Under the Cypress Moon Read online

  As Mark and Shylah stood, their antagonist screamed, "If you want the little bitch, you can have her!"

  Mark, now so infuriated that he could hardly control his desire to jump on the man and beat him mercilessly, pushed him, decidedly, vehemently retorting, "Didn't anybody ever teach you how to treat a woman? How do you like bein' shoved, you little shit?! We don't like you stupid frat boys here. You're not welcome, so get the hell out of our town!"

  "Your town," the man snapped, shoving Mark back even harder. "I don't see a town. I see a bunch of fields where somebody put up a water tower and a lemonade stand you call a bar. Mayberry's doin' so good now that it got it some runnin' water and a paved road. Go ask Aunt Bea to make you a bean pie, unless you got you some cotton pickin' to do."

  "Let me show you how good Mayberry's doin'," Mark replied, quite calmly considering the extremities of the situation he now found himself a part of. "Let's go outside. We'll settle this like men, if you are one."

  "Kick his monkey ass, Tim," came a shout from somewhere among the crowd.

  "Oh, Tim," Mark added. "That's your name? That's real pretty for a woman as ugly as you."

  "You wanna fight," asked Tim. "Oh, we'll fight! Me and you!"

  "Really," asked Mark. "That's the best you could come up with, 'me and you?' I'll tell you what. I'll give you a bit to think of somethin' that actually takes you more than a half a second of thinkin', if you're able. I'll be outside, but don't bring your girlfriends. If you're really a man, you'll fight me by yourself, nobody else."

  Much to Mark's amazement, the rest of the people moved out of his way, pushing into one another to clear a path to the door. Shylah, beside herself, having no idea what to do, whether she should follow Mark outside or just stay completely out of it all, stood in complete awe, dumbfounded by this new development. She wanted to clear the air with Mark, to maybe fix some of the problems that she had created, but she couldn't find the strength.

  Mark waited casually outside of the bar for Tim to follow and the fight to ensue. T.L., meanwhile, had no clue what was happening. He heard people talking about a fight, but he didn't know who would be in the fight or why. He thought that it was probably between two of the college students or maybe between one of them and a local but definitely not between one of the college guys and his best friend. He didn't even know that his sister was cuddled up next to one of them or that Mark had found out. T.L. knew frighteningly little more than did Mark about any of the recent circumstances.

  Sure enough, Tim eventually followed Mark outside, along with countless numbers of his friends. A crowd gathered quickly around the two men to watch the spectacle. Of course, most were rooting for Tim, even the ones that didn't like him much. Handing his jacket to someone, Tim stood in readiness to defend himself should Mark attack. His stance pathetic, his seemingly ineffective posture screaming that he had little to no experience in fighting, Tim thought himself perfectly capable of showing "this stupid hick a thing or two," as he told the man who took his jacket from him.

  "I'll let you take the first swing. How about that," Mark asked.

  Tim was not prepared for this but gladly welcomed the invitation. He swung hard but swung without form or ability, his fist falling far short of Mark's face, though, of course, Mark was not dumb enough to just stand by and take the impact of the blow. As Mark dodged the punch, seeing Tim turned awkwardly and allowing himself full openness for reciprocation, Mark rammed his fist into Tim's stomach and then into Tim's chin, knocking the man to the ground, quite stunned and taking a long moment to regain his faculties and rise once more.

  Tim, now angry and embarrassed, lunged uncontrollably, but as he did so, Mark stepped aside and gave the man a big kick to the back as he passed by, sending Tim flying, face first into the pavement before him. Mark felt that he had won. He had suffered no injuries to either his body or his reputation. Surely, Tim had learned a lesson, or at least enough of one to know to give up. Mark began to walk away. He didn't know if he would just go back inside and find T.L. or maybe even find Shylah. He wanted to go home, yet he also wanted to settle some things or at least have some comforting words from a friend, and quite possibly, another beer or two to calm down.

  Unbeknownst to Mark, one of Tim's friends had handed him a beer bottle, which he ferociously drove into the back of Mark's skull. Mark soon lay unconscious and bleeding profusely on the ground. No one was there to help. No one that was present cared enough to get themselves involved with the law and call for help. With no friends around, Mark could possibly bleed to death. His body lying broken, bloody, and forgotten, Mark was unaware of his surroundings, unable to awaken, unable to have anyone tend to his wounds. The crowd quickly dispersed, one man flying through the door of the bar and announcing to all of the rest of the fraternity and all of their attendees that they must leave immediately, the bar emptied within a minute, many stepping over Mark's body, some nearly stepping on his body. The handful of locals left inside the bar were finally able to get outside and see what was the matter. The one of them who had witnessed the altercation called for help, perhaps, part of the reason for the quick departure of the rest.

  T.L. and Shylah, upon seeing Mark's condition, threw themselves to the ground, both attempting to make sure that Mark was conscious and engage him in speech. Shylah, cradling Mark the best that she could, completely regretted everything that she had done lately, regretted ever listening to her father. Had she done what she wanted, she and Mark would be together, and Mark would not have to face the possibility of violent death.

  Chapter 5

  Unfortunately for Mark, the paramedics were on another call and could not arrive for some time. They were doing all that they could to get to the scene, but in the meantime, no one knew how badly Mark was hurt or what might happen to him next. Shylah remained where she was, having been able to move part of her right leg under Mark, just enough to allow his face to rest on something other than pavement.

  It seemed no time at all before a police car came barreling down the street. First to the scene, perhaps, by good luck, was Dan Brady. Officer Brady went to high school with Mark and T.L. and was what you might call still somewhat of a friend.

  "T.L., Shylah," Brady began, slamming his car door. "What's goin' on here?"

  Neither Shylah nor T.L. could muster the slightest thought of how to respond. Neither had witnessed the fight or knew the exact details. The most that could be told was of the altercation inside the bar.

  "Dan," Shylah replied, "I don't know exactly. There were all these frat guys here from Valdosta. I was sittin' with a few of 'em. One of 'em got a little too cuddly with me and started a fight with Mark when he came to talk to me."

  "Why would this guy start a fight with Mark over you?"

  "Well," Shylah reluctantly answered, "I was seein' Mark for a while. We stopped seein' each other, my fault, I guess, but Mark saw me with the other guy and got mad, but he didn't do anything. He had some words with this other guy, but when I threw the guy's arm off, he got mad and pushed me down, and Mark came to help me up. They got into again, and they went outside to fight. I didn't see anything. I was still inside, and so was T.L."

  "So this guy, what was his name," asked the officer hastily, more than a little jealous of Mark at having secured a relationship with Shylah but just as concerned for Mark's well-being as were Shylah and T.L. Mark, with blood still pouring from his wounds, had glass fragments protruding from his skull. No one dared to attempt their removal, afraid of causing further harm.

  "Tim somethin'. Redenour, or somethin' like that. He goes to VSU." Shylah never raised her eyes from Mark while speaking to Officer Brady.

  "Either of you know where Ronny Dean is? He's the one that called this in, so I'm guessin' he saw what happened and can tell me what I need."

  "Can't say as I've seen him since right after I got here," shot back T.L., nervous for Mark, nervous that nothing could be done to catch Mark's assailant, really, just so distraught that he didn't know what
to do.

  Shylah shook her head swiftly, in agreement with her brother, just as distraught, agitated, and afraid.

  Brady quickly went into the bar to ask around for Ronny Dean Stirgis, but, to Brady's chagrin, no one else had seen Stirgis for some time either. Brady was left to go looking for Ronny Dean. He was the only local resident that had witnessed enough of the incident to give a report and perhaps, the only hope that there was of any ground being broken in regard to the entire matter.

  Climbing back into his squad car, Officer Brady called in his preliminary report, "Officer Brady reporting about the assault at the Muddy Water Tavern. The victim's name is Marcus James Crady, 26. I'm gonna go look for Ronald Dean Stirgis, the eyewitness. No one else at the scene witnessed the incident. What's the status on the ambulance?"

  "Officer Brady, they just finished their previous call. They are en route to the scene, e.t.a., fifteen minutes."

  Brady, now more shaken, believing that amount of time far too long, immediately fired back, "I'm not so sure the victim is gonna make it fifteen minutes. Get ahold of the paramedics and tell 'em they gotta get here faster! This man has bottle fragments in his skull, and he is bleedin' bad. He needs help, NOW!"

  "Ok, Officer Brady," came the voice from the other end. "I will let them know."

  Brady thought it all over for a moment and could not decide if he should try to find Stirgis or not. Someone needed to remain with Mark until the paramedics could arrive. As luck would have it, another squad car pulled up only seconds later. Brady and the other officer nearly exchanged heated words after Brady insisted that the other officer go looking for Stirgis. Officer Reynolds, having a few more years' seniority than Brady, felt insulted and would not take orders from someone he thought lesser than he.

  Reynolds firmly stated that he would stay at the scene, and Brady could spend his time trying to track down "that worthless drunk." Brady peeled away, angry at Reynolds, angry that his friend was lying helpless on the ground, confirmed now in his views that "all of those college punks" were nothing but trash who took advantage of small town hospitality.

  Speeding down the road toward Stirgis' house, Brady called in an A.P.B., just in case Stirgis could not be located. There was a good chance that he had either gone to another bar or was somewhere else, out and about, in his truck, but the likelihood of his having gone home was small. Surely enough, unsurprising to Officer Brady, there were no lights on in Stirgis' house, and there was no truck parked out front.

  "Where the hell can that damned drunk be," Brady muttered to himself, knowing that the answer to his question was incalculable.

  Officer Brady checked the three other bars in town, and of course, no one at any of them had seen Stirgis. The man had seemingly vanished into thin air at the one moment that he had a real purpose. While all of this was going on, the paramedics had arrived at the Muddy Water and had already loaded Mark into the ambulance. It did not take much to secure Mark's limbs, though he had to be placed on his stomach, in fear that the glass fragments would only embed more into his skull otherwise. Shylah asked to be allowed to ride along in the ambulance but, her not being Mark's wife or relative quickly put an end to the request.

  Shylah and T.L. ran as fast as they could to T.L.'s truck and sped off behind the ambulance, following closely the entire way to the hospital, a ride of ten minutes, even with the hefty speed allowed. The whole time, Shylah shook, mumbled, and stared off into the distance, completely inconsolable and unreachable. T.L. tried again and again to comfort his little sister, to remind her that she shouldn't be so hard on herself and that Mark would be fine, that Mark was a fighter, far too tough to be taken down by "some stupid college kid." T.L. told himself the same things over and over and wanted desperately to believe them, but he knew in his heart that the worst could very well happen.

  Shylah and T.L. watched in horror as Mark was moved from the ambulance to the hospital with a sheet over his head. What if it meant that Mark had died along the way, both thought at the same moment. They did not know that it was standard procedure to cover patients as much as possible to protect them from weather, bacteria, and other elements.

  Shylah, especially, was completely wrought with fear. T.L. escorted her inside and carefully seated her in the waiting room while he announced to the E.R. receptionist that he and his sister were there for Marcus James Crady.

  Shylah, beside herself, wondered how it had all come to this, how she had allowed this to happen. She felt as though she had caused every bit of this and felt it only right that Mark never forgive her, never speak to her again, never want anything at all to do with her. What she feared most, however, aside from what might physically happen to Mark, was that if Mark survived the night, he may write T.L. off along with the rest of the King family. It might ruin more than twenty years of friendship between Mark and T.L. It might ruin any chances that Shylah ever had at making amends for so many mistakes.

  "Hey," said T.L., placing his hand on his sister's chin and lifting it high. "Don't worry. He's gonna be ok. Trust me."

  "You don't know that," shouted Shylah, loudly enough that the other people in the waiting room took immediate notice.

  "I do know," replied T.L., shaken but not exhibiting his worries to his sister. He was always the strong one, the leader, the one that Shylah admired, looked up to, even idolized. He hoped that if he didn't let his fears show, maybe Shylah's would dissipate.

  The two siblings sat in utter silence after that, both worried but T.L. still hiding his true feelings. Shylah remained in a trancelike state. She could barely move. She could not speak a word, unless addressed.

  The night wore on, second after agonizing second, minute after minute, until several hours had passed by without a single word from a doctor or even a nurse. Every time someone popped into the waiting room through the doors in the back, Shylah's and T.L.'s blood pressure spiked rapidly. They could feel their pulses race. The anticipation was killing the both of them.

  Finally, at nearly four in the morning, a doctor came in with dried blood besmearing his smock. Clearly, he had been working on someone gravely injured. Shylah and T.L. felt a sense of premonition, a perilous preemptive order of chaos about the room. Surely, this was Mark's doctor. Surely, there would be bad news. Every step that the doctor took seemed to last for eternity. It was as if everything really did happen in slow motion.

  "Mark Crady. Is there anyone here for Mark Crady," the doctor shouted above the oddly loud TV. and the clamor of visitors.

  T.L. and Shylah jumped from their seats and rushed to the doctor. "Us," stammered T.L. "We're with Mark Crady. How is he?"

  "You friend suffered a pretty good blow to the head," began the doctor. "He has numerous lacerations about the skull. Some of the fragments of glass imbedded through the skin and even fractured a couple of small places of his skull. I think he'll be alright, but he's going to have to stay here for a few days for observation, and he's going to need surgery. We managed to remove all of the glass and treat the wounds, but I'm afraid that that is all we can do for him for now. We'll know more tomorrow when Dr. Armintraska repairs the fractures in your friend's skull. It will require piecing the skull fragments back into place with some small metal plating. I'm Dr. Samuels, by the way. If you have any more questions, feel free to ask for me."

  "Actually," retorted T.L., now relieved yet still very concerned. "And he'll have the plates in his head the rest of his life? Any chance they'll come out?"

  "No," replied the doctor. "Unfortunately, the skull is a very sensitive and dangerous part of the body to sustain an injury. The skull, though it will heal some, will never be back like it was. I know from personal experience. I have a lot more in my skull than your friend will have in his. What kills one person easily only leaves an injury like this for some others. Be thankful that your friend has a hard head. I'm not saying that facetiously. He has a very thick skull, and that may be the only thing that saved his life. A great number of others with the same injury have died
from it."

  As the doctor walked away, T.L. raised his eyes upward and said a quick, silent prayer of thanks. Shylah, on the other hand, did not know what to think. She was very thankful that Mark would be alright but still too shaken to calm down and too worried about what the future would bring.

  "Well, Sis," T.L. started, looking deeply into his sister's eyes, eyes that seemed almost catatonic, "There's nothin' else we can do. Let's go home and get some sleep. We'll come back first thing in the mornin'. Shylah? Shylah? Shylah!"

  With this, Shylah finally snapped out of her daze. "What?"

  "I said let's go home. We could both use some sleep. We'll back in the morning."

  "No!"

  "Shylah, come on."

  "No! I'm not leaving!"

  "What in the hell you think you're gonna do here? You can't sleep in the waiting room, and it won't do you no good anyway. Now, come on!" T.L. grabbed Shylah by her right arm, pulling her, almost dragging her along, but she planted her feet firmly, still refusing to listen or cooperate.

  Many thoughts raced through T.L.'s mind. He wondered if he should just leave Shylah alone and let her do whatever it was that she wanted. He thought that, however, would be a horrible choice. He thought that maybe he should call his father and have him talk some sense into the obstinate girl, but that, too, would be a bad choice. He knew that he had the strength to pick his sister up and carry her away or to even drag her like a small child, but he didn't want the bad attention or the possible intervention of others.