Under the Cypress Moon (7 page)

Shylah did not even bother to answer, instead, storming off to her room.  She cared no more for any words, for the unsympathetic remarks of her family members.  They could all go to Hell, she thought.  Slamming her door as  hard as she could, nearly enough to knock it off of its hinges, Shylah threw herself onto her bed and cried herself to sleep.  Nobody else said a word to anyone.  Mrs. King did not even ask her husband what was the matter.  From the amplitude of the argument and what little she could catch, she knew what was going on.  Her husband was sticking his nose where it did not belong, butting in where he should not, controlling a life that was not his.  Mrs. King would not chastise her husband, but she would roll back over and ignore him and spend the rest of the week barely speaking to him.

Chapter 4

Mark had no idea that Darius was filling Shylah's head with ideas contrary to everything that he had given her, promised her, whatever.  Mark awoke on Monday morning with a huge smile on his face, thinking of Shylah, expecting the day to be just like the previous days, full of time with the woman of his dreams.  He had no part of him that expected anything in opposition to that.

When lunchtime came, and Shylah was not waiting for him, Mark became very worried.  He called Shylah's phone... no answer.  After several text messages, no answer.  He spent his entire lunch hour wondering, worry, waiting, contemplating, trying to figure out what could be wrong.  He finally decided that he needed to go by Shylah's house and check on her.  Her car was there, but no one would answer the doorbell or the intense knocking on the door.  After three more phone calls and two more text messages with no reply, Mark headed back to work; however, he could concentrate on nothing the rest of the day and get very little done at all.

Mark continued with the phone calls, the text messages, even stopping T.L. and questioning him.  T.L. stated, quite abruptly, that he did not know for sure what was going on but that he was pretty sure that their father had had a long conversation with Shylah about the perils of her dating Mark.  Mark suddenly became enraged, so enraged that he thought of firing Darius if it weren't for his friendship with T.L. and his hopes of getting Shylah back.  After a few minutes of intense stewing, he calmed down, though, and decided that, no matter what, he would do nothing to Darius.  He might stop going to the King residence.  He might not speak to Darius at work, church, or elsewhere.  He might shun Darius entirely, but he would not take away Darius' only means of support.

Mark had no intentions of going to Shylah's house, but somehow, without even realizing it, he ended up there.  He sat in his truck at the end of the drive, suddenly coming to the realization of where he was, thinking of proceeding slowly toward the house, but he knew that it would accomplish nothing.  Sitting there for several minutes, long enough to smoke an entire cigarette, Mark watched the house, wondered what was really going on, wished that something, anything, everything could be different.  Finally, knowing that there was no way of changing anyone's mind, really, no way of even getting ahold of Shylah, Mark backed out and headed home.

Mark had been getting along with his father for nearly a week, but only because the two of them never said more than a few words to one another.  Thomas was usually in his room or sitting out back by the pond, leaving Mark in peace.  Today, however, with Mark slamming the front door loudly enough to wake the spirits of everyone on the property, both relative and slave, Thomas came hurrying downstairs as quickly as his aching and weak legs would carry him.

"What the hell is the matter with you, boy," shouted Thomas from halfway down the stairs.

"Nothing!"

"It does not sound like nothing, Son," came Thomas' reply.  The man seldom called Mark "Son."  His usual epithet for Mark was "dumbass," "my big disappointment," or simply, "boy."  "It's that girl, isn't it?"

Mark, unwilling and almost unable to answer, stood there with his mouth agape.

"Son, I know I give you a hard time, and I know what I said about that girl, but I can tell how much she means to you, and I'll admit, she is a nice girl.  I don't particularly care for you bein' with one of her kind, but I'm tryin' to let bygones be bygones and stay out of your business, but when I see you like this, I do get concerned for you.  You know I love you.  You are my only surviving son, and I want the best for you.  If she makes you happy, who am I to stand in your way?  But... if she is making you this unhappy, I don't know.  Maybe it's for the best that you two part ways."

It was the first time in a long time that Thomas Crady spoke to his son in such a loving manner.  Mark was so used to the snappy, inconsiderate, and actually, downright mean comments from his father.  For Thomas to speak so casually and sincerely, Mark was shocked, blown away really.  He couldn't believe it.  What had come over his father, Mark wondered.

"Yeah, well... Dad," Mark choked out, having trouble saying that word.  "I don't know what to do.  I think it's her dad doing this.  It's not her.  I was so happy I can't even tell you, but I guess her dad put some idea in her head.  She won't even speak to me now.  She won't answer the phone, won't answer the door.  I don't know what to do."

"Give it time, Son," Thomas remarked, wanting to put similar ideas into Mark's head as to what Darius had put in Shylah's, but he didn't want to interfere so much, to try to change Mark's mind. 

As of late, Thomas had thought over his life, his choices, his inclinations, and realized that he was possibly ruining his son's life.  Thomas knew that his life was slipping away, that, with his failing health, he may not be around too much longer.  In what time there was left, he needed to be there for Mark, to encourage him, to let him know exactly how much he meant to him, though he had rarely ever shown it.  Thomas had always been a horrible father to Mark.  He was, at least, a fairly good father to Michael but never to Mark.  Even when Mark was a child and did everything under the sun to try to please his father, it was never enough.  Thomas sorely regretted this now.

Shaking his head and shrugging his shoulders, Mark had no more words to offer.  He felt the need to not only give up on talking but give up on his relationship and maybe even give up on life.  All he wanted to do now was go to his room and sleep, sleep at least until morning.  If not for having to run the factory for his father, Mark would sleep away the rest of his life.

Thomas seemed to read Mark's mind and let him be, Mark taking begrudged baby steps to his room.  Shutting the door behind him, Mark flung himself down on his bed and buried his face in a pillow.  He wanted to cry, but nothing came.  He wanted to scream but did not want to have his father come to his room.  He really had no clue what he should do.  Desperately, Mark shut the blinds and covered his head with his blanket, trying hard to go to sleep, but sleep eluded him.  He refused to eat.  He refused to do anything at all.  His pain was worse than that of death.  If death would come for him, Mark would have sweet relief.  He would be with his mother and grandmothers.  He would be away from all of this torment and in a world that surely had to be so much better.

Little did Mark know that T.L. was thinking, at that moment, of calling him and seeing how he was.  T.L. shook off this urge, however, knowing that Mark would probably not answer and not want to talk about it.  T.L. was right.  Mark did not want to talk to anyone, not even Shylah.  Nothing could be said that would make things better again.  Even if Shylah gave into temptation and called Mark, Darius would stand in their way and cause them nothing but trouble.

The night would truly be a miserable one, full of anguish, despair, utter exasperation.  Mark tossed and turned endlessly, praying for sleep and for any semblance of peace.  In bitter agony, he cursed life, his life.  Nothing could relieve his pain but the finality of fatality. 

Though the blinds were drawn, Mark could see as the sun finally faded into darkness, filling him with a sense of things being as they should, life giving what was demanded of it, the scenery matching everything Mark felt inside. 
As the night wore on more and more, Mark began to tell himself that he did not need Shylah, even though he knew that he did.  He told himself that nothing mattered, that life was far too short to spend it worrying about such simple things, that everything would get better someday, somehow.  If nothing else, at least, death would rear its ugly but much welcomed head.

Finally, sleep came at nearly ten o'clock.  Mark awoke several times during the night but refused to exit the bed, even when the pressure of needing to go to the bathroom arose.  Mark did not care and would not oblige the feeling.  He struggled, twisted, did all he could to stave it off.  Eventually, morning came, the sun shone, and it was time that Mark had to get out of bed.  He had to be at work soon, but he would not prepare himself.  He quickly left without shaving, without showering, without eating.  His hair completely unkempt, still wearing his clothes from the day before, Mark went into work.  He barely made it in time, and everyone noticed, not only Mark's lateness but his dreadful appearance. 

This struck no one more than it did T.L.  His heart went out to his best friend.  He wanted to console Mark, to reassure him, to possibly even tell him not to give up on Shylah.  He knew that he could not do this, however.  Mark would probably listen to no one and would not want to talk.  Mark had his own battle to fight, and anything from anyone would not make that battle more bearable. 

Mark went throughout the day as miserable as he could possibly be, from time to time, weeping a bit.  He would let no one see how miserable he truly was, but he was exactly that, miserable, completely and utterly miserable in every way.  All that he could think about was Shylah and how things should be, how it should all be just like it had been until Sunday night.  If only Darius would have kept his mouth shut, Mark thought.  He had no business butting in, even if he were Shylah's father.  It was Mark's life and Shylah's life, and, with any luck, their life together.  It was no one else's.

Lunchtime came, and of course, no Shylah.  Mark did not leave.  He did not eat.  He did not even bother to leave his office.  He barely got any work done but did not care.  He mostly sat at his desk, either holding his head in his hands or playing on the computer for anything that might take his mind off of his problems.  Day after day of this occurred, the only respite from it when, on occasion, someone showed up at Mark's office for a meeting or to ask a question.  Even Mark's secretary, Bridget, noticed that very little was getting done.  Mark was normally quite productive and ran the place so well, perhaps, even better than did his father.  Now, everything was piling up, and it was showing.

Things eventually got so bad that Mark refused to go to work.  Concealing himself in his bedroom, he would not even answer his father's demands, his poundings upon the door.  Thomas shouted every morning for Mark to "get his ass to work," but Mark always ignored this, wrapping himself even more tightly in his blanket and shutting out the entire world. 

Luckily, there was another, Don Birchum, trained to run the plant in case of emergency.   Thomas, after two days of Mark not coming out of his room, called Don and gave him the orders to take over.  Thomas thought that, perhaps, the time had come to cut Mark loose, to take control of the family business away from him.  Ownership would still be reserved for Mark in the event of Thomas' death, but the actual running of things, for now and maybe even for a long time to come, would be in the hands of Don. 

Friday came, and for the first time in years, Mark did not show up to the Muddy Water.  This greatly concerned T.L.  He was used to seeing Mark at work and used to having him to hang out with on Friday nights.  T.L. waited and waited for Mark to show up, but he never did.  Mark had his own bathroom, a microwave, and a mini fridge in his bedroom.  The only need to ever come out of the room was to grab food from the kitchen, and that was rare.  No, Mark was still in his room, in bed, wrapped tightly in his blanket, trying to find anything that resembled peace or joy.  The only thing that gave any kind of relief was the occasional interesting thing to watch on
TV.

Mark rarely found any strength to rise from bed.  Every step he mustered himself to take felt as if a great weight had been added to his limbs, felt as if it were an unbearable task set before him.  Nothing could take away his pain, his frustration, even his anger.  He had never once felt any sense of anger toward Mr. King, but now, it nearly consumed his every thought.  Mark felt some ill will toward Shylah, but not anger, more of a questionable nature, a great preponderance of so many things, wondering why and how Shylah had turned so quickly from so much love to so much disdain and ignorance of it all. 

When eight o'clock rolled around, even Mark thought to himself how strange it was that he was not at the Muddy Water.  At nine, it seemed as though something just wasn't right, that something greatly amiss had surmounted everything good.  Mark did not know what it was or what it could be.  Obviously, the whole situation involving Shylah and himself was the ever-present reminder of how much he hated life at the moment, but there was something more, something stirring Mark's intuitions.  He felt a strong need, yea, far more than mere desire, to go to the Muddy Water.  He had no idea why.  There clearly had to be something awful occurring there.  Maybe it was all in his head, Mark thought to himself.  Maybe it was nothing at all.  He knew that if he went to the bar, there would probably be nothing any different than any other Friday night, except for his own general feelings of disgust and torment.