“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 p
harmacist 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.
Chapter 11
For the Lord knoweth the way of the righteous, but the way of the ungodly shall perish.
Psalms 1:6
Delvin’s face wasn’t buried as deep into his breakfast plate as the other inmates’. He picked up a cup of coffee. And there it was.
YOUR PLACE @ AFTERNOON MAIL CALL
Was the note in its entirety. He looked around, seeing if anyone looked out of the ordinary. Maybe he could zero in on the messenger. He wondered how. In a prison, activities seemed to take place so covertly, with such ease. What took so long for my request to be fulfilled? It didn’t matter. It was a sign that his day had come.
Two-thirty P.M. It was easy to hear, or not hear, the myriad of he-motions and responses from individual cells when packages were received. He thought their overuse of passion was silly.
Then, Delvin’s turn came.
He was caught off guard by the person who was standing at his cell door. The man was beyond what he would describe as “robbed of good looks.” His right cheek showed evidence of a third-rate skin graft job. He didn’t smile. He didn’t talk or even grunt. His appearance could’ve landed him a starring role in MJ’s “Thriller” video. The man pushed a plastic cart with an upper and lower bin, which only added to his hideous visage.
“You got something for me?” Delvin asked, praying that the man didn’t sense his bona fide fear.
The man bent down, pulled out a 12x12x18 box from the bottom bin, handed it to Delvin and walked away.
Delvin asked, “You have a na—”
“His name is Pilchoevsky,” interrupted Murphy, who had done his usual slithering onto the scene. “But you should refer to him by the same sobriquet as the rest of the residents here in Ashland. We call him Deliverer. And believe me, he always does.”
Delvin asked, “Why Deliverer?”
Murphy confirmed. “Because in this crack of inhumanity, he’s the supreme entity behind inmates getting anything accomplished that’s worth meaning in their decrepit lives. Deliverer doesn’t talk because he doesn’t have to. Or maybe, he can’t. Nobody really knows.”
Deliverer took hold of the cart, bowed his body and walked away.
Murphy whispered, “Deliverer doesn’t choose to involve himself with others’ affairs. Unless, of course, you pay him to.”
“What happened to him?”
“He used to set up off-shore accounts for high-dollar crimes. Computer fraud and the like. On the day the establishment moved in for the sting, Deliverer hopped in his Jag, trying to outrun them so he could get to his awaiting Cessna for a flight out of the country.”
Delvin found the deformed mail clerk’s story fascinating.
Murphy leaned on the crossbars and continued. “The establishment attempted, to no avail, to convince the guy to give up, surrender to the authorities. He ran his precious automobile into a parking meter and sat while the cops surrounded him. Poor guy. He tried to swift-kick his door open, but it wouldn’t budge. Stupid. An over-excited cop and stupidity.”
“I can imagine.”
“He climbed over into the backseat, I guess to get out of the car. Anyway, he failed at his chance. That officer shot; hit that gas tank.” Murphy looked off into the cell block’s open space. “Jaguar’s just weren’t meant for that.”
“What?”
“A bullet. It caused the fuel reservoir to burst, catch fire, splattering flaming fluid on his face.”
Delvin began tearing away the layers of sealing tape that held the box together. “Better him than me.”
Murphy flared his nose. “I can see that story reached into your inner being.” The twists and turns in his voice made the sarcasm evident.
“Yeah. Well.” He lifted the flaps, moving the Styrofoam peanuts aside. He looked at Murphy from the corner of his eye. “Everything seems to be in order.”
“Let me give you fair warning, Mr. Storm. Never, ever try to bypass me to go to Deliverer. The information and distribution network doesn’t operate in any manner other than the one established.”
“You have no argument out of me.”
“Also, remember this, when Deliverer sets wheels into motion, there’s
no spiraling in the opposite direction.” His eyes sharpened, the brows pointed to each other. “So be positive of any requests you make.”
“I consider myself warned.” Delvin reached into the box, pulled out a box labeled Trivial Pursuit Genius III. “For you.”
Murphy stared and then smiled. “Ah. Excellent selection. A game that will stimulate my eclectic knowledge. I thank you.”
“If you see Stinson, tell him I have something for him too.”
He wanted time alone and got it. Did Deliverer secure everything?
Delvin considered the contents of the box as individual treasures, a collective bounty. His skin increased with sensitivity as he looked at each item:
Ream of white paper.
Stamps, envelopes, clear tape dispenser.
Plastic three-ring binder.
Latest issue of the Robb Report. He would be able to at least pretend his exquisite tastes were being catered to.
A copy of Sun Tzu’s Art of War. His plans would take strategy. Just the read to get him in the mood.
Back copies of Louisville’s Courier Journal.
A 1992–93 Syracuse University yearbook.
Rubik’s cube, the toy he would give to Stinson when he came around before lock-up that evening.
A 1988 copy of Nashville’s Hume Fogg yearbook. Job’s old high school in the year he graduated.
Later that same evening, Delvin heard an unfamiliar sound in the hall, a two-step dance of human feet followed by a clanging and light crunching of items bouncing against each other. He couldn’t make it out, so he waited as the sound came his way.
Stinson showed up at his cell door with about six liquid-filled containers in a bag.
Delvin picked up the Rubik’s cube and started to make a comment, but Stinson held up a finger to his lips. Silence, which was a first for him. He took the toy and exchanged it with one of the bottles.
Delvin accepted the plastic container, which was shaped like milk man delivery bottles of the ’60s. He whiffed. It was grain alcohol with a mysterious animal-decay aroma. He took a sip. The answer to those corn scraps became clear. That night, his bunk, that bottle and the knowledge of his request fulfilled became his relief. His senses numbed, his worries fogged. His ills, just for a moment, were forgotten.
Living Right on Wrong Street Page 9