Living Right on Wrong Street

by Titus Pollard

  “What stops us from talking?”

  “We both play a part, honey. I know that in the past I’ve been a know-it-all. My stubbornness keeps us from communicating.”

  Tears began to drop from Monica’s face. There was no whimpering or stuttering. Only the tears. “And me? What do I do?”

  “The way you talk to me. It makes me feel like you hate me.” In the silence that followed, Job regretted initiating the subject, especially since the rest of the evening had been so ... perfect. Yet, despite the subject, Monica did not present her usual icy gazes, thoughtless comebacks, or seething demands. And Job didn’t know how to take her.

  “I love you.” Monica wiped away a lone tear. In a supple voice, she told him, “But I need to think about what you’ve done and your explanation.”

  “Do you forgive me?”

  She nodded her head in directions that didn’t point to the negative or the positive. “In a matter of days, we’re supposed to travel to Florida so that you can receive an award based, among other things, on a recommendation from the same woman you almost had an affair with? We’re displaced from our home by what may have been arson.” Monica’s bloodshot eyes drew together. “With all that, you could see justification in us celebrating tonight. You know what? I need time to think.”

  Chapter 27

  And ... tenderhearted, forgiving one another, even as God for Christ’s sake hath forgiven you.

  Ephesians 4:32

  The following day, Nami tried to go over the day’s schedule of meetings and priority correspondence, but she was constantly interrupted as Monica discussed the previous evening’s events, including Job’s admission. Monica opened her mail. Among the letters was a legal-sized envelope from Statewide Insurance. She and Job had agreed to have homeowner’s insurance information forwarded to Monica’s business address to insure prompt receipt.

  “All right, I understand. You’re saying hubby’s a liability and you can do bad by yourself. Did I sum it up pretty well?” asked Nami.

  Monica sat up in her desk chair and chuckled at Nami’s accent. “It’s amazing that you deduced all of that from what I said. But you’re wrong.”

  Nami raised an eyebrow. “Am I?”

  “I didn’t say all of that.”

  “Oh, okay ...” Nami paused, “Can I be real with you?”

  “Now you know that you’re more than just my AA; you’re a friend. By all means, be frank.” Monica gave a sassy laugh. “Not that it’s ever stopped you before.”

  “Let’s see. Who makes more money?”

  “I do.”

  “Hmm. Have you ever cheated on Job?”

  “See, you took that all wrong. I didn’t say he cheated. He didn’t even say he cheated.”

  “But the stage was set, right? He had the opportunity and almost took it.”

  “And?”

  “And, as a man thinketh in his heart, so is he. The Bible says that you know.”

  “But I don’t know that he was thinking about cheating. He says he needed someone to talk to. Someone who would talk and not fuss.”

  Nami gave that “I’m-not-convinced look.” “And you believe this?”

  “He hasn’t given me a reason not to.”

  “Okay,” Nami said in Creole drawl, “did he have a reason to believe that he couldn’t talk to you?”

  Nami’s statement halted Monica’s every thought, emotion, and response. Nami had put a finger on the pulse of a problem. Job did have a valid reason for needing a confidant without an attitude; one with an open ear. And since Monica knew Job, his poor judgment in selecting a confidant should not have been a surprise.

  “But why did he have to talk to another woman?” Nami asked sternly.

  “The issues he needed to talk about are between him and a woman. Most people would think that reasonable. I’m not saying that I agree or disagree; I’m just saying that most would find that reasonable.”

  And then, Monica sat back in her chair and gasped. “Nami! You tricked me.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying you used that slick Louisiana backwoods wisdom to help me see things as they really are.”

  “Call it what you want. Mother wit, backwoods wisdom. I don’t know what the label would be. I know you have to ask yourself if you truly believe he’s done something wrong.”

  “He’s not completely cleared ... in my mind.”

  “Okay. Then go with that. But I’ve been around you long enough to know you can fuss that man out. Not such a bad thing, considering most men need a good fussing now and then. It has a way of keeping them on their toes. But you have to love a man into doing right.”

  Monica purposely stopped eye contact with Nami. “I can respect that.”

  “I’m asking you for your benefit and the benefit of your marriage ... have you prayed for your answers?”

  If Monica could count praying hard to fight off the urge not to leave Job, or praying not to stir her rough exterior as she knew she could ... then, yes; she had prayed for answers.

  Monica felt a heat rush her body. “I admit. No. I haven’t prayed like I should.”

  “Pardon me for saying so,” Nami said, “but you know better. You have to do spiritual things if you want your hubby to be spiritual.”

  “That’s what I get for soliciting an honest opinion.” Monica picked up her letter opener and ripped the edge of the insurance letter. “You take honesty to another level and—” She read the first few sentences, and the letter began shaking in her hand uncontrollably.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing, actually.” Monica straightened the folds in the letter and placed it on her desk. “We’ll receive our claim money under separate cover. Soon.” Thank you, Lord.

  Nami applauded. “See? Good things are coming around the corner. The insurance claim will be met, and you have a trip to look forward to. It’s nothing but God at work.”

  Thoughts rushed through Monica’s mind. “I guess you’re right.”

  Monica had already dropped onto the bed in their suite when she realized she wasn’t alone.

  Job was seated at the bureau desk in a corner of the room. His head seemed to be one with the computer screen.

  “You startled me,” she said.

  “Umm. I figured one of two things. Either you weren’t speaking to me, or you didn’t see me in here.”

  “What’re you doing?”

  He tapped a few keys. “I’m on the internet, pulling up the requirements for an Arizona broker’s license.”

  Disgust overtook her. “For what, Job?”

  He reminded her of his acquaintance with Fuquay & Terry the previous evening, and the possibilities of future realty work. Job turned to her and smiled. “I want to be prepared so that if the opportunity presents itself, I’ll have the necessary paperwork out of the way.”

  Monica hadn’t heard enough explanation for enthusiasm. “I thought you were a teacher. I thought teaching was what you enjoyed.”

  “Oh, believe me; it is. But I can have more than one stream of income, right?”

  She shook her head. “Real estate is one of the things that got us in this trouble.”

  Job’s face crinkled. “Real estate had nothing to do with our trouble. Having the wrong business partner had a part to play in it, or other things, but not the line of work I was in.” He redirected his attention to the computer screen. “You gotta stop trippin’.”

  Monica crunched her hands together as self-punishment for initiating a ridiculous argument. “Hey. I’m sorry.”

  Job nodded.

  “We got some good news today.” She explained the letter from their homeowner’s insurance company. “I guess we can start making plans to rebuild.”

  “Great news,” was all he said. His tone was less than jubilant.

  Monica lay on the bed, thinking that maybe Fontella and Nami were right. Her stretches of moodiness, no doubt, made Job’s life miserable. But before she could gather any strength to re
sist, she asked him, “Did you ever think that I have a right to be angry with you?”

  Job stopped tapping away at the keyboard and turned in a look of confusion. “Huh?”

  She was ashamed at her outburst, but she couldn’t think of a way to humbly bow out of what she said. “You have the nerve to be angry at me? Job, you don’t have a right to question if I’m not speaking to you ... although you’re wrong. I came through the door tonight with every intention to settle what’s going on between us. But now, I’m not so sure.”

  Job sighed. “You mean we’re not going to lay our feelings out on the table?”

  She rubbed her eyes to get a clear picture of Job’s dark complexion, but it was overshadowed by memories of fighting through a fire while he and Bianca were together. “I’ve made a decision about something,” she said.

  “What?”

  “I can’t go with you to Florida. I need some time away from you. I have to assess where we are and where I feel we’re going. And I have to do it alone.”

  Chapter 28

  ... and thou shalt be called, the repairer of the breach, the restorer of paths to dwell in.

  Isaiah 58:12b

  Two weeks had gone by at the prison without a major incident. All the inmates had occupied themselves by marking walls and counting time. It was the one month anniversary of 9/11 when Delvin indulged Stinson in a friendly game of chess after breakfast.

  Delvin was the victor, with his muscle-clad cohort admitting that brains, not brawn, won strategy games.

  “Next time we challenge each other, the game is arm wrestling.” Stinson laughed like thunder and walked away in defeat.

  Delvin smiled, realizing that he wouldn’t be as lucky in physical combat. “You’re on.”

  No sooner had Delvin reset the board when Murphy thrust his head into the cell. “Care to allow a worthy opponent an opportunity to reign triumphant?” he asked.

  “Sure,” Delvin said, “if you think you can.”

  Murphy positioned himself on Delvin’s bunk as Stinson moved away from the mirror and sink toward the cell opening. “I’m gonna let you all have at it. I’ve got a Sprite with my name on it and—”

  “You might try some water,” Murphy interrupted. “That carbonated beverage may be a tad warm.”

  “How in the world would you know?” Stinson asked. A brief silence went by before he said, “Never mind. It’s no telling with you. I guess I’ll go nap on my own bunk.” He left.

  Ten minutes in, Delvin and Murphy’s match was a dead heat between the opponents.

  “Why chess, Mr. Storm? Why do you engage in such an activity?”

  Delvin wished Murphy hadn’t spoken his riddles, particularly while he was concentrating on his next move. “Why do you ask?”

  “Ahh, chess. A game created so that finance and real estate criminals like ourselves can keep our negotiation and battle-like reflexes up to par. It’s the ultimate game of strategy. Don’t you agree?” Murphy sneered in the oddest way. “Check,” he called out.

  It annoyed Delvin that Murphy sounded like a commercial for Milton-Bradley. He could see no way around it; he was soon to be defeated. What aggravated him most was Murphy’s saucer-eyed expression, his lip twitches and clamped teeth. It was more than just a friendly game, more than one about to check-mate a rival. But Delvin didn’t know what was really happening.

  Murphy made his final move, shouting. “Shall we go?”

  “Where?”

  He pursed his lips. “Oh ... nowhere.” Murphy continued to speak in clipped and vague sentences.

  Thirty, maybe forty minutes into a second game, the prison sirens went off. Either someone had died or a new batch of inmates had made their way to Ashland.

  It didn’t take long at all for Delvin to get his answer.

  Questioning.

  It was the word that became the theme of Delvin’s life that day.

  The questioning began about 2:45 P.M., two hours after Stinson was scraped up from his cell, mottled shirt and all. Delvin was stupefied. He had lost someone he trusted.

  Delvin had been escorted to an empty isolation ward often reserved for inmates known to go crazy. The walls were bland, with tears in the padding at the creases. Correctional officers grilled him for two hours. He knew nothing, so he told nothing.

  Then, he was marched up to the warden. On the way, he reminisced about when Shiloh had introduced himself as the chaplain and given him a Gideon Bible. One of the Biblical passages spoke of a man claiming to be the Savior being trotted through judgment halls. Jesus was eventually found innocent. Delvin desired a similar outcome.

  Warden’s personal hellhole had just received a fresh scrubbing; Delvin was sure of it by the way his nostril hair stung from the piney clean stench.

  “This is a tremendous disappointment,” he scolded, “a farce.” Warden was an antithesis of his usual calm self; throwing books, fussing at the guards standing watch. “A man dies while I’m in charge, under my watch?” His eyes stuck to the ceiling. “Please tell me, somebody ... that I’m dreaming.”

  Delvin, the guards, the wind; nobody dared mumble a word.

  It was clear by the frustration on Warden’s face, that the perpetrator had not been identified. The prison administration’s noses hadn’t even sniffed up a cold trail.

  Oh, but there was going to be a fall guy. Delvin looked around in dismay. No one else seemed to be sharing that cliff with him.

  Warden picked up a Sprite can that was similar in description but not the actual criminal evidence. “A hypo needle punctured through the top of the can. The poison was inserted that way.” Warden demonstrated how the person must have done it. Then, he put the can down, picked up a nearby book and shoved it into Delvin’s chest. “Come out and fess up, Storm. Whatdya know?”

  The routine was quickly becoming old. But Delvin remained calm. What the admin couldn’t see was that he really didn’t have any light to shed on the subject.

  Since they had nothing, no witness or real evidence, Delvin was returned to his cell, his trustee privileges suspended, pending further investigation.

  “Stinson’s dead, Murphy.” Delvin decided, for once, to visit his cell unannounced.

  “I’m fully aware of that,” Murphy said, as though Stinson’s death had been in the history books for years.

  “He’s not just dead, he was murdered. Poisoned.” Delvin could feel his heart rate and breathing increase. He bowed his head, almost too choked to speak. “I think it was a message meant for me.”

  “How do you come to that conclusion?”

  “You think I wasn’t listening to the things you said a while ago? I didn’t understand then, but I do now.” He grabbed Murphy by the neck. “You had something to do with it.”

  Murphy shrugged. “You could be waning on the edge of correctness. I’m not at liberty to say, however.”

  Delvin scowled, hoping to scare Murphy. “I told you I don’t like killing. I could kill you right now, though.” He let Murphy’s neck go with a jerk.

  Murphy seemed undaunted except he needed a moment to catch his breath. “The conclusion that I can safely make is that somebody must be angry and somebody has caused somebody to be angry.” He paused, pressing a fingertip against his lips. “Oh, and another conclusion ... I’m sure that the drink was not delivered from the bottling plant with that caustic solution inside. Arsenic, was it?”

  “It’s amazing how you know things I didn’t tell you.” Delvin stepped back from him to avoid the urge to grab his neck, this time to choke him to death. “Yeah, you know what’s going on.”

  Murphy face froze. Delvin had never seen a black man flush before. “Okay. I see someone has a noose around your butt. Well, then fine, you peon. Say nothing.”

  “I’m befuddled, Mr. Storm. Your accusations are tremendously unfounded.”

  “I’ll bet they are.” Delvin slapped Murphy’s bunk, knocking the linens out of place. “Since you insist on being their crony, give them this message. I’ll f
ix everything, everything I’ve fouled up before they get to me. You be sure to tell them that. Got it?”

  Murphy slowly nodded. “And I have a line of advice for you as well, Mr. Storm.”

  “What?”

  “Look out, listen up, for the law of my name.”

  After Delvin left Murphy’s cell, he went to get permission for a guard to escort him from the cellblock, beyond the dormitories, and down a long hallway that held a dozen pay telephones. He plugged one ear with his finger while looking gruesomely at a loudmouth on the phone next to him.

  The operator received an acceptance on the other end. “I’m happy that you took my call, Ms. Rizzo,” Delvin said.

  “I thought we agreed that we wouldn’t contact each other unless the need arose,” Bianca said to him.

  “That need has arisen; otherwise, I wouldn’t bother you.” Delvin inspected his surroundings. The hallway was still noisy, but the phones adjacent to him were unoccupied. “Let me get right down to why I needed to speak to you. I’ve made a terrible mistake.”

  “Oh? How?”

  “You see ...” Delvin gave Bianca the actual chain of events that led to his imprisonment, the downfall of Wright & Storm, and the truth of Job’s involvement.

  Yes, Job benefited from a few of Delvin’s schemes. And, according to law, his punishment would’ve been minute. But he was due a punishment.

  And, no, Job’s hands were never directly involved in a single deed to steal, deceive, or otherwise pilfer for his personal gain.

  “You see, Ms. Rizzo, if Job Wright is guilty of anything, basically, it’s just stupidity.”

  At that point, Delvin realized his icy core had melted somewhat, and that he had found himself capable of panic. He was also capable of empathy, grief, and any other human emotion that he had previously attributed to weakness. The phone trembled in his hand; he realized that he was also able to forgive.