After a night of rain, the morning broke with roiling dark clouds. Haydon, standing alongside his old Chevy pickup, looked up at the sky. "Man, I hope we get done before it rains again," he said to himself. He fingered the Copenhagen out of his mouth, and spat on the grass.
Homer drove up and parked his Chevy Blazer behind Haydon's truck, and climbed out. "Mornin' Hay'd" he said, retrieving his shovel from the back.
"Where you been?" Haydon said. " We was suppose to start an hour ago,"
"I got a call from Norma at the house. She said we had the wrong plot, so I stopped to get the right one."
"Damn, don't the office ever get anything right the first time," Haydon said. "Who we sending on their way today?"
Looking down at a copy of the plot-guide as they walked toward the grave location, Homer said, "Alice Whitacre."
"Wasn't she our third grade teacher?"
"Yep. She was a nice old gal."
"Yes she was," Haydon said. "Remember that Valentine's Day when she was handing out valentines, from that old heart shaped box, and every time I'd get one she'd ruffle my hair. I think she like me."
Homer stopped and dug his shovel into the damp earth. "Here's her launch pad. Mrs. Whitacre was a great teacher, but she sure didn't like Billy Moll."
"Nope, she was always on him about something. I'll bet she smacked his hands with a ruler more often than anyone in that class."
"Yeah, and she was always sending him to the office," Homer said, as he outlined the digging area.
"I wonder what happened to him?"
"He died in '73 or four, killed himself. They said he was bipolar."
Haydon paused in his digging to stuff some Copenhagen in his cheek. "Humm, I wonder if that made Mrs. Whitacre feel bad?"
Homer wiped sweat from his brow. "It probably did. She was a great teacher."