Under the Cypress Moon

by Wallace, Jason

  "At least we have it. Hopefully, they don't find much more. Hell, it's not even ten o'clock, and they've found that much! This could eat us up, you know, if they do find more. We better get lookin' at the books again." Don's shaky voice displayed every bit of fear that was hiding in his large, seemingly obtrusive person.

  Before either man could move, though moving would have taken a lot out of Mark, as he was now completely steadying himself by holding onto Don's shoulder, the same nerdy-looking, squawking man returned. "Here are three more, Gentlemen, another one hundred eight-five thousand dollars in fines. For starters, you'll have to change out every single one of your furnaces for more modern, safer, energy-efficient ones. You should have complied with this a long time ago. How you've gotten around it is beyond me. You could have avoided much of this trouble had you done so sooner. You'll also have to put in a better CATOX system to filter out your polluted air. On both of those things, you'll have one month to get it going. We'll be back in that one month to make sure it's being done. The guys are getting toward the end of their inspection, and I imagine that there will be a few more infractions, but you're already looking at nearly two million dollars in fines. You have one month to pay those. Looks like you gentlemen are going to have a very interesting time between then and now." As the man walked away, Mark squeezed Don's shoulders, seeing the fury in Don's eyes as they turned toward a large pipe that leaned against the stairway.

  "Not worth it, Don. Let it go. You can't fix anything by bashin' him over the head. I can't run this place with you in prison."

  Sighing so heavily that Mark thought he might have a fit of some sort or worse, a seizure, Don did all that he could to calm himself. He wanted nothing more than to level the little man to the floor and watch him struggle for life but reminded himself time and again of the consequences, both earthly and eternal. "Thank you, Mark. I might've done somethin' really bad there if you weren't with me. Thank you. You're my saving grace today."

  "You just remember Betty Jo and the kids. They don't need you behind bars. The kids need their father, and I'm sure Betty can't just go about her life without a husband. You got people that need you and depend on you."

  "I know. I know. And I'd have to answer for it not only in this life but in the next. I can't do that." As Don said a silent prayer, asking God for forgiveness for his horrible thoughts of violence, Mark saw it and knew. Mark said enough silent prayers of his own to be able to tell when someone else was doing the same.

  "Mark," Don asked when his prayer was over.

  "Yeah, Don?"

  "These no good, lousy, somethin' or others are gonna be here for a little while longer. They can't fine us for goin' up to the office and havin' a beer, can they? Let's do it. I could use it. I'm sure you could, too. Let's just drink til we forget their stupid faces!"

  "Sounds good to me. Let 'em come find us when they get done. After you."

  "NO," Don demanded. "You go first. If you're dizzy, and you start to topple down the stairs, I'm gonna be behind you. You go, and then I go."

  Mark and Don did exactly as planned, concealing themselves in the office far above the production floor, popping the tops off of a beer apiece, Mark lighting a cigarette and kicking up his feet from behind his desk.

  "You got one of those for me, Boss," Don posited, his face still having not recovered from its sallow expression of earlier.

  "I thought you quit six months ago."

  "I did, but to hell with it. Betty'll kill me, but let her. I need one. So, you got one for me?"

  "Help yourself. They're on the desk there."

  "You know, mmmm," Don said as he took a deep puff, "you know... it's stupid jackass idiots like the ones downstairs that keep companies from being able to make real money and keep America goin' anymore. They can't create jobs cuz government know-nothings are always leveling fines here and fines there. You can't turn a profit because you're always kowtowing to everybody else. I think they oughta leave it all well enough alone and let us fix our own problems. What good does it do to fine us two million dollars? Where does the money go? It goes right into the politicians' pockets. It should be right here, with us, earnin' us some interest or put into the expansion you were talkin' about. We could create another hundred or two hundred jobs in no time, easy! That's hundreds of more families havin' food on their tables thanks to us. Now, we'll be lucky if we can keep afloat, unless we find some genie lamp."

  With a deep puff of his own cigarette and a big swig of his beer, Mark tried to reassure Don that all would be well. "We'll be alright, Don. It'll work itself out. I know it will. Look at me. Do you see me shakin'? My dad is dyin'? I got a cyst on my brain plus some head injuries, and one or both of those is makin' me dizzy and sick and givin' me headaches. I'm facin' millions in fines. I got two families that I've ruined, well, that my dad ruined, with his stubbornness. I got a girlfriend demanding all of my time that I've wanted for years, and I'm damned afraid I'll screw it all up with her, but you know what... I'm kickin' back. I'm havin' a beer and a smoke at ten a.m. To hell with this. We'll pay the fines. We'll move on. We'll fix. We'll expand. We'll hire. We'll do whatever we have to. We'll make it work, one way or another. We beg. We borrow. We scrounge, whatever, everything short of stealing."

  "You're right. Screw it. When those eggheads down there get done, I might just go home and spend the day with my wife and say forget this."

  "Well, we gotta at least get some calls made and see if we can get somebody scheduled to come in and do some work. I still haven't figured what to do about the general cleanup. I'm thinkin' of callin' everybody back to work temporarily just to clean and offerin' 'em all OT pay for it."

  "Hey, whatever, your call, Mark. As long as we get everything taken care of. I guess a little OT won't hurt us too much. If you want, I'll make some calls to all of the employees. What do you wanna do? Do you wanna make it mandatory or volunteer? Some of the guys might not take too kindly to bein' called in right after what just happened and with the accidents and all. I think makin' it a volunteer thing would go a long way with 'em." Don seemed quite adamant about the idea.

  "Yeah, I agree. Volunteer shifts, maybe just one eight hour shift a day where they can show up on whatever days they want to. If they wanna work one day on it and no more or wanna work every single day, up to them."

  "Good idea. I'll put the word out, right after I finish this beer."

  "Hell, I'm gettin' my second one and my second smoke, too. But you go right ahead. Do what you gotta do, and lunch is on me today, wherever you wanna go." As Mark popped the top on his beer and shoved another cigarette into his mouth, he kicked his feet back up onto the desk and leaned back in his chair, dangling his beer close to the floor and soon after, pulling it back to his mouth for a large guzzle. "Damn, this is good beer, Don. Where'd you get this stuff anyway?"

  "It's my cousin's private brew. He's been playin' around with it all for a couple of years now. He's finally got the formula down pretty good. I thought you might like it. It took me only a couple of 'em to get totally hooked."

  "I'll tell ya what, Don," Mark said, reclining so far in his chair that he came close to falling backward, "I'll call T.L. and ask him to spread the word. I'll tell him to call Timmons, Deek, St. George, Paulson, Nickels, and T-Bone Jenkins. You call all the supervisors. If T.L. and all those other guys hear the word, it'll spread like wildfire. We could potentially have eighty or ninety percent of our workforce here tomorrow. Let's tell 'em all they can show up whatever days they want, whatever hours, weekdays only for now. If they wanna come in and work two hours at a time in the afternoon, so be it. Anything helps, and doin' this will make 'em all have a little faith in us, hopefully."

  T.L. was overjoyed at the news, happy not only that he would be working but at the prospects of choosing his own hours and earning extraordinary pay for it. Word was spread by many, and before an hour had passed, more than half of the entire workforce had been notified by one person or by multiple people.

  M
ost were as joyed over the matter as T.L. was. Some expressed their deep disgust and talked about possibly quitting their jobs. News of this got back to Mark before noon, but despite his initial worry, he reminded himself that it was to be expected and that damage control must be done, at all costs. More than a few of the employees, however, stated firmly that they would be at the plant first thing the next morning. Mark and Don felt assured that they would have a substantial crew immediately.

  After a lengthy lunch paid for by Mark at a nearby diner, Don went back to the plant to make phone calls once more, this time, to set up meetings with construction crews for estimates on fixing the damages, as well as to call and set up meetings with a company specializing in industrial furnaces and with CATOX to have them custom engineer, build, and install a new industrial oxidizer system. Mark, on the other hand, grew tired of Don's constant requests that he go home, rest, and spend time with Shylah. Mark finally but somewhat reluctantly agreed to this and headed for home, luckily, remembering that he had promised Shylah a present of some sort. When he mentioned it, he had no idea what it might be but wanted to appease Shylah.

  Mark came home to find Shylah asleep on the couch and Thomas screaming loudly. Mark knew that it would likely not be a good day at all. He tried desperately to shrug it all off, let it all go, and just remind himself that it was what it was and must be dealt with accordingly but that there was no need to get truly upset. Mark quickly laid the flowers that he bought Shylah on the kitchen counter and trudged down the hall to see what his father wanted.

  "What's the matter, Dad? I'm here."

  "Where the hell is that damn girl," Thomas screamed.

  "What girl? You mean Shylah?"

  "Yeah, that damn no good colored girl. Where the hell is she?!"

  "Dad, are you sure you're thinkin' of Shylah?"

  "Whatever the hell her name is. That nurse. Where is she? I been yellin' for her for a long ... long... time. Ugh." Thomas had screamed himself nearly hoarse and could barely breathe any longer.

  "Daddy, there's no need to call her names. She's here to help you, and she doesn't need you yellin' at her or sayin' mean things."

  "And just where... ugh... have... you been... Boy?"

  "At the plant, fixin' some things."

  "Ok. Good... boy... Michael."

  Once again, Mark felt his heart slink down further as if it were attempting to break away and leave his body. He was no longer sure that he could endure the pain of it all but knew that he had no choice in the matter, even if it left him completely heartbroken.

  "Do you need anything, Daddy?"

  "Yes... Mic... Michael... get... me... sandwich... and... water... good... boy... Michael."

  Mark begrudgingly stomped back down the hall toward the kitchen and got the things that his father requested. When he got back to Thomas' room, however, Thomas was fast asleep. Mark happily left the food on the nightstand and left. He could now, hopefully, go wake Shylah up and spend some time with her, maybe even take his mind off of his duties and heartbreaks of being a son.

  Mark almost wanted to be upset with Shylah because she had been so upset with him for falling asleep while he was supposed to be tending to his father. Now, Shylah had done the same thing. Mark decided that there had been enough fighting and enough stress and, more importantly, that it would not matter anyway because fighting over such things with a woman could never end well. Shylah would simply make an excuse of one form or another and justify her actions. Mark did not feel like screaming, accusing, or he and Shylah refusing to speak to one another. He felt it far better to ignore the matter and comfort himself in knowing that Thomas had been tended to and that nothing further needed done.

  "Hey, Baby," Mark whispered as he leaned over the back of the couch, coming ever closer to Shylah's left ear. "Baby? Baby?" Mark got no response and after a while, felt as though drastic measures must be taken or that he must allow Shylah to continue sleeping. The first, which would require screaming and shaking, would probably result in a fight still yet, but the latter would likely end with Shylah waking rested and happy. Mark thought it over for a minute and settled on the latter. Even if there were no intention of causing great alarm or starting a fight, it would more likely than not go in that direction if Mark attempted to wake the woman.

  Once again, Mark laid the flowers down and let the situation remain as it was. There was no one to talk to, no one to spend any kind of time with, and nothing to do. With a beer in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other, Mark stepped out onto the front porch and sat down in the swing. Surely, he thought, Shylah would wake up soon and wonder where he was, if he was still at work or had come home. Maybe she would even see the flowers on the kitchen counter and come looking for him or call him. Shylah had a real penchant for calling and texting random things at random times. Mark kept his cell phone in his pocket, hoping that this might be the case.

  It hadn't even dawned on Mark, with so much going on all at once, that Shylah was supposed to take a pregnancy test and what the results might be. No sooner than the thought started to work its way into Mark's mind, his cell phone rang, but much to Mark's disillusion, it was not Shylah calling. In fact, it was a number that Mark did not recognize at all. He debated whether or not he should answer the call, but something told him that it was important and that he should.

  "Hello."

  "Hello. Is this Mark Crady?"

  "Yes. This is Mark Crady."

  "Hi, Sir. This is Harold Rensler at Rensler Funeral Home. I have a Mrs. Mary Jane Bedoe here, planning the funeral arrangements for her husband, Timothy Bedoe, who I believe was one of your employees."

  "Mr. Rensler," Mark interrupted, "You know me. You can cut out the formalities. What's goin' on?"

  "Alright. Well, Mary Jane is tryin' to plan the funeral for her husband. He had life insurance. Did he not?"

  "Yes. He had life insurance through the plant, but that money is for his family."

  "So, she is tellin' the truth when she says that you're covering all costs, right?"

  "Yes. That was our deal. I agreed that the plant would pay for everything. It doesn't matter what it is. He deserves the best, so give her the best. I don't care how expensive it is."

  "Good. Good. Ok, well, that was all I needed to know. So, how should we take care of these expenses?"

  "Just send the bill to the plant. You can put it attention Mark Crady or attention Don Birchum, whichever. We'll pay it as soon as we get it, in full."

  "That's great, Mark. That's sure a weight off of Mrs. Bedoe's mind, I'll bet. We'll total up the bill and get it out in the mail right away. You have yourself a good day there."

  "You, too, Mr. Rensler."

  Shylah emerged from the house toward the end of Mark's conversation, her mind aflutter with curiosity. "Rensler? The funeral home guy?"

  "Yeah," Mark answered, patting the seat of the swing for Shylah to join him.

  Shylah's hair was a mess. Her eyes appeared as though they were those of an insomniac, bloodshot and still very droopy and tired. Shylah quickly took Mark's suggestion and took a seat beside him, thudding into place as she did. "Hey, Baby," Shylah happily addressed, giving Mark a very big, very sloppy kiss. Mark could feel the wetness of Shylah's lips, not as if they were moist with anticipation of the ensuing kiss but as if they were greatly wetted from a drool-ridden sleep.

  "You've been droolin' again."

  Shylah gave Mark an aggravated look, one of disgust at his words that spoke volumes of her momentary loathing.

  "So what?! And you didn't answer me."

  "About?"

  "About who that was on the phone."

  "Yes, I did. You asked if it was the funeral home guy, and I said 'yeah.'"

  "Oh. I didn't hear you then. So, what was that all about anyway?"

  "I thought I told you that I promised to pay all of Tim Bedoe's funeral expenses. Mr. Rensler was callin' to verify it, and I told him that if he sends me the bill, I'll pay it right away, in full. That's
all, Babe. You look like you're still really tired."

  "I am. But I woke up and didn't know what time it was or if you might be home. I got up and heard your voice comin' from out here, so I thought I'd check. I'm glad you're home." Shylah nudged Mark's shoulder with her own, pushing him into the side of the swing.

  After nudging Shylah back, Mark threw his left arm around her upper back and squeezed her tightly. "You make a bad day better. It does me a lot of good to see your smiley, droolin' face!"

  "Will you shut up with the droolin' thing?" Shylah was becoming incredibly mad about Mark's jabs. "You drool, too! I've seen it! And you snore like you're a bear hibernating! So, don't make fun of me for a little drool!"

  "Oh, Baby," Mark replied with another squeeze of Shylah's shoulder. "That's why we're so good together. We can point out each other's faults and laugh about 'em!"

  "I'm not laughin' about this, Mark. It's gettin' really old, and I don't wanna be messed with right now. I just woke up."

  "Ok. Ok. Well, did you go in the kitchen at all?"

  "Not since I woke up, no."

  "Then you didn't see what I got you, I guess."

  "You got me somethin'," Shylah asked, her eyes lighting up as she leaned in closer to Mark, laying her head on his left shoulder.

  "In the kitchen, Babe."

  "What is it?!" Shylah was so excited that it filled Mark with great joy to see it.

  "You have to go look."

  "Don't do that to me! Tell me what it is!"

  "It'll ruin the surprise. Just go look, Baby. It's all for you."

  "It better not be somethin' for cooking! It better be somethin' nice! I might have to hurt you, Mister!"

  "Hurt me, Baby. Hurt me. Just go look and then come back. I'll be sittin' right here."

  Within a minute, Shylah returned, carrying her flowers in one hand, bedecked with a smile large enough to block out the sun. "You got me flowers, Baby? They're so beautiful! I love 'em! Thank you, Baby!" Shylah leaned down to give Mark a kiss, nearly pressing the flowers between them.