Two Simple Words

Chapter 3

The day was unseasonably cold for Halloween in Central Florida, but Alissa didn't mind. Winter was so short, usually only a handful of days dropping below freezing, so the cold never lasted long enough to get sick of. Some years Christmas would roll around, and it would still be in the eighties. Something just seemed wrong when it was sunny and eighty on Christmas morning. This year, she didn't think that would be an issue, judging from the last week of temps they'd been having. She'd been able to pull her scarves, boots, and jackets out of the closet weeks ago, and it felt good to wear something besides shorts and tank tops.

She pulled her jacket closed in front of her and zipped it up, thinking of her costume for the Halloween party tonight at Russ's, wondering if it would be warm enough. She supposed she could wear tights under the dress to keep her warmer. A snicker escaped her, picturing it. Unless she made a stop somewhere today to get a black pair, the only tights she had were the bright pink ones she used for sleeping, covered in Hello Kitty. Those were sure to look sexy revealed through the high slit she'd made in her costume.

"I'll figure it out later," she thought.

Ahead, she could see the old willow tree, across the graveyard, bending over as though bowing in respect to her father, its green branches, still covered with leaves, waving lazily. She didn't see many willow trees in Central Florida, and she wondered every time she visited her father here behind the big gray St. Paul's United Methodist Church, who the person was who had planted this tree. She liked wondering how long ago had they planted it, and why?

A few times she'd wandered around near it in all directions to see if any of the gravestones had a date that would give a hint as to who may have planted it. Someone buried fifty, maybe a hundred years ago? One of the graves near the tree was marked with a flagstone, lying flat on the ground, rather than with an upright tombstone. The writing on it was mostly unreadable, and she held to the idea that it must be one of the oldest graves in the yard.

Most of the erosion was on the right side of the stone leaving only a few letters at the beginnings of each line on the left, still legible. On the top the first three letters of the name "Sam" were visible. In the second row, beginning of the birthdate was there, showing, "Jan 18," and what looked like a "1" after that, though it was worn almost flat. Days she came to visit with her father, she had sat and tried to imagine stories to go along with what was on the stone.

Samuel Batter, town baker, born in 1711, father of 21, died of dysentery.

Samuel Kuehl, pronounced "keel" not "kool", town preacher, born in 1819, husband of Sarah the seamstress who sewed for the royal family of Britain until she had traveled across the sea as a stowaway, hiding in the belly of the ship with the rats all the way to America, to start a new life.

Samuel Smith, unemployed loser, born in 1935, husband to unfortunate woman, and hapless children.

Of all the stories Alissa had thought of over the years, there was one she had sat at her computer and typed out, just for fun, and it was the one she'd come to prefer.

Samantha Briggs, born 1926, wife of a World War II fighter pilot who was shot down, and his body was never returned. She'd been pregnant with their first child when she'd gotten the news. Times were tough, there were widows everywhere, she had herself and another tiny mouth to feed, and she'd not remarried. She'd spent the rest of her youth working three jobs because this was back in the day when women were paid a pittance for their labors.

She'd put her daughter through school, and just before she was to graduate high school she'd fallen ill with fever. Doctors diagnosed her with cancer, and her daughter spent the first few months after high school graduation watching as her mother faded into the past along with her father.