Under the Cypress Moon (14 page)

"Boy," Shylah said, nearly snorting with uncontrollable laughter, "don't you start with me.  I'd hate to have to knock you over the head."

"Somebody already did.  It hurts," Mark added, "but not as much as listening to some of your brother's stories."

Before Shylah could tell Mark to grab his belongings, he already had them all on the bed, working in such a fury that Shylah had never seen in him before.  Mark was obviously anxious to leave; however, no sooner than Mark had the belongings on the bed, his doctor came into the room and ordered him to sit down.

"Mr. Crady, you shouldn't be standing.  You're weak."

"I'm fine, Doc."

"Well, still, I want you to remain seated.  You can leave, but you have to go in a wheelchair.  It's hospital protocol.  We'll get you some bags to put your stuff in and the wheelchair.  Other than that, it's all lookin' good.  I'll have the nurse bring you your discharge papers and follow up orders, prescriptions, and all of that good stuff when she brings your wheelchair.  Ok?"

"Alright, Doc.  Sounds good."  Mark did not like being ordered around or having to sit back down after he had spent two days in the bed, rarely rising for anything more than to eat, but he had no other options at the moment.

It wasn't long until the nurse showed up with the bags, paperwork, and wheelchair, to Mark's delight.  He had seen far too much of the inside of a hospital, enough to last him a dozen lifetimes, he thought.  With the paperwork in one of the bags and all of the bags draped across Mark's lap, Shylah hurriedly wheeled Mark toward the elevator.  It felt sort of like a prison escape.  If the two of them could only get downstairs and navigate through a sea of people, and if the car had been left in the same place that it was earlier, they would be home free.

Just as Mark and Shylah exited through the front doors of the hospital, they saw that Shylah's car was about to be towed.  It seemed Divine Intervention that they arrived when they did. 

"Hey," Shylah shouted at the tow truck operator.  "Please, Sir!  Please!  That's my car!  Please don't tow it!  I'm right here!"

"Sorry, Ma'am.  I was ordered to tow it.  I can't exactly just stop now.  I was just hookin' it up.  Gotta do my job, ya know?"

"Please!  I'll pay you to put it down!"  Shylah, nearly screaming in the man's face, felt far too helpless and frustrated to control herself.

"Can't do it, Ma'am," replied the man, cordially but firmly.

Luckily for Shylah, the man then turned his head and noticed Mark, who had just begun to raise his, still feeling a little overmedicated and droopy.

"Mark Crady," the man shouted happily.

Scratching his head, Mark could not remember for the life of him who the man addressing him was.  Mark stared blankly into the man's face, all recollection failing him.

"It's me, Lou Sanders.  We went to high school together, man.  You and T.L. King used to call me Chubby.  We was on the football team together until I blew out my knee junior year.  You tried talkin' me into gettin' into wrestlin' with ya."

"Chubby?"

"Yeah, Man.  It's me."  Taking off his hat, Lou looked heartily into Mark's eyes, hoping for some spark of teenage memory to come flooding back.

'Yeah.  Chubby Sanders.  I remember now.  Sorry.  I had a head injury.  Been pretty out of it.  How the hell you been, Sanders?"

"Not too bad, Crady.  I got a wife of four years now and two beautiful little boys.  They're a handful each, rambunctious as hell, but other than that, just been workin' for Parker Towing for a while now.  I actually tried gettin' a job at your plant but never heard back.  I'm still a little bit mad about that, but I know that was your daddy's doin' or somebody under him, not yours.  Head injury, huh?  A little too rough with this'n here," Lou asked, casually pointing to Shylah with the tilt of his head, which caused Shylah to grow angry, though she knew that she needed to stay on Lou's good side.

"Nope.  I got in a bar fight a few nights ago," Mark replied, thinking exactly the same as Shylah.  The comment, given the circumstances, seemed too much, but Sanders had always been that way, saying the wrong thing at the wrong time, and he needed to be kept happy if there were to be a hope of getting him to leave Shylah's car alone.

"Bar fight, you say?  Damn, Man.  I thought your fightin' days was over."

"Long story, Man," Mark said, almost snapping, fighting hard to control the furious desire to let the other man have a piece of his mind.  Mark was normally very calm in any situation, but all of the recent events made remaining calm a little too tough to do.

"Well, ya know," Sanders came back with, raising his lower lip above the upper and rubbing his forehead.  "I suppose," and rubbing a long line of sweat from his head and replacing his hat, continued, "I could let ya'all have the car back.  I don't see no need to make ya go through all of the paperwork and trouble and gettin' a ride if ya ain't got nobody else.  I could just say you was gone before I could get here or somethin'.  I'll figure somethin' out.  Ya'all just take the care and go."

"That's mighty nice of you, Sanders," Mark sighed in relief.  "At least let me give you somet
hin', for your kids."  Mark, winking at Sanders, began to pull his wallet from his pants pocket.

Putting his hand out and shaking his head from side to side, Sanders quickly and adamantly exclaimed in exasperation, "No!  No!  No!  I can't take your money.  You was always a good friend to me, and that's what I'm tryin' to be right now.  'Twould not be right.  I don't need such things on my conscience when I go before the Judgment Seat."

Shaking Lou Sanders' hand, Mark had secretly palmed a fifty dollar bill, making sure that he shook long enough for Sanders to feel the presence of the money.  Winking again, Mark added, "I do appreciate this.  I got a gift," and with another wink, Mark iterated, "a gift for your kids.  From Uncle Mark.  Make sure they have fun with it."

Sanders, though reluctant at first, accepted the money, clutching in his fist as he pulled away from Mark, making sure that no one saw the exchange.  "Welp, Mark, ol' buddy, I guess I'd better get goin'.  I got other work that needs done."

As Sanders began to turn away, Mark stopped him, not only all anger toward the man having ceased but Mark now feeling great appreciation toward the man, and perhaps, pity for his obviously poor financial state.  "Hey, Sanders."

"Yeah?"

"I don't know when I'll be back at the plant.  Gotta heal up some, but if you come by there, I'll make sure you get a job, ok?  You gotta wait til I get back, but I'll see to it.  When you come by, I'll streamline your app and tell personnel I already interviewed you.  So, if you want it, just be ready in two weeks to a month, ok?"

"You mean it, Man," Sanders exclaimed, nearly jumping up in the air with immeasurable joy.

"Yep.  You got my word.  You got a job after I get back to the plant.  Deal?"

"You got it, Buddy!"  Sanders, smiling harder at Mark than he had at anyone else since the day his second son was born, hurried to his truck and hopped in, slamming his palm into the steering wheel over and over and shouting, "Yes!  Yes!  To hell with this job!  I don't gotta tow no more!  Finally, somethin' good for ol' Lou Sanders!"

"Thank you so much," Shylah stated, almost exasperated, throwing her arms around Mark's neck.

"Ow!"

"Sorry.  So sorry, Baby," Shylah squealed, pulling her arms away.

"It's ok," Mark replied, smiling, though his neck still hurt.

"Well, again, thank you so much.  You don't know the trouble you saved me."

"Anything for you," Mark nearly screamed, not realizing the tone of his voice.

"Anything, huh?"  Shylah began to laugh so loudly that it gained her the attention of everyone around.

Shylah had quite a difficult time getting Mark into the car, the drugs in his system making him barely able to lift himself, not to mention that he had hardly risen from bed in two and a half days, feeling greatly weakened.  When the two finally got all of the way into Shylah's car, Shylah happily peeled the car away from the hospital curb and onto the connecting road, speeding toward Mark's house.

"You hungry, Babe," Shylah asked, never taking her eyes off of the road.

"A little, I guess.  Mostly I'm just tired."

"Well, you'll be home really soon, but we could go get a bite, if you want."  Shylah secretly hoped Mark would agree to this.  She had hardly eaten a single thing since the whole ordeal had begun.  Anything sounded good, anything grilled, fried, deep fried, or even microwaved.

Mark nodded his approval, almost unnoticed by Shylah but readily accepted when she did take notice.  After visiting the nearest restaurant drive-through, Shylah hungrily devoured her food, eating so quickly that Mark sat in complete awe.  He had never seen anyone, man, woman, or child eat so fast in all of his life.  Inside, Mark laughed a bit, though he felt too disoriented to care much.  Mark, unlike Shylah, hardly touched his food.  After eating barely half of it, he put the rest back into the bag and set it on the floorboard.

"Not eating?"  Shylah felt gravely concerned, thinking that it was in Mark's best interest to eat as much as possible in order to regain his full health.

"Not that hungry right now," Mark answered, "but I'll save it for later."

As Shylah pulled her car in front of the very large, ornate Crady house, she shuddered at the thought of what the house had been used for so long ago and at the thought of Mark's father being there.  Shylah knew, however, that if Mark mattered so much to her that she would have to deal with all of this, no matter what.

"You want me to come in?"  Shylah felt both hopeful and dreadful at the same time while asking this and in the few seconds that it took Mark to respond.

"Do you want to?"  Mark wanted it, hoped for it, longed for Shylah to come with him and never leave.  His heart fluttering all over again, Mark was unsure that he could tell Shylah all of this.

"I...  I do want to.  I'm not so sure about your dad, though.  I don't think he'd want me in his house."

"What are you talkin' about?  T.L.'s been here a million times, plus, I don't give half a damn what my dad thinks.  Don't worry one little bit about that man.  I'll handle him, ok?  You wanna come in, you come in.  I'm goin' in, Beautiful.  Come with me?"  Mark sheepishly added the last part, not really meaning to but wanting it so badly that it was too hard to control or mask properly.

"Well, you do need somebody to take care of you."

"Exactly," Mark eagerly replied, closing his eyes for just a second, thinking that maybe, just maybe, Shylah would consent to it all.

"Ok.  Just let me run home and get some stuff.  I promise I'll be back real soon.  Scout's honor."  Shylah holding up her two fingers, along with a coy, childlike smile, caused Mark to burst in a fit of unfathomable and uproarious laughter. 

"Alright.  I'll be here."  Mark stepped away from the car and nearly fell, catching himself in a twisted manner on the roof of the car.  Just as Shylah began to pull away, Mark remembered that his bags were in the back.  "Wait!"

Shylah stopped the car five feet ahead, waiting for Mark to say whatever it was that he had to say.

"My stuff."

"Oh yeah.  How about I just bring it in with me later?  You got enough to worry about, Babe.  You need to get inside and rest.  Don't make me get out and put another lump on your head."

"Mrow!  Hsssss.  Kitty's got her some claws."

"You know it, and I think I might use 'em later, wink wink."

Mark, fighting the laughter building once again, his brow furrowed, couldn't help but ask, "You know you're not supposed to say wink, right?"

"Oh."

"You just wink.  You don't say wink."

"Is that how it works?  Damn.  I didn't know."  Smiling, Shylah fell over in her seat.

"You're such a damn smartass!"

"Maybe I am, and maybe I am.  Alright.  I gotta go or I'll never get back to take care of you.  Please go inside and lay down.  I'll be back before ya know it, k?"

"K.  Get to it, woman!  I'll be here with balls on.  I mean, balls on.  I mean... is it bells on?"

"Now, you're gettin' weird.  I think that head injury of yours is makin' you goofy.  Get inside, boy.  You know I'm messin'.  I'll be back, Baby.  Just take it easy."

As Shylah moved her car down the drive, she saw, in the rearview mirror, Mark waving furiously.  It let Shylah know that Mark really cared.  No matter his condition, his primary concern was the woman in his life. 

Mark walked into the house and came eye to eye with his father, lounging on the couch in the parlor, just beyond the entryway.  "Hey, Son.  I'm glad you're home.  Shylah brought ya, didn't she?"

"Yep."

"Where is she?  I figured she'd be comin' in with ya."

"She went home to get some stuff, but she'll be back."

"So, she's gonna be here to take care of you?  I called a healthcare place today, and they were gonna send somebody over this afternoon."  Thomas hoped that he wasn't stepping on anyone's toes.  He wanted to cause no further trouble for anyone, especially for his son.  He wanted Mark to be well taken care of, whether it be by a professional or by Shylah.