Under the Cypress Moon

by Wallace, Jason

  Aaron thought it funny and quite disheartening to be at the place where so many of his ancestors had toiled endlessly and without compensation, facing the master's scolding and whippings, a place that was bought and paid for with the blood, sweat, and immeasurable tears of people so less fortunate that they were forcibly obtained and detained. It seemed a monument of sorts to the foul and wretched history of the despicable institution that helped build America. Aaron kept his mouth shut on the matter, except for a slight mention of it to Darius and to his daughter, Kayla.

  Before so many hours, the great crowd dispersed and went on their way to their homes or wherever else they wished to go. Mark and Shylah were left alone, except for the lingering presence of T.L. who wanted to stay and have a few more beers with Mark in honor of his birthday. It was a tradition between the two friends that on their birthdays, no matter what else they had going on, they had to drink together, without others around. Of course, T.L. made an exception for Shylah.

  Together, Shylah and T.L. built a very large bonfire from the remaining cinders of the one started during the party, adding to it much dry grass, twigs, tree branches, paper plates and plastic cups from the party, and whatever else that they could find for fuel. Soon enough, the fire roared and crackled, sending tremendous fumes up into the night sky. It was a beautiful sight, all thought. It reminded them of their earlier days, especially Mark and T.L., so often sneaking away somewhere with as much beer as two high school students could get their hands on. They would always go to some secluded spot, far away from parents and from other prying eyes, light a bonfire, and break out the beer. Sometimes, it was only the two of them. Other times, when they had girlfriends and didn't mind the extra company, it would be four. When they felt really adventuresome, they would have large parties, with guests sometimes neighboring in the area of fifty.

  "Here's to you, my buddy, my friend, my brother who's closer to me than a brother," T.L. toasted as he clanked bottle on bottle, the clinking sound of it causing a serious cringe from Shylah.

  "Same to you," Mark replied. "Here's to twenty-three, almost twenty-four years of friendship. Here's to many more years of us givin' each other shit and all that. And," Mark continued, looking to Shylah, "Here's to many, many years of happiness with the most beautiful, most amazing woman ever! And here is to us havin' a whole bunch of little, mixed babies!"

  Shylah felt herself more embarrassed now than she had been all of that day. "Thank you, Baby. You know how to embarrass a girl. I'd drink to it, if I could drink. Here." Pulling an ice cold can of Coca-Cola from a cooler nearby, Shylah held it high. "Now, I'll drink to that."

  The rest of the night flew by in a general haze. The next day, Mark learned that his check for his father's insurance settlement had just arrived at Stan Walker's office. As painful as it was to get in and out of Shylah's car, Mark and Shylah excitedly rushed to see the attorney and get their money. It all took less than ten minutes to get into the office, get the check, and leave.

  Stan Walker advised Mark to hold onto the money, to watch it carefully, as it would still be months before the estate's probate period had ended. The total accrued value of the insurance policy was just over nine and a half million dollars. Walker took none of it, stating that it rightly belonged to Mark and should not be touched by anyone else, not to mention that as Thomas' friend, he could never do anything to hurt Thomas' only son. There were no taxes to be paid of the money, as all moneys paid into the policy had been paid from taxable income. Mark fully expected that taxes would be owed on the policy and was over-delighted to learn that taxes would amount to "double taxation," something that the IRS would never allow.

  As Mark walked out of Stan's office, check in hand, he could not believe his good fortune. Now, however, he wished that he had done a wire transfer instead of accepting a paper check. "To the bank, Baby, right away."

  Mark quickly put the majority of the money, all but one million dollars, into various accounts for saving, not only savings accounts but a substantial IRA account and numerous CD accounts. After depositing three-quarters of the remaining million dollars into his already existent accounts, Mark set up a joint account with Shylah, depositing into it two hundred fifty thousand dollars. "Now, Baby," Mark stated joyously, "You'll have all the money you need for whatever. You can pay all the wedding bills and whatever else. You'll have plenty for anything, even goin' shoppin', if you want to."

  As Mark and Shylah left the bank, ready to head home, Shylah decided to broach the subject weighing on her mind. "Baby, you know how my car is. It's old. It's not in good shape. It gives me lots of fits. I don't want you to think for a second that the money is important to me, but do you think maybe I could go look at a car? It doesn't have to be new, just better than what I got now. What do you think?"

  "Baby, I don't think you get it. That money is yours. As long as you keep the wedding stuff paid for and don't spend all of the money, it's yours to do whatever you want with. Ok? It's yours, Baby. If you wanna buy you a brand new car, there you go. That's my early wedding gift to you. Get whatever you want. Just make sure you're still gonna have plenty of money for other stuff. Go out and buy you a new..." Unable to think of what Shylah might want, Mark continued, "a new whatever it is you like."

  Shylah was overcome with joy, hardly able to comprehend such an allowance. Other women might be excited over the occasional giving of money to them, but Shylah had just been given one-quarter of a million dollars to do with as she pleased, yet ironically, she was not the type of person to be tempted by such things. She thought to herself that as long as the wedding was paid for, and she got a better vehicle to drive than her old, rundown Taurus, that was all that she could need. This was not to say, however, that she would not consider a shopping trip from time to time with her mother.

  With no further hesitation, Shylah drove to the only car dealership in town. With only a short test drive and her handful of questions easily answered, Shylah decided upon purchasing a new, 2014 Chevrolet Equinox. She could not believe it that she was spending nearly thirty thousand dollars on a vehicle, but she knew that not only was this totally acceptable to Mark, but it would keep her from having unreliable transportation, save her gas mileage, and be one more preparation made for when the baby arrived. It all seemed like her life was becoming the fairy tale she had so often heard of. She found her prince. She would marry that prince. On top of that, the prince showered her with gifts and affections and would be with her forever, raising their beautiful child together. It could not have been more perfect if a cherub came from Heaven and granted Shylah a golden decree from the Creator Himself. Actually, that would have made it all a bit frightening, but as it was, Shylah was not frightened a bit about anything that lay before her.

  Unfortunately, Mark had to be presented with a step stool to get into the car. Shylah traded in her old car and got less than two thousand dollars for it, but it didn't matter. She was too happy about the new one to be concerned at all. Mark, however, decided that he would not get out of the car until he reached home, and even then, it would have to be done very slowly and very carefully. Though it dawned on him, he was too happy that Shylah was so happy, to inform her that her car purchase would mean great difficulties for him to go anywhere, whether to work or to the doctor. The Taurus, at least, was low enough to the ground that Mark could get in and out of it with little trouble. His only hope of getting in and out of the S.U.V. was to always have a stool handy.

  Shylah was happy, and that was all that mattered. Everything else was secondary. Mark knew that he would keep going back to the E.R. to have his stomach tended to again and again if it meant keeping Shylah happy. Her happiness was all that he wanted, all that he could want. He would gladly die to keep that look of astonished joy on Shylah's face. All of the pain, the agony, the worry, the threats to his health, none of it mattered at that moment. He would devote every second of his life and endure countless atrocities and hindrances if they, in one way or another, allowed Shylah to r
emain in such a euphoric state.

  Chapter 30

  Mark's happiness soon faded into oblivion. More and more, he began to experience mind-numbing, unbearable, utterly excruciating headaches. Some of them felt as if he were being pounded in the head with John Henry's mighty sledge while others felt as though lightning were shooting through his skull from both ends, meeting somewhere in the middle of his brain. Some took nearly all of Mark's sight from him. Mark lie in bed for days on end, hardly moving from it for anything. Shylah was beside herself with worry over the ordeal, and it was only at rare moments that Mark felt well enough to get up and rejoin society. The majority of his time was spent in complete silence, with shades drawn tightly closed, no light on anywhere in the bedroom, and no sound allowed in or out of it. Mark had no intentions of shutting Shylah out or treating her with anything that might be termed cruelty or neglect. She was welcome graciously each and every time that she slipped into bed, at least, while Mark was awake.

  Mark slept so much over the ensuing several days that when he finally got up for the first substantial amount of time, on Monday morning, it felt as though he had slept for centuries. He almost expected the world to be entirely different and represent nothing that he had known beforehand. It was once again time to go to the plant and check on things, but Mark hardly felt able or willing to do so. This was the day that some, actually all, of the current foremen were to be there, ready to train their new co-leaders. The only absentee from the list of new trainees, Mark knew, would be Cyrus Donovan. Mark intended that a place would be found or made for Cyrus when he was able to come back, no matter what that might entail.

  Shylah, instead of her brother, drove Mark to the plant and even joined him for his meeting. Mark quickly made it known that no further meetings would be held, as none seemed necessary anymore, that his health didn't allow for it yet, and that as long as Don got everything done that he needed to and as long as all training was conducted, all would be quite well. As Mark and Shylah left, to head to the first of Mark's two doctor's appointments that day, T.L., Darius, and a few other soon-to-be foremen began their training in the operational procedures of the foreman, a completely new and exhilarating, yet quite worrisome undertaking for them. Training would be conducted, twice per week, for at least several hours at a time, until the plant was ready to open its doors once again.

  Everyone that was receiving training, T.L. and his father, especially, knew all of the machines in the plant very well and would have no difficulties at all in supervising their workers on how to run those machines or how to maintain them adequately. It was the paperwork, meeting, and direct necessity of dealing with employee complains and concerns that bothered them, not to mention the potential of having to deal harshly, at times, with their men and women.

  Don informed Mark, before he left, that the new elevator would be installed in two days' time, the same day that new machinery was to be installed in the new edition of the plant. The construction crew had worked so long and so hard already and had nearly completed the entirety of their work. There was even a chance that they would be done much earlier than had been anticipated. Materials had been ordered and were already beginning to arrive. Ads for employment had been placed in newspapers and on the plant's website. Phone calls, e-mails, and applications came pouring in. There were so many that Sam Turner and Kayla Jones had great difficulty in dealing with all of them and wondered if they might be able to hire a third HR person. All in all, it seemed that the revamping of the plant was coming along better than could have been hoped for and that everything would be operational very soon.

  Before Mark knew it, he was at the first of his appointments and had his stitches, once and for all, removed from the back of his head. They had been embedded into Mark's skin so long that he nearly forgot that they were there. It had been close to two months since the fight at the Muddy Water and Mark's subsequent receipt of glass shards in his skull. With the new injuries that Mark sustained, the appointment to check his old ones got pushed back more and more.

  The next appointment, however, would not be such an easy one, Mark knew. The appointment was with his neurologist, Dr. Maynard. Mark did not like the man much and did not like having to go. He already believed that the doctor would not be understanding of his headaches and dizziness and would likely tell him that they would pass with time. He would shove a prescription at Mark and tell him that there was nothing more that he could do, save run occasional and costly tests. Mark had no doubts at all that this would be so.

  Much to Mark's lack of surprise, the appointment went almost exactly as he had foreseen. Dr. Maynard, at first, told Mark that the cyst on his brain was now nearly the size of a quarter, yet he added that it was not growing. Obviously, the man had no ability to tell the difference in sizes. Mark thought that he should go back to school and learn basic measurements, maybe relearn basic math altogether. "How is it not growing if it was the size of a dime before, and now it's the size of a quarter," Mark vehemently protested, doing all that he could to fight the urge to punch the doctor.

  "Well, technically," the doctor paused for what seemed an eternal rest, "technically, it is, but it's not a threat. It hasn't ruptured. Unless you start having major signs of vision loss and hearing loss, there's nothing to be done. We can keep checking to make sure that the cyst doesn't rupture, but frankly, I've seen a million of these cases and never once had to remove one. You should be fine. It won't hurt anything. The surgery is expensive and risky. I wouldn't recommend it. So, how are those pills working out for you?"

  "You mean the pills that cost almost thirty bucks apiece, only come six to a prescription, and only faze the pain half of the time? Great!"

  "Half the time, huh? I've never had anyone complain about them before. How often do you take them?"

  "Not that often. I save 'em. Just cuz I have money doesn't mean I wanna spend thirty bucks for one pill that I'd take all the time. Sometimes, over the counter migraine pills work just as good or better, and they're as much for a whole bottle as those others are for one pill! So, if the pills aren't gonna help me with the headaches or the dizzy spells, and you can't do anything else, why am I even here?"

  "You don't have to be if you don't wanna be. We can run an EEG on you, if you want. I don't think it'll turn up anything, but that's all I know to do, short of surgery. You wanna try that?" The doctor seemed perplexed, not knowing what to do for Mark, not showing signs that he really cared but showing signs that he was uncomfortable in dealing with Mark's accusations and attitude.

  "What's an EEG," Mark asked, curious enough to want to know but already sensing that he would not want to try it.

  "An electro-encephalograph. It checks for scar tissue on the brain. If there is any scar tissue, it'd possibly explain what's wrong, but I haven't seen any signs of scar tissue on your MRIs. If there is scar tissue, we may be able to operate and remove it, but it's pretty rare for someone to have any. I'd honestly say you don't need it. There's really nothing more that we can do. I can write you prescriptions, but that's it. What do you want to do, Mark?" Mark could tell that Dr. Maynard was only humoring him and wanted him out of his office immediately.

  "You know what. The pills you prescribed don't do a damn thing. They are not worth thirty dollars apiece! If that's all you can do, there's no need for anything. C'mon, Hon. Let's go."

  Mark knew, before leaving the office, that he would never have anything else to say to Dr. Maynard and that he would never be back, no matter how much Shylah might protest. "Doctors," Mark thought as he left, "serve a purpose sometimes, some of 'em. Most ain't worth shit."

  Shylah could see the anger displayed on Mark's face and how distraught he felt. The doctor could and would do nothing for Mark. He wouldn't even try. Frustrated and angry enough to want to go back into the office and knock Dr. Maynard to the floor, Mark simply clenched his fists and let Shylah roll him to the car. With a footstool put in front of him and his wheelchair soon lifted inside by Shylah, Mark climbed into th
e front passenger's seat and waited to be taken home.

  Nothing seemed to make much sense anymore to Mark. For all of his immense financial and romantic blessings, there was something required in exchange, something always detrimental to his physical and mental health. He concealed himself, for days on end, in the bedroom, much as he had over the previous weekend. Occasionally , he had entire days when his headaches were minimal, but more often than not, they were consuming, fiery, like the all-encompassing flames of Hell itself.

  Shylah, in order to get her mind off of all of the worry about Mark, and to guarantee that enough got done in time for the wedding, busied herself with any and every task that she could think of, meeting with Selma Simmons day after day. With Selma's help, and that of a travel agent, it was less than two weeks before the honeymoon was booked and nearly everything else was lined up, only a few things left to do that would require either waiting or Mark's help. Shylah was quite pleased with herself for all of her many accomplishments, but she fretted endlessly about Mark's health.

  All that was left, by October twenty-fourth, to do for the wedding, was for Shylah to try on her custom-made dress when it arrived and make sure that it fit well, get dresses for her bridesmaids, get tuxedos for Mark, T.L. (the best man), and the groomsmen, and to buy wedding rings. The last part, Shylah would not do without Mark there with her. She tried, again and again, to get him to go with her, but his headaches had scarcely subsided in all that time. Invitations had been mailed, food ordered, decorations purchased, and just about every other thing that a bride contemplates and fears not having to her satisfaction. It all came together so quickly that it boggled Shylah's mind.

  In the midst of all of this, Shylah even managed to plan and pay for a large Crady Steelworks Employee Cookout, to be held at Mark's house. A nearby barbecue restaurant was hired to cater the event. A stage was ordered. Two bands, both specializing in southern rock and country, were enlisted. It seemed far easier to throw together that party, with so little time left, than it had been to plan the wedding with several months to do so.