Living Right on Wrong Street (9 page)

BOOK: Living Right on Wrong Street
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Chapter 9
... Therefore suffered I thee not to touch her.
Genesis 20:6b
 
 
School had been in session for several weeks and Job's teaching space, he thought, was shaping up. His computers, internet, intranet and all, were up and running. Brand new text and workbooks were on the shelves. Posters with vocational messages and class rules had been strategically placed around the room. He even had a peace lily and an aquarium to liven up the place.
“I have a proposition for you,” Bianca said as she walked into Job's classroom.
The door wasn't open. Can you knock? Okay. You are the principal
.
He stopped jotting the next day's lesson on the dry erase board and swallowed the shock of her presence. He wanted some clarification out of her quickly, before he got the wrong impression.
“Wow.” She strolled along the walls of his classroom, turning on occasion, giving an approving look.
Job didn't want to be overconfident of his teaching at that point. Compared to the rest of Mountain River's Business Ed faculty, he was a veteran in the corporate community, but an apprentice in the classroom. A critique of his instruction techniques had to be around the corner. Even more, he wanted to know, with some reservation, the basis to her proposition.
Bianca concluded her parade around the classroom. She stopped and leaned against a corner of his desk with her arms folded and her legs crossed at the ankles. “How're you adjusting here? Is everything all right?”
He walked over to the opposite corner of the desk and put his pen and lesson book down. “Truthfully, I'm making out pretty good. No real problems to speak of.”
“Making out pretty good,” she repeated.
Job wasn't sure whether the soft, pampered look she gave him was real or a daydream. “Yeah.”
Bianca eyes seemed fixated on him. “I'm glad. I don't want you to ever think that we don't care about our employees. We want you comfortable. To feel like you can talk to us when you have a problem. Work-related or otherwise.”
Job could do nothing but drift. Bianca's body movements and words seemed premeditated. Not a syllable wasted. She took charge in a corporate, but boudoir sort of way.
“I know you're in your first year teaching here, Mr. Wright. But I've been watching you.”
“Thanks.”
“As is normal procedure, and for your protection, your duties have to be limited in your beginning years. It gives you time to hone your skills as a teacher. So, I've decided to give you only one assignment that pays one-fifth above your regular salary.”
“I appreciate it, Ms. Rizzo.”
“It's just us talking right now. You can call me Bianca,” she declared. Her face showed that she meant just that. “Anyway. I've decided to assign you to the VOES program.” She unfolded her arms, revealing a large envelope that strained at the folds. She placed it on the desk in front of him.
Job opened the package and pulled out the contents to a point where he could glimpse, but not take the materials out of order. Student application forms, parental consent, course descriptions—much too much for a five-second look. Each sheet or pamphlet had the initials VOES at the top. “What in the world is that?” he asked about the program name.
“It's the Vocational Occupational Educational Series. Our students receive opportunities to get hands-on training and compete in contests from the regional to national scale.”
“Why me?”
“Because your résumé includes years of practical business experience. You were the obvious choice.”
Job's heart rate leaped. His hands began clamming up, fingertips dropped in temperature. “Résumé?”
“Why, yes. Your workforce experience can be a testimony to the students who will participate in the group.”
I can't seem to get away from my real estate mess
.
“Not every student is college material. But every student needs practical preparation, which is the whole purpose of the VOES program.”
Job mentally let off some tension. “Oh. I see.”
“Superintendent McManus and I have discussed this extensively. You're the man for the job. Being the freshman Business Ed teacher is irrelevant to us, so come see me tomorrow during your planning period. There are regs in this program that have to be followed. We'll discuss them.” Bianca pulled at the top of her two-piece suit and then reached out her hand. “Congratulations.”
Job shook her hand, meeting her eye for mysterious eye. At the same time, his body heat raised to levels he didn't want to go. He would have to wrap a belt of discipline around himself when it came to his boss. She was sending confusing signals. Was she business, pleasure, or a mixture of both? He had had enough trouble to overcome without creating something new.
Job had to give her a firm grip then let her go.
“Remember,” she cooed, “My door's always open.”
Oh Lord,
Job thought after Bianca left. The way she moved and talked struck him in a manner that sent his gears moving in ways he hadn't felt since the beginning of his marriage.
I can't refuse to be in her presence. She is fine, but she's my boss.
He slumped in his desk chair, relieved that particular sensations were fleeing.
He only wished Monica had the capability of tingeing him like a desert wildfire, but she was always fussing and focusing on his shortcomings.
Ms. Rizzo's—Bianca's—words don't hold criticisms.
“Gotta stop thinking like this,” he said out loud. Only the classroom's echo answered back. He sprung up from the chair and left the room, slamming the door behind him. The safest place for him right then would be 2333 Rong.
Job spent every second of the twenty-minute drive home trying to clear his head.
Help me shake this.
He had little faith that his sound bite prayer would give relief because little, if any, ever came his way.
He walked through the door that afternoon to the sounds and smells of stir fry, thinking Monica had stopped by the Golden Buddha on Forty-fourth Street, a high-end bistro that Larry and Fontella had introduced them to. That would have been good. No. Monica was busy doing her slave-over-the-stove Chinese food thing. That was better.
“You know we're supposed to begin attending couple's class this evening.” Monica rolled her eyes and smacked her lips. “And don't tell me you forgot.”
Job gritted his teeth. He wouldn't have to make up stories to get out of all the churchgoing, if it wasn't for Fontella's sales pitch on how wonderful the church's ministries are, and for Monica's desire to be involved in some religious activity.
Above all, when it came down it, he had forgotten about the couple's class for that evening. His mind was busy creating a game of its own.
Should I? Shouldn't I? Tell. Don't tell. Is there something to tell? Is there not?
“I've really got a lot of work honey. Can we skip tonight?”
Degrees of Disgust was the portrait on her face. “You start missin' one thing and then you'll want to miss another. Before you know it, you're not going to church altogether.”
“You've done read too much into missing
one
couple's session. It ain't all that. Just this once, c'mon.”
She picked up the Kikkoman's bottle and sprinkled a little soy sauce into the pan. The outline of her jaws showed that she was gritting her teeth. She said in a malicious tone, “Joseph Bertram Wright, let's be committed to at least one thing without a ton of excuses.”
Job felt like he had swallowed rocks and a boulder had landed in his pit, commanded to stay there for sheer punishment. Her words solidified his thought; anyone else's speech right then would be a balm, a respite from the usual verbal tensions.
She grated about a teaspoon of ginger, added it to the wok, now sizzling. “We're not missing anymore unless it's a good excuse.”
Before he could consciously put a halt on his response, he shouted, “Get off my dern back, Monica. Ain't you ever got anything good to say?”
There was silence with the exception of the food, which seemed to have a conversation with itself.
Job's body tightened and cool tracks of sweat rolled down his back. “It's just been a day, Monica. I'm sorry. Really.”
She cut the stove eye off. The wounding look she gave made him believe eating was impossible anyway.
“You brought me out here. We're working toward what you might call
doin' fine
,” she said. “I want to keep doin' fine.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Don't interrupt me, man. And for God's sake, don't cut off our blessings. It's one thing for God to allow us to be tested on our faith. It's another for us to do things that cause problems. Things we can avoid.”
“You're making this out to be more of a deal than it is.”
Monica's face had flushed, and tears started to form. “Take care of me, Job. I'm begging. Take care of me.”
Chapter 10
But Sarai was barren; she had no child.
Genesis 11:30
 
 
The corporate culture of Nine Iron had given Monica a baptism during her first thirty days on the job. Being a vice prez gave her carte blanche to all the amenities it offered, and she did take advantage of an occasional spa treatment or the tennis courts. Not to the extent, though, that she would drown in the culture.
But what she viewed others doing was, in her eyes at the least, sinful and damaging to the human body and soul. Far be it for her to be a part of that social wave. She would let others flaunt that life.
Some paid for the privilege. Others were employed into it. Corporate slugs and socialite honeys sipping on Courvoisier. Dick and Jane puffing Cuban cigars after hours and at power lunches. Scheduling the wife or husband in for a break at noon. Brokering a deal at five. Working those same and similar indulgences out of their systems before heading to their respective personal addresses.
Golfing, Nautilus machines, concierge service and the other amenities were a religion to many, but far from a spiritual one.
But, hey. Not my problem.
Her daily prayer was that she didn't get lassoed into the ambience of it all.
On the previous day, Monica had listened to Pastor Harris as he concluded a three-part sermon on Expecting Blessings. She likened his comments to the blessings she and Job had received since moving to Phoenix. The job, despite its pitfalls, was a key blessing for which she was indebted to the Lord.
She pressed the pager function on her phone. “Nami, can you come in here for a moment?”
Monica signed off on a couple purchase requests, tossed them into her OUT box, and checked the reminder on her Palm Pilot when the administrative assistant came into the door.
“Yes, ma'am.”
Nami Delacroix. Fontella recommended the assistant job for the twenty-three-year-old single mom who had been a member of Chapel in the Desert for the last several years.
Nami was a native of the French Quarter, but had no accent, probably because she moved away at three. It could be debated as to where she got her eyes because their color spoke Grand Canyon brown or Mardi Gras gold, depending on a person's preference. A Creole and black full-figured woman who walked with such feline grace that the well-heeled power brokers frequenting Nine Iron forgot all about the Barbie dolls when they eyed her.
Monica was proud of herself. She had taken the opportunity to give another sister a chance at corporate America. And Nami had been anything but a disappointment. Her wit and effervescence made her an asset to the company.
“I'm out of bottled water. I checked my fridge,” Monica said, somewhat apologetically. She reached for her pocketbook and pulled out a few dollars. “Here. Buy me a couple bottles at the NIC [Nine Iron Commissary] until we can order a couple cases.”
“Okay, but I have several bottles chilling in my office fridge. Save your dollars.” Nami handed the money back.
Monica reared back into her chair, rubbing her belly. “You don't mind?”
“No. I'll bring you a couple bottles.”
“Thanks.”
“You all right?”
Monica tried not to show any grimacing looks, but Nami was observant, a trait she valued. “I'm fine ... I think. Just some queasiness.”
“If you have some salty crackers, that may settle your stomach,” Nami suggested. “Works for me.”
“I'll try that. And when you come back with the water, bring me the fiscals for August, last year. I want to do some comparisons.”
“Sure will.”
“And umm, when you leave, would you close the door behind you? I need a few seconds of quiet time.”
“Yes, ma'am.” She left.
Monica waited a moment before thumbing through her Rolodex, pulling up the Logans' home phone number. Fontella told her yesterday at church that she would be home all day Monday. So she dialed their residence.
“I'm not calling just to be social,” Monica declared after the hellos. “I need to know the name and number of that OB-GYN of yours.”
After much pleading and a last minute cancellation, Dr. Jason Jones was able to fit Monica in that day during a two hour lunch break.
“You show signs of pregnancy. Surprisingly, even physiologically,” he said. “I can see why you were convinced it had happened.” He wrapped his stethoscope around his neck.
She began pulling the clinical top over her body. “You see something unusual?”
“Well,” he said, with a puzzled inflection in his voice, “the tardiness of your cycle, the lightheadedness, and other indicators would make you think that you've conceived. But you're not pregnant, I assure you.” He picked up her chart, thumbing the pages while he pursed his lips.
She was certain Dr. Jones's real interest wasn't in the chart. “Doctor?” She wanted Dr. Jones to wipe the asinine look off his face. Unbeknownst to him, his look became her instrument of pain.
“Sometimes, a woman can have such a strong desire to be pregnant, that she will exhibit the symptoms of pregnancy without it really being so. This is your case.”
“No, please,” she pleaded, “don't tell me that.”
“Do you all want to have a child?”
She paused for a brief moment. “More than anything,” she admitted. She was clear about her desire for a child, but she was foggy about how Job felt on the same subject. She was, however, certain that if she and Job were together in that desire, well and good. If they were not, then she would use him as a sperm bank, and pray that God would take care of her and her baby. Without Job.
Dr. Jones perched on a stool and then rolled himself over to a small desk inside the room. “I'll be able to get your med records from Louisville with the release you signed. In the meantime ... do you know of anything physical that prevents you from conceiving?”
“No.” Nothing that she could recall.
“Pray, concentrate on you and your husband's act of love. You'll get results in due time. Meanwhile, I'm prescribing some prenatal vitamins. Sometimes they aid in triggering a woman's body into conception.”
“So I don't need to run to the pharmacist and get a Clear Blue Easy to double-check you?” she kidded.
“Naw.”
Monica returned to the office and began to wade through a stack of memos arranged by importance. She had told Nami that she preferred not to be disturbed unless it was vital, but Job paid her a visit that afternoon.
“I've known all weekend long that I was going to surprise you. Today was a half-day for students and an option for certified staff,” he said, “so I left a little after the last bus rolled off.
“You really got me, boy.” She did her best to be jubilant, despite the day's events. She refused to give him details until that evening.
“Well look, girl. Let's press. Your work will be here tomorrow.”
“It wouldn't look good for me, taking off on the same day I get my first check.”
Job was silent with a fevered, corrupted look.
Monica wasn't sure whether it was from her refusal to go along with his plan, or that her salary outweighed his. “We'll go out on the town tomorrow evening. I promise. Do a jazz club or something,” she insisted.
His lips pursed. “Sure. Sure. Okay.”
“You might as well cheer up; you have something else you need to do. Something much more important than frolicking with me.”
“That's not how I'm seeing it.”
“That's not how I'm seeing it,” she repeated with sarcasm. She whirled around, snatched up her Palm Pilot and began tapping the stylus on the screen. “You're forgetting today's date?”
“August Fourteenth. What's the big deal?”
“You should be at home. It's the deadline for you to have our taxes filed. The extension?” Monica put a Cheshire cat grin on her face.
“Aw, man.”
After work, Monica and Fontella met at a local sub shop where she unloaded the news of her doctor's visit. They touched, prayed and agreed for the Lord to bless her and for His will to be done.
When Monica arrived home, Job looked like the day had piled up on him. He was in the yet-to-be-set dining room, among a slew of boxes with stacks of receipts and government tax forms on top, squeezing his forehead. He crumpled up some scrap paper and tossed it, underhandedly, at her, then laughed.
“How're you coming?” she asked. In a way, she felt sorry for him. “You created this predicament. Deal with it.”
He breathed. “Don't remind me.”
Monica sat on a sturdy box.
Well. No time like the present. Here it goes.
A can of Arizona tea and a safe deposit box full of nerve was what she used to furnish the hour by hour details of her day.
Job swallowed, easing his look. “Umm. I don't know what to say.”
“Say what you feel.”
“You're forcing me to do too much thinking right now.”
“I want us to work together as one loving couple. I'm having a hard time believing you'd be happy if I became pregnant.”
“It's difficult for me to know where we are in our marriage, or what I want. You spend too much time pointing out my short comings. Every time I turn around, you're always onto me about one thing or another. Maybe not every time, but a lot.”
“Where's all this coming from, Job?” She shook her head and smacked her lips to conjure up more to say, but could only come up with, “Give me just one example.”
“This.” Job held up a stack of tax filings.
“That's not me pointing out where you're lacking. That's just diligence.” She realized that Job still had an abundance of work before him and that her day had been anything but smooth. She felt her eyelids sagging. “This discussion is longer than the next five minutes.”
“I know. We won't resolve it tonight. But we do have to talk—”
“We can't just talk about it, we've got to do something about it,” she said.
BOOK: Living Right on Wrong Street
8.94Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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