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Authors: Titus Pollard

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BOOK: Living Right on Wrong Street
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“I know. I felt it. Now, I don't know what to do. Pastor got me really confused.”
Fontella disagreed, telling Monica that she was in more of a state of conviction than confusion. “Neither one of you is probably thinking straight. You should call the church and get a marriage counseling session.”
“I know my husband. He'll think counseling is ridiculous.”
“Pray about it. I mean really pray about. Fight for the sanctity of your marriage, girl. I know you love him.”
“Sure I do, there's no doubt about that. But I want more. I want to be able to admire my man.”
 
 
Later on that evening, Job and Monica were cooped up in the hotel room exchanging glances. It was the two of them, alone, without Larry and Fontella there to mediate.
Job was tossing between two opinions.
Should I tell her about Bianca? No. What good would it do?
Monica crossed her legs Indian-style in the bed and lifted her head out of her Bible. “Hey, honey?” Job felt salvation in not being the first to break the silence.
“Yeah, babe?”
“Oh, nothing,” she said. Monica dove back into her book.
Job sighed. The silence felt better right then. Tomorrow promised to be hectic day, so raising an all-night conversation on a complicated topic wouldn't have been wise. He decided that maybe a few hours of sleep would give him the answer he needed on whether to reveal his secret.
Chapter 23
... Cause me to understand wherein I have erred.
Job 6:24
 
 
Job and Monica got an early start on Monday morning. They packed what few possessions they had and checked out of the hotel. Before he dropped her off at work, she reminded him of her promise to reserve a suite at Nine Iron, and that they would have to rent her a car.
“What about watching our budget?” Job asked, recalling her sermon most of last week.
Her eyes widened. “You've got today to decide who'll keep our only personal vehicle and who gets a rental.”
“Why is that important right now?”
Monica adjusted the latch of her earring. “Just like today, Job. I have a post-op appointment with my doctor. I'll take a company car to the clinic, but just for today. There is such a thing as taking too many privileges.” She didn't step out of the Yukon until it was clear that she wouldn't be a slave to the only working auto and his work schedule.
Monica rolled out of the front seat and opened a rear door to retrieve her briefcase when Job grasped her by the arm. “Honey, I love you.” He meant it in every way possible. He wanted that week to start with a fresh perspective, and he didn't want her to go inside without seeing and feeling his sincerity. “I know a lot has happened, but we're going to be fine, I promise.”
She kissed him on the lips. In a breathless phrase, she said, “I love you, too, now you know that love feels better when we have some money in our pocket, now go off to work because I've got to get in here myself. Bye.” She patted Job on the arm, closed the door, and hurried off toward the administrative entrance. It wasn't quite the cordial send-off he'd planned.
No one else but Bianca could have met him at the side entrance of the school once he arrived, with a stack of papers as usual.
“You take the strangest avenues to avoid seeing me, Mr. Wright,” she stated.
“Believe me. What has happened in the last several days was by no means intentional.”
“Umm hmm.” She held the door open for Job. Her eyes were planted on him for what seemed to be eternity. “Some interesting things have taken place since you been off the scene. I don't have time to really go into it though.”
“Any hints?”
“Oh, no. It's nothing you have to worry about.”
Why did she say that? Now, I'll worry.
“Everything ... everyone, all right with you?” she asked.
“Oh yes, Monica and I are fine. Couldn't be better.” He thought back on the very last interaction with his wife. He remembered that the situation could, indeed, be better. “I hope I still have a job,” he joked.
“Is there any reason why you would think otherwise?” she asked. “I mean, nothing has come up that would make you think you were about to lose your job. Or is there something I need to know?”
Job wasn't sure how to take Bianca's questions; therefore, he decided to take a safe road in his answer. “Well, you know, I had no control over a fire. The district can't fault me for an absence because of that.”
Bianca cocked her head to one side and twitched an eyebrow. “No. I don't guess they can.” After Job cleared the doorway, she twisted past him and began to barrel down the hall. “Be sure to sign off on the substitute approval form. It's on your desk. Get it to me ASAP. That's the only way she can get paid.” Within seconds, she became a shadow.
To Job, that exchange was awkward, but he didn't have the time to concern himself with it because his pride and joy waited.
He entered his classroom to a crowd of anxious and inquisitive students who wanted to know all of the smoky details of his absence.
“I don't have anything to tell you,” he found himself speaking in a high-pitched tone, “because by the time I got to my house, the fire was already out.”
“Jesus!” came from a corner of the classroom, “how did you manage to miss that?”
Job felt the past push forward to the present and settle in his throat. “Okay, okay, students. Enough of my boring drama. We've got a lot of work to catch up on.” For the moment, he avoided unpleasant thoughts.
The routine of lesson plans, grading papers, and after-school extracurricular assignments had all come back by noon. Playing catch-up was easier than he had anticipated. During his lunch break, several colleagues approached him with assurances that if he needed their help, all he had to do was ask and he could consider it done. Near the end of the break, he was paged with a message that he had a visitor, waiting for him in the counselor's office.
“I'll be right down,” he said to the secretary.
He was met by a tall, robust, Caucasian gentleman who seemed to be straight-jacketed in a six-button, double-breasted suit coat, and a cloth badge where a pocket square would usually rest.
“Mr. Wright?” He didn't wait for a response. “My name is Jeffrey East. I represent the SIU for the Valley.”
“I don't understand.”
“The Special Investigations Unit for the Fire department.” Mr. East smiled. “I'm sorry to arrive unannounced and speaking with the acronym. It's a force of habit.”
SIU? Fire Department?
“Oh,” Job said, trying not to sound puzzled.
“Obviously, I could not call your home, and your recent absence from work kept me from talking to you here. So, I drove in from Mesa this morning with the intention of chatting with you, getting some information, today.”
Mr. East's explanation signaled Job to put his guard up until he had a few more details as to the purpose of the investigator's visit. “I'm forgetting my manners. Have a seat,” Job told him. “Pardon me, but why a fire investigator?”
“Well, Mr. Wright, every house fire is investigated, and each examination can reveal things—making them not as cut and dry as you might think.” Mr. East had a burdened glaze across his face. “We're called in by insurance companies when there's a need for clearance and further warrantee on a critical or poor risk.”
“My insurance company?” Job asked.
“Yes. Mr. Wright, this is standard procedure by insurance companies—”
“For what?”
“Arson.”
Job laughed. “Come on.”
“The evidence collected from your home gives us reason to believe the fire was set intentionally.”
Job's humor curled up, giving him an empty feeling. “I haven't done a thing. I assure you.”
Mr. East leaned back. “We have no current suspicion that you did. Again, this is standard procedure. And part of our investigation involves talking to the homeowner.”
“You're going to talk to my wife also?”
“She was questioned the day of, shortly after she was pulled from the house and stabilized. No need to bother her anymore.” He flipped through some documents attached to a clipboard. “We have her statement.”
“Oh.”
“You'd be surprised, Mr. Wright, how many people, no matter what their social or economic status, would attempt to defraud an insurer with a carefully concocted scheme.” Mr. East leaned in. “By the way ... where were you on that day?”
Job swallowed. “But I thought I'm not a suspect.”
“You're not; at least, not right now. But even you have to admit, Mr. Wright, your background and financials would give us reason to put up a red flag.”
Job felt an instant rush of anxiety. He looked around to see if anyone, other than the two of them, heard Mr. East's comments. He asked in a whisper, “You checked up on me?”
“We check everything. Insurance investigations are serious business. Our work helps to keep one of the most powerful U.S. industries afloat.”
There was a brief silence.
“I was thinking maybe you had seen suspicious activity around your home without realizing someone could be stalking the property for criminal activity,” Mr. East explained. “Anything would help.”
“I was at a school-related meeting.” Job didn't feel much guilt in that account, but he still had a queasy feeling from knowing his background had been checked. “You can confirm my whereabouts with Ms. Rizzo.”
“Oh yes, the principal,” Mr. East took some notes.
“Exactly.”
“Any enemies or someone you've had a recent quarrel with?”
“An enemy?” Job looked around the room, which seemed to close in on him. “I've had arguments with people before ... but my last one was years ago.”
“With whom?” Mr. East asked.
Job hesitated, but he finally told him, “A Delvin Storm, my former business partner. But that was quite some time ago, in a totally different part of the country.” He scratched his head.
Delvin? Nah. He's still in prison.
“Other than him, there's no one else I can think of.”
Mr. East scribbled a few more notes and mumbled Delvin's full name under his breath. “Okay. This just about wraps it up here.” Mr. East twisted his wrist to glance at his watch. “I have a couple more visits to make before I head back to Mesa.”
Reality set in. “My home was
set
on fire,” he said, although he didn't intend to say it aloud.
“By all indications, yes sir. And, if I were you, anything that can help me ... well, don't hold back. Right now we have no leads. Since you're not a suspect, and how professional this job apparently was, leaves me to question why would somebody want to do this? And if their motive wasn't for monetary gain, then what?” He held out a business card for Job.
After Mr. East left, Job returned to class with a relief that the interrogation was over, but with fear and confusion over who would want to do him harm. Could the arson suspicion be true? By the time he closed his classroom door and continued with Marketing II, he was busy trying to convince himself that the competent Mr. East was on a fishing expedition with no real accusation, no real facts, and no real evidence.
After the last bell, Bianca wormed her way into Job's room, asking about his eventful lunch break.
Job, who was seated at his desk, rose up to face her. “Did Mr. East get an opportunity to talk to you?” he asked.
“He did.” She peered at him with laughing eyes. “You know where you were that day.”
“I'd just as soon forget it, too.”
She pursed her lips. “And I know where you were that day.”
Job didn't want to question her behavior. He'd had enough peculiarity for the next twenty-four hours. “We both know where we were. And nothing happened.”
“That's right. Nothing.” She paused. “You tell Monica?”
“No. I haven't.”
Bianca turned around and headed out of the door. “Oh ... okay.”
Chapter 24
Be kindly affectionate one to another with brotherly love ...
Romans 12:10
 
 
Monica gathered up her work and briefcase, kissed Job, and walked away from their Yukon that morning. She hoped that what her husband said he would do and what he actually did would line up by the end of the day.
Just take care of me
, she thought.
No sooner had she unlocked her office door and dropped her belongings on the desk than Nami met her with a cappuccino and crème cheese Danish. “Hey, stranger. You finally decided to rejoin the rat race, eh?”
“If I stayed out any longer, Cory would be putting your nameplate on the door.” Monica smiled and accepted Nami's offering. “The company Intranet kept me abreast of the business you've been taking care of. You don't know how much I appreciate it.”
“You know you're welcome. I was just doing my job.” Monica took a sip of her drink. “So what else has been going on that's been kept under the radar?”
“Girl, let me tell you,” Nami said in a heavy Creole accent. She took a seat and began to unload the business behind the business, the interoffice gossip, and other cheeky goings-on at the Nine Iron. Her eyes were lit like French Quarter night life.
They giggled at the who, what, and where, and then made a pact to keep it all to themselves. “Well, I know I'm behind on everything. I guess we'd better get to work,” Monica said.
Nami opened her schedule book. “Don't forget. You have an afternoon post-op with your OB-GYN.”
“Oh, yes. That's at—”
“Two o'clock. A little after lunch.”
“Right.” Monica searched the top of her desk for her Palm Pilot, and then remembered that she hadn't taken it out of her purse that day. She found it, pulled out the stylus and scrolled to the contacts screen. “Before we get too bogged down, I've got to secure the executive hotel suite for an indefinite amount of time.”
“For when?” Nami asked.
“How about, starting immediately?”
“Can't do. It's taken for two weeks.”
Monica refused to be frustrated. “The hotel we were in was nice, very nice in fact. But it's become like a rodent's maze for me and Job. I've got to get something here, if at all possible. The Lee Trevino Suite?”
“It's available now, but you'd have to clear out in about ten days. Then it will be occupied for two and a half weeks. What about the Pitching Wedge Suite? It's spacious and available 'til kingdom come.”
Monica knew it was much larger than where they had been staying. And it was much more reasonable—along the order of free. “Book it.”
“'Til when?”
“Kingdom come.”
 
 
Dr. Najib was a mere ten minutes off schedule when Monica was escorted to an exam room and told to slip into a gown. She hadn't had time to turn past the front cover of
Woman's World
before the doctor entered.
After Monica felt the grip of a blood pressure monitor and the icy bond of a stethoscope, Dr. Najib gave her the prognosis on her out-patient procedure. “It's baby-making time now,” she said.
Monica considered all that had happened in the recent days and weeks. “You know, doctor, I'm not exactly sure having a baby is a priority right now.”
“I don't see a problem, Mrs. Wright. Everything is great. You are in great condition, I assure.”
Monica did a quiet chuckle at how pronounced Dr. Najib's accent became when she got keyed up. “Oh, no, I don't mean medically. I meant my mind, whether I'm psychologically ready for it.”
Dr. Najib brushed back her silky black strands. “You'd be surprised at the power the mind has. Powerful organ.”
“Yeah, but you have to be up to it.”
“This is true, true. I know personally that many people don't heal if they're mind had not willed it. You strong woman.”
“How do you know this?” Monica asked, doubting that Dr. Najib would come up with a satisfying answer.
“You got man's job, eh? That means you can do what you want.
If
you want.”
“I'll have to see.” Monica knew she would have to draw on her Godly belief for the right and true answer, not just one she could be satisfied with. Right then, the satisfying answer might have her living by herself.
Later that evening, Monica entered the Pitching Wedge Suite. A mound of luggage and boxes stared at her and a drowsy husband lay along the edge of the king-sized bed. She had asked Nami to call Job earlier that day to tell him where their temporary/permanent residence was. It was his job to have their belongings not meet, but beat them there. By the looks of things, the task had been completed.
In a lethargic voice, Job told her about the visit from the SIU fire inspector. “We should be getting a settlement check soon.”
Monica yawned. “Okay.” She wasn't disinterested. She was exhausted and a one word sentence was all she could put together. He would just have to understand.
He rolled off the edge of the bed and landed on his feet. “Did you hear what I said, honey?”
“Yes.” She wondered if he heard her the first time. For a moment, it made her think that he was up to something; something deceptive.
Job maneuvered between the boxes and suitcases, leaned into her chest, wrapped his arms around her, and pecked her on the cheek. His face broke into a smile. “How was your day?”
Job seemed to be making a valiant attempt at being the loving, caring, willing-to-listen-despite-my-own-fatigue type of husband. Monica could see this, but she voted her convictions in spite of his pressure to do otherwise. “Fine,” she mumbled.
“And, um, the results from the doctor?”
She yawned. “Just fine.” Her faith in God was weary just then. And her faith in Job definitely had to wait. “Good night, Job.”
BOOK: Living Right on Wrong Street
3.11Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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