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Authors: Titus Pollard

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BOOK: Living Right on Wrong Street
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“Nobody's thinking about escape.”
Stinson brushed his fingertips on his forehead. “I know what your problem is. It's coming to me,” he said, as if he was clairvoyant.
Delvin rose out of his seat, determined not to be disturbed any further. What he imagined was far from anything they could speculate
.
Delvin sat in his cell, realizing that he had spent more time in solitary than in his personal space. For his library exploit a few hours ago, he was ordered to the thirty-day task of dishwashing duty in hopes that he would, according to the warden, “Learn to do positive things with those bones and muscles.”
He sat on his bunk, an iron object welded to the wall with a generic mattress less than three inches thick, with his head buried in his hands. Delvin screened out the random hollering that rung out into the dead space of the three-story cell block. He garnered more hostility toward Job and the past events that had landed him in his present situation.
He stood, kicked the bowl of his stainless steel toilet-paper holder-sink combo, and walked over to the metallic square on the wall that posed as a mirror. Delvin peered into it. Maybe he would see that he was dreaming or that his release had been sped up by several days or years.
His tan was gone and his chiseled facial features had withered. He needed an exfoliating treatment. His Clark Gable mustache was in need of a clipping, and his salt-and pepper hair warranted a trim. All forms of enjoyment were gone. No Porsche, Victorian home, designer clothes, or blushing women begging his bidding.
Reality was taking its hold, as though the mirror became an analyst, telling Delvin that his own actions had reduced him to this dilemma. But he refused to be swayed. As he looked back on particular incidents, all of the blame couldn't be placed on him ...
He couldn't help but ask himself how Job was making out.
“Maybe next time you should read something that won't make you want to rip it up. Try this,” said the voice at the doorway of his cell.
Delvin looked away from the mirror and stared the talking head down.
The man couldn't have been any more than five feet five, about one hundred forty pounds, with a hairline that had withdrawn from the crest of his dome. Wax was where hair had been. His face was ranch-dressing white, his expression was calm and his demeanor somewhat inviting.
“Here, take this,” the man said, tossing Delvin a Gideon New Testament that was palm-sized with a Hunter green pleather cover. It flew between the bars, landing on the bunk. “My name's Shiloh Kimmons, the prison chaplain.”
“You mean—”
“Yeah, something like that.”
Delvin was going to call him the prison's God lunatic. “Who asked you to come see me?”
“No one has to ask—the first time. Most people here don't know to ask because they don't believe they need someone greater than themselves. So, I'll come the first time. After that, it's up to you.” Shiloh pointed to the Bible. “Read it and let the words stir your mind. And if you want, we'll talk later ... if you want.”
Delvin sighed in bitterness.
“Mr. Storm, you'll never find in the Bible where Jesus ever ran after a person, forcing them to accept what He had to say. His words are a light. And what better place to come to the light than in prison?”
“The warden said the same thing.”
“The warden's talking about his authority. What I'm talking about isn't in the same league, and you know it.”
Shiloh's words brewed inside Delvin. He was convinced that the chaplain was at least worthy enough to break his silence. “I'll get back to ya.”
“Remember that the Word doesn't need you, Mr. Storm. You need it.”
Delvin watched Shiloh walked off in a slow, almost inaudible pace until he was out of sight. Inside his cell, midway between the mirror and the Bible, the atmosphere engulfed his flesh. He felt as though a decision was being squeezed out of him.
All consciousness moved to Delvin's legs; they no longer belonged to him. In the prison's darkness, he moved toward the Bible.
Chapter 3
Man goeth forth unto his work and to his labor until the evening.
Psalms 104:23
 
 
On the following Friday, Job sat in the Paradise Valley School District's office, awaiting his opportunity for a final interview and decision from the Human Resources department.
Monica announced, during dinner the evening before, that Nine Iron Golf and Resorts had hired her as reservations manager.
After twenty minutes, he found himself across the desk from Assistant Superintendent Buddy McManus, as he thumbed through the employment file.
Buddy was medium height with a stocky physique and a jovial disposition that eased Job from feeling like he was trapped in a vacuum.
Buddy had taken advantage of every modern vanity technique with his mousse, slick, black hair coloring, and manicured nails with an onyx ring on his pinky. “I've got a few minutes. Let me show you around, Mr. Wright.”
He began to tell Job about the family pictures on his desk. Then there was a brief tour of the massive suite with offices, a library, conference room, and file room with electronic and hard copies. Buddy's office had a wall-length aquarium filled with Characins, African butterfly fish and other exotic water life. One wall was lined with a contemporary collection of Southwestern art by Ballentine, Applegate, and others.
Job pointed to
Dancers Thinking
. “Wonderful piece.”
“It's my favorite.”
Job thought about the times when he not only appreciated finer acquisitions, but could also afford them. “I would have to put out my entire salary to deck a house out like this.”
“C'mon, Mr. Wright, you ... umm,” he paused, flipping through Job's file, “were a real estate agent. Didn't you make pretty good money?”
“I've been down that money road, and it's overrated. What I'm getting ready to do now is for children and their needs.” Job thought that was a decent comment, since he was trying to secure a job.
“You know, I am curious.” Buddy rubbed the dimple on his pudgy face. “What made you decide to apply all the way out here, in Phoenix ?”
Job hoped the silence wasn't too obvious as he searched for an answer. “You know, I have several reasons for our move, but the main one is that my wife is from Nevada. We really wanted to come out West to be near her relatives.” He hoped that answer would keep Buddy at bay. It wasn't exactly a lie; not exactly the truth, either.
Buddy studied Job's answer with little concern. “I tell you what. I don't want to keep you in suspense any longer.” He closed Job's employment file. “Congrats, Mr. Wright. Your application's complete, and the school board has approved you to be hired. Welcome aboard.”
“I appreciate this, Mr. McManus. You won't be disappointed.”
“Mr. Wright?” Buddy's timbre changed from a nasal twang to a low resonance, as if every word counted. “I would be remiss if I didn't tell you that Paradise School District prides itself in having a caring administration, honest and dedicated teaching professionals, and a cutting edge curriculum. We have a low tolerance for news that scar our profession. Do your best, and make us proud.”
“I will,” Job said, refusing to read anything into Buddy's statements other than for general information. He glanced at his watch. “I've got to run. Me and my wife have an appointment with a realtor this afternoon. I'd better find us somewhere to live or my wife'll kill me.”
Buddy leaned back in his chair and smiled. “You better do your best to keep her happy.”
Job sighed. “I know this search will be harder than finding a job.”
It wasn't the fault of Hickell & Vonson's Realty that Job and Monica couldn't decide on a home to purchase. And Job didn't put any blame on himself, because his list of must-haves could fit in a single hand
.
The summer heat that day confirmed his desire for two items, and he made it plain to the broker. “Donnell, I need a garage and an excellent HVAC unit. If those things aren't in the house, we walk.”
It was Monica who was vacillating from one decision to another. She wasn't in Kentucky anymore; brick, wood shakes, and vinyl siding had been replaced by stucco and adobe. The house hunting excursion had taken them from South Mountain to Pinnacle Peak, from Deer Valley to Scottsdale. There was no hope in sight of snatching a property off the market. Donnell Hickell had demonstrated a wealth of patience, but Job wasn't as accommodating.
“Honey, can you tell us what it is you're not seeing?” Job asked Monica.
“I'll know the home for us when I see it. I'm not trying to be difficult, but this money we're spending is ours,” she said.
That point was well taken.
“There's a relatively new subdivision near Fifty-first Avenue and Bell. It's near a golf course, if you like that sort of thing,” Donnell said.
Job wasn't keen on the idea. He thought that it would be another vain ride with no results.
“A golf course?” Monica asked. “If it's got real grass, let's go.”
Job began to feel like they were mice lost in a grid. There was no getting away from the cacti, but the ground cover from street to street had evolved into a palette of desert colors.
“What's the name of the subdivision we're going to?” Job asked.
“Resi'Stanz.” Over the dashboard, Donnell pointed out a small radius of open sky. He told them that they were in north-central Phoenix and Fifty-first was a main thoroughfare to downtown. “Here we are.” Donnell grabbed his mobile phone and dialed a number. “I'm calling the listing service to get the gate code.”
It was as though God had told Monica He had found her name in the Lamb's Book of Life. With the guide provided by the brokerage firm, she spotted one listing then another, until they pulled into a particular cul-de-sac. “If this home looks as good on the inside as it does out here, this is the one,” she said.
Only five houses made up that circular pocket of asphalt, and the house she had her eye on was the deepest within 2333 Rong Street.
They spent more than three hours walking the grounds, testing the systems, prodding the adobe, and feeling the interior walls.
“By the way you're examining things, you seem to know a little about real estate,” Donnell said.
“He ought to, that's—”
“What happens when you read a lot of books,” Job interrupted Monica. “It's always been a fascinating subject to me. I might even go into investing one day.” He tried to shoot Monica a “between-you-and-me” grin, but she didn't seem to go along with it.
Donnell explained to Job and Monica that real estate investing was a hot venture in the southwest. He proclaimed that turning properties and buying rentals was more popular than stocks and bonds, thanks to infomercial folks with promises of no down payment. “Good luck on investing, if you ever try it,” he told Job.
Job thought back on him and Delvin, and his stomach churned. He didn't want to be involved in money schemes, legal or not. He peered over and saw Monica's stern, “we-can't-afford-investing” look; Donnell's comments raced right out of his mind.
Too much was going on for Job to make a decision right then. He felt the pressure of a salesman's pitch from Donnell. He wasn't fooled by the realtor's laid back performance. But the greater pressure came from Monica. She was silent. She appeared weary from viewing houses, but gripped in concrete and refusing to break away until she heard the words she wanted to hear.
Job caught himself picking at the buttons on his shirt. “I tell you what, Donnell, you've done a superior job of searching out a home for us,” he said. He began knotting up in apprehension when he eyed Monica, but he drew in a breath and said, “We may need to wait. My wife and I will let you know.”
Chapter 4
And they departed from the mount of the
Lord in three days' journey
.
Numbers 10:33a
 
 
Job didn't heed the warning from Phoenix natives about moving on peculiar days. A peculiar day was any day over ninety degrees and he defied good sense by choosing to move on the scorching Independence Day weekend.
On June Thirtieth, the Mayflower movers had packed every box and piece of furniture in Louisville and had gone on ahead, taking I-40 out west. But the Wrights' three-day journey took six because Monica wanted to veer off and take the scenic route, historic 66, from Oklahoma City to Phoenix.
After reaching the Arizona border, they called the movers, and gave them an approximate arrival time. They had already taken a two-day vacation. They drove up to the Resi'Stanz subdivision on July 6 to a torrid ninety-seven degrees. The movers were waiting for instructions to unload. The Wrights were drained from the trip, and were sure that their 2000 GMC Denali had been stretched to its mechanical limit.
“Okay, guys. Most everything is labeled, but if you have questions, just ask me or my wife,” Job told them.
Between munching on burritos and tacos, the three men had the eighteen-wheeler unloaded before nightfall.
Job, Monica, and the movers were on the front porch taking turns tossing pebbles at the “Sold” sign in the yard and finishing the last few tacos. To everyone's amusement, one of the movers made a comment about wanting some dessert and Sangria.
Someone must've rubbed a genie's bottle, because it wasn't long before that part of the meal was taken care of by a couple of neighbors.
“Hey. We brought some cakes and a warm welcome. We hope you like lemon—baked fresh this afternoon. After all, we didn't know what day you were moving in, so we had to keep a watch out until you pulled up.”
The lady making the grand presentation was about five-foot-four, chubby, with a pageboy hairstyle and China-doll skin accented by round, apple cheeks. She had an Edith Bunker nasal voice—minus the sincerity. Job gave a wave that was more of a brush off than a return of cordiality.
Monica slapped Job on the shoulder. “Pardon my husband's rudeness. I'm Monica Wright. This is my husband, Job,” she said, taking the cake. “Thank you so much.”
“Why, you're welcome.” The petite Caucasian lady introduced herself as Isabel Marriday. She pointed to the lady who accompanied her. “And this is Fontella Logan.”
Fontella chimed in, “Praise the Lord. Welcome to the neighborhood.” She was a statuesque African American with the same mid-thirties look and caramel complexion as Monica. She had a short Afro enveloping her face.
“So we do have a neighborhood-watch committee,” Job joked.
“Don't pay my husband any attention. He's having a comic moment that isn't funny,” Monica said. “The cake looks delicious. I'm going inside to see if I can find a knife.”
“Don't you worry about that,” Isabel interjected. She had another Saran-wrapped package in her arms and presented it to Monica. “I made some cupcakes too. Eat these and enjoy that big cake later.”
Monica took the cupcakes in her left arm, her right already holding the layer cake. “Oh my word. They look delicious.”
Job said, “Here, honey. Let me help you.” He took the cupcakes and removed the cellophane from over them. “Here, guys,” he said to the moving men.
Monica went inside of the house with the cake. Fontella walked in behind her.
One of the movers told Job that they would get a night's rest before going back to Louisville. “Here's a copy of the manifest and bill.” The gentleman tore away a canary copy from his clipboard. “Tell the lady over there, thanks for the dessert.”
The movers got into the cab of the truck, and with a little maneuvering, pulled the huge green and gold rig out of the cul-de-sac and subdivision.
Monica and Fontella returned from inside the house.
“You two must've had a lot of furniture to secure a company that big,” Isabel said.
Job refused to honor her overbearing curiosity with an answer. He made up his mind right then that he couldn't stand her. “So, which house do you live in, Miss Marriday?” he asked in a pretense of politeness.
“Please, call me Isabel. I live in 2300, at the entrance of the cul-de-sac.”
“Me and my husband live next door,” Fontella said.
Good
, Job thought. At least the I-have-nose-trouble, busy-body, nothing-else-productive-to-do, call-me-Isabel, wasn't right next door. He pictured her getting late night glimpses of Monica sitting in his lap, or peeping in his bathroom, trying to figure out the brand of cologne he used. “What about this heat?” he asked.
Isabel instinctively took out a cloth napkin and patted her cheeks. “It's rather hot, but you'll get used to it.”
“Sure we will,” Monica said.
“Fontella and I were wondering what brings you to Phoenix.”
“Don't put me into your wondering, Isabel,” Fontella said.
Monica laughed out loud. “We don't mind you asking.”
Oh yes, we do mind,
Job thought.
“We moved here from Louisville. My husband is going to start teaching this coming school year in the Paradise Valley School District, and I'll be working for the Nine Iron Golf and Resort Club,” Monica offered as an explanation.
“My husband's a member of that club. The one on Seventh Avenue?” Fontella asked.
“I start in August. What do you think of it?”
“Honey, let me tell you, I can't stand golf. But I go with Larry to an occasional get-together. It seems to be a nice place. You'll probably like working there. “
“We have wonderful schools here. The governor has come up with novel ways to finance each district. Did you teach in Louisville, Mr. Wright?” Isabel asked.
“Oh no,” Job said.
You ladies are asking too much about our business.
About the time Job completed his thought, Monica suggested that they all go inside out of the heat. “I don't guess we have to tell you ladies to excuse the mess.”
Isabel batted her eyes and said, “Of course not. We can help you with any unpacking, if you'd like.
Job did not want that to happen. Monica cleared her throat while Fontella turned her face in Isabel's direction. Nobody seemed to agree with that suggestion.
Job had pulled up four of the dining room chairs near the kitchen, and they all sat. Monica offered some water, which was the only available beverage, but everyone refused.
“God has apparently led the two of you to this area. You have to listen to the Lord,” Fontella said.
I'm on another path, whether it's God's doing or not
. Job looked at Monica. She gazed back at him, a curl in her lip. “I guess that's a good way of putting it,” he said.
Monica nodded her head, a sickly smile on her face. “Speaking of the Lord, can anyone tell us about any good churches in the area?”
“There are several good churches in Paradise, South Mountain, Surprise; just all over Maricopa County. What denomination do you prefer?” Fontella asked.
Isabel cut in, “Now if you're Catholic, you can go with me to Mass at St. Augustine's.”
“Thanks for the invitation, but we prefer a more charismatic service. We're black folks; we like to shout ev'ry now and then,” Job said, amusingly.
Isabel's face turned flush. “We have African Americans at our church. We even hear an occasional
Amen
.”
Job shook his head and an index finger,
no
. “I understand,” Isabel said. “Shout on.”
“You have any problems with a non-denominational church?” Fontella asked.
Job started to voice his opinion about what he had seen in, “New Age” churches. He went into an abridged filibuster on pastors that called their buildings “Worship Centers” and congregations that refused to take a denominational stand, but claimed to be steadfast on the Word of God.
Job paused a moment to contemplate his next phrase.
Monica shot him a disturbed look and beamed in on his tirade. “We're not bothered at all by non-denominational churches.” She smiled at Fontella. “We'd love to visit.”
Fontella grinned. “Great. Then let me invite you to mine. Our pastor is Roland Harris, the founder of Chapel in the Desert.”
“How many members?” Job asked.
After a brief pause, Fontella said, “I think we have about fifteen-hundred members.”
It wasn't the first time Job had heard churchgoers comment on the size of their congregations, and Fontella seemed to have that same arrogance, like she was comparing family size or something. Job asked her, “How can you be personable and be so large?”
Monica glared. Her face was beyond “please be quiet.” It was a definite “shut up.”
Fontella said, “We started four years ago with two-hundred, forty people joining on the first official Sunday.”
“You all have grown fast,” Monica said.
“The Lord's blessed us.”
“Even I've attended a few times. It was different from what I'm used to, but I enjoyed service,” Isabel said, apparently not wanting to be left out of the conversation.
“I'd like to invite you for this Sunday if you're up to it,” Fontella said.
“Sure, we'd love to go.” Monica cut her eyes at Job. “Wouldn't we, honey?”
Job rubbed the back of his neck, wondering what her hurry was. They had just moved into the area. Their feet hadn't settled on the ground good before her wanting to go cavorting with strangers. He believed that the Lord would understand their absence from church that particular week. Although he hadn't told her, he wanted them to take their time over the next couple days and do some unpacking, and on Sunday, watch an Arizona Diamondbacks game. The strangling look in Monica's eyes told him he'd better reconsider. “Oh, yeah. We'd love to attend.”
“You all can follow me and Larry this Sunday. We start at ten
A.M.
”
“Unusual time for a Sunday service, isn't it?” Job asked.
Fontella grinned. “I don't really know why Pastor Harris chose that hour as a starting time; I'd be interested in knowing. Anyway, we leave around nine-twenty-five every Sunday, because it's a little ways of a drive. And to get a parking space that's not in the next county, we need to get there kinda early.”
“We'll be ready,” Monica said.
“So, Mr. Wright, what are your thoughts on religion and different denominations?” Isabel asked.
Job's heart skipped a beat. He felt like asking her if her husband—although she hadn't said that she was married—knew that she asked so many probing questions of people.
Not your business
, he said to himself. He looked over at Monica, hoping she would chime in with a witty response and come to his aid. All she had was a void, unreadable look.
“You don't have to know everything in one sitting, do you?” Fontella asked. “C'mon, let the Wrights have a chance to finish getting settled before it gets dark.” She rose out of her seat, grabbing Isabel by the arm.
Job's heart pumped with an appreciation for Fontella's good manners. At the same time, Monica's crossed, pulsating arms seemed to drain the blood from his body as Isabel and Fontella shuffled off to their houses.
Monica turned in Job's direction, tapping her shoe on the sidewalk. “We need to talk, Joseph Bertram Wright, but I can't find the words just this minute.”
After the neighbors left them standing in their front yard, Job suggested to Monica that they spend the night in a hotel and awake fresh the next morning to begin the overwhelming task of unpacking.
She wasn't hearing him.
When they were inside the house, she dead-bolted the door with a sound that was no ordinary metallic click. She flipped her wrist with a malicious bend, as though it was his neck she was trying to snap. The next thirty minutes, she trounced between the great room and the kitchen, carrying boxes and exhibiting a variety of head motions, arm waves, and vocal inflections, but no understandable language on why she couldn't find words.
Job had no clue. He decided it was best to wait out the monsoon called Monica. He took a few boxes that had been labeled for the master bath and began emptying them, placing the toiletries, towels, and other items on shelves.
He had started arranging some of his personal grooming items—shaver, mortar and pestle, spare blades—in the cabinet under the vanity, his head buried deep in the opening. A few moments passed. He heard the soft steps of her shoes against the carpet and then onto the ceramic tile in the bath.
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