Under the Cypress Moon (45 page)

There were quite a few faces that Mark did not recognize at all.  This didn't really bother him except that there was one person, a blonde-haired young woman clad in a tight, black dress, that caught Mark's eye immediately.  He wondered if it might be his half-sister, Sara.  He wanted to greet her and to ask who she was but thought it might be off-putting, especially if the person turned out to be someone else.  Someone so fancily dressed in a house where so many had come in blue jeans, t-shirts, and buttoned plaid shirts, and even those that did dress up only did so in very plain-looking attire, it was hard to miss someone who seemed more ready for a formal dinner party than a simple country wake.

"You starin' at that girl," Shylah vehemently asked, feeing an urge to tear mark a proverbial "new one" in front of so many other people.

"Yeah, but only cuz it might be..."

"Your sister?"

"Yeah.  I mean, look at her.  She's about the right age.  Stan said nineteen, right?  I've never seen this girl before.  I think it might just be her."

"Why don't you go talk to her then," Shylah suggested.

"Naw.  What if it's not her?  That'd be really weird.  'Hi.  I'm Mark, your half-brother.'  'Ummm, I don't have a half-brother.'  Think about that for a sec.  I don't think so.  If she is who I think she is and wants to talk, she can ask around and find me."

"Ok, Babe.  It's your business.  You seen T.L. or my parents around here?  They said they were comin'."

"I think I saw your mom walkin' around here somewhere.  Ummm... oh, hey.  There's your brother right over there," Mark enthusiastically announced, pointing toward the front door where T.L. and Darius were now entering. 

Shylah and Mark spent the rest of the evening greeting guests and making small talk with many.  Mark was happy to hear the well wishes and to say hello to so many friends and even to those that he hardly knew or did not know at all, but all of the kind words about his father started to irritate him greatly.  A part of him wished that they all could only know of Thomas' horrible views on society and especially, of his betrayal.  Mark thought of ducking away into his bedroom and finding something to punch, or at least, to have a beer and a few cigarettes, but he knew that he could not.  He had to endure all of the polite mentions of his father, as disgusting as he found them to be.  The night seemed as though it would never end.  Mark never found an opportunity to speak to or question the young blonde woman in the black dress, though he hoped hope upon hope and wished wish upon wish that he could.  When all was finished, Mark let out a scream of terrifying amplitude but one of solemn and sounding relief.  If he could just get through the next day, Thomas would be in the ground, and Mark could begin to just let everything go, including any fond memories of his father.  The name Thomas and the word father would be curses in Mark's mind for a very long time.

Part 3

Chapter 21

It took momentous force for Mark to pull himself from bed the next morning.  For the first time in several days, he had gone completely without alcohol the night before and had no physical ailments to speak of, but he could not bear the thought of busying himself to get ready for honoring his father.  Somewhere in his mind, he knew that he had to because it was one of God's Commandments, yet most of him loathed the idea.  Honoring a man that so blatantly dishonored his entire family on a continual basis for so many years seemed too self-defeating.

The funeral was to begin at ten-thirty, and it was nearing eight.  Shylah begged and pleaded for Mark to get up and make the most of the day, to at least give it everything he had just to get it all over with once and for all.  Mark relented and rose, stumbled and grumbled.  After several cups of coffee and five cigarettes in succession, Mark trudged off to the bathroom for a quick shower before throwing on his best suit. 

Shylah looked radiant as ever, perhaps, somehow, even more so than usual.  This was Mark's only consolation of comfort, that and knowing that soon enough, his father would be bid farewell for good and hopefu
lly, seldom a thought to weigh any longer upon his son's mind. 

Mark decided, upon exiting the bathroom, that this would not be a repeat of the previous day.  No matter what, he would not treat Shylah as he had, ignoring her and speaking to her only when spoken to by her.  Mark realized that Shylah was the best thing going in his life and that he needed to hold onto her and cherish her with his every waking breath. 
She was his love, his life, his finest companion, the mother of his child, and soon, hopefully, would be his wife.

Mark drove to the funeral parlor holding Shylah's hand the entire time, often raising it to his mouth to give it a kiss, though this pulled Shylah by the arm, finally causing her to have to scoot much closer to the loving embrace of her man.  She felt greatly relieved in seeing that Mark was not acting as he had, that he was once more giving himself entirely. 

The couple arrived at the parlor nearly an hour before the service was to begin.  Much to Mark's dissatisfaction, Pastor Dan Gordon soon showed his face.  Mark accepted that the pastor must be there, that his father would have wanted Dan Gordon to officiate and to give a eulogy, but to counter this and give himself a bit of joy, Mark also asked Reverend Hill to give his own eulogy.  Reverend Hill knew of Pastor Dan's officiating and agreed to keep things cordial and respectful, yet Pastor Dan had no idea of the coming of the other clergyman.

Pastor Dan seemed amiss, astounded really, at the sight of the other man approaching him.  He felt no hatred toward the man or general dislike but felt slighted to have another man of God present to aid in the services.  The way that he understood things, he was to be the one and only minister of the proceedings.  Both men agreed that they would do their utmost and would enjoy working together, though Reverend Hill was the only one of them that truly meant these words.

Everyone in attendance was completely cordial to both ministers, taking their words to heart as best that they could, most of them feigning agreement with all of the positive things said about Thomas by Pastor Dan.  Many more of the attendees were in agreement with the words spoken by Reverend Hill.  He did not sugarcoat anything.  He told everything that he knew about Thomas, including a repetition of his recent sermon about love and his surety that Mark was correct in saying that Thomas had made a very sincere attempt to mend his broken ways.

A few, most notably Pastor Dan Gordon, were annoyed, perplexed, almost entirely angry, through and through, because of the straightforward eulogy given by the good Reverend Hill.  Reverend Hill, much like Mark and Shylah, did not care what anyone thought of the words.  If people did not care for them, they could simply discard them as they did so many other valuable pieces of knowledge.  Mark felt certain that Reverend Hill got things closer to the heart, to the center of it all, to the very core of what could be said about mankind in general and especially, about the now deceased Thomas Crady, Jr.

The services lasted hardly longer than anyone expected them to, kept neat and progressive toward an end, in a timely fashion.  Many left the funeral parlor unwilling to proceed back to the Crady cemetery, some because they did not want to hear any more words from Reverend Hill and some because they did not want to hear more from either of the ministers.  It seemed odd to most that Mark had chosen to have the wake at his home, the funeral at the parlor, and then the burial back at the private cemetery, requiring numerous transportations of the body, but Mark decided that he would not be able to handle having the funeral services in his house after a long and probably arduous wake and that a funeral parlor was far more fitting for such services.  He paid extra money for exactly this course of things, happily so, just to have a bit more peace of mind.

Only those closest to Mark seemed to understand his wishes, not to mention that Mark had earned so much respect from his employees for his treatment of them that most would go to Hell and back for him.  Even Cyrus Donovan, having gained special permission from his doctor to leave the hospital for the event came rolling up to Mark in his wheelchair, his burns making it too painful for him to walk.

"Mark," came Cyrus' rasping voice, though Mark had difficulty telling from where it came.

Looking down, Mark was shocked to see Cyrus before him, dressed in a like-new black suit.  The man was so badly burned and recently grafted that he appeared to be more out of a horror movie than from Mark's life. 
The right side of his face contained only a small portion of anything resembling what it had been.  Most of it had been grafted recently and showed signs that it was beginning to scar horribly.  The entirety of the left side of the face, however, had not had much work done at all and looked so drastically disfigured that it seemed as if it had been through a meat grinder.  "Why, Cyrus Donovan, you ol' coot!  I never did expect to see you out and about!  How are you, my man?  You doin' ok?  They treatin' you good at the hospital?"

"I'm doin' fine, I suppose.  Mark, I just had to be here and tell you how much I appreciate all you're a doin' fer my family.  Yer daddy was a good man, I reckon, in his own right, but he weren't never half the man you are!  What you're a doin', it says a lot.  You can tell a lot about a man's character from how he does others.   Just as soon as I'm up and walkin', you better believe I'm gonna be at that plant, ready to go!  I know it ain't yer fault whut happened to me.  I know you ain't got nothin' but good in yer heart."  Cyrus's eyes welled up so much that Mark felt his heart breaking at the sight. 

"Cyrus, how would you like to be a supervisor and get a huge pay raise?"

"Mark, I ain't earned it.  You got guys that's earned it far better than I have.  You give it to someone more deservin' of it."

"The hell you haven't."  Mark suddenly looked up to see Reverend Hill standing behind Cyrus' wheelchair.  "Please pardon my language, Reverend."

"No.  It's ok, Mark.  I best be goin' on to wait with Mrs. Hill until the progression begins.  I believe you should be heading to your truck, shouldn't you?  I think I saw Shylah heading that way a minute ago.  The pallbearers have the casket on the way out.  I suggest you be waitin', Son."  The Reverend stood in wait, his arms folded across his worn Bible upon his lower extremities.

Turning back to face Cyrus, Mark placed his hands on Cyrus' shoulders.  "Cyrus, you have what, twenty years in at the plant?"

"Jes about.  I reckon close, about eighteen... nineteen, a little over nineteen, yes."

"If you haven't earned the position, Cyrus, nobody has!  I'm not givin' this to you because you got hurt.  I want good, honest men that know the job, have the experience, and that the other workers will look up to.  You know that's you!  That's you to a t, Cyrus.  I don't wanna hear no nos about it.  You take it.  It's yours when you're ready.  We're gonna have a lot of new guys when we get done expandin' the plant, and I need guys like you!"

"Alright, Mark.  I suppose I could.  Thank you.  You're a good man, Mark Crady, a really good man!  If'n you ain't give yer daddy nothin' to be proud of, ain't nothin' ever would!  I reckon I better go find my wife.  We'll see ya at the graveside."  With the conversation completed and his eyes misting too much to see straight, Cyrus wheeled himself a way, nearly crashing into chairs as he did.

All that Mark could think about as he walked to his truck was poor Cyrus Donovan and how badly he had been dealt with by life, how he had gotten the short end of the stick, so to speak.  When Mark skidded his backside into his truck, Shylah was there waiting.  Immediately, she pulled Mark's right hand into her own and gently caressed it.  Nothing needed said by either one of them.  Both knew fully well everything that the other wished to say but held back. 

The burial services were fairly short and concise, attended by less than three dozen, mostly employees and a handful of Mark's cousins; however, the young blonde woman in the black dress was there.  Mark had not noticed her at the funeral parlor, but she stood out now among the numerous men in jeans and even among the finely dressed women, as she was of a rare and particular beauty and seeming elegance.  Mark could not take his eyes off of her, noticeable by the woman who glared back in awkward repose.

When all was said and done, and many mustered themselves to leave, though some planned only to go home and get food that they had prepared and to come back for the after funeral gathering at Mark's house, the blonde woman wandered toward the front of the burial tent where stood Mark to bid farewell to all who left.  Her long, sinewy legs moved with a certain grace, in an almost mesmerizingly mechanical way.  "Hello.  Are you Marcus Crady," the young woman asked in a voice that Mark knew he must admit made him a little excited.  Her particular pronunciation of things, though not so incredibly different from Mark's, still had an air of exoticism to it.  Had there been no possibility of the woman being a relation, and had Shylah not been in the picture, Mark knew that he would have been greatly tempted.

"Yes.  Yes, I am.  Can I help you?"  Mark felt himself shaking with anticipation.  If the woman were, in fact, his long lost half-sister, he would embrace her and do all that he could to welcome her and get to know her, but if she were not, he had no idea what he might do or how he might react.