Living Right on Wrong Street

by Titus Pollard

  Above all, there was Murphy, standing at his cell opening, leaning. All he needed was a cigarette and fedora to have the appearance of a g-man from a black and white flick.

  “Took long enough,” Delvin said. “Whatcha got?”

  Murphy rubbed his fingers against each other, causing a sandpaper-to-raw-wood sound. He seemed unstirred by his barking, given the way he invited himself into the cell, sat on the bunk, and responded in an unvarying, conventional hum. “Have you secured the financing?”

  “I’ve got the goods in place.” Delvin explained that his lawyer would receive instructions from Nadia to make funds available once Delvin knew the amount to fork over.

  He didn’t make Murphy privy to the fact that he had a back-up to the back-up if Kirkpatrick fell through. He’d learned a valuable lesson when he was on the outside. The thing about eggs and baskets was cliché but true. Therefore, he had placed another account, capital that had been established by legitimate means, with a different individual. “How much is this venture going to set me back?”

  “I’m pleased that you engaged yourself and followed through.” Murphy placed a slip of paper between his thumb and palm, concealing the note with the other four fingers. He handed it to Delvin palm-side down as if he was passing the killer spade in a high-stakes card game. He held to silence during the entire ceremony.

  Delvin read the note. Thirty thousand? Huh. I thought they’d want some real money. “How do you want to get it?”

  As if the question had been anticipated, Murphy handed over a second note with the same bravado. A moment went by before he asked, “Is it clear to you?”

  Delvin unfolded the note. It was a series of letters, numerals, and the odd name Garrison Tenpenny, meant nothing to him, but he figured it was meaningful to Murphy. “Yeah. It’s crystal.”

  “Memorized?”

  Delvin glanced at the note again with an alert effort. “Why?”

  Murphy whisked the note out of his hand, tossed it in the toilet and flushed. “Write it in unwritten places, Mr. Storm.”

  “Why you—”

  “No evidence. Not a shred. You want a nickel added to your chronological passage through this institution?”

  “I’m doing the time I’ve got and gettin’ outta here.”

  “Then, no evidence.”

  Delvin began burning the information in his memory. Garrison Tenpenny. “We’ll play it your way. How long will it be before I see any results?”

  Murphy stepped outside of the cell opening. “If you blink, you’ll miss the first phase. As plebeians say, the wheels are set in motion. Have a superb sundown, Mr. Storm.”

  The day was made perfect when the dawdling, sole–scrubbing footsteps of Deliverer could be heard on the floor of the cell block late that evening. He paused in front of Delvin’s cell, rested a Reader’s Digest Condensed Volume on the bars, and went on his way.

  When Delvin pulled the book through the cell bars and opened it, he found a note, which because of the dim light and someone’s vain attempt at encryption, took quite an effort to read:

  JOSEPH WRIGHT. NotinLouisville.

  Notin Kentucky.Believedtobeinpartswest.

  StayTuned.

  Chapter 14

  Can two walk together, except they agree?

  Amos 3:3

  Monica left the paperwork from her job in the car seat. It was intentional; she needed a few moments to relax and reflect while she waited in the office of Dr. Karen Najib, a specialist in obstetrics and gynecology. At any moment she would be called to the back, but the soft music had lulled her into thought.

  It was in those idle moments that a suppressed anger over what had transpired between her and Job during breakfast earlier that day resurfaced. She just wanted to talk, that was all. As usual, Job wanted to skate over the facts.

  She had witnessed, over the last few days, that whenever she and Job were invited to a restaurant, church or some social event, he would find an excuse to pass it up. She thought his excuses were lame; so lame, in fact, that she couldn’t remember any excuse he invented.

  She declared that he was acting like some fugitive from the law. “Louisville is over, Job,” she told him, referring to his refusal to endear past experiences—even the trying ones—and learn the lessons from them.

  He wasn’t hearing it. “I don’t even want my dreams to remind me,” he told her.

  “So I can safely assume you haven’t been in contact with any of our friends back that way?”

  “Like you do,” he retorted.

  “I do,” she told him, “I call and I write.”

  “That’s you.” Job’s eerie look and the contempt in his voice gave away his embarrassment.

  “One thing I’ve learned in my few years on this planet,” she told Job, “is that a woman can’t change the mind of a hard-head man. Only God can soften him, call him to his senses.”

  He is doing better in some things she told herself. She was elated when Job filed last year’s taxes before the April Fifteenth deadline. And without one word from me, too. But still, she wasn’t going to let a charred history close her out of a future packed with friends and acquaintances.

  Monica snapped out of her daydream and picked up an issue of Women’s World off the table. She flipped through the pages, pausing at the article What Celebs Depend On To Get Through. She thought about her strength and who she relied on to get through troublesome periods.

  Chapel in the Desert had been her spiritual filling station since arriving in Phoenix; so much so that she looked forward to becoming a member and forced Job into the same, and together they rarely attended another church. She could count the number of times that she came away from the Sunday service without a VHS of Pastor Harris’s sermon. Monica regarded her pastor as an upright and prophetic messenger, possessing the gift to relate the Bible as the supreme guide for people in contemporary times. Her time.

  “Dr. Najib is ready for you now,” the receptionist announced.

  Monica snapped back into her present surroundings, her level of anxiety rising to an unforeseen height. Her annual physical was an event she didn’t wish on her worst enemy. She had told Job in past conversations that, “You men couldn’t handle what we have to go through to stay healthy. God knew what He was doing. He gave this burden to the right gender.” But it wasn’t the routine of the physical that had her concerned. If she could hear a positive opinion from Dr. Najib on her ability to conceive, her anxiety would go away.

  The RN took her blood pressure and heart rate and performed a couple other organ checks, writing the results in a newly created file. Monica peered at the stack of papers and asked her why her patient file looked so full, as though she had been a long-standing patient. The RN told her that the file was filled with records the clinic requested from Louisville and from Dr. Jones, the physician who examined her when she first arrived in Phoenix.

  Dr. Najib entered the room with a life-sized, full color chart. The lighting from the room bounced off her waist-length, blue-black locks that were pulled back into a ponytail. “We’re going to have physiology lesson today,” she said with the flair of a comedienne, her voice revealing the fact that she had not lost her mid-Eastern accent.

  Monica chuckled to herself, glad that she was seated on the exam table and realizing that she would have towered over the petite Dr. Najib had she been standing. She squelched her amusement, knowing that the doctor would soon have the upper hand once her feet were in the stirrups. “I must be okay. You’re coming in here with jokes.”

  “Let’s just say the tests I ordered gave me information I need,” Dr. Najib responded, still smiling. She carried on some small talk, asking about the Wrights’ move and if they were settling in all right. The conversation switched to Monica’s job, which went on for several minutes. “I’m a member of Nine Iron Club, though I seldom get to visit,” she said.

  The three women shared another laugh or two when the RN, recognizing a signal from the doctor, rolled a tray of med
ical instruments closer to the exam table.

  Dr. Najib reached into a box of latex gloves and put on a pair. “All right, Monica. You’ve been a woman long enough to know.” She leaned over, helping Monica to lie back on the table. “We’re ready for the part you hate.”

  Monica would have agreed with Dr. Najib given any other year during any other annual exam. It wasn’t thrilling being prodded every which way, and then left in wonder over answers to questions unique to the female anatomy: Cervical, breast or colon cancer? Urinary tract infections? Some other unknown, untreatable ailment? On this day, however, she felt an assurance that the news her doctor was about to give would be optimistic; conception was possible.

  Dr. Najib and her RN had left Monica in the exam room alone while she dressed. She had had enough time to dress, search through a couple issues of Fit Pregnancy, and peruse the medical posters on the walls before the doctor returned.

  “I’m sure you’re ready to be out of here, considering today’s excitement, aren’t you?” Dr. Najib asked.

  “What excitement?”

  “New York plane crashes. You heard?”

  Monica expressed her surprise, so Dr. Najib brought her up to date. Her mind then became divided. Half of her brain tried to digest the news while the other half wondered whether Job was aware of the national dilemma.

  “Let’s not dwell on it. Too much depression for the world. I guess this will even make me a suspect,” Dr. Najib said, pointing to herself.

  Monica figured that although her OB-GYN didn’t appear to be a bomber or terrorist, she would be dumped into an accusatory pile just like others with a similar appearance. It was nothing new. Being part Native and part African American herself, Monica had been a victim to that type of profiling all her life. “Nobody would suspect you to have anything to do with that,” she tried to offer consolation.

  “Hope you’re right. Let’s get on to you.” Dr. Najib walked over to the life-sized chart. “I guess you say this is about to be bad news, good news. Better than none at all, eh?”

  Monica called herself holding a breath. “Let me have it, doctor.”

  “All right. Bad news.” She pointed to the chart. “You have fibroid tumors. Looks like three. And I believe this is the main reason you’re not getting pregnant.”

  “Tumors?”

  “Yes.”

  Monica clamped her eyes shut, trying to kill her faint feeling. “C—c—cancer?”

  “Oh no, dear,” Dr. Najib said with a sound of confidence. “Benign. And a very common problem in women of African descent.”

  “Surgery. And no children.”

  “Wrong on both counts.” Dr. Najib used the chart to further explain how Monica’s blockage was occurring and that surgery would not be necessary, according to her test results. “You will have a non-surgical procedure called uterine artery embolization.”

  Monica sighed, opening her eyes in surprise. “What ... outpatient?”

  “Yes and very little recovery time.”

  Monica swallowed, gathering the energy to ask, “Will ... everything ... still be in place?”

  Dr. Najib giggled. “Mrs. Wright, get ready. Your insides will be, how you say, wide open. For some reason, it goes along with this procedure. Like opening flood gates.”

  “And this has been done before? This procedure, I mean.”

  “Hundreds of thousands of times.”

  “That’s comforting, considering.”

  “There doesn’t seem to be any other medical reasons why you should not have children. Has your husband had a check-up? Sperm count, et cetera?”

  “Oh, yes.” Monica’s knowledge about Job’s health was based on what he had told her. She sighed and thought for a moment that she may need to alter her answer. In other words, she didn’t rely on his information with absolute certainty.

  “Oh.” Dr. Najib leaned against the edge of the exam table. “Then the two of you have been taking the appropriate steps. Eliminating the negatives. Fantastic.”

  What Monica didn’t tell her was that it had been her express desire to have children. She realized that, while Job never spoke against starting a family, he’d never let out a cheer in favor of it.

  “Now if you like, you can get a second opinion about my diagnosis. Feel free, if you question my findings.”

  Early that morning, Monica had come to a decision that whatever the diagnosis, she was going to seek advice from another physician, but Dr. Najib’s calm demeanor and frankness convinced her that it wasn’t necessary. “I want what’s best for my health regardless of whether I have a baby or not.”

  “Well, let’s schedule the procedure, umm, when?”

  “ASAP.” Got to tell Job the news.

  “Wonderful. I will have to check my calendar and tentatively put you on the hospital schedule. Is Phoenix Baptist okay?”

  Am I ready for this? And my job? A baby? “I’m sorry, doctor. Did you say—what did you say?”

  Dr. Najib smiled a comforting smile. “I asked about Phoenix Baptist for the procedure.”

  “Fine,” Monica said. “I drifted. Sorry.”

  Dr. Najib jotted more notes onto Monica’s file. “Understand. This is a big step. But the sooner you do it, the better you will be. Then we can begin the steps to get your body ready for pregnancy.”

  “Yes.” Getting her body ready to accept pregnancy was the easy part. Job? In that name, lay the difficulty. “I’ll do whatever you need me to Doctor.”

  “I’m sure you will. And please, give my regards to your husband.” Dr. Najib wrapped her stethoscope around her neck. “You should be elated, Mrs. Wright. Your future is brightening.”

  “You’re right, doctor.” Monica shouldered her purse and rose to leave. Yeah. Our future. God help. I’ve got a lot to tell my husband.

  After she left the doctor’s office, Monica attempted to reach Fontella at home and on her cell, but ended up leaving messages. She was able to reach Job, who was busy in the school’s faculty workroom copying assignments. She asked if he had heard the news about the plane crashes and he acted as though she hadn’t asked a question, giving her a jumbled explanation about some award nomination. When he got around to asking how her physical exam came out, her lone response was, “We definitely need to talk this evening when we get together. Don’t try to get it out of me now. It’s too much to tell.”

  Job hoped the homemade tamales and the strolling mariachi band of Aunt Chiladas restaurant just off of Seventeenth Avenue would curve his nerves when he met Monica that evening. Too much had happened that day to suit him. He felt free enough only to tell some of that day’s event. Then there were parts he decided to keep to himself.

  He wasn’t revealing his encounter with Bianca from earlier that day. No spin in the world could fall between Monica’s ears, to make her understand that his actions were only consolation in a time of emotional distress. Fortunately, he had been in enough fresh air to get Bianca’s perfume out of his clothes. He was positive that Bianca’s advances were one thing Monica didn’t need to know.

  “I’ll have an Arnold Palmer. She’ll have a Coke,” Job told the waiter, who was pulling a miniature cart filled with chili sauces and other condiments closer for their inspection.

  “If you have any questions about the menu, I’ll be glad to answer them,” the waiter stated. He turned to a young lady dressed in a Latin-American costume and spoke a few phrases in Spanish. “The cocktail waitress will be back with your drinks.”

  “Gracias.” Job looked around the dimly lit room, allowing his eyes to consume the walls that were decorated in Southwestern colors, the elaborate water fountain and masonry fireplace. The applause from the surrounding tables died down as the mariachi ended their rendition of La Cucaracha. “It’s good to know that what happened up in New York hasn’t really dampened spirits here,” he said, trying to sound cheerful.

  Monica’s smile appeared to be more fabricated than authentic. “It’s nice, real nice.” She dipped a chip into the res
taurant’s signature salsa and took a bite. “Sorry. Just got a lot on my mind, that’s all.”

  “I understand.” I’ve got a lot on my mind, too.

  “No, you really don’t understand. But you will—after I’ve told you everything.” She explained the details of her doctor’s diagnosis for ten minutes, interrupted only by the waitress asking for their menu selections. After they had each ordered an appetizer of cold Gazpacho, Job asked not to be disturbed for about fifteen more minutes. Then they would order entrees.

  Monica’s inner thoughts must’ve run deep, because tears formed and ran down her face.

  Job reached for her hand, interlocking his fingers with hers. “You’ll be fine.” He sipped his drink. “I gotta ask ... will you be all there? I mean—”

  “My uterus will still be in place, if that’s what you’re working up the nerve to ask.” She wiped a tear with her free hand. “It’s not like a real surgery where they put you under a general anesthesia, but this procedure is supposed to correct my problem. According to Dr. Najib, pregnancy becomes a distinct possibility. She said get ready. Those were the doctor’s actual words.”

  Job’s thoughts made him wander off into an unknown zone. He looked down at their table and spotted the soup before him, and he realized he’d lost some time in semiconsciousness. Pregnancy. He responded, “Oh.”

  “What’s wrong with you, Joseph Bertram Wright?”

  He swallowed a spoonful of soup, wishing that his dish was muy caliente, deadening his tongue and sending his brain into euphoria. “What?”

  “You look peculiar. Your forehead is beading up, and it’s cold in here. It’s like you’re either in shock or something, or you have a problem with what I’ve told you.”

  Job tried to moisten away the twitching in his lips. “I don’t know what you see, but I don’t mean anything by it.”

  “Yes, you do.” Monica drew in a breath and did a rigid exhale. “Come on out and say exactly how you feel.”