Page 40 of The Millionaire Mortician
Mav sat up in his seat. He was quiet, watching me the way he always did when the final call fell on my shoulders.
I stared past Stephon at the window. Walking over, I peered out, looking at the highway with the cars speeding past. My mind was on a lot of what-ifs, while I also thought about the benefits.
Finally, I nodded once. “We’ll think on it.”
That was all I gave him. No promises were made. I told him just enough to keep the door open.
Stephon exhaled, like he’d been holding his breath the entire time. He clapped his hands together as a grin appeared on his face. “Dias all ah needed tuh hear, bro.”
We wrapped up our conversation with him and sent him on his way. Both Mav and I were tired and wanted to shower and sleep. Before I took it down for the night, I made sure to call Daija, but I didn’t get an answer, so I left a text message. I knew shit got busy on her end with late nights, too, so I wasn’t tripping. My main focus was on sleep at that moment, anyway.
The morning sunin Trinidad felt different. I was by the poolside sipping on coffee, just relaxing and mentally preparing myself for what was to come. It was the day of my parents’ death anniversary. Although every year it pained me that they weren’tthere, that time, it hit different because we were home where they were buried.
Daija called me that morning, but I wasn’t in the mood or right state of mind to talk. I was honest with her, and she respected it. By the time I made my way back upstairs, Mav was dressed and ready to go.
“Steph’s pullin’ up any minute,” he informed me.
It was perfect timing. I was already dressed myself.
I nodded. “Aight, bet.”
Not long after Stephon arrived, we hopped in his whip and headed to the house.
When we reached the house, it was only eight-fifteen in the morning. Roosters were crowing while birds chirped in the yard. Voices were alive, as it seemed everyone was up and about. Pots and pans were clanging in the kitchen, with a delicious aroma invading my nose. My stomach instantly started to rumble.
Aunt Patrice moved around early, her voice calm but firm, guiding everybody like she always did.
“Morning, morning, my loves,” she sang, hugging Mav and me. “Come and get somethin’ tuh eat before we head out tuh de cemetery.”
When we walked into the kitchen, breakfast was laid out. It was saltfish and bake with hot cocoa. Not wasting any time, Mav and I were fixed up, and we rushed back out into the yard, eating.
Silence took over as we enjoyed our breakfast. My mind was zoned in on the day’s events. That day wasn’t about business. It wasn’t about shipments or expansion. That day was about blood. The kind that raised us, and the kind we buried too soon.
By mid-morning, a small caravan of cars lined up on the road. Everyone piled into them, and before we knew it, we were on our way to the cemetery.
When we reached the gates,my chest tightened. Cemeteries have never unsettled me since too much of my life has been spent around death. However, that was an entirely different situation when it involved people close to me.
Getting out of the car, we walked slowly behind Aunt Patrice, who carried flowers in her hands as she led the way. Reaching two headstones side by side, we read our parents’ names —Nigel Marcano and Delicia Marcano— carved in the simplest form into white headstones.
My throat went dry instantly, and it wasn’t from the blazing heat.
Mav stood stiffly next to me with his jaw locked, but I knew him well enough to feel the storm under his skin. He always held a lot of feelings, but right there, I saw it all in his glossy eyes, threatening to come out.
I crouched down, brushing the dirt that had gathered at the base of the stones. My hands lingered on the names, as if touching them could pull their voices back. Memories rushed in of our mother’s laugh, and our father’s steady hand on my shoulder when I was too wild or stubborn. I heard them like echoes in the back of my head, and they sounded real.
“It’s been too long,” I whispered.
Mav kneeled beside me. “Too damn long,” he added in a low voice.
The family gathered around, some praying, some crying, while others stood silently in respect. The younger cousins didn’t know the weight of it, but they stayed quiet, sensing enough.
I pressed my palm flat against the stone while my eyes burned, but no tears fell. I never liked to cry or show too much emotion, but inside, it felt like something was breaking loose after years of being locked away.
Aunt Patrice started to speak, as the eldest of us all. She talked about legacy and about how proud our parents would be to see us standing tall, carrying the family name. Her words cut through me sharper than any knife. I wasn’t used to the feelings, far less for Maverick.
Mav cleared his throat. “Y’all ain’t here to see it, but we’re making something out of the name you gave us. Shit ain’t perfect, but we’re carrying it.” He bowed his head with his fists balled like he was trying to hold the entire world in his grip.
I stayed quiet because words didn’t feel like enough. My stomach felt weak as I fought back tears that felt fresh, like the same night we saw their bodies. Staring at their names, rather than their faces, wasn’t sitting right with me. I missed the fuck out of them.
