The Mark of Cain
Starring...
Marshall Garnett-At the crux of his career, this R&B superstar ponders the question, "Was the price of fame really worth it?" when suddenly and dangerously the question is answered for him.
Collette Garnett-Seductive and spoiled, she cherishes and manipulates the power and money that comes with being a celebrity spouse.
Ressie Jackson-Collette's best friend who fears that her girl's penchant for fast times and her newfound lifestyle will hasten her path to self-destruction.
Malik-An eerily familiar stranger who enters the lives of Marshall, Collette and Ressie and forces them to confront their worst nightmares.
In The Mark of Cain, you'll find Divas, Drama, Drugs and Death alongside Music, Madness, Mayhem and Murder. This must read novel will take you inside the scintillating worlds of the entertainment industry and paramilitary underground organizations, detailing instances and scenery with acute and brutal honesty. Find your favorite reading chair, prop your pillows accordingly and prepare yourself for a literary roller coaster ride that will leave you gasping for air.
PROLOGUE
PERRY'S Funeral Home sits on top of a hill, on Mercer Street in Newark, New Jersey. It is located just east of Arts High School, one of the academically enriched schools in the city. Perry's was the "in" funeral home in Newark. Yes, funeral homes can be "in" just like a hot club or a popular church that everyone wants to join. If everyone who claimed to be a member of New Hope Baptist Church on Sussex Avenue were actually members, there would be no room for the church's most famous alumni, Cissy Houston, or her daughter, Whitney! The primary factor that made Perry's the premier funeral home was it's uncanny ability to cater to every social level in the city. High ranking politicians to revered and powerful church leaders as well as the average working Joe all went through Perry's to meet their maker. They were somehow able to handle this diverse group without damaging the esteem of the mighty or offending the dignity of the less fortunate.
This story is not about Perry's. It only begins there, on a cold February morning in 1963. Ms. Mae Etta Fairburn climbed out of a badly dented pickup truck driven by a man known as Junior Parnam. Mae Etta was in a highly agitated state, and that was just a polite way of expressing her actual state of mind. She stood outside of the truck adjusting her best wool coat and glaring at the rapidly moving truck as it backed away from her. Junior drove around the half empty parking lot searching for a suitable parking space, anything to place some distance between him and Mae Etta. Not only had he been ten minutes late in picking her up for the service, but he had the unnerving gall to show up with Bonita Walker sitting beside him. Mae Etta almost did not make it to the service. Everyone in the Dayton Street projects knew that she and Bonita were bitter rivals. They were not the type of women who actually hated each other, nor would they do anything to hurt the other. It was just that they competed for just about everything and that included the services of one Junior Parnam both in and out of the bedroom!
There is something about entering a funeral home that seems to stimulate the same reaction one undergoes when entering a church. A hushed reverence and the formality of speaking in muffled tones as though any type of noise could possibly disturb the dearly departed. Mae Etta approached a tall man dressed in a dark suit. He looked as though he had just climbed out of one of the coffins.
"Excuse me...we're looking for Ms. Jacqueline Garnett!"
The man looked at the trio as though he had life insurance policies on them. "Downstairs, first room to the right."
There were no more than twenty people in the room that contained the remains of Jackie Garnett. Mae Etta and Junior approached the casket as Bonita dropped off to greet some people from the neighborhood. It was heartbreaking. Jackie had been laid out in a dress that could only be described as a cross between a flea market's last call and a bargain basement special. To add insult to injury, the indescribable tan material had a small cigarette burn in the sleeve, just above the woman's carefully folded hands. Her makeup and hair were acceptable, but the total effect was one of abject poverty and heartbreaking sadness. Mae Etta said a silent prayer and patted the dead woman's hands. Junior stood in silence with his head bowed. Mae Etta turned and walked towards Jackie's two sons, almost tripping over one of the two cheap wicker baskets that contained flowers. The boys sat quietly and alone on hard wooden seats in the front row. That scene alone was more painful to her than viewing Jackie's body. How could anyone leave two adolescent boys alone at a time like this? They were only seven and thirteen. Mae Etta recalled on several occasions Jackie telling her she had no living relatives. What was going to happen to the boys? She had always assumed that someone would come forward and take them. Overwhelmed by needless guilt, Mae Etta embraced little Michael as she scanned the room. She recognized everyone there but an efficient looking white woman who could have had bureaucrat stamped on her forehead. It had to be Mrs. Zopar, Jackie's case worker. The young boys fate was no longer a mystery. Foster care!
Michael wrapped his slender arms around Mae Etta's neck and smiled weakly.
"Hi Ms. M." His body trembled slightly as he stared at her with large bright eyes.
"Hi baby...don't you worry none, everything's gonna be alright...you hear?"
Fear, bewilderment and a strange type of excitement struggled for space on the boy's small face. If she lived to be a hundred, Mae Etta knew she would never forget that expression. It was as if someone familiar had touched him at that particular point in time and had somehow rescued his frightened soul.
"Yes ma'am."
She reached over to the older boy Marshall who met her embrace eagerly. "How you holding up baby?"
"I'm alright, Ms. M."
Mae Etta pulled away abruptly. "What you mean, you alright, Marshall? How you alright with your mama laying out up there dead?"
Marshall released the woman and stared at her dry eyed and resolute. "I feel bad that my mama's dead and all Ms. M....I mean, I done cried till I just can't cry no more...you know how much I loved my mama, but I got to worry bout me and my little brother now...see that white lady over there?" Marshall pointed towards the woman who noticed the gesture and stared back at him like a disapproving teacher.
"Yes, baby?"
"Well, she's saying me and my brother are gonna have to go to foster homes after the funeral cause we ain't got no family that anybody knows of and we probably won't even be able to get placed together."
Suddenly the boy's steely veneer cracked and his eyes welled with tears. Instinctively, Mae Etta reached out and held him. "Oh baby, I'm sorry, God knows I'm so sorry...is there anything I can do? Maybe I can talk to her and you boys can stay with me."
"No ma'am, ain't nothing nobody can do for us now, but I'm gonna get my brother back. My mama always told me to look out for my little brother, and I always have. Maybe I'm too young to do anything now, but I will get my brother back. I swear that on my dead mother's grave."
The resolve in that young man's voice and face was almost frightening. Mae Etta had known young Marshall ever since his birth. He had often run errands for her and had a reputation in the neighborhood for being crafty and resourceful. She looked over at him as the minister stood and began his sermon. He sat stoic and stone faced, not even attempting to hear the empty platitudes from a man who did not even know his mother. He basically did not even acknowledge the small band of people who had come to pay their last respects. He had no illusions about the woman who had given him life. She had been the neighborhood drunk and an easy lay for a series of men who had left her nothing but two male children by different fathers who never contributed one dime towards their care. But for all her obvious flaws, she had somehow remained a sweet and gentle creature who raised two fine young men the best she could. In one of her sons, she had left a legacy that could have never been predicted, not in anyone's wildest imagination.