The problem was that he wasn’t sure how he felt. “It’s going to change our lives. Are you ready for what the changes could be?” he asked in an attempt to delay a response to a topic he hadn’t given any real consideration to.
“It’s not hard for me to say, Job. I’m ready for a baby, babies, if God allows it to happen. It’s the one thing that always surfaces on my mind and has for the longest now. But you know what? I refuse to go down this road by myself.” She pulled her hand free from his, as if in defiance. “Job,” she said in a blunt tone, “are you trying to tell me you don’t want a baby?”
Ping-ponging his questions and explanations was over. Her taut expression meant that his next words needed to be austere and to the point. He twisted his neck to relieve the building tension. “I wonder if the timing’s right. Children—it’s just new to me.”
“We’ve had some ups and definitely have had downs, but we’ve gotten through them all. It seems pretty clear to me; there couldn’t possibly be a problem we can’t get through.”
“Okay,” flowed out of Job’s mouth.
“Okay, so the timing’s right. Our child would not have to witness the stuff we’ve already seen, all of the situations that we’ve endured. It can only be good times ahead.”
“You’ve made your point, Monica.” He scraped the bottom of his bowl. “For some reason, I believe we have better times ahead of us. But we don’t need to rush into a new avenue. Children? Jesus.”
“And. A child is God’s way of blessing a marriage. Our child will be a testament of our union, not one that’s the result of a crime or infidelity.”
Infidelity? Why in the world did you say that? He thumped his water glass, remembering that she didn’t have a clue about his most recent intimate secret.
Monica rambled under her breath about how her job status may be affected, how she might have to convert to an at-home wife and mother. She followed that statement with more unrecognizable monologue. “We’ve got some planning to do,” she said.
Oh, Lord. The day wasn’t drifting away fast enough for Job.
The waitress returned to see if they were ready to order entrees. Job used the opportunity to catch a breather and to initiate a more pleasant train of conversation. “Let me tell you about today,” he said after the waitress excused herself.
Monica took a sip of Coke and then looked at Job with what seemed to be anticipation. “You were trying to tell me about an award?”
Job went on to explain about how Bianca was pleased with his work, so much so that he was nominated for the Disney award. When he finished his narrative, he sat back and smiled.
The glare that Monica fashioned collapsed the room around Job. He thought he had spieled out good news, and he couldn’t imagine the meaning behind the furrows in her face.
“So,” she said as she dug her elbows in the table, “I guess I’m supposed to be elated at that, huh?”
“Well ... yeah.”
“Why would I be happy for you? All I’m hearing is that you’re trying another meteoric rise to fame.” She took her hand back, slapping over a small bottle of margarita salt. “All that, and you couldn’t be happy when I told you a doctor is resolving a health problem that puts us on the road to beginning a family.”
Job’s body tensed like a tightrope. “What? Is that what you think I’m doing? This award wasn’t something I was trying to pursue. They came after me!” He lowered his voice, apologizing. “Sometimes in life, people really do show their appreciation without having to be coerced into doing it. This just happens to be one of those times, so you need to come off it, girl.”
“You aren’t fooling me. I know you all too well. You love attention.”
“I’d be crazy to turn down thanks simply for doing a good job. As far as I’m concerned, you can take it anyway you want, ’cause I can’t stop you from thinking like you’re going to think.”
Monica grunted. “You’re right. You can’t.”
Job decided he should agree to disagree. The ambience of the restaurant was festive, but the remainder of their dinner was consumed in silence, which was all the better for him. That way, he had no more explaining to do.
They arrived home, splitting toward neutral corners. Monica got the television remote in the family room, claiming to catch up on the latest 9/11 news accounts. Job retreated into the upstairs office. In between answering the individual questions on the Disney application that was due, he made time to have a lengthy phone conversation with Larry Logan.
“Man, I can’t begin to tell you how much trouble it is just to have a calm, decent conversation,” he told Larry over the phone. Although Job was aloof when it came to seeking advice on his personal life, he felt at ease with his neighbor, but not enough to let him know about Bianca. He slumped into the desk chair, propping the cordless phone against his head. “Every single incident with that woman turns into an argument.”
“Have you told her that?” Larry asked. “I mean, if Fontella starts getting on my nerves, I sit her down and show her the reasons why we can’t come to agreement. I tell her nicely, but when I’m done having my say, she doesn’t walk away guessing how I feel.”
Job was multi-tasking pretty well. He answered a couple more application questions while telling Larry, “I don’t know what I’m doing wrong with Monica. Lately, I can’t seem to find the right approach for her. Whenever we talk, it’s always loud and erratic. We never get anywhere.” Job remained vague in the explanation of his and Monica’s dinner conversation. At the same time, he wanted Larry to side with how he thought Monica was being unreasonable. “Is there something wrong with accepting an award from your colleagues?”
Larry didn’t immediately answer. “Sounds like the two of you aren’t listening to each other, or attending to one another’s desires. You need to seek the Lord on that. Let Him give you some answers. I can’t help you.”
“I’m in a marriage-go-round, and that’s the best advice you can give me?”
“Pretty much. It’s what works for me after I’ve tried everything else.”
Job hated what he was thinking. Comfort was all he wanted, and Bianca’s charming sensuality was beginning to look like an option that couldn’t go wrong. Seeking the Lord, as Larry advised, wasn’t something he had tried. Venturing after the company of another woman was also unexplored territory, but it appeared to be easier to translate the operator’s manual once he broke the seal. It was just a question of should he? Shouldn’t he?
Chapter 15
... Let not the sun go down upon your wrath.
Ephesians 4:26b
Job awakened that night; jumpy, wide-eyed, and covered in damp sheets. The Bacardi Silver he gulped down as his reward for finishing the Disney paperwork, had resulted into a headache instead of the sleep aide he had hoped it would be. The amber LED on the clock read 2:30 A.M. His body had had two hours of restlessness. Three hours remained before it would be time to prepare for a new workday. He reached around for Monica, although he wasn’t positive she had come to bed. He didn’t remember getting a kiss. No rub on his head. No brush along his back. A “go to Hades” would’ve sufficed.
He managed to grab a handful of camisole. Sometime during that evening, she’d found the bedroom and slept through his stirring.
Bianca was the reason he couldn’t relax. She had negotiated her way beyond his conscience and tunneled into his subconscience. It wasn’t right for her to violate his sleep, to be in his presence during a time beyond his control. She had been in his dreams. Now, even his imagination was guilty.
He left the house and Monica at 6:30 A.M. with unspoken good-byes and an unrepentant countenance. He wanted to say something apologetic or witty, something that would draw a from-the-heart response, but time and pride overtook him. He settled for letting their communication remain unfixed.
His driving time was reflective, and he opted to keep the radio muted. On his way to school, a brief detour to the corner drug store on Thunderbird and Fifty-fifth Ave
nue for Visine cured his insomniac red eye before the first period keyboarding class.
The hallway was filled with chatting students who seemed to be indecisive about whether to do the right thing and attend class, or give in to truancy. That morning, it wasn’t just the students acting that way, it was everyone. Given the previous day’s events, Job understood the unsettling atmosphere.
It was between his first and second periods that all his fear, confusion, and desire ran together. Administration was approaching from the far end of the hall.
Scottsdale’s Max Mara must’ve outfitted Bianca because she was doing justice to designer black that morning. Her contours were a vision on canvas, stretching the seams of her dress to their material limit. Her hair, that same color and glistening against the fluorescent lights, fell into equal motion with the rest of her body.
Bianca twisted her shoulder to dodge a rushing student, and then paused beside a series of lockers. “Mr. Wright, I hope today is better than yesterday, don’t you?”
Job wasn’t into discussing the weather or the national dilemma at that moment. He was fearful that sensible talk would get casual, leading down paths he wished to avoid. “I finished the application and essay for the award. I’ll bring them to your office later on.”
“Fine.” She looked around to see who might be listening. Job did the same for his own assurance. The hallway was clear except for a few lingering students about to face a late bell and a pink slip.
“The invitation stands, you know,” she said.
No explanation necessary. Job knew what Bianca meant. Yesterday’s kiss and invitation had done enough to wound him and make an indelible impression on his mind. She wasn’t taking her pursuit any further. It would be up to him to make the move. That was just her way of reminding him that she didn’t mind being the prey.
“I’m married,” he whispered. He knew it sounded transparent, but marital status was his best defense and the most convincing statement he could come up with.
She pursed her lips. “Umm hmm.” One of her manicured fingers traced the spine of a ledger she was carrying. “I’m in the book. You make the call.”
Bianca’s slam-dunk statement gave Job a cold, suffering feeling. Monica preferred to argue with him. Larry offered spiritual advice. Bianca proposed an alternative. What to do? God help him for what he was contemplating.
Job avoided Bianca the rest of the day. He even delivered his Disney award application and essay via one of his A-plus students.
Job took a scenic route home in order to rehearse his reconciliation with Monica. Maybe he would do or say something to put them back on the path to marital bliss. He stopped at Nell’s Flower Box for a dozen roses and an I Apologize card; his way of knocking the wind out of her at first sight. There wasn’t enough time to find the Anita Baker album with the song of the same title.
Once through the door, he quickly realized eighty dollars had been wasted.
Monica greeted him with a curious look, and accepted the flowers without a verbal acknowledgement. She found a leaded glass vase, a wedding gift with years of dust, and the Mikasa label stuck to it. She filled the vase with water, sediment and all, and plunged the roses into it.
Job sat at the counter facing her. He tried not to allow her drama to upset him. “I’m tired of us moving from room to room and not speaking.” He would make her talk if necessary. He came home in the evenings to a fine but annoyed spouse. At work, a voluptuous, starry-eyed woman hung onto his every sentence. It was getting to be a temptation unequaled by any other. So, if the love of his life wanted to wait until dinner was prepared before he lunged into conversation, well, oh, well, she would just have to multitask.
Monica was busy doing that classic clang-bang of dishes, pots, and pans, her means of showing displeasure without saying so. “What do you mean? I am speaking to you.”
“This ain’t speaking to each other, and you know it.” Job swallowed his embarrassment. He realized the nonsense of her drawing him into a quarrel, and he didn’t want that. “You know what? Let’s slow down, take this a step at a time.”
She said, “Okay,” with a trace of frost in her response.
He rubbed his jaw, taking a second for the air to clear. “Honey, I love you,” he said with as much sincerity as his heart and voice could put into words.
“I know that. But I’m getting to the point that love isn’t enough. I don’t ask for much, just that you’d consider the fact you don’t live by yourself. You have a wife.”
“Which is the reason I’m making every effort for a calm, loving evening. No fighting. No arguing or accusations. Me and you working through issues needing to be in the open.”
Monica told him that sounded decent, but a little forethought—calling her at work to let her know his plans—would’ve helped. “I have a previous engagement.”
“What? I didn’t know about it.”
“Of course. You wouldn’t. We weren’t talking, remember?” By all indications, she didn’t want him to answer. “Pastor Harris is having a special night of prayer—the nation and the victims in New York and what have you. A lot of my clientele have missing business associates who worked in the World Trade Center. Some of the blue-collar employees had relatives working for the Port Authority. Even Cory mentioned a couple of friends that worked for Euro Brokers. Nine Iron was a graveyard today. Playing golf and tennis wasn’t their priority.”
“What does that mean?” he asked.
“It means I feel a connection to their pain. Besides that, praying for someone else may help me feel better.”
“Prayer. Whatever. You feel that strongly? Going to church and leave us hanging in the balance? I don’t believe this.”
“Say all you want to try to make me feel bad, but I’m going.”
It had been too long since Job experienced her honeycomb taste, supple touch, and her opulent smell. Getting reacquainted with her senses was at least another day away. Monica seemed to be forcing him to choose door number two. Why couldn’t she be like ... ? Nothing. He lacked the power to resist thinking about it. But he wouldn’t resist forever.
Chapter 16
... and behold, it was burned with fire; and their wives ... were taken captive.
I Samuel 30:3
Six days later, the Wright’s were still at odds. No conversation. They didn’t have strength to argue or the desire to come to the table for the sake of the marriage. They didn’t admit it, but the bonding cords were breaking strand by strand. They made a pact to set aside their differences and present a united front on the morning of Monica’s embolization procedure.
Dr. Najib had advised her not to eat for twelve hours as part of her preparation. When Job told her that he wouldn’t eat as well, she asked, “You’re fasting with me? Praise the Lord.” She viewed his willingness to participate in her medical prep as a genuine show of strength and concern, something she hadn’t seen in a while.
Then he responded, killing her spirit. “I wouldn’t call it fasting,” he said, “let’s not take it down that faith road. I’m just not eating.”
Prior to the procedure, she did her best to remain unruffled and witty, although on the previous evening she had had bouts of anxiety. Under a local anesthesia, her anxiety became a distant memory.
“The embolization didn’t take long, everything’s fine. How you feel?” Dr. Najib asked Monica.
Monica placed her hand down the center of her body and along her legs. All her body parts seemed to be in place. She felt fine.
Job looked like he needed nausea meds. He explained that his nose was playing mind games, making him believe he was in a sewage cavern with no means of oxygen. The facility had a medicated, pristine aroma. When Dr. Najib gave details on the side effects of the procedure, he appeared faint.
“You okay?” Monica asked Job.
Dr. Najib also had a look of concern. “I say something not proper?”
Monica chuckled and then flinched, possibly from the slight pain the physi
cian told her she may sense. “No, Doctor. Men can’t stand a thing, which is precisely why God gave us the baby-producing job.”
Job’s appearance seemed to worsen.
Dr. Najib grinned. “We’re done.” She handed Monica a prescription for pain, if necessary, and then told her that she could return to work in a couple of days. “Resume as usual.”
Monica needed to ask a few more questions, but Job’s cell phone beeped. She gave him a stare as he excused himself and went into the hall.
Dr. Najib was in the middle of answering questions when he returned.
“Ms. Rizzo called,” Job announced to Monica. “She wanted to know how you’re feeling, and to let you that she’s thinking of you.”
“That was considerate. Tell her thanks when you get back to school.”
Job placed his cell onto his belt. “She also let me know that the contest officials at Disney called. A package is forthcoming which details the award package, travel arrangements, and prize money. Ten thousand dollars.” He opened into a wide grin.
“Congratulations Mr. Wright,” Dr. Najib said.
“And five grand will go to Mountain River; that’s the school where I teach,” Job said, directing that statement toward Dr. Najib. “And . . . it will be in newspapers all around the country. Hey, honey, isn’t that great?”
Monica asked him, “Now, you haven’t actually won yet, have you?
Job’s eyes cut toward Monica. “No.” His answer sounded defiant.
“Then, why are they sending a package?” she asked.
“I guess so each applicant has one in case they win. I imagine that’s the reason.”
Monica’s pain overrode her expression at that point. Above that, she marveled at his ability to put on such a show, knowing they were at odds with each other. The only person who could be impressed was Dr. Najib.
Living Right on Wrong Street Page 13
