Read Living Right on Wrong Street Online
Authors: Titus Pollard
Living Right on Wrong Street (5 page)
“Joseph Bertram Wright, we need to talk,” Monica said.
He came out of the bathroom, through the master and down the hallway. On both sides of him were stacks of boxes arranged in a way that would make the claustrophobic ill, having no apparent end in sight. For him, a corridor of death under her control. “Where are you, honey?” he asked.
No sound.
When he reached the only vacant area on the first floor, he found her seated in the breakfast room, another chair facing her. The '99 Sedona Jazz Festival T-shirt and cotton shorts she wore had a grimy, sensual mystique that stirred him despite his weariness, but her facial expression was unsentimental, almost comatose. His mind and libido retreated into neutral.
She motioned.
He sat, still in search for the reason behind her anger and wishing for release from the oncoming detonation.
“This is our first night here in Phoenix,” she said, keeping that same blank look while she voiced her words in staunch succession. “I want to get a good understanding before this night is up.”
He licked his lips, striving to come up with a response, but nothing came to mind.
“You haven't breathed a good twenty-four hours in Phoenix, and you've started living a lie here. Might as well have stayed in Louisville. You can't make our future safe if you dance around your past like you did today with those neighbors. You did the same thing the day we were house-searching with the realtor.”
Job wasn't prepared for questions from unfamiliar people and was unaware that Monica had paid such close attention. “Look, honey, we're going to be all right.”
“I talked to our attorney about the possibility of making things right with the school district. She told me that I should keep the matter to myself. It's as if everyone has problems telling the truth.”
“You asked Wendy for advice?” He sighed and looked away. “Man, I can't believe you did that.”
“She's our attorney, Job. I couldn't ask just anyone for the kind of advice I needed to help you fix this. You've put me in a position to have to hold your lie, and that's not fair or good.”
He tried to explain that his action was for the best, that she was making a big deal out of it. “I got the job. That's what matters.”
“With me, it's not about the end result, it's about the process.
How
did you get the job? And if you'll lie, you'll be prone to steal. Just like Delvin.”
How
did you get the job? And if you'll lie, you'll be prone to steal. Just like Delvin.”
At this juncture, he couldn't admit to her that he really knew about Delvin's business propositions, or that the thought of making additional money was intriguing at the time. “I wish you wouldn't say that. You're really intent on cutting me up.”
Monica crossed her arms. “You haven't heard the half. What you didn't concentrate on when you had the partnership was seeing to it that the business stayed clean and that crooks like Delvin didn't foul up what you had worked so hard to create.”
“Exactly, Monica.” He pinched his lips. “Remember that it was Delvin who did this to us. We wouldn't be in this predicament if it wasn't for him,” he said.
“What's so funny is that in the midst of it all, I still don't call moving here a predicament. It's got to be God's design. It has to be, because only He would have us land halfway on our feet despite the fool thing you did.”
“I trust God, Monica.” He said it more to be self-convincing.
Monica's gaze turned icy. She sighed and then told him, “You only trust yourself. And you should see that didn't work.”
Job cleared his throat, and then raised his voice. “Jesus ain't down here having to deal with school superintendents, Isabels, and Fon-tellas.” He relaxed and then apologized for shouting. “God has no idea what I'm going through.” He started pulling at the edges of some wrapping tape holding a box together. “But what's been done is done. Move on.”
Monica rolled her eyes. “God has no idea . . . you think God's dumb?” She went over to the stove and opened it, checking to make sure nothing was already inside. She then shut it, cut the oven on, and returned to her chair.
“We have a new life, Monica. A new life.”
“I don't want a new life. I want a
better
one. When we lived on Lakespur down south, we had a good life. But we don't live there anymore. Now that you've got me in Phoenix, I want a blessed life.”
better
one. When we lived on Lakespur down south, we had a good life. But we don't live there anymore. Now that you've got me in Phoenix, I want a blessed life.”
Job looked around. He saw blank walls, and even they seemed to be telling him that a turnaround was needed. They were a bunch of blank canvasses waiting to see how he would paint the portrait. Monica's words were on his brain. “I hear you, honey.”
“I really hope you mean it.”
On the following day, Job awakened to piled furniture, unpacked boxes, and a knowledge that he and Monica would be in close quarters as they worked to gain some order at 2333 Rong Street.
He had always contended that their home, no matter where, was his castle, but the layout was Monica's domain. That Friday was devoted to her telling him where to set a box, hammer a nail, blasé, blasé.
With few exceptions, that was the sum of their conversation that morning.
He tried breaking the monotony with light discussion that required her to respond with more than short answers. By lunchtime, he had run out of fresh topics. Disgusted with the silence, he decided to try a fresh approach to kicking off a chat.
“Look honey.” Job snatched a Bible from the bed stand and began shuffling through the pages for any scripture that may force her out of silence, but impatience made him give up on finding one. Content in relying on his memory, he said, “The Bible talks about going to bed angry. This place is the wrong place to let the sun be against you.”
Monica twisted her mouth, put her hands on her hips, and gave him a discomforting look. “And you're the last person to quote a book you barely believe in.”
Her words pierced his thoughts and soul. All Job could say was, “It was a joke. Lighten up.”
Monica let out a snappy, fake grin. She turned and went back to work.
That evening, she was courteous enough to let him know that dinner was ready, but the meal was silent except for an occasional slurp or chew.
Before they went to sleep for the night, she turned over and said, “I was unpacking some files in the office when I ran across something that I bet you've forgotten.”
Job was turned away from her, staring at a dark, blank wall, hoping that it could give him some relief. “What?”
“The '99 taxes you haven't filed.”
“I'm gonna get to it.”
“Um hm. That's what I'm talking about. You don't pay attention to what's going on around you. Frankly, it makes me sick.”
Job didn't respond.
With that, she rolled in the opposite direction, and they said their good nights.
Saturday was the day silence was broken. Job was resolute not to let the first waking hour go by without having an entertaining conversation or some interaction without the tension.
At Monica's every turn he was there, cracking a joke, asking a question, or making faces to make her laugh. Job struggled until one of his performances worked.
“Okay, okay! You're getting on my nerves. I'll talk; just give me some space,” she said.
Job granted her wish.
Around ten, he suggested they cruise Phoenix, take time away from unpacking and check out the city. No planned agenda, just run headlong into a suburb, see a few interesting attractions, and act on impulse.
To his surprise, she took him up on the idea. They ran up under a shower, donned color-matched linen outfits, jumped in the SUV, and took off.
It was a thirty minute drive down Bell Avenue to Scottsdale, where Job picked up a few items at a local drug store. For the most part, they window shopped.
They doubled back a ways, heading south down Seventh Street to Bank One Ballpark, home of the Diamondbacks. They picked up a schedule of the remaining home games. They stopped in the Blues Light Jazz Grill on Fifty-first and Indian School for a late lunch, and then spent a short time at the flea market on the Arizona State Fairgrounds.
Job glanced over at Monica, who had her feet propped up on the dash, flipping a city map from back to front. She eyed him without a blink, but she extended her hand. He touched her for a moment and then returned his attention to driving.
Job dug his heels into the floorboard of the vehicle. “Hey baby?”
“Um hm.” Her response sounded soothing, almost benevolent.
“We're going to pass right by Coral Gables Boulevard. Mountain River High is on that street. Let's drive by there on the way home. I'm trying to get used to going there from any direction.”
“Why not?”
Job considered Mountain River, in comparison to other public schools, as an ingenious piece of architecture. The exterior was made of material native to the Southwestâa mustard colored adobe hewn out of a set of hills. It faced away from the daytime heat and was covered by metal roofing.
He thought it peculiar that the gate was open with a few cars in the parking lot. Curious to see why the school seemed accessible on the weekend, he pulled in.
Monica frowned at him and popped her lips. “I thought we were only driving by. I should've known better.”
“We might get to see my classroom.”
Job parked the car and asked if she was getting out.
Monica adjusted her seat into a more relaxed position. “You're on your own. Leave the car running.” She leaned back, unbuckled her seatbelt, and turned on the radio.
Job went to the front entrance, knocked, and then realized the door was already unlocked. He heard a chirp as he started down the main hallway, guessing that it was an alert that someone had entered the building. He had passed a few classrooms that appeared to be used for science: Bunsen burners, rows of test tubes, the formaldehyde smell.
He was met by a gentleman who was about five foot ten with sledge hammer hands, sunburned skin, satin black, shoulder length hair, and a thick Spanish accent. He had a tape measurer on his belt and a broom in his hand.
Job's Spanish skills, one thing he'd have to work on if he were to survive in Phoenix, were limited at best. Somehow he and the custodian were able to come to a verbal understanding. His name was Enrique. He was using the remaining Saturdays as extra time to make last minute preparations before school began in August.
Enrique said, “Principal,” pointed down the hall and then said, “
Izquierda.
”
Izquierda.
”
Job wrenched his brain for a Spanish-to-English interpretation. He figured that the principal's office was nearby and she must be in.
Enrique gave him an, “Adios,” and went on his way.
The administrative offices were in a remote corner at the end of the central hallway. Job entered through the door, which was accented with a frosted glass. Inside the offices was a massive counter that measured about four feet high. There was a partition for three large desks, columns of file cabinets, and a monstrous safe.
Job smelled coffee. It must've been instant, with a hint of mint. There were faint sounds of someone on a phone. He followed his ears.
He was led to a woman who was shuffling a set of multi-colored papers and talking on the phone.
She halted her conversation when she noticed Job standing in the doorway, and hung up. “Mr. Wright,” she said.
Job's mouth hung open. How did this woman know his name? And who is she; a teacher?
“Oh, I'm sorry. I don't mean to startle you.” The woman placed the paperwork on the desk in front of her, saying, “When you applied to Paradise School District, you sent in a picture. The principal where you're assigned, always receives a photo of the potential employee. I'm Bianca Rizzo.”
This couldn't possibly be the principal
. He shook her extended hand and looked at her without appearing to gawk. He could see the Italian in her; the light cream skin yoked by burnt almond hair, the retroussé nose, thin lips, and honey colored eyes that were accented by a pair of red Art Nouveau spectacles. Her wide smile gave him the impression that she was personable, yet with an authoritative intellect. He couldn't get over her youthful look. She seemed only one year the other side of her high school diploma.
. He shook her extended hand and looked at her without appearing to gawk. He could see the Italian in her; the light cream skin yoked by burnt almond hair, the retroussé nose, thin lips, and honey colored eyes that were accented by a pair of red Art Nouveau spectacles. Her wide smile gave him the impression that she was personable, yet with an authoritative intellect. He couldn't get over her youthful look. She seemed only one year the other side of her high school diploma.
“I didn't expect you until Monday. Superintendent McManus called and told me that you would be moving in and getting settled this weekend. Dedication. I'm impressed,” Bianca said.
“Don't be so impressed, Mrs. Rizzo. You're the one here on Saturday actually working. I'm just looking around.”
“Ms., please,” she corrected.
“Oh, I'm sorry.”
“Don't be. I'll get married when I find the right man. Meanwhile, I'm concentrating on my career.”
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