Living Right on Wrong Street Page 2

  “Changes?” she paused. “I thought you had sent that off a couple weeks ago.”

  “Calm down. It’s going in today’s mail. Now c’mon,” he said.

  Monica’s face changed in a way that struck fear. “Today’s mail, huh?” she asked.

  “Um hm.”

  “How is that going to happen? Job, the mail has already run, hours ago. Please take care of business, please. I don’t want you to lose the job before you even get it.”

  Her statement resounded in his head. The court sentencing and loss of the business were the start of his trouble, and he needed the new career for more than a self-esteem boost. Paradise Schools just had to grant him this job.

  They were living on one income and couldn’t afford the mortgage, so they had to sell the house well below market value. Fortunately, their cars were paid off and saved from repossession. Friends and business associates purchased most of their extensive art collection, giving them necessary emergency funds. He had been so preoccupied with nurturing a lifestyle that he had failed to save any money, even though Monica had urged him to slow the spending.

  “I’m not going to let you down,” Job told her.

  Monica had finished preparing two plates of food and filled a couple of glasses with iced tea.

  “I believe you’ll do your best.” She grabbed his hand. “But right now we need to pray for our meal, and ask God to continue to guide our future.” Monica closed her eyes.

  Job shut his eyes, but he didn’t feel like offering any words up to the Lord. As far as he was concerned, Monica was only half right. His actions alone would determine their future. God was a figure-head for Sunday worship, not an immortal to lean on for life direction.

  Monica opened her eyes. “I’m searching in Phoenix for a job myself. Just a back-up, you know what I mean?” She sounded almost apologetic.

  Job would’ve felt better had he been able to tell Monica that her job searching wouldn’t be necessary and that his income would be sufficient. But he had been forced from a six-figure range down to—if the teaching position was given to him—the middle five figures. He pulled at the edges of the postal package. “Hey, honey,” he said, “let me ask you something ...”

  Monica paused and turned to him. “Hmm?” “Are you happy with our move?” he asked.

  “I love the west and Phoenix is beautiful. It’s an excellent opportunity for both of us.” She sighed and looked Job square in the eyes. “If we don’t foul it up.”

  His thoughts lingered on the falsified employment application. He wondered just how Monica would react if she had all the facts about what had caused the realty firm’s dissolve. He had to keep certain details buried from then to eternity. “I just want to know how you feel, that’s all.”

  Monica squinted, as though she was assessing Job from head to toe. “Stop racking your brain over how I feel,” she told him. “I’m okay.”

  Monica would, after all, be closer to her roots with the move. She was born in Nevada as part Lovelock Paiute, part Italian, and part African American. He had landed himself a multi-cultural woman. But at a quick glimpse, most would simply say, Black. He glanced at his plate, noticing that it was paper.

  “So I guess you’ve packed the real stuff,” he said as he gathered the last bites of food.

  “If it makes you feel any better,” she tapped an empty dish, “know that it’s Chinet, not just any paper plate. I’ve packed most of the real china, which is more than I can say for you. You do understand that the closing, c-l-o-s-in-g, is in two weeks?”

  “Please don’t remind me. I know we’ve really gotta step up and find a house.”

  “I’m waiting on your lead.”

  Job assured Monica that he had talked to a relocation specialist about certain subdivisions inside and outside of Phoenix’s city limits, and a list of potential houses would be emailed to them in a couple of days. “Remember, this is my expertise.”

  After silence thickened the air for a moment’s time, Monica said, “I don’t want God taking His hand off us like He did a few months ago.”

  Job stopped eating and glared. “God has nothing to do with any of the things that happened, good or bad. If we do what we’re supposed to do, we’ll be able to see our way again. Clearly.”

  It was on the following day that Job packed and emptied the home office. Monica rewarded him that evening with hours of physical love that had been withheld until he had done what she had been begging him to do.

  The master suite was bare except for their makeshift bed of a bedspring with a mattress. A bowl of leftover kiwi was at her feet with lavender scented candles marking the four corners of the room. Remnants of his Fahrenheit cologne adorned her nostrils. The last track of Grover Washington’s Winelight CD reminded her that the portable player was still on.

  Job was the first to rise out of bed about 6:00 A.M., Wednesday. Monica’s eyes traced up his spine to the neck and head she had rubbed just hours earlier, so smooth from his fresh, bald-fade cut. Monica weakened at the sight of his glistening black physique.

  When Job had retreated into the bathroom and closed the door, she buried her head into the pillow, wishing and praying to God that their family would someday increase by at least one. They had been married for seven years, and it was time.

  She had done all the proper things. She had checked the calendar against her rhythm, her ovulation phase. On occasion, she fed Job appetizers of oysters on the half shell. She had taken the physician prescribed vitamins. A child would make her feel complete.

  Job returned to the bedroom, settled himself onto the mattress, and started nibbling on Monica’s ear.

  She whiffed his citrus fresh breath. “What do you call yourself doing? You know I’ve got to get ready for work.” She backed her body into his, enveloping herself against his contours, but they were interrupted by the phone.

  Job reached over and answered the phone. Monica was glad. If she had answered, whoever was on the other end would have heard the irritation in her voice.

  His phone responses were a vague series of Umm hmms, uh huhs, oh, okay, yes I can do that. The first coherent sentence from his mouth was, “Thanks so much, Mr. McManus. We’ll see you next week.”

  Job made some notes on a pad by the bedside stand. Then he got off the bed, walked over to the bathroom doorway, and reached inside. He wrapped himself in a towel and leaned against the wall. “That was Paradise Valley Schools. They received my application and want to interview me for a high school teaching position. I have an appointment with the assistant superintendent next Friday. Let’s fly out next Thursday evening.”

  Monica felt a glint of relief. The sale of their Louisville home on June Ninth coupled with the fact that neither she nor Job had secured a job in Arizona made her uncomfortable with their plans. The forced liquidation of the firm followed by the fire sale of their residence netted them about ninety thousand to live off of as they made their transition out west. Job’s assurance of, “Don’t worry, I’ll find a new niche,” had her confident when he first said it a couple months ago, but she had an honesty meeting with herself since then, and her poise had begun to wane.

  “Do you think it’s possible for us to fly out next Wednesday evening?” Monica asked.

  “What for, honey?”

  “While we’re there, we can spend time looking at houses.” Monica sat up. “I have a job prospect. There’s one particular position available in Scottsdale that I think I qualify for. They want me to interview, so it’s perfect timing. I can do it next week.”

  “So you’ve done a little more than a brief search.” Job was far from jubilant. Yesterday, he figured that if he ignored the subject of house searching, that it would roll over and die.

  “Even if we had a million dollars I’d still work, if nothing else but for sanity’s sake. The position’s at Nine Iron Resorts as a reservations manager. I didn’t commit to an interview until we had concrete dates for flying out there.”

  Job’s lips purse
d and there was a nerve-curdling look on his face. “It would be better to know you didn’t have to work, but I guess we need it. Anyhow, I wasn’t really sure my initial application would go through. Their routine background check had me concerned.”

  Monica was already panicky with Job’s apathy about the postal deadline for his employment documents. He never failed to drop bad news on her after lovemaking. Despite her reluctance, she asked, “Why?”

  In fractions of a second, Job’s skin went from a parched to a drenched canvas. “I, I told them I didn’t h-have a criminal record.”

  Monica wasn’t sure which of her emotions was sprouting. There wasn’t an adequate response to what she’d just been told.

  “Technically, I don’t have a record,” Job said with a hailstorm of defensiveness in his voice. “I didn’t steal the money. I wasn’t the one who went to prison. Baby, you’ve got to trust me on this. Not bringing it up was the better thing to do.”

  The more Job spoke, the more Monica’s neck tightened and her sight fogged. She jerked the top sheet up above her shoulders as she sat upright on the mattress. “So you made up something and lied? Joseph Bertram Wright. We won’t make it through life in any kind of decent shape like this. Trust you? You should have trusted God and told the truth.”

  “If I’d done it your way, there’s a great chance I wouldn’t have gotten the job.” He moved over to her and sat on the bed. “Monica, it’s not doing anybody any harm. Leave it alone, please.”

  She felt dizzy, hoping that he was about to admit the joke, but his punch line never came. “How in the world did they do a background check and nothing came up?” she asked.

  Job shook his head. “I don’t know. And don’t you go stirring up anything,” he said.

  “I’ll be sure to keep some boxes packed when we get to Phoenix because the tables are sure to turn on us.” She felt tears surfacing. “Now I know I need to keep a job.”

  Job sucked his teeth. “Whatever.”

  “Shake me off if you want to, man. Things won’t be right until you show some honesty. Mark my word.”

  Job rose off the mattress and checked his towel. “I didn’t lie. I just didn’t tell them everything.”

  “Character’s a big part of this new career you call yourself pursuing,” she said. “I wonder if you’ll want your business students to be truthful.”

  “This has nothing to do with my effectiveness as a teacher.” Job stomped off to the bathroom. He might as well have. Anything else that morning would’ve been wasted words.

  Monica made it to her Louisville job, the marketing firm of Cavin & Kross, later that morning. She had hoped that her day would be filled with tearful good-byes, well wishes, going away gifts and such. Instead, she went on a quest for answers. She phoned their family attorney, Wendy Axford, and left a message. Wendy returned the call after lunch, around one-thirty. Their schedules prevented them from meeting, so Monica had to be satisfied with stating her concerns via telephone.

  “All he had to do was mark ‘Yes’ on the form and say that the culprit was behind bars,” she told Wendy. “He could’ve given a written explanation of his negligence on the application. I thought he understood that when you counseled him after the trial.”

  Wendy confirmed her belief. “The main reason schools have criminal background checks is to weed out violent felons, child molesters, DUI, and drug offenders.”

  “But how is it that the conviction didn’t show up in their check? At least, I don’t guess it did. Come to think of it, Job didn’t mention it, so, I’m assuming.”

  “I’m stabbing in the dark, because I don’t know Arizona’s procedures and statutes. It differs from state to state.”

  “What’s your best guess?” Monica asked.

  “The case results apparently haven’t been entered into the database. It’s only been thirty days since the judgment was rendered. His timing was lucky.”

  “Or blessed,” Monica said. “I imagine if I convince Job to call Paradise Schools and ask to correct his app, they would do it.”

  “I wouldn’t make a call. I wouldn’t try to make things right with the district. Monica, I wouldn’t do a thing.”

  “Why not?”

  “If he’s already lied on the application and they’re considering him for the job, I wouldn’t try to undo it. That’s definite grounds to take back their job offer. My advice is that you leave it alone in hopes that this school district never finds out the truth, and that when they do, it’s so far into his career that they won’t care.”

  “You’re telling me that in the future this can come back to haunt us?” Monica asked.

  “Truthfully? It could haunt you in the worst way.”

  Chapter 2

  And they shall be gathered together as prisoners are gathered in the pit.

  Isaiah 24:22a

  Delvin Storm was in a tight spot. He had never been to a place like this before. The guards had locked the prison doors behind him, but he wasn’t thinking about literal, geographical, touch the ground with your fingers kind of places.

  His surroundings had already formed a print in his mind. Oil slick, gun-barrel gray walls. Heavy-gauge metal furniture, bolted down with screws larger than those found in the average toolbox. Yellow lines were painted on the floors of hallways. Ammonia mixed with urine, marijuana, and blood. What he could touch, see, taste, and smell was the dream. His mental picture gave him a reality.

  He was fresh felon fodder; he was in Ashland Minimum Security Facility looking like an international playboy. He was in that spot for a dime, receiving day-to-day schoolings on his new life from strange acquaintances. He saw a lot of people around, but nobody he felt he could trust. A decade—thirty-six months with an early parole—was a long time for everyone to be his enemy.

  “Get used to the grub, ’cause it ain’t getting no better,” a booming voice declared with uncanny mysticism.

  “Humph,” Delvin grunted, refusing to look up to see who had made the statement. He focused on his meal. Quick-fix potatoes right out of the cardboard packaging, pork and beans with that recognizable generic aftertaste and cold, processed chicken dogs in discount bakery buns. For dessert, he had fruit cocktail with too many peaches and not enough cherries. He yearned for deliverance from the worst food he had ever tasted.

  “You hard o’ hearing?” asked another voice.

  Delvin nodded up and down and side to side. He figured all it would take is one faulty verbal move, and an exploding light bulb or a shank in the back could be his fate. A nod in no particular direction was safe for the moment.

  “I guess the cat’s got his tongue, huh fellas?” asked the booming voice whose resonance cut far above the others in the eating hall.

  His eyes shifted to the loudmouth, Caucasian, gargantuan figure with the cropped haircut and sleeveless shirt. He had the guy—he silently nicknamed him Pectorals—figured out from jump street. Pectorals was trying to be the don of FCI-Ashland. Delvin wasn’t afraid of the guy, and no one else seemed to be either.

  “Whatcha in for, huh?” Pectorals boomed.

  Delvin brushed his fingertips across his forehead, remaining speechless. Good question. Not a hard one, but good.

  “Man, you don’t say a word, do ya?” The guy continued to chide.

  Delvin heard talking, but he interpreted it as reverberations, not real words. There was too much on his mind to entertain needless conversation. Since Pectorals couldn’t help him get paroled, they had nothing to discuss.

  “Hey,” he said, spitting as he spoke, “I guess you’re deaf.”

  “Naw, man, that ain’t it,” another man spoke up. “Looks to me like he just don’t talk to nobody.”

  Delvin took a peripheral look at this man, named him Saks, as in Fifth Avenue. The guy was as white as a sheet, with a contrasting mop of red hair, neatly placed. He had sleeves on his shirt, but had chosen to roll and crease them as a personal fashion statement.

  Pectorals said, “I guess he’s our new M
r. Uppity.”

  “Leave him alone,” Saks said. “We were all uppity at one time or another. We all wore Hickey Freeman’s with custom-made tab collars, barrel cuffs starched n’ pressed by the locals. That’s why they call us white-collar cons.”

  Sporadic laughter consumed the mess hall. Delvin searched and found no humor.

  He had the criminal and personality profiles of specific men fixed into his mental Rolodex. He glanced at the securities fraud expert sitting next to the European portrait fencer. The U.S. Treasury counterfeiter stood against the west wall chatting with the mass copyright infringement specialist; big-time, money-making criminals, and he was among them. He could have, at any moment, opened his mouth and told his life history, but he figured that the less known, the better shown.

  “I can’t figure you out. I ain’t trying to make you my ace-duce; just letting you know that prison time is a mutha, and I’m hear to listen, ’n case you need an ear,” Pectorals continued.

  “Get off him, Stinson. You see he’s on the new and doesn’t wanna talk,” Saks insisted.

  Delvin locked in on what Saks had just said; Pectorals’s real name was Stinson.

  “Shucks, he can’t keep silent the whole time in here. He’ll talk ... eventually,” Stinson said.

  Delvin reasoned that truer words couldn’t have been spoken, but the when, where, and how to his bio would have his seal of approval before it was disseminated.

  “Prison life makes you do and think funny things. You’re right, dude, I know he’ll talk. Maybe sooner, maybe later.”

  Delvin determined he would make it later. He traced the cuticles of his manicured hand, thinking how quickly he had learned to improvise a nail tech’s instrument from a plastic knife and paper clips, and the damage it could do to a loudmouth instigator.

  “Gotta name?” Stinson asked.

  Delvin hung on to his lip.

  “Hey, man,” Stinson said. “Givin’ your name ain’t gon’ kill you.”