Under the Cypress Moon Read online

  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.

  At nearly nine-fifteen, Mark stumbled from bed, threw on a fresh shirt, and even managed to comb his hair a bit. He did not care much about maintaining an appealing appearance about him but did care about looking "like a bum," something that his father always warned him about, reminding him that Cradys "do not go out in public looking like they just got done plowin' a damn field! We make sure we keep our appearance nice and neat so people know just who we are." This was the most recent exclamation on the matter emitted by the old drunk. At all other times of his profession of such things, Thomas made some very similar statement, almost word for word, and quite often with no provocation to do so. He was so worried about what people would think of the Crady family, especially since they had a lot of money and many influential friends. Mark, however, cared so little about this that it rarely even entered into his mind.

  Mark hadn't seen the outdoors in days. Having holed himself up in his room for so long, he had forgotten what fresh air smelled like, what it felt like to be among people, or for that matter, what it even felt like just to not lie around mull over the same bothersome issue for days on end. He had a purpose now, at least for the time being. He had to see what it was that his instincts were grueling over, why they would not let him just rest and be idle in his own stupor. Mark started up his truck and headed toward town, knowing that either there really was something vehemently wrong that night or that, at the least, T.L. would not let him just leave the bar after seeing that nothing was actually wrong.

  T.L. would guarantee that Mark spent a night among his one true friend and possibly other not as true friends. Mark knew everyone who ever came into the Muddy Water or who worked or ever had worked there. Everyone loved Mark and was always at least very cordial to him. There were quite a few frequent customers that Mark considered more than mere acquaintances, but none that Mark felt all that close to, definitely nowhere near as close as he felt to T.L. and had once felt to the entire King family. Of course, Darius seldom came to the bar, and on this night, that was a good thing. Mark knew that if he saw Mr. King, he might feel inclined to let him have a piece of his mind and then some.

  Just the drive to the Muddy Water seemed like an odd chore. Mark felt so bewildered and bogged down by all of the recent stress that something so simple made him feel more than queasy. His hands sweating, his stomach churning, Mark drove further and further, nearing the edge of town, dreading what he might find at the bar. The town was small, and so was the Muddy Water. Anyone not familiar with the place might miss it, a little mom and pop tavern near the south edge of town. The signs weren't big, and neither were the spaces inside, but everyone who went there loved the place. You had to be a regular to appreciate its quaint atmosphere and possibly, the people inside, some of whom were known to be of a bit rowdier sort and either not people that one would ever want to "mess with" or at least, not respectable company to keep. The Muddy Water, however, was one of the few bars in town and was owned by a couple that were very close to the King family, thus the reason that Mark ever began to frequent the establishment in the first place.

  Mark pulled up to the bar and noticed that it already seemed a bit crowded for a usual Friday night. The parking lot was full, and there was hardly a place anywhere on the street, on the east side or the west, for anyone to park. Finally, Mark squeezed his truck into the one spot that he could find, a block away. Something really was strange, Mark thought. There had to be something unusual occurring. There obviously were many irregular patrons, so that alone, Mark knew, would make for an interesting and possibly, troublesome night.

  As Mark entered, the sight of it all confirmed his suspicions. The bar was so packed that there was no possibility of strolling through it like there was on other nights. Elbow to elbow might seem like a good way of describing it, but that would have been an improvement. There seemed no visible space at all, anywhere.

  There were far too many unfamiliar faces for Mark's general comfort. He tried to live by the standard that no one he ever met was a stranger, but this was not a night for such a standard, nor the place, Mark thought. He didn't feel like getting to know each and every strange face. Hardly a face anywhere in the bar seemed to belong to anyone over the age of twenty-one. Quite a few seemed very preppy. The Muddy Water was, so often, made up of a fairly even mix of white and black patrons, but on this night, the faces seemed predominantly white.

  Mark could barely see through the heavy and enveloping cloud of smoke that permeated throughout the entirety of the place. The town had passed a stricter public smoking restriction than had the state, requiring smoking in bars and restaurants to be kept to enclosed and designated rooms; however, no one ever enforced the rule in the Muddy Water. More than one of the regular customers was either a local police officer or a Sheriff's deputy.

  Everywhere that Mark turned, there was a cigarette or even a cigar in his face. Though Mark smoked, even this was far too much. It choked him, strangled him with an infusing and effusively overwhelming stench. The great cloud of it all forced Mark to squint and fight furiously for focus. Through it all, he finally made out the distant and evasive shape of his best friend, on the other side of a throng of people so intense that there would surely be no way of making it across.

  "T.L.," Mark shouted, jumping with his hand high in the air, hoping that his friend would see him and hear him. "T.L.!"

  T.L. could not hear a thing, the music so loud and the great clamor of voices drowning out all else in proximity.

  Mark repeated his attempts to gain T.L.'s notice. "T.L.! T.L."

  Finally, T.L. saw the hand waving in the air, though he did not hear the shouts. "Over here, Mark," the man replied to his friend, waving his hand in reply to Mark's.

  Pushing his way through the crowd, Mark grew easily tired of having to say, "Excuse me. Excuse me, please," everyone either not hearing his request or not caring. Obviously nothing but college students, they were so enthralled and mesmerized by their own pomposity.

  Mark made it through and found T.L. wedged up against the side of the bar, the two of them barely able to take seats on the only stools left available.

  "What the hell is goin' on here tonight," Mark snappily asked T.L.

  "Some frat from VSU came up here for some damn reason. I talked to one of 'em. They got in too much trouble down in Valdosta and wanted a safe place to go to and thought they'd find the smallest hick town around." T.L. seemed just as annoyed by it all as was Mark. Now, both of them were confined to their place. How they would ever get out, they knew not. Leaving the bar would be an absolute impossibility. "So, what's goin' on with you," T.L. felt compelled to
ask, having not seen his friend for some time, highly unusual for the two of them.

  "I've been at home, in my room."

  T.L. didn't even have to ask why. He knew. It was plain to see that Mark was very torn up over Shylah, over losing her. There was an unspoken language between Mark and T.L. Each always seemed to know exactly what the other was thinking. T.L.'s eyes began to swell up, almost emitting a tear as he thought of the heartache that his best friend was experiencing, a heartache that he couldn't help but feel as though he had contributed to somehow.

  The two sat in silence for some time, T.L'.s head resting wearily on his fist, Mark mostly looking down at the bar, occasionally taking a baby sip of a beer but not really feeling like drinking. This, too, was highly unusual.

  The atmosphere of the Muddy Water that night was so hazardous in every conceivable way. It held a depressing air that stifled thought. Mark knew that, without chance of evicting himself of the choking smoke and noise, it would matter none at all if he added to it. In this light, he decided to light up a cigarette, and soon, another, not long after that, another.

  T.L. almost never indulged in smoking, but seeing Mark in such a delirious and unhappy state, T.L. figured, "What the hell," and with no word said, took a cigarette from Mark's pack. Before long, the two had smoked so many cigarettes that the pack was nearing empty. It got to the point, however, that T.L. could take it no longer. Breaking the silence, he had to ask, "Are you o.k., man? You gotta talk to somebody."

  Mark sat motionless, barely even managing to turn his head to accept the address of his friend. T.L., unable to stand the boredom of the place and unwilling to let his friend suffer alone, continued, "Ok. You remember a few years back when I was seein' that girl, Dani? I felt like you do. I was so head over heels for that girl. I went through Hell to get her and to try to keep her. You remember what happened?" T.L. hoped that this might engage Mark in some sort of conversation, bring him out of his stupor a little, but it was all to no avail.

  Taking a brief pause, clearing his throat a bit, and searching carefully for his next words, T.L. carried on, "That girl was everything to me. I let her get away all cuz of some things other people said to her. But hey, look at me now. I still think about her, but it doesn't really hurt anymore. I'm alright. I'm doin' good. I'm here. I'm alive."

  This last part managed to finally bring a response from Mark. Lifting his head up, with a puzzled look in his eye, almost that of a madman ready to strike, Mark shot a hasty and slightly angry, "And what are you tellin' me, T.L.?! I'm supposed to just let her go? I'll be ok after a few years. like you?!"

  "You're missin' the point," T.L. responded calmly, not wanting to make Mark any angrier but hoping that he could still get through to him. "What I'm sayin' is this. You need to do what I didn't do. You need to fight for Shylah. You can't make my mistake, but even if you do, things will get better someday. If I was you, I'd go over to the table where she's at right now and tell her she owes you at least to be able to tell her how you feel, and maybe you'll even get an explanation. I know you already know what's goin' on with her, but she does still owe you that much."

  Mark thought over everything that T.L. had just said. It seemed to make a lot of sense. It was difficult to come to terms with, on either hand, but it still made sense. Standing up quickly from his seated position, Mark had no room to scoot his stool back but instead, fell backward, knocking into several people before he could catch himself. One of the men that Mark crashed into gave a look that said he might be willing to have it out with Mark, perhaps, have a brawl right there in front of everyone.

  Mark forced his way through the crowd, bumping into person after person, trying to be as polite as possible, but he finally gave up on the idea. No one was willing to make room or to acknowledge Mark's words. Without realizing it, turning to look in the direction of where Shylah usually sat, Mark didn't even notice that he had pushed abruptly against a young woman in a tank top shirt, his arm brushing haphazardly against the woman's chest.

  Seeing what he had done, Mark quickly begged the woman's forgiveness, but the woman saw no need for it. She was very drunk, a hanger-on of the fraternity, there for a good time and not caring about consequences or polite exchanges.

  "Damn, baby," the woman shot in a drunken fervor, "You're gorgeous!"

  "Thanks," Mark replied. He knew that, despite the woman's state, there was an element of truth to what was said. Mark knew that he was a good looking man, but it rarely went to his head. He didn't dwell on it. It only served as a boost to Mark's confidence on occasion but never as a defining characteristic or thought.

  "You wanna take me home," the drunk woman asked in an extremely loud and obnoxious-sounding manner. The bar was so loud, however, that had Mark not been right against the woman, he would not have heard a word.

  Mark was used to this kind of behavior sometimes. It sometimes gave him a good laugh, and at some instances, Mark even took advantage of such a situation. He was done with that. He wanted none of it. He only wanted Shylah. The mere idea of showing affection toward another or, especially, sleeping with another sickened Mark to his core.

  "No thanks," Mark responded, hoping to leave it at that.

  "What you mean, no thanks," the woman snapped madly. "You don't like me?! I'll do anything you want and even some things I bet you ain't even seen!"

  Mark knew that nothing he could say would even matter. He had to get away from this woman, had to make his way to Shylah. Suddenly, however, Mark realized exactly why his instincts had told him something was wrong. Peeking through the faint vestiges of clear view in the crowd, Mark saw that Shylah was seated at her usual table, not with her many friends but with only two friends and several men. Apparently, Mark thought, some of the frat guys found a way to gain welcome. With another sharp glance, Mark saw that not only was that the case but that the man seated next to Shylah had his arm around her, even had his face close to hers.

  Mark was infuriated. How dare Shylah do this to him, he wondered. How dare she treat him with such disdain, disrespect, and general uncaring disillusion. Mark fought his way through the crowd, now pushing people aside, causing more than one to shout, even to threaten. Mark didn't care. All of the frat guys could try to fight him, and it wouldn't matter, so long as he got to where Shylah was and got to say his piece.

  When Mark showed up at the table, the look on Shylah's face was one of more than just shock. it seemed to say, "Oh no! I've been caught! What do I do now?" Mark felt almost happy that he caught Shylah in her treachery. He wasn't happy that Shylah was doing this but definitely felt some pleasure in having discovered the truth. Sure, maybe Mark and Shylah had not spent a lot of time together yet, had not been together long, had even rushed things, but Shylah had unloaded her heart to Mark, had confessed her innermost feelings, her innermost desires, hopes, dreams, and even that she wanted Mark as much as he wanted her, that she wanted them to be together, hopefully, to even be together for a very long time. She said that she felt everything Mark felt, no matter her unsurety and inability in displaying this.

  Now, Shylah was giving herself freely to someone else as if Mark had never mattered. This was unbearable, unspeakable, unacceptable. Mark would not stand for it, knew that he could not, should not, would be a fool to even entertain the notion. "So, what's goin' on here," Mark shouted, partly just to have his voice carried over the loud music and tremendous clamor of other voices, but even more to show his displeasure and anger.

  "I," Shylah began, a lump in her throat, a deep pause in her voice. "I... I don't know what to say."

  "I don't think you have to say a damn thing," Mark snapped back. "I think this says enough."

  Mark thought of just walking away, but the anger within him wouldn't let him, nor would the endless sea of people. He felt a strong urge to lunge for the guy sitting next to Shylah, to grab him by his collar, yank him from his seat, maybe knock him around. Mark wasn't the kind of person to really do that sort of thing, but he wanted to. He wanted t
o so badly that it hurt. "I guess I didn't mean a damn thing to you, huh? I guess I'm a joke, somebody you can just use when you want somethin'. I thought you were better than that, but I guess you're like all the others." Now, Mark had said enough. Part of him still wanted to fight to convince Shylah that she should be with him and him alone, but his anger would not allow this.

  "Hey, man, chill out," came a voice that Mark did not expect. He realized that it must have come from the guy who still had his arm around Shylah. Shylah had not even bothered to throw off the embrace, and now, this guy, this usurper, this imbecilic thief in a turned up collar dared to address the man from whom he had stolen. "I'm havin' a drink with the lady here, so why don't you go find you somebody else? There's plenty of other chicks here. Go pick one, and leave us alone."

  Mark, licking his lips, unbelieving of what had just been said to him, knew three things. He knew that the whole situation was unnecessary and uncalled for. He knew that he could definitely win a fight against the guy sitting with Shylah, no matter how tough the guy thought that he was. Mark also knew that even if he did win the fight, he was in a bar filled with the frat brothers and other friends of the potential victim. Without a doubt, Mark would find himself inside a circle of swinging fists, all aimed in his direction. He did not feel like going to the hospital or spending days, possibly weeks, healing from his wounds. In a fair fight, few would best Mark, but there was no chance that a fight that night would prove fair.

  Mark had had enough. It was time to leave. Nothing he could say would make any difference with anyone. He felt as though his bed were calling him back, beckoning, welcoming. As Mark turned to fight his way back through the intense thicket of people and back to his truck, he heard the voice of the frat idiot that he already despised, "Hey. Yeah, that's right. Walk away, Bitch. Mama's callin' you home, boy."

  Shylah had no real interest in the man, but now, she wanted to get away, throwing the man's arm off of her and shoving him, stirring him to anger, shoving her back, knocking her from her chair, she falling hard to the floor with a thud, nearly stepped upon by the heels of many. Mark, having turned back, now seeing Shylah on the floor, threw others out of his way and rushed to Shylah's side, lifting her from her place on the floor. Some had cleared the way and allowed Mark in; others, however, only stood by, laughing hysterically at both.