Page 18 of The Millionaire Mortician

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.

When we finally turned to leave, I observed the environment and wasn’t pleased at how the cemetery looked.

It wasn’t maintained well. There was high grass and bushes all over, covering people’s loved ones’ graves.

It wasn’t a proper path to pass when coming in and out.

Overall, it was distasteful how they treated the dead.

“Leh we go and do wah ya parents would’ve done,” my aunt grabbed my attention and told me before getting in the car.

I wasn’t sure what she meant, but I knew I would eventually find out.

Back at the house, Aunt Patrice and a few of the other elders shifted the day’s energy. “Dis afternoon is for de people,” she announced with her tone firm and her eyes bright.

By two o’clock, the whole community was crowding the street outside.

Tents were set up with tables lined with food.

It had stewed chicken, pelau, macaroni pie, and corn soup steaming in big silver pots.

Coolers were filled with Solo, Chubby sodas, and cold-water bottles.

There were bags of snacks stacked high, ready for little hands to grab.

The whole setup was dope. It featured bouncy castles and face painting for the children, along with other games and activities to keep them busy and happy.

Mav dove into the action quicker than I.

He always had a softer spot for kids, which was wild as fuck to me since he was a straight dickhead.

I caught him at one point, handing out juice boxes, letting a group of boys crowd around him, and then bragging about who was fastest in the race.

He laughed like he belonged right there, like he’d never left this soil.

I admired the way our family managed to pull everything off. Everyone was fed, with no one being turned away and no questions being asked.

Aunt Patrice caught me standing off to the side and approached me. “Dias wah ya parents did. They hustled hard tuh feed their family and community. They stepped up when no one else did. Losing dem puh a dent in a lot of people’s lives. We miss their love and presence dearly,” she expressed.

That’s when it hit me. That day wasn’t about mourning. It was about our legacy being in action. My aunt’s voice replayed in my head when she said for us to do what my parents would’ve done.

As the sun dropped low, music picked up, and Soca spilled through the speakers as parents danced and the kids still ran circles around them.

The street was still alive. Our family’s name carried weight there, but that day it wasn’t because of fear or whispers about power.

It was all about respect, gratitude, and love.

I caught Mav’s eye across the yard. He grinned, raising a juice box like a toast. Shooting him a nod back, I smirked because the wheels in my head were turning.

After seeing everything and experiencing a warm feeling, I realized that if we stepped into Stephon’s plan, it couldn’t just be about moving weight. It had to mean something for the family and the community as a whole. It was going to be there or nothing at all.