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.
"I'm Sara, Sara Kenner. I believe you and I are of relation, Sir. I believe you and I shared a father, a Thomas Crady, though I must confess, I hardly knew the man at all."
"Well, I suppose you are right, Ma'am," Mark replied, giddy with the realization of his hope. "I guess that does, in fact, make us brother and sister. Now, what do we do?"
"Well, to be quite honest, I do not know. I saw your... I mean our father only a half a dozen times in my entire life. I know hardly a thing about him or about the... our family. I knew that I should come here, out of respect, though I... I do not know how it is that I am to pay respects to a man that walked out of my life when I was eight years old, a man whose idea of love was sending his illegitimate daughter a check for her sustenance. I assure you, Sir, that I am not here for money. The attorney, a Mr. Stanley Walker, has informed me of what I am to inherit, and I will not put up a fuss or ask for more than what has been offered to me. I don't know if you and I are to be of a kindly way with one another or if we are to part as if we are merely acquaintances. Are we now to get to know one another and share a sort of bond? I haven't the faintest what to do, Sir." Mark could see the tremendous nervousness and fear displayed by the woman, hidden as she tried to make them.
"I would have to say, Miss Sara, I do not know either. Why don't you come on back to the house and visit a while? Maybe, we can figure somethin' out. I'd love for you to meet my girlfriend. Who knows? Maybe you'll come to like this place and maybe see how it feels havin' a big brother. What do ya say?"
"I'd like that. How about just for now that I call you Marcus? Or do you prefer Mark?" With a great flutter of her beautiful eyes, Sara melted Mark's heart. He felt a strange and almost uncomfortable but longing desire to get to know the woman and to one day call her sister.
"Mark is fine. I'm never too formal. Well, I guess tragedy does sometimes bring great miracles. You know, I wanted to curse my... our father's name for havin' another family, but this might just turn out to be the best thing that could've come of all this." Mark wanted to put his arm around Sara and make her feel completely welcome, and on that same note, make himself feel more comfortable with the idea of having a new family member. He refrained, as difficult as it was and satisfied himself with walking Sara to where Shylah remained seated.
Shylah could see the instant shock in Sara's eyes as she first encountered her. Suddenly, a sensational and overwhelming vibe came over Shylah as she took Sara's hand into her own and introduced herself. Something seemed greatly amiss, but Shylah had no clue what it could be. She immediately wondered about this strange new woman standing before her, this elegantly-clad woman only a few years younger than herself who moved with grace and what some would call a real hoity-toity demeanor.
Sara clammily accepted Shylah's hand and gave all appearance that she was pleased to meet her, but what it said to Shylah was that she instantly disliked her and did not accept her being with Mark. "Definitely Tom Crady's daughter," Shylah thought to herself as she pulled her hand away.
Mark once again invited Sara back to the house so that they could spend time getting to know one another, but every fiber of Shylah's being told her that it was not a good idea and that she wanted no part in it. She knew, however, that she would have to take part in it. She could not outwardly refuse to speak to the woman. Shylah found herself hoping that her brother, her father, her mother, anyone, would save her from the mess and take her away, anywhere.
Shylah reminded herself that she could, very well, be wrong about it all and that Sara could just be in awe of everything and overcome with grief, joy, or both, but no matter how much Shylah said this to herself, the same creeping feelings of doom and chaos overtook her. There was no way to say anything to Mark about it. Whether her feelings were right or wrong, Mark would not accept them. He was only now meeting his sister that he had never known of, and he would not be willing or open enough to hear any words that would speak ill of the said relative.
As mourners ushered their way into the house, some staying immediately after the burial service, some coming back after retrieving their contributions, Mark and Shylah took seats on the parlor couch, on either side of Sara. Shylah did not like being separated from Mark, especially by a woman that she did not know, but it was how Sara established the moment. Shylah thought that Sara had likely calculated her position so that she could squeeze out anyone who might intrude upon her conversation with Mark or take any attention away from herself. Mark, oblivious as could be, did not notice a bit of it. He happily sat with Sara, hanging on her every word, listening to her tell of her life in the northern part of the state, of her upbringing, of her stepfather, the medical doctor, of her one year in college, of everything that she knew of the Crady family, and so on and so forth. Shylah wanted desperately to believe any of it and to accept the woman, but every successive second around Sara only proved further that the attention had to be solely on her.
Shylah tried time and again to tune Sara out, to ignore her and focus on anything else. She thought of leaving the room, visiting with some of the guests, searching for her own family in the crowd, anything that might be better than listening to the intruder. When she overheard Mark ask Sara where she was staying, Shylah focused her attention once more, deciding that she needed to listen in, to look for any clues that might cement her own feelings on the matter.
"I am staying at a motel for the moment, dear brother. I am afraid that I do not have a place otherwise. I am taking time off from attending my university. My stepfather became quite angry with me for deciding against becoming a doctor, though I have not been able to come to any reasonable conclusion what it is that I might like to do. With that, the man, callous as he is, threw me out of his house. When Mr. Stanley Walker informed me of our father's passing, I immediately came here to wait for news of the services, but beyond this day, I do not have plans of where I am to go or what I am to do. Frankly, it does sadden the heart to think of such things." Sara seemed quite able and skilled at presenting herself as the victim of familial cruelty and uncertainty of life. Shylah could only shake her head at these words, thinking that next, Sara might ask to stay there, in the Crady house.
"Well, there are some vacant rooms here, if you need a place," Mark joyously chimed at his sister's pronunciation of her dire straits. "We don't even use the upstairs. You could have your pick of any room up there. You'd have the whole floor to yourself."
"Oh no, dear brother, I could not impose on one so sweet and benevolent as yourself. I would not hear of it. I shall find my own place soon enough, but perhaps, we could still, in time, come to know one another as kith and kin should. All I ask is that you will be to me the loving relation that I have so often longed for." Shylah sensed that Sara was only trying to present herself as the damsel in distress, the detractor from obvious over affections that does such things only to draw all the more close to the subject of their dastardly plans.
Luckily, T.L. showed up at that moment and was quickly introduced to Sara. Shylah felt relieved to have someone else there, someone to diffuse a bit of the turmoil going on in her own mind; however, as T.L. offered his hand to the young woman of questionable relation to Mark, his hand was coldly taken, shaken with clammy coolness. "Pleased to make your acquaintance, I am sure," Sara casually remarked, never looking fully in T.L.'s direction but quickly turning all of her attention back to Mark.
Shylah, upon seeing that she would never get a word in edgewise or have any chance of attempting to convince Mark of her thoughts about Sara, rose from her seat and followed her brother into the backyard. As Soon as Shylah p
ushed T.L. through the door, she let loose with the worries that were vexing her so deeply. "T., I don't like that woman. I'm dead serious. I do not like her! There is somethin' really really wrong here! There's just somethin' about her. That woman is gonna try to push me out of Mark's life, one way or another. I'll bet you everything I have on that!"
"You ain't got nothin' but a broken down ol' car and the clothes on your back, Sis."
"Maybe so, but I'd bet 'em on the fact that that woman has somethin' goin' on that Mark can't see. Do you think she's really his sister?"
"How the hell would I know? She could be. I bet Tom had more'n just one love child stashed away. I'd reckon the girl is probably who she says she is. You really get that bad feelin' about her, though. Don't you?" T.L.'s mouth hung open, awaiting his sister's urgent reply, thinking about everything that was just said and beginning to see the possibility of Shylah's worries.
"I get a horrible gut feelin' about her! Really horrible! It makes me kinda sick. That's how bad it is. I've only had that a couple of times in my life when I met somebody, and I got that feelin' about her the second she grabbed my hand at the burial. Even if she is who she says she is, I know somethin' terrible is gonna happen! I feel it in my gut and in my bones, T.!"
"So, what do we then," T.L. worriedly asked.
"Dunno, T. I just don't know. We wait, I guess. Let's see what she tries to pull here. If Mark doesn't see her for what she is... I just don't know. I wanna be proven wrong. I want to. I hope I am so very wrong about her, but I know I'm not. Sometimes, you just know. You know the sayin', 'go with your gut?' That's what I'm doin'. I'm goin' with my gut, and my gut tells me not to trust that woman any farther than I could throw her, and you know me. I'm not that strong. I couldn't pick her up, let alone throw her!" Exasperated, forlorn, and completely confused, Shylah grabbed ahold of a pillar supporting the roof overhanging the back veranda and slunk down to the ground. "I wanna drink! I wish I could right now, more'n ever!"
Under the Cypress Moon Page 35