Relentless

by Patricia Haley

  “Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain again. I have good news and bad news.” Sighs flowed throughout the plane. “Good news is that we’re out of the storm. The bad news is that we’ll have to make a brief stopover in Pittsburgh. The FAA requires us to have the air cups restored before continuing the flight. We’ll be on the ground in about thirty minutes.” Chattering abounded. “Hopefully, the service crew will get us back in the air quickly, and we’ll get you to Philadelphia as soon as we can.”

  Nicole advanced her watch three hours to 5:45 and relaxed. She would soon be safe on the ground and able to call Maxwell. Forget about the layover. She planned to rent a car and make the five-hour drive in four. She and Maxwell needed to talk, and it couldn’t wait.

  Chapter 5

  Papers and folders consumed the king-sized bed, with Maxwell scrunched near the edge. The sharp pitch of his alarm clock sounded off. Maxwell rolled over and stretched out his long arms turning off the piercing noise that told him to get up if he was going to be out of the house and on the jogging path by six o’clock. He made his way to the master bathroom, turned on the light and right away bent over one of the sinks, allowing the faucet’s cool water to pool into his hands. He buried his head into his hands, careful of the tender scar over his right eye. He gently touched the spot and immediately pulled away. There wasn’t a benefit to be gained in dwelling on his wound. Pushing forward, staying focused was the best way to handle pain.

  He raked the hairbrush over his short smooth strands of hair that lay in place without much effort. A few minutes later he’d returned to his bedroom dressed and almost ready to go.

  Maxwell was still surprised Nicole hadn’t called but wasn’t going to dwell on it. He put on his running shoes and started lacing them up. Each time he drove the shoe string through an eyelet, he thought about a church on his list. As much as he tried to maintain control, Greater Metropolitan continued to dominate his priorities. He couldn’t let emotions force him to act hastily. Each brick had to be laid at the precise instant in order to build this wall of destruction he’d envisioned for the bishop. Standing up straight, he scooped up his keys and cell phone from the dark cherry wood dresser and out the front door he marched waging a strategic battle in his mind.

  Maxwell eased down his cobblestone driveway and started with a slow jog. If he could just block out the low-grade headache until he could take some meds later, then his day would be off to a good start. Half a mile later he was running alongside the riverfront in Fairmount Park catching random glimpses of the Philadelphia skyline as it poked through the lines of trees. The sound of oar blades slicing into the cool water as a rowing team maneuvered by was the only noise giving life to the park. The crisp morning breeze calmed Maxwell as the streaks of light belonging to a new day continued parting the darkness. Several greetings were tossed his way from a couple of ladies. Once he turned to give his delayed response, they had long passed. It was a good thing no crimes were being committed in the vicinity, because he wouldn’t have been able to describe any significant details.

  Ironically he was known for having impeccable recollection. He recalled details from as far back as two years old, going to church, sleeping in his big-boy bed, watching Sesame Street on TV every morning. That was the extent of his good times. The last five years in his parents’ house he wished to forget. As his foot hit the pavement, he reflected on the past, forcing him to run faster, attempting to pound out the images. He quickly returned his focus to the path before him and picked up his pace, determined to lay out his plan for the day and shove out haunting memories. As much as he tried, Maxwell couldn’t stop thinking about the day his father went to prison and the real perpetrator hadn’t suffered a single day of inconvenience. Maxwell had often wondered how Bishop Jones’s children would have turned out had their father gotten locked up and left them broke and struggling. Maxwell would never know the answer to his longstanding question. He slowed a bit, feeling in control of his emotions. This time when a lady passed and said hello, he responded without hesitation.

  When he turned around at the 2.5 mile marker, Maxwell felt a quick, sharp pain shoot through his right eye. He shook his head but didn’t break a stride. He finished up his normal five-mile run with not quite the same vigor as he’d started. Pain or past wouldn’t hinder him from anything he set his mind to do. Dragging up his driveway, he stopped at the front steps to stretch out his legs. He looked down at his watch; 7:30 a.m., right on time. He shoved open the heavy wooden door. The Sunday morning preachers would be starting soon, and he wasn’t going to miss any of the performances.

  Two pain tablets and a bottle of water commanded attention as soon as Maxwell got inside. After chasing the pills down with an entire sixteen-ounce bottle of water, the remote control and his sixty-five-inch HD TV would be his refuge. He dropped onto the sofa and settled into the corner, kicking his left shoe off and then the right; another day, another battle. Maxwell wielded his remote control at the TV and pressed the power button. A big voice bellowed from the small man standing in the pulpit challenging his audience to trust God in all things. The plea filled the room, riding the waves of a crystal-clear surround sound system. Maxwell listened and watched intently. He followed the preacher’s hand gestures, the way he moved, walking up close to the edge of the podium. Shouts of “Amen” mounted as people jumped out of their seats, yelling like they were at a football game. The cameras panned the room showcasing the lively crowd of people committed to this pastor, supporting him, encouraging him, and trusting him. Maxwell shook his head and snorted out an airy humph as the pastor extended his right hand toward the people and began praying.

  Maxwell scooted to the edge of his seat and began counting backward from five, becoming more animated with each number. When he reached number one, Maxwell shouted falling back into the seat and cackling as the minister appealed for donations. “Right on time,” he whispered glancing at his watch again. He picked up a legal pad from the glass table in front of him and moved the church up on his list from number thirty-two to eighteen. The bigger the audience, the bigger Maxwell’s interest.

  The doorbell caused him to pause. A bit sluggish, he didn’t rush to the door. The bell rang several more times before he could get it answered. The only person he was remotely expecting was Nicole. Wasn’t like her to show up without calling, but with his recent attack, she might have been out of sorts. He cracked the door open and sighed.

  “Mr. Montgomery, I’m a little early. I hope it’s okay.” The elderly lady adjusted the glasses on the bridge of her nose.

  Maxwell leaned against the door. “I forgot you were coming today.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Is this a bad time?”

  “Of course not, come on in,” he said rubbing his head and stepping aside. “It’s not you. I simply forgot that you’re cleaning today.”

  “Eight o’clock every Wednesday and Sunday morning for the past ten years,” she said standing in the entrance. “Honestly I don’t know why you have me come twice a week. Your house is never messy.” She headed into the kitchen.

  Maxwell reclaimed his seat on the couch, placing his feet on top of the table and crossing them at the ankles. She was right. He didn’t need the house cleaned, but he knew more about her background than she realized. She’d worked hard to put two children through college years ago as a single mother. Tragically one died from colon cancer and another in a car accident. She didn’t have much money or family left for support. With three more years left before she could get social security benefits, he wanted to keep helping her. $300 twice a week wasn’t a fortune for him but seemed to help her tremendously. As long as she wanted to work for him, she had a job.

  Moments later she reemerged from the kitchen tying on her apron. “I heard about what happened to you, and I was just sick about it. That’s the main reason I wanted to get here early, to make sure you were okay.”

  “Nothing a pain pill can’t cure,” he responded, intentionally downplaying the incident.
Friday was history, and the sooner he got back to routine, everyone else could too.

  Chapter 6

  The morning crept along as Maxwell found himself precisely where he had to be. Surfing the channels, he’d caught several TV ministries. He moved down the East Coast, starting with New Jersey, Delaware, and Baltimore, making his last stop in Philadelphia. He’d missed a few minutes of the 7:00 a.m. slot while talking with his cleaning lady, but not a second of the prime slot was to be compromised. Channel 17 offered the last sermon on his tour for the day.

  There he was, big and breathing hard. The thick voice of Bishop Jones pulled Maxwell forward on the sofa as he snatched his feet down from the table and planted his elbows into his thighs. A plump belly and a head of gray hair was evidence that the bishop had aged, but the voice and that glare in his eyes hadn’t diminished in twenty years.

  “Praise God, and I am pleased that you are sharing this Sunday morning worship service with me. Whether you’re here in the audience or sitting in your living room, you’re sure to be blessed by today’s message. Stand to your feet,” the bishop urged, lifting both palms toward the ceiling, “and let’s honor God in prayer.”

  Maxwell ignored his ringing phone calling to him from the kitchen.

  “Mr. Montgomery, do you want me to answer the phone?” the cleaning lady shouted from the kitchen.

  “That’s okay, just let it ring. They can leave a message,” he responded without relinquishing the stare he had locked on the television. Maxwell couldn’t sit idle as his aggravation rose. The bishop’s swagger in the pulpit stirred his anger. The image was like an instant replay for Maxwell since he had witnessed it so often as a child. He even remembered seeing his father’s wide eyes filled with admiration and hunger for the next words out this man’s mouth.

  Maxwell didn’t hear the words Bishop Jones laced with his prayer. He gave his attention to the words spoken in a different place and life, back when his family attended the bishop’s ministry. Back when it was a tiny little church in Chester headed by a young Pastor Jones, long before the title of Bishop crawled in front of the man’s name. The phone rang again. Maxwell still didn’t answer, but he did break through the time warp to hear the closing prayer.

  “I encourage you to rebuke Satan in every aspect of your life. He will attempt to destroy you and prevent God’s Word from being heard here today. But God’s Word is powerful and will not return unto him void in Jesus’ name. Amen.”

  “Whoooo,” Maxwell yelled.

  “Mr. Montgomery, are you all right in there?” the cleaning lady called out.

  Partially embarrassed, Maxwell responded, assuring her there wasn’t a problem. She wasn’t a religious woman, which was one of the key considerations that led him into hiring her. The fact that she was willing to clean on a Sunday was a bonus. Growing up, his parents didn’t let him do any work on Sunday. It was deemed God’s day of rest in the Montgomery household and not a floor was going to be swept, not a shirt ironed, or a dish cooked. If his work wasn’t done by 10:00 p.m. Saturday night, he had to wait until Monday morning. Since he left their house, he’d worked practically every Sunday since. Anybody working for him had to be willing to work on Sunday or find another employer, no exceptions.

  He didn’t want to frighten his cleaning lady by getting too caught up in the TV ministries but harnessing his disdain at home was difficult. It was his sanctuary. Home and his office were the only places where he could freely release his pent-up anger.

  Maxwell redirected his attention to Bishop Jones who was shifting into a high-preaching gear, spewing scriptures and moving around the podium. His heavy voice was tossed at every listening ear. “We must have self-control and allow God to lead us.” He paused to wipe the sweat that was pouring from his forehead, face, and neck.

  Maxwell pointed his index finger at the TV screen. Then he wrote down several things he wanted to investigate regarding the bishop and Greater Metropolitan. The foundation that he would build his case on had to be solid. After circling tax fraud, ethics violations, financial mismanagement, infidelity, and a few other standard improprieties that Maxwell had his investigator delving into, he reviewed the list. His gaze moved left to right over each detail he’d noted, each pastor’s name and their church. Drawing a big red circle around Greater Metropolitan and the bishop’s name, his conviction strengthened. Pushing the pen down hard into the legal pad, slowly, he drew another red circle around Greater Metropolitan, sealing his commitment to giving the bishop what he deserved.

  The thunderous roar of applauses snatched Maxwell’s attention back toward the screen. “Praise God, we’ve had a dynamic service rooted in the Lord this morning. Before I close today, I want to ask for your prayers regarding an upcoming project that I’m very passionate about. In just two days, this coming Tuesday, local ministers, community leaders, the mayor, the school superintendent, the chief of police, and I will come together in a joint collaboration. We will meet to develop a much-needed strategy on how to reduce gun violence and increase jobs and educational opportunities for neighborhoods most at risk in Philadelphia.”

  The room erupted into shouts and applauses as the camera zoomed in on a woman in the front row. She was bent over in her seat. Her face was buried into her hands as she sobbed. The bishop looked over at her just as a lady sitting next to her wrapped the woman up in an embrace. “Sister Hinton, I know you are grieving over the recent death of your son who was killed in a drive-by shooting. We’re committed to preserving families here, and we share in your loss. We’re praying for God to encourage your heart and give you the peace that only He can.”

  Watching the bishop intensely, Maxwell had heard plenty. He tapped his hand quietly on the chair, snatched up the remote, and flipped through the channels. He didn’t want his cleaning lady to think he was crazy. He was fiery mad but completely sane. He had to be in order to accomplish what he had planned. After a series of clicks he landed on ESPN settling for some sports highlights. He fidgeted in the seat, repeatedly bumping the remote against the chair. The taste of victory tugged at him, ferociously tugging at him. It was the glue that had kept him in his seat Sunday after Sunday. He anxiously flipped back to Channel 17 drawn like an addict. Landing on his channel, he settled briefly until the donation appeal roared in.

  “This ministry needs you. I need you, and if you sow into the kingdom, God will bless you in return. We must be reminded that everything we have belongs to the Lord for He is the one who gave it to us.” Amens abounded.

  Maxwell gently massaged his right temple feeling the cool air pass his lips as he inhaled. Thoughts pounded his head from the inside out. Years ago felt like yesterday. Every now and then he’d get an unexpected whiff of poverty and hopelessness, an old familiar smell in his nostrils. Maxwell panned the room, slower this time. A sudden wave of heat engulfed his body getting him on his feet. He took two steps away from the sofa, looking around the living room, beyond the fireplace. He peered into the open formal dining room, taking in the furniture, paintings, cathedral ceilings, and sculptures that didn’t have a match anywhere else in the world. Maxwell bit down hard on his bottom lip. Where were the bishop and God when he was washing dishes in that grimy fast food dive, mowing lawns, tutoring, eating Ramen noodles for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, while applying for every possible scholarship he could get his hands on? Not God, not the bishop, and certainly not Paul Montgomery Sr. did a single thing to help him get here. That’s why they stayed on one side of life and he was planted on the other.

  For eight months he’d watched the bishop’s Sunday morning sermons, taking notes, figuring out what to look for, and waiting for him to slip up. Maxwell had spent a small fortune on an investigator. He was certain the investment was going to pay off. With his eyes narrowed and teeth clenched, he picked up the remote control and pressed down on the power button silencing the bishop.

  “I’ll be in my bedroom,” he called out to the cleaning lady as she worked in the kitchen.

  “T
hat’s fine with me,” she shouted in return, coming to the front staircase. “I can clean your room last.”

  “Ah, don’t worry about my room. Clean whatever you like and make it a short day for yourself.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Montgomery, but you know I’m not going to cheat you on the cleaning. You pay me a good rate, and I’m going to give you the full cleaning.”

  He wasn’t going to argue. It was bound to be one fight he’d lose, one loss he’d gladly take. “Suit yourself,” he said not the least bit irritated. Actually, she was as close as he was going to get to a mother figure and there was a slight comfort for him.

  Maxwell crossed the threshold into his bedroom, pulling the T-shirt over his head. He couldn’t count the how often his father had told him to put God first and to love and support the pastor and the church. Shaking his head, Maxwell let go of a muffled laugh. He peeled off his shorts and socks, stepped into the shower, and pressed the palms of his hands into the shower wall. The hot water beat down onto his back. It was in that private space and time when he allowed himself to feel the heaviness of his journey and the loneliness it mandated.

  Chapter 7

  Maxwell wrapped a thick towel around his waist and wiped the steamy fog from the mirror. He rubbed the left side of his face and then the right. His reflection, the one that used to call him Paul, had long been silenced. Painting his face with shaving cream didn’t help him escape the features that belonged to his dad: a small nose, thin face, dark brown eyes that were deep and serious, and a slight dimple that framed his chin. Not every memory from his childhood was worth discarding but the scarce good ones weren’t worth sifting through the whole lot.