Delvin gripped his plastic spoon as a weapon, but it gave way as he attacked a dig of pork and beans. He imagined his less than fourth class rations as Hollandaise sauce, filet mignon, or chicken cordon bleu, but his taste buds wouldn’t cooperate. He gulped his Kool-Aid, the air from his nostrils fogging his plastic cup.
Stinson moved closer, narrowing Delvin’s personal space. “That’s right. Getting to ya, ain’t it? Got some freedom—but you ain’t really got none. Maybe now and then you get some homemade mash or a bale from the commissary. Spa membership gone, but at least you’re here with us at the Crossbar Hilton.” He nodded and laughed with the slickness of a bull. “Like I said a while ago, get used to it.”
Delvin felt turbulence in the declaration. Show nothing, say nothing, he reminded himself.
“I know some things, many things,” a slim, slew-footed, asphalt-black inmate spouted off in a low tone, through the teeth. “Information, that’s what’s up. Dangerous thing, information. Can be used for a multiplicity of ideas, theories, end-results and goals. Power’s in the hands and minds of those who have it. It’s suicide for those who don’t.”
Delvin felt a chill of exposure from the hand of an inmate with whom he had not made acquaintance. That non-entity was preparing to dispel his name, his being. He struggled to hinder the inmate from speaking any further, but nothing came to mind that wouldn’t yield a regrettable consequence.
“Storm,” spoke the nameless voice.
“Huh?” asked Saks.
“Storm,” he repeated. “Still working on the first name, but Storm is his last.” He turned to Delvin. “Isn’t that your label, your given, the tag below the family crest?”
Delvin’s heartbeat raced, and his temples throbbed. Determined not to let any other information leak, he lunged forward and gripped his shirt. “You got any other information you want to share about me?”
“Storm,” another inmate acknowledged,
“What’s he in for, Murphy?”
Delvin heard the real name. He decided to tag the imprisoned Encyclopedia Brown with another label. “Yeah, SOB, what am I in for?”
Murphy twisted his body in an attempt to break loose of the grip. “I don’t know,” he said. “My sources can’t be revealed, but they do come with the assurance of 100% reliability.”
More guards were ordered to mess hall.
Delvin ripped Murphy’s collar, but hung on. “Let me assure you of this. I don’t want people knowing about me. See to it, or you’re a dead man. You got it?”
Murphy nodded, failing to speak.
Loose tongues and investigations. That’s what landed him in this hellhole, and he dared this man to intimidate him another minute.
Prison guards dashed from their posts as inmates scattered like children in a playground scuffle.
“Beat your feet!” one of the guards demanded. The room was filled with the simultaneous sounds of batons drumming iron tables, lunch trays banging against walls, handcuffs clanging belt buckles and voices trimming open air.
A battery of guards took hold of Delvin and carried him off to confinement as they quelled the disturbance. As they rushed him through the block, a tall, African American inmate with a Holy Qur’ân in hand said, “God must clear our hearts and minds of evil.”
If the guard had given Delvin opportunity, he would have told the book-carrying inmate that there was no God in there.
A week had gone by. The smell of the prison library was unique: the pungency of masculine sweat, the dankness of grimy books, and the vacuity of cold steel amid sticky concrete.
In that twenty by twenty-five room, makeshift inmate attorneys hammered out cases for their paroles and appeals. Many spent all of their free time submerging their craniums into one hard back, then another.
Delvin weaved in and out of the rows of books eyeing the titles and holding some in his mind for later checkout. He had a strong notion that this was the very place he could enjoy a respite from inmates seeking out the fine details of his résumé. Or so he thought.
“So ... you made it out of Siberia, huh, newbie ?”
Stinson was like a stink that he couldn’t be rid of. He had come from around a corner, slightly startling Delvin, but not enough to break his silence.
Stinson grunted. “You’re too ornery for the hole to break you. I don’t see how you made it through that seven-day blickum looking halfway fit, considering all they give you is one square a day.”
Delvin thought about the ease of choking that mess down once a day rather than three times a day. As far as he was concerned, Siberia had been a vacation.
“What made you crazy in the mess hall, man? We thought you were gonna kill Murphy. He couldn’t do certain things on the toilet for about four days after that.”
Delvin had hoped his stunt scared Murphy. He wasn’t going to kill him, just make him think twice before spreading information.
Stinson pulled a toothpick out of his breast pocket, scraped it between his teeth, and nestled it back into the pocket. “He ain’t said nothing else about you to anybody. And to shut him up—that’s a lot. You need to chill, though. You’re gonna need a friend in this place.” He snickered. “’Cause the only time you’ll want to be alone is when you masturbate.”
Delvin glared up at Stinson. His prison mate didn’t know that he adored opportunities to be alone.
Annoyed with his unwelcome shadow, Delvin walked over to the newspaper rack, a wooden contraption with half-moon slots holding reed dowel sticks. Each of the twenty-some dowels held an edition of Washington Post, Atlanta Journal-Constitution, New York Times, and other state, regional, and local papers. He picked up a copy of the Courier-Journal, hoping that Stinson would be able to decode his buddy talk is over signal. It didn’t work.
“You probably get better stock market info from the Wall Street Journal, big shot,” Stinson said.
Delvin heard him, but offered no response. His eyes did a quick read of the articles on the upcoming Juneteenth observances and the Louisville arrest statistics per capita, but halted on a small notice in the Real Estate Transfers:
Joseph B. & Monica Wright to Nathan & Edwina Robinson, 4213 N. Lakespur Dr., June 2, $565,950.
He reread that section of the paper like the Cliff notes for an SAT exam question. His muscles contracted. Internal eruptions threw all his body functions off-base. Job Wright had sold his home for a fresh start; there Delvin was, standing still and going nowhere fast. His conscience wanted Job Wright dead. Delvin slowly and methodically ripped the newspaper to pieces, until they were smaller than if they’d been run through an electric shredder. He swept them off the table onto the floor.
“Storm,” a guard said, pounding his baton into his massive fists, “you better have that cleaned up before you leave. Do it!”
“What’s wrong with you, Storm? Are you trying to go back in the hole? You’ll be in solitude for a month next time. These guards are crazy, man. Calm down,” Stinson said.
Delvin looked around and saw that a few more guards and some nosy inmates had congregated in the library. He began placing the scraps in the garbage.
Stinson bent down beside Delvin and helped to gather up the scraps. He whispered, “Don’t let the Ashland fool you. Minimum security doesn’t mean they’ve got their backs turned. They’d find your silver-haired butt in these Kentucky hills blindfolded.”
“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 sa
t 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 diff
icult, 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.
Living Right on Wrong Street Page 3