Under the Cypress Moon (71 page)

"I'm doin' ok.  I just thought I'd pop in and say hi and tell you the news.  I don't know how to tell you, though."  Dan had a look of complete sadness, his head slinking to his chest.

"What is it?  You can tell me.  Whatever it is, I wanna know."

"Well," Dan continued, his hands shaking, "Sara is dead."

Mark had no idea what to make of the news.  He was sure that some part of him felt something, some sort of sorrow over the death of his half-sister.  Nothing in particular, however, came to mind.  "Ok.  Thanks for lettin' me know."

"Don't ya wanna know how she died," Dan asked, shocked that Mark displayed no visible emotion.

"Sure, I guess.  How?"

"They never moved her from Atlanta.  They were waitin' to process her out of the jail there and move her here.  She tried to kill herself, sliced her wrists real bad, ended up in the infirmary.  Then, when she got out, she got into it with some of the black inmates.  They cut her up real bad.  She tried to get revenge on 'em and got stabbed through the stomach.  She died almost instantly, before anybody got to her.  Seems like a lot to happen in only a month or a little more."

"Damn," Mark commented, still not knowing what it was that he felt about it.  "Well, shit happens."

"You don't care, huh?"

"I don't know, Dan.  I guess I do.  I mean, she was a person.  I care about all folks.  She was my half-sister who I only knew for a little while.  She used me, stalked me, stole from me over and over, tore me and Shylah apart, and in case you forgot, she SHOT ME!!"

"I know.  I was there, Mark, and in case you forgot, I saved your life!"

Mark sighed a half sigh that nearly resembled a short chuckle.  "Yes, and I owe you for that.  If you were the one that got killed, I'd make sure you had the funeral of the richest King in the world!  I'd make sure you got a casket made out of solid gold!  I'd mourn you for the rest of my life!  But a woman who did everything she could to try to destroy my life and take everything from me, sister or not, she gets killed, and I'm supposed to be broken up about it?  Sorry, but I'm not.  I know some part of me feels somethin' about this, I just don't know what part or what it is it feels.  I'm a little confused right now.  But like I said, shit happens!"

"Ok, Mark, but are you gonna take care of things or what?"

"Wait.  When was it anyway?"

"A few days ago. I just heard about it last night.  One of the guys I work with has a buddy that works for the Fulton County Sheriff's Department.  He got a call about it a couple of days ago.  I thought you'd wanna know.  So, are you gonna take care of arrangements or what?"

Mark pursed his mouth and made a sucking, nearly slurping sound of disdain and uncaring.  "Naw.  She's got her mama to do that.  Plus, she had lots of money she got from the estate.  I'm sure her mama will get the money.  She can pay for it.  It ain't my place to worry about her.  I'll pray for her soul, pray that she gets help, and maybe that God shows her some mercy, but other than that, I don't know as I feel any more about her than I would about Jimmy Joe Jim Bob down the road, if there is a Jimmy Joe Jim Bob down the road.  The point is, I just don't really care.  If that's cold of me, so be it.  If I have to answer to God for it, I will.  I don't have to take care of her.  I thought I might go visit her in prison one day and see if she'd changed, and we could make amends.  Now, I guess that ain't happenin'.  Oh well.  I owe her nothing.  She is not my responsibility.  I went through all of this and then some, all cuz one day, twenty years ago, my dad was in some restaurant and got horny for some waitress and took her to bed, behind my mama's back.  Now, tell me how that makes me the responsible one?  What did I do to be stuck with her, especially now that she's not around anymore?  If you wanna pay for a funeral for her, go ahead.  I'll remember her as the bitch that she was.  Like I said, I'll pray for her soul.  That's all I can do."

"So, you won't do nothin', huh?"  Dan shook his head from side to side, unable to believe that Mark, the man that he always knew to be so kind and loving to everyone, including total strangers, could be so callous.

"I'll tell you what, Dan.  I'm not about to go to her funeral and meet the woman my dad was cheatin' on my mama with, nor do I wanna take the chance of runnin' into the guy that Sara had attack me.  Well, maybe she didn't have him attack me.  I don't know.  But anyway, I'm not gonna see either one of them.  What I will do, since I know Sara had real bad mental problems, is donate a huge amount of money, in her name, to some kind of mental hospital or research or somethin'.  How about that?"

"Ok," Dan agreed.  "I guess that's somethin', and I guess I understand. 
But I also guess that you haven't heard the other news then."

"Other news," Mark asked, not sure that he wanted to hear any more news, thinking that it must be as bad as or worse than the previous.

"Welp, they got that guy, that Tim Redenour.  He's in custody as we speak."

"What," Mark demanded, nearly flying out of his chair.  "What?  How? When?  How'd they finally get him?  I thought he was protected!"

"Yep.  He was.  He ain't no more.  It turns out he was doin' all kinds of other stuff, and once his stepdaddy got arrested, he was fair game.  Mason Church is about to be indicted for embezzlement, insider trading, money laundering, and running a Ponzi scheme.  The Governor denied bein' friends with him.  He' s tryin' to create as much distance from Mason Church as he possibly can.  It was funny as hell watchin' him on TV.  He was all fidgety and nervous.  He knew that the reporters had proof he knew Church and was buddy/buddy with him.  He couldn't hold still and kept avoidin' the camera.  It was like watchin' Bill Clinton or Richard Nixon.  He's about as good a liar as either of them.  So, Redenour is most definitely gonna stand trial for assualtin'  you plus a huge list of other things.  You are gonna have to testify, and maybe Shylah, too, but the guys is guaranteed to go away for a very, very long time!  He can't even afford a good lawyer now!"

"Well, damn!  I guess good luck does keep comin'!  That's good.  I wanna see that dude locked away the rest of his natural life.  One of these days, he woulda killed somebody, thinkin' his stepdad was gonna get him out of it all."  Mark leaned back in his chair, smiling over the wonderful news of the latest legal affairs.

"Ok, well, I gotta get my ass home now.  My bed is callin' me.  It's as close as I got to a lover, and it does love me ever so.  You take it easy, Mark.  You need anything, anything at all, I'm here for ya.  Oh, and I just got my invitation about a week, week and a half ago, maybe a little more.  Hell, I don't know, but I got it.  I'm gonna be there.  I already put in to make sure I don't work that whole weekend.  That means I can get drunk with you and T.L. and make fun of you for finally gettin' hitched!  I'm just kiddin', sorta.  Shylah's a real fine lady, and you are one lucky man.  I'm real happy for ya both.  But I do gotta make one little request.  Make sure there's lots of gorgeous women at the weddin'.  I need to meet me somebody.  Make 'em young, but not too young.  If you can maybe throw in a few with great big bazoongas, tatas, tetons, whatever, please do.  Later."  Dan walked to the door and quickly turned, offering Mark a salute as if he were a superior officer in the  military, Mark quickly saluting in return.

"Crazy guy," Mark thought to himself as his friend stepped out of the room.

Everything that Dan said gave Mark a lot to contemplate, leaving him to wonder if he could, perhaps, be too uncaring and unchristian about the whole thing.  He knew that there should be a far greater part of himself that cared, no matter what Sara had done to him.  She was, after all, family, and she had problem for which she needed tremendous help that she never received.  Mark planned fully to keep his vow to make a substantial donation to help people like Sara, and to make it in Sara's name.  He just had to find the right place to give the money to and be certain that it would be used for good things.

Mark felt an eager and strangely overpowering desire to get out of his office, out of the plant, see Shylah, and get the prenatal appointment finished.  He desperately wanted to know that the baby was alright and just to be away from the place that he was coming, more and more, not to like and feel unneeded in, to have respite and rest.  He stuck it out, waiting until after one o'clock before leaving.  He hadn't done much of anything at all that day, nothing more than look over an inventory register,
orders for materials still to be received, and production estimates from the first completed weekday schedule.  Already, the new, weekend shift had begun for the first time in as long as Mark could remember.  He knew that his father had tried it for a number of years but had found that recessions led to overproduction.  Mark had every bit of hope that he and Don could turn that around and avoid what Thomas had encountered.

Everything looked good, almost too good.  The weekday shift produced a higher volume of product than they had in the six months prior to the plant's closing.  It seemed that there was definitely truth to the saying that happy employees work harder, and Mark was sure that he had done everything to keep his employees happy thus far.  Everyone, at least, everyone that was not brand new to the place, was adamant in their joy over receiving pay increases and even better benefits, the latter part being something that Mark devised at the last minute, giving everyone even better health insurance and making sure that Don worked toward improving the company's 401k program.  Everyone was given more sick days and vacation days, to boot.  It was the happiest that Mark had ever seen any of his employees.
  He was happy that they were happy, but he was unhappy in his own feelings of inadequacy and in his questioning of his place in the company.

Mark happily rushed from his office at one-fifteen and out into the parking lot, speeding through a drive-through to get food for himself and for Shylah.  It seemed funny but also beneficial and satisfying to be done with work so early in the day.  Shylah had already eaten but saw no problem in eating again.  She knew that the desire to eat constantly would only increase with the coming months.

After learning that their baby had begun to develop its upper lip and nose, that its heart had already undergone the most important parts of its development, that its fingers and toes were now prominently showing, that bones and cartilage were now evident, along with eyelids and the tongue, Mark and Shylah were alight with giddiness.  Shylah, however, soon felt her joy turn to contempt as she was chastised by her doctor for smoking.  She wished that she had been able to lie when asked about it, but she could not.  She was raised to never lie and felt unable, as if her mouth could not even begin to try such a thing.

On the drive home, Mark informed Shylah of what had happened to Sara and of what had happened to Tim Redenour.  Shylah showed great indifference to the news of Sara but tremendous joy over the capture of Redenour.  It only served to remind Mark all the more of his own callousness toward the matter of his now dead sister.  He wished that either he or Shylah, one of them, could feel a sense of loss and grief, but they could not.  Neither could feel any real feelings of sorrow about Sara's passing.  Mark hoped that his lack of empathy was not because of what Sara did to him, not because he did not care at all, and not because of his changing feelings toward his father.  He told himself that it very well could be because he hardly knew Sara.  She was a part of his life for less than two weeks before she shot him.  At the creeping thought of the shooting, however, Mark felt an uncontrollable anger build once more and felt like cursing Sara for it.

Mark suddenly had an idea.  It seemed that he and Shylah were forced to spend far too much time at home lately, Mark constantly besieged by headaches, both of them often relegating themselves to positions of boredom, with nothing much at all to do.  Sex was always a wonderful retreat from things, but it only happened so often and for so long and had only recently begun to return to anything resembling its former status, Mark finally being able to devote himself to the tasks at hand, but still a shadow of his former self.  He attempted to make up for his shortcomings with lots of offerings to please Shylah with things other than intercourse, a great deal more oral pleasure than was before offered, though he could not perform even this task nearly as well as he once did.  He knew that something needed to be done.  They had never gone away together, and he did not want to wait until the honeymoon to do so.  Perhaps, he thought, a trip would change things for the better.

Mark suggested that Shylah finally accompany him somewhere, anywhere that was not the "same ol', same ol'."  Shylah hesitatingly agreed to the offer but did not know where exactly it was that they should go.  Mark thought of taking Shylah to Atlanta and letting her shop until she dropped or of heading to Myrtle Beach or Savannah, anywhere with great food and great scenery. 

Mark settled on Savannah.  He had not been there in years, and he was pretty certain that Shylah had never been.  "Think about it, Baby.  We could take one of those carriage rides where you go look at all the old houses and cemeteries.  We could go out to Tybee Island and spend some time on the beach.  We could eat out at some of the outdoor restaurants.  We'll have a hell of a time!  We'll get the best hotel room we can find!  You can go shoppin', if you want to.  I might just sit around while you do that, but hey, you can buy some souvenirs for T. and your parents.  We get to get away, spend real quality time together, away from everybody and away from just sittin' around the house, and I think maybe we could, I don't know, maybe rekindle some of what we lost when I got shot, if you know what I mean."