercan had tipped over as something had unearthed itself beneath it.Jonathon leaned down to get a closer look. A weathered knuckle ofone of the tree's roots had somehow found daylight. At leastsomething within the cemetery still held life, he mused, settingthe beer can upright once more. A few morsels of dirt were pressedaside as the root seemed to sprout more of itself. Jonathon staredat it curiously, willing it to move again. When it laid dormant, heturned to leave. Before his left foot could land, he was knockedforwards, as though the ground was merely a rug to be yankedaway.

The air became clouded with shrapnel thrownskyward as Jonathon shielded his eyes. When the chaos settled, andhe dared look, he found himself face to face with the decayedvisage of his friend, screaming in silent agony as the tree rootheld him aloft, dripping what was left of his earthly body ontoJonathon and the ground below.

1987

Here Lies Jonathon Crandon

Born - 1914

Died - 1984

Edward Maxwell placed the beers his father,and his father's friend had been adamant he leave for them to enjoyin the afterlife. Edward thought it was a stupid gesture, bound ina sort of superstition he loathed, but he'd respected the two oldmen, what they'd done, what they fought for. And he liked to thinkthat the reason the beers were always gone within a few weeks wasbecause they'd somehow pulled the beverages from this world intothe next to drink together.

Jonathon was buried on the other side of thelarge oak tree that had taken umbrage with Edward's father's corpsesix years prior. It was a fitting location as most of the town'sWorld War Two vets ended up in the same area, finding formation indeath as they had in battle.

After a few short minutes that he felt werewasted, Edward turned to leave, aware of the branch he needed toavoid, but not fully realizing just how close it lay to his foot.It would have been a comedic scene were it not for the end result.A stumble, an awkward fall, a sharpened branch that a recent stormhad loosed from the tree. Within moments Edward lie still, addingfresh blood to Jonathon's grave.

1993

Lydia Maxwell stretched out her creaky rightleg as she half stood, half stumbled from the kneeler back into thepew. As she grew older, she felt like her body was going fuzzypiece by piece like a dilapidated television set with the leg beingthe latest casualty. She smiled encouragingly at the couple next toher as they worshipped together in the church that bore her latehusband's name.

While William didn't initially have a problemwith filling his pockets with as many spoils of war as his largehands could carry, the burden of the stolen items weighed on him.Shortly after coming home, he pawned them off for a tidy sum andused the money to start a church. It was little more than aglorified gardening shed at first, seating about a dozen, but itwas the first Protestant place of worship in the decidedly CatholicMarshville. People came, and with them came more money. Soon theshed had an addition, then it was demolished entirely for the cozynew building that could seat about a hundred if the parishionerswere skinny.

"And let us not forget the untimely passingof Lydia Maxwell's son Edward six years ago today. I would ask thatthose among us keep Lydia and her family in their prayers." Lydiasmiled softly at the glances that came her way, not sure how toreact to the attention. The past two decades had been a series ofwounds that had never healed. First William with his heart attack,the Jonathon's car accident, and finally Edward's gruesome passing,ironically while visiting the gravesite of his father.

"Time heals all wounds." That's what hermother had told her as a little girl over the passing of many abeloved pet. It had been true then as the pain faded more with eachsecond, but as the important people in her life were slowly rippedaway from her, the years felt like a hand thudding down the keys ofa piano towards a dull and depressing climax. That's why Lydia feltoddly at peace with the fact that she carried her husband's armypistol in her purse, loaded with a single bullet. The only oneshe'd need.

"Ms. Maxwell, I'd like to speak to you," amiddle aged man with lines just beginning to stretch their wayacross his face had approached her pew after the service.

"I'd like to be alone," she said shortly,trying to will the younger man away.

"Please, it's about your husband...and mybrother."

Lydia sighed and gestured out one of thestained glass windows. "Let me have some time alone with myhusband, then we can speak." The man didn't seem to find thatoption particularly palatable, but he nodded his head and backedoff.

Ten minutes later the option was no longer apossibility as the old woman sat slumped against a red and graytombstone. Her shaking hands hadn't wanted to cooperate at firstand she wasn't sure if she could get the bullet into her head frompoint blank range, but slowly she found the strength.

The irony was not lost on the old oak tree,as it ensured it was not the only witness to the scene. On that dayit finished wrenching three bodies from the ground, splitting theircoffins and sending their feeble bones tumbling out to meet Ms.Maxwell. Luckily for her, there was nothing left behind her eyes toview the scene.

1999

"It's just a fuckin' tree, why do we gottacut it down?"

"You're prolly too young to remember, butthis damn thing's roots keep gettin' into gravesites. Pulls thebodies straight up outta the ground."