Lay Me Beneath the Oak Tree

A short story about a cynical old man from the South and how he finally gets what he wants.

A great many screws came loose in Francis' head the day his wife died. After spending

the better thirty years of his life in Helen's radiance, there was an empty, rotting void left by her death. In the

days since her last breath left her, Francis spent every waking hour at the front desk of his auto repair shop. 

He would stare blankly into a dusty fan teetering on the old rusted countertop, neglecting to move as it blew 

cigarette smoke back in his face. He kept all the doors locked but the 

florescent Open sign lit, a sad attempt to tease the townspeople of York, who by now knew better than to pay a

visit to his garage. Every day became more punctuated by loneliness as he sipped Jack Daniels

out of the same crusty Styrofoam cup, listening to AM radio and the screech of a metal sign

outside as it swung on a singular chain in the breeze. This was his life, a slow approach to his

demise in a blurred reality.

One morning, as he moistened his cracked lips with his latest sip of whiskey, he felt a

compulsion to hop in his tow truck and drive. Something told him that Helen was walking

around the holler that afternoon, in search of her husband and an overdue reunion. He pinched

his eyes shut as he vividly pictured her now celestial body �" she was floating through the tall

grass in the field in which she was buried, a worried look on her face. He instinctively jumped to

his feet.

Francis swirled in his stance, the alcohol reminding him of his lack of immortality. Even

so, he ignored the heavy weight on his chest and delay in his vision as he stumbled toward the door.

“I’m coming for you, Helen.”

He grumbled as he braced himself against the metal meshing on the door's window. He

fumbled for several minutes, yanking on what he believed to be the doorknob and chain lock,

only to discover splinters and paint chips in his calloused hands from scraping at the dilapidated

door frame. The buzz of intoxication shielded him from feeling the pain though, immune as thick

crimson oozed down his fingers.

He finally whipped the door open, feeling the oppression of Alabama humidity at once,

and took one step off the stoop cautiously. Meeting his oil-stained work boots with the rough

gravel gave enough friction to encourage his steps from then on. He pinned his sunken eyes on

the tow truck deliberately, swinging his arms like wrecking balls with each step. When he

reached the driver’s side door, he realized he had not been keen of sense enough to grab the keys.

As he patted the breast pocket of his T-shirt and scratched at the back of his Wranglers, he

wished like a child blowing on a dandelion for his keys to appear where he knew they were not.

God, damn it! he thought, a popular profanity swimming in his mind these days. As if God was

making some final petition to Francis to put faith in His providence, what appeared but the

familiar bulge of a full key chain in his front jeans pocket. With a sigh he whispered “Thank you,

Helen,” denying any other heavenly creature gratitude for this small miracle.

He managed his way into the steeply positioned driver's seat and lit a Marlboro Red. He

took a moment to assess the disarray surrounding him �" trash from fast food restaurants was

piled as high as the windows on the passenger side, an indulgence Helen would never allow him

when she was alive. He tossed his empty cigarette box into the heap of garbage, not before

verifying a fresh pack was waiting for him in the center console.

After tapping his keys above and below the ignition, not at all out of intention, he heard

the rumble of the V8 in front of him. He sat back and enjoyed the soothing vibration it sent

through his seat. Though the last seven months in their entirety were spent in solace and somber

mood, the churning of the V8 buried his grief momentarily. In the same way slow-cooked grits

with butter and molasses brought out a nostalgic joy in him, so too did the sound of heavy

machinery. He was not sure whether it was the first time he saw a steam engine chug through

their shadow of a town, or the simpler magnificence of his father’s tractors, but he always had an

appreciation for machines. He marveled at the way bits and pieces were just bits and pieces until

they weren’t anymore. As a child, he would stay up until a hair before sunrise, tinkering with a

small adjustable wrench and variety of nuts and bolts, assembling and disassembling anything he

found at the dump. Not one person was surprised when he decided to become a mechanic.

As Francis lingered in the memories of days when he still had so much to live for, he

sensed the uncomfortable burn of being watched by a stranger. To his left, a lady of about

twenty-five years stood just two yards away, a paper sack of perishables bulging in her arms,

presumably from the convenience store across the street. Her face was contorted in a confused

and concerned expression and she uttered words sluggishly, as if he would not understand

otherwise. "Sir, are you okay?"

He despised the way she was looking at him, as if he had no business being out in broad

daylight. Had this encounter happened a year ago, Francis would have noticed the woman’s kind

yet tired eyes, her hips that told a tale of new motherhood, and her simple gold wedding band, much like

Helen’s. He would have taken in her countenance and been reminded of how his wife’s brow

crinkled the same way when she worried about him. But he would not have been bitter then, and

he certainly would not be belly deep in whiskey at that hour.

He tightened his wrinkled face into a scowl as he scratched several days’ worth of stubble

on his chin. "Of course I'm okay, you stupid b***h." he wheezed his slurred response. "What does this look like, a 

free show? Get the hell away from me!"

She moved closer despite the reproach he tossed at her, altruism and good Southern

manners getting the best of her. Francis rejected her kindness and flung his arm through his

rolled-down window, pushing the grocery bag out of her arm. The force was more than he

intended, fueled by the liquid aggression coursing through his veins, and she toppled over. But

he was too drunk to care, and with that sped off, leaving a cloud of dust around her as she

attempted to salvage her groceries. He even convinced himself that the tears she wiped from her

cheeks were a result of the settling dirt rather than his harsh behavior.

Francis cackled to himself as he watched a mental play-by- play of the woman’s fall, insisting to himself that 

she earned it, but soon

dropped all expression when he remembered why he was on the road. Helen. He switched on the

tape deck as he leaned into the steering wheel, veering around a sharp curve. Hank Williams’

melancholy refrains echoed through the cabin in possibly the most fitting proclamation of

Francis' state - I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry. He knew every word, and this song had once been

a favorite, but he sat emotionless as he drove along the farm-lined road of Route 17. In a corner

of his brain where even his own consciousness was unwelcome, he knew if he sang a verse, he

would acknowledge Helen's absence, and thus beckon the tears that had not yet been shed.

He thought they would come on the day of the funeral. Her passing was sudden �" a brain

aneurysm that he later learned wreaked havoc on many in her family line �" so his shock

overcame the grief almost immediately. The first several days after she left him were a blur,

and on the fifth that passed, a service was held in her memory. A group of eight, including the

pastor, met on the back corner of Francis’ property to pay their respects. It was a calm and

beautiful day, but that very fact irritated him �" how could there not be a single cloud in the sky,

without so much as a soft wind kicking the leaves on the oak tree? How could the world go on

like nothing was different?

Helen lived for days like that, especially when she spent them underneath their oak tree.

She never much cared for the vast expanse of land they inherited, content to simply have a roof

over their heads, but the one thing that always brought a twinkle in her eyes was that big oak

tree. She would read, knit outfits for newborns at the church, and sing to her husband while lying

on an old blanket, all beneath its comforting embrace.

“Lay me beneath the oak tree,” she would whisper against his chest as she watched

shooting stars fall behind the oak’s canopy. She would sigh and smile, most times nodding off

under the velvet blanket of nightfall. Some of her favorite memories were born beneath that tree,

and so, he fulfilled her wishes.

Francis was stoic at the funeral as he listened to the sniffles and sobs of the other six

attendants. They had little family left in town and no children, so Francis was impressed to see

enough people to create a full circle around her casket. Father Jonah, the same man who stood

before them as they exchanged their wedding vows, read scripture that made no business of

penetrating Francis’ ringing ears.

As the service drew to a close and the coffin was lowered into a shallow ditch, Francis

stood motionless with his hands tightly clasped in front of his belt buckle. He nodded

apathetically as each person paid their final respects, then watched the parade of subdued men

escorting grieving women to their cars. He waited for every vehicle to become a mere dot on the

edge of the road before acknowledging the simple wooden box before him.

He brushed his forefinger along its top, hoping to find that it was not a tangible object

and to be shaken awake from this horrible dream. He paused his touch where he imagined her

waist lying beneath and pulled a single red rose from the inside of his suit coat. Helen always

loved red roses, something about how romantic they were supposed to be. He laid the rose

perfectly at the coffin’s center, imagining it being clasped between Helen’s long pale fingers,

matching her red lacquered nails.

Picturing those fingers that so often swept through his ever-thinning hair or massaged his

aching feet beseeched a moan from Francis’ thin lips. He collapsed until he was kneeling on the

dirt surrounding her ditch and brought his head flush against the pine box. He rubbed his cheek

against the thin wood as if nestling into Helen’s bosom and released an anguished sigh.

“Why did you have to leave me so soon, my darling?” he choked, feeling a sting

developing behind his eyes, one that never produced the tears it promised. He wrapped his arms

around the box and pressed his lips to it before he drowned in a thick black nothing of sorrow.

After God knows how long, Francis rose to his feet and acknowledged the neighbor’s son

approaching with a shovel. He had nearly forgotten someone still had to finish that part of the

burial. He took a moment to steady himself against the knotted trunk of the oak tree then began a

calculated journey toward their home �" only his home now �" not lifting his head to make eye

contact with the teenage boy.

Francis had not thought about that day since it passed, at least not in the usual sense of

‘thinking about’ something. His brain had become by and large a vacuum of not thinking, just

doing. The only word that passed through his mind with any comprehension was Helen, and the

only hope he had was to be with her.

As Francis continued along Route 17 and the dial leisurely flicked upward on his

speedometer, the outline of a farm stand grew rapidly on the right side of the road ahead. Within

seconds, he could read the sign �" Virgil’s Vegetables (and other goods) �" though for naught, since he knew the

stand and all its contents by heart. He had every intention of speeding past, but at the last

moment, he screeched crossways to a stop on the road before pulling into the small parking lot. To

his benefit, he appeared to be the only patron at present, and thus the only wiser of this abrupt

change of direction.

He threw the shifter into park and turned off the truck. He pursed his lips and pressed his

forefingers together in front of them, debating whether the reward he sought within was worth

the risk of having to talk to Virgil. Like everyone else, Virgil learned that there was no getting

through to Francis after about the first two weeks. Phone calls, hollering from the front door

stoop, and Hallmark sympathy cards all fell on bitter, deaf ears.

“Just let the man be,” wives from the congregation would mumble to the stubborn men at

their sides before letting the doorbell alone and leaving. Francis wasn’t sure he could walk out of

Virgil’s store with a dozen red roses without being berated with questions.

He reached under his seat to find a nearly empty bottle of grain alcohol and emptied its

contents with one prolonged gulp. A shake of his head and a deep breath coaxed the spirits into

enough dizzy confidence to go inside. With his resigned strength mustered, Francis creaked open

the driver’s side door and clunked his feet onto the black top.

Francis breezed past the barrels of watermelons and ears of corn lining the outside,

neglecting their sweet aroma as it perfumed the summer air. Virgil caught sight of Francis

weaving up to the front door and froze his handful of oranges in midair. He dropped them onto

his display as he instinctively walked over toward a humble flower display, leaving half a dozen

oranges to topple from their pyramid and bounce on the floor.

Francis’ attention latched onto anything but the shaking man behind the flower counter.

Though the relaxing heat of liquor was still detectable, Francis overestimated how much of a

crutch it could be when seeing Virgil face to face for the first time in months.

“How are you holding up, Frank?” Virgil had the balls to speak first.

Francis met his gaze with a grimace, quietly scoffing at the ridiculousness of the

question. Like he didn’t already know the answer.

“Dozen roses. Red’ns.” Francis garbled his demand as he slapped a twenty dollar bill on

the linoleum counter.

“I’ve been thinking about you a lot, Frank. Been calling. Damned thing never gets

answered…” Virgil words hung in the air as he bided time, shuffling various floral arrangements

behind the counter. There was a tall, slender ceramic vase on the highest shelf teasing Francis

with at least thirty long stems, all topped with luscious burgundy petals.

“Red roses. Dozen red roses.” Francis beseeched, the back of his neck turning red from a

cruel brew of the grain alcohol and now simmering anger.

“Maybe since you’re here now that means you’re ready for some company. Finally tired

of bein’ alone with your own thoughts. How’s about Nancy and I stop by with a couple slices of

meatloaf and a pitcher of lemonade tonight? That’d make for a nice summer evening. It certainly

would.” Virgil was aloof with distraction arranging bouquets from one shelf to another, keeping

his hands busy so that his fidgeting was not as noticeable. But Francis noticed, and the utter

denial of his request for roses was sending him from irritated to livid in mere seconds.

“DAMN IT, VIRGIL! The roses! Just give me the God damn roses!”

Francis lost his last strand of patience before finishing his sentence, and was now pushing

past Virgil behind the counter to help himself to the flowers. Ornate glass vases dove and

shattered as Francis stretched his arms to pull down the red roses.

“Jeez, Frank! What's wrong with you? I was gonna get ‘em! I'm just trying to help!”

“What"s wrong with ME? I’m trying to get some flowers for my wife and you’re

jabbering on about some piece o’ s**t meatloaf! That’s what! I don't want your damn meatloaf, and I sure as hell 

don't want your company!” The flames burning through

Francis’ eyes pinned Virgil to the stool beside him. “Keep the change!”

Virgil cowered in hostile silence as Francis stormed his way out of the store with every

last red rose in tow. Once Francis made it back to his truck, he buckled the large vase into the

passenger seat, secured atop the heaps of trash, and slammed the door shut.

“Gotta do every damn thing myself!” he huffed as he backed out of the spot and

continued down Route 17. As Francis rolled down both windows and lit another cigarette, the

petals on the roses vigorously fluttered. He apprehensively glanced at the bouquet every few

seconds, ensuring that they were still perfectly safe. As the stretch of road between Virgil and

Francis grew larger, Francis recounted the incident in the store. He nodded as the anger began to

subside, convincing himself that he was right in his urgency and that Virgil was to blame for

everything that happened. At least the man had some lovely red roses.

The flowers were actually beautiful beyond words. Stems near two feet long, most of the

thorns trimmed off, with leaves only up near the buds like the ones you see in the mouths of

tango dancers. The silky red petals closed in on themselves, demure and mysterious, the way it is

the first night with a woman, knowing some unspeakable beauty awaits you when they open up

and share the deepest part of themselves with you. Francis reached out his right hand to caress

the vase as he barreled around another sharp turn, with extra care not to touch the cherry of his

cigarette to any part of the plant.

“Almost there, my darling,” he crooned as he drove down the shallow valley that led to

his driveway. When he saw the familiar forest green mailbox he took in a deep drag of his

cigarette and tossed it before pulling in. Helen pretended to ignore him smoking on the job, but never

liked him to bring that habit home. He pulled up adjacent to their detached one-car garage and

scanned the horizon for Helen’s figure. He scrounged at the glove compartment to find his flask,

requiring a few heavy thumps on the dashboard before it dropped open. He used his teeth to twist

off the cap and took several swigs before replacing its lid. As the heat settled in his chest, he

resumed his search for his wife. He stepped out of the car with plans to walk around the

perimeter of the garage and their home, peaking behind trees as he passed them.

“Where are you, my girl? I know you’re out here somewhere!” A giddy excitement

heightened the pitch of his voice as he played a game of cat and mouse inside his own mind. He

thrust himself around a corner, expecting to find Helen caught off guard, then pouted each time

he was met with an empty hiding place. He carried on like this for nearly half an hour before

irritation crept its way back under his prickling skin. As he made a round along the sides of his

truck, his gaze was suddenly drawn to the oak tree. It was the largest on their property, over a

century old and basking over the tail edge of their land, and Helen’s burial ground.

“I know where you are!” He chuckled as he hopped back into the driver’s seat. He turned

the key in the ignition with fervor and peeled off toward the oak tree with the accelerator pressed

to the floor. He felt pressure building up in his sinuses, causing the familiar sting in his eyes as

he traversed the field. With each passing stretch, he recalled another memory of their times

together and felt a swell of happiness at the thought of seeing his Helen again. Finally, with a

heaved sigh and crack of a smile, tears began to spill down his cheeks. Whether it was the

heartbreak finally brought to fruition or the relief of a reunion washing over him, he was not

sure, but he reveled in the tears as they fell, still gaining speed.

Twenty-five miles per hour. Forty miles per hour. Sixty-five miles per hour. Francis

hastily approached Helen's burial grounds with no intention to stop. He slipped the vase from

behind its restraint and clutched it to his chest. Hunched over the wheel, he furrowed his brow

and uttered, "I'm coming for you, Helen."

When he hit that oak tree, it was spot on. He hadn't bothered to fasten his seat belt in the

mess of excitement, so what happened was quick and instant. Just after his truck made seventy-

miles-per- hour contact with the unforgiving bark of the oak tree, his body jetted through the

windshield then ricocheted, landing belly over on Helen's grave. There in the silence, a lone red rose 

brushed against the

tombstone, clutched in Francis’ lifeless hand as it swung like a pendulum. The damp petals

caused the engraved epitaph to glisten in the sunlight. It read: "Blessed are they that

mourn: for they shall be comforted."

Author's Note

Any and all feedback is welcome. This is one of the first short stories I've ever written.