A mother should never see her son buried, Salome thought from across the descending silver coffin. Yet here I am, a Louisiana girl swept off her feet by a charming old man who had hoped to find the world only to see it end.

She stared at the coffin with terror at first. With sorrow second. And as the silver trimmed, silver-sheened, silver plated coffin finally came to its last foot before the mechanical stand stopped, she looked over the side of her head and into Turnus’s eyes with a look of absolute and maddening anger. A kind of anger that kept her still and hostile, with quick twitches across her mouth and lips. Her chest barely rose as she breathed.

They were twenty miles away in the city of Jacksonville, to the place Junior had been raised. A stone angel watched over her and the crowd of one hundred. They were all, and she found this funny, the same people that had shared the very ballroom and guest rooms Junior had been murdered in. Some of them even still hung over.

But she was alone, alone with Turnus in this small time frame, as the body and the machinery snapped and locked and the people took the line to drop dirt onto the coffin of Junior.

Turnus looked back to her, not crying, not smiling, merely dejected and mournful. His head was tipped over to her, and she knew he knew she was glaring.

“He was my brother.” He said in a voice, unusually apologetic.

“He was my son.” She said. “And your brother killed him.”

“That’s presumption.”

Her face was flat and void of all expression save for the twitching and the wide-eyed thousand-yard-stare. She turned her head and heard the gas in her bones pop. Most of her body popped, with a compression.

The priest said some words of Christ and of His holy grace or some such thing as the people lined and threw dirt.

She felt a burn though did not move or show any sign of pain, though it came from her arm and was very real, a pain riding up her body like a snake. And as the preacher continued, her burn too continued, like hot oil splashing across her body.

It was only a fraction of the pain she felt for her son.

“Why aren’t your kids here?” He asked.

“They’re busy.” She said, without looking, without feeling. Her voice was low.

“You got it too, didn’t you?” He asked. “The mark.”

“I don’t want to talk about this right now,” She looked.

“Naw, no one does, especially at a funeral.” He said. “But it has to be done. A lack of talking got us in this mess in the first place. A lack of talking of secrets, a lack of being honest.”

“My son died.” She said as if it would be enough, enough to buy her some silence.

Turnus fixed his coat on his body. He wore a solid black funeral suit, with two dark shades to cover his eyes from the glare of the sun. He stood.

“Just so you know, I actually liked Junior.” He said. “He reminded me of someone I used to know and love. I’m sad he’s gone, and if there was anyone who deserved death least in this family, it was him.”

“If you feel that bad about it, why don’t you go on yonder to your brother and tell him to pay his price. If you feel bad, and all.”

“I can’t control him. No one can.” He said. “But you know that. As to your children. They’re aiming to kill him, aren’t they?”

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“Not just him,” Her eyes finally turned to him.

“Oh,” His breath was short. “Me too, huh? Makes sense, I stand in the way of your inheritance. As does Richter, as does Aenea.”

“That’s not it.” She said.

“Right, that’s just the convenient boon. Revenge is the aim, though, isn’t it? Without a trial either, that’s mighty harsh.”

She said nothing. But both knew what it was all about. The mark, the symbol of Mammon had appeared on them the night after Junior’s death. A score cut deep into their arm-flesh that at both, defined and cursed them. The inheritance of Thomas Wolfe Sr. For the mark meant one thing and one thing alone: that there was no heir to be a vessel for Mammon and thus, must be found. A vessel that could only be found one way, and one way alone, through the complete volition and subjugation and defeat of all others who bore the mark. A war between the Wolfe’s. For there could only be one to inherit Mammon, his power and his grace, and the casino itself.

So they must fight, must lose, must give up or decide.

With the linchpin dead, it was all up for grabs.

A fight, she looked over to Turnus who walked into line with the pile of dirt in his hand and who drizzled it over the coffin. I tried to keep this family together, and in the end, it did not matter. A mother’s efforts never matter, for children will be what they were always meant to be with our without my consent. Junior is dead. No doubt, they will all want a piece of what he had to gain. No doubt Richter will, and I hope him and wish him to try. I would love nothing more than to see him die, nothing more.

By then they were all done and the podium now empty. Turnus sat two seats away, looked at Salome. All of them really, looking at Salome.

“Do you have any words to share?” A funeral helper asked gentle-like.

She opened her mouth. No words were said. Then she stood quickly. Her dress covered her feet, so it appeared that she was drifting slowly onto the stage. Her wide, black hat, like an eclipse across the sun. It exaggerated the pits in her eyes with a dour shadow.

"My son was a beautiful boy." Her crooked head looked straight into the floor. "He did not do much or know much or really think much.” Her eyes snapped up. To Turnus, to the group of strangers. “I loved that about him. Strange, isn’t it? That a mother could admire simplicity of all things, but in times of chaos and times of perpetual grief, simplicity was what kept me grounded. I loved my boy for it."

She wiped her nose.

"My simple boy was too little for a world that demanded so much. Too innocent, too kind. And above all, too honest amongst liars and thieves. He was all the things we expect of men and women, that we pride ourselves to follow. That we be pitiable. That we be kind. Kind!" She slammed her hand onto the the flat wooden surface of the podium. "And kindness killed him.” Her voice, broken. “Kindness killed him. Kindness and the men who feed on it like parasites. Why is that? Why is it so hard to be Christian? To be gentile? We deem these noble things and pretend to value them, but reward the men who hurt us most. Is this our doomed state? To be of God but to live like the Devil?”

She stopped. Her eyes still staring out to a horrified, nervous group. Like the Devil. You all asked for this, I didn’t. And you’ll get your comings, believe me. And she looked down at Turnus. God and God alone will judge me and when He does, I’ll put my hands up and say the Devil moved me. I had no choice. And I’m sure he’ll understand. The Devil moved me, I had no choice.

She put her hand over her mouth and stepped down. A butler, or helper as it was, came up to guide her down the steps. The people whispered and gasped and all around filled the open park with the eerie sounds of a confused funeral.

"Get the car." She said. "Get me out of here.”

The helper, a young man with green eyes and greener sensibilities, lifted her up and walked her onto a truck that zoomed by the road. The tombstones around her stared at her as she entered the black truck, windows tinted to almost an almost onyx. She took her hat off, she was balding at the top of her head and her flesh was stained with brown spots all across. Like a true witch, almost broken and crude and ancient looking.

Her eyes were straight and narrow, as she looked down the roadless desert.

"He didn’t love him," She said. "He’s full of shit."

The young man nodded. He needed do no more.

"Well I got something waiting for him, him and Richter." She said candid and low and shallow. The words barely had any volume to them and they were not directed, not to the men in the car at least.

“Tell Floyd to tell Luanne and Jezebel not to touch the elevator. Tell them to not even think of moving up or down.” It’s as if the words weren’t even being spoken, for her mouth did not move and her throat did not jump and her eyes were still and staring off to remote lands, far, far away in the horizon.

“Maybe they’ll learn when I show them my souther hospitality,” She said. Her arm burned. “Maybe when they’re beaten and bleeding and cut and begging. They’ll learn. All of them, they’ll learn.”

She turned, wheezing. Her breathing, exasperated. Her chest filling with air, her lungs pressed against her stiff bones.

“They’ll learn the love and patience and anger only a mother could teach.”