Living Right on Wrong Street

by Titus Pollard

  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.

  “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.”

  At this juncture, he couldn’t admit to her that he really knew about Delvin’s business p
ropositions, 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.”