Living Right on Wrong Street

by Titus Pollard

“The news is wonderful,” Monica said under her breath. She said it so that Dr. Najib wouldn’t pick up on the fact that she wasn’t moved by his announcement.

  When they returned home from the clinic, Job began annoying Monica with his constant, “You need anything?” or, “You all right, honey?” Well, Honey was just fine and only wanted him to leave the house and get out of her hair.

  She told him to drop the pseudo-thespian antics, and that there wasn’t an audience observing him.

  “How long is this going to go on?” he asked.

  “Until you’re sincere.” Monica sat back in the recliner and waved him away, not wanting to hear another word.

  He responded to her message with a slap of his side. He faded away to the home office.

  She went to bed that night, but couldn’t rest for Job’s periodic trips to the bathroom, splashing water or fumbling around in the dark. Monica smothered her face a couple times to keep from laughing so loud.

  The next day, she awakened to find Job sprawled across the bed and out cold. She was aware that he fell into a deep rested state after having a glass of Chardonnay to, “Calm my nerves,” he had told her.

  She had risen and showered. She moisturized herself while still half-wet. After a few moments of pacing around the room, she made a decision to be a socialite instead of a couch potato. She dressed for success in a navy two-piece. By the time she retreated out of the bath, Job was awake, still on the bed, but with a flushed, groggy appearance. He still had a few minutes before he would be pressed to get to school in time.

  “What’re you doing?” Job asked.

  “Going to work, what else?”

  “Aren’t you supposed to take a day or so off from work? That’s what the doc said.”

  “Don’t dictate to me, Job. I feel fine.” She reached over the top of the dresser and picked up her prescription bottle. “I can always take these if the pain gets unbearable. Got to get out of this house, especially if you’re going to be here.” She sprayed Chanel behind her ears, which perked her senses.

  Job sprung into an upright position. “That’s just plain stupid. You ever heard of a setback?”

  Monica adjusted a bracelet on her wrist. “Umm hmm, and I’m still not hearing you.” She hurried through the bedroom door before he could say anything else. “Have a great day.”

  She had been at work two hours when Job called, telling her that he decided to go on to school before he died from boredom at home.

  “I’m dealing with a major issue here,” she told him. Monica didn’t feel the need to ho-hum him with any details, but she was in the middle of settling a servicing dispute with an organic fertilizer contractor who was named, ironically, Pete Moss. Above all that, she was feeling a little pain and didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing he was right about the possibility of a setback.

  “I don’t have a lot of time anyway. I’ll let you go,” Job said.

  Monica hung up, peered at her watch, and huffed. It was 11:00 A.M., very early in the day. She yearned to leave work as the seconds rolled by. Job was right. She should’ve stayed home.

  Her meeting with Pete was coming to an abrupt halt as she allowed him to brew and stew over her counter-offer. He shuffled his sod-laden feet, probably coming to the realization that he needed her more than she needed him. When he conceded, she pressed the intercom call button on her desk phone, asking Nami to prepare some contractual documents while she offered Pete a conciliatory Coca-Cola. She decided it would ease his bruised ego.

  With the essential meeting of the day completed, she thought it best to return home to recuperate. She phoned Cory to inform him she was leaving early, and he told her not to worry. “Your work is in Nami’s capable hands. She’s a pro.” What he said about her administrative assistant was nothing but true. And she wasn’t worried; she was in pain.

  A couple of hours later, Monica found herself dragging into the kitchen to fix a turkey bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich, and get some apple juice to wash it down. With a TV table in front of her and the remote at her side, she planned to become one, in harmony, with her couch. It would be all good.

  After the usual barrage of soaps, detective shows, and Lifetime movies, she lost all track of time and fell asleep.

  She awakened, with the urge to rub her stinging eyes and nose. Above her head was a series of crackling sounds which were soon overrun by a peculiar metallic hum and then the blast of a horn. The noise pinched her nerves.

  Her wind seemed constricted, and she picked up on a pungent odor and what appeared to be massive clouds of dust throughout the family room. She sniffed again. When she realized what it was, her body heightened into panic. The more she gasped for air, the less she received. Fire!

  The smoke had already lowered itself to the top of the couch, within inches of her nostrils, just enough space to catch a glimpse and breathe without catching an eyeful of fumes and a chest full of carbon monoxide.

  She rolled off the couch and to the ground, crawling her way to the French doors by the kitchen. The doors were blocked with flames coming from the outside.

  She didn’t know the direction of the fire so, she bumped into the half wall of the kitchen counter and kicked over some bar stools. Gotta find the outside. She prayed that the front door, if she made it, wouldn’t be obstructed by anything, especially flames.

  Choking even more, she crawled along the foyer wall, getting caught in the telephone cord. Telephone. She pulled the phone down from the bar ledge, and the cordless receiver fell on the floor. She stuffed it into her robe pocket and continued to grope the floor and crawl. She managed to make it to the front entrance and tapped the doorknob. It was cold.

  She squinted, hoping to wash away the grainy sting paining her vision. She peered just above her head where the smoke seemed to do a limbo. She took in as much wind as her jaws could hold, stood up and bolted out the door. When she was out on the porch, her knees began buckling. She’d made it as far as her strength could carry her.

  “Mrs. Wright, Mrs. Wright?” Isabel Marriday stood over Monica with a befuddled look in her eyes. She was rubbing her shoulder. “You all right?”

  “What happened?” Monica asked. Her voice felt scratchy and sounded guttural. Her eyesight was constricted by the oxygen mask over her nose and mouth. She was lying on a stretcher in the back of an emergency rescue vehicle.

  “I think you passed out, dear. You were holding onto your home phone,” Isabel said. She had a wide-eyed gaze, and her shrill voice sounded like a distorted amplifier. “I hate to tell you this ... the back half of your house is gone.”

  Gone? Monica’s heart felt like it was about to throw her off the stretcher. She swallowed and then asked, “Where’s my husband?”

  Chapter 17

  Thou hast set our iniquities before thee, our secret sins in the light of thy countenance.

  Psalms 90:8

  After rushing off the phone with Monica, Job went to the faculty lounge during his planning period. He was certain to find a Maricopa County phone book, a simple commodity that was often seized for personal use and never returned, or damaged beyond recognition.

  He blamed Monica for his decision to accept Bianca’s invitation and get her home address. If any circumstance prevented him from getting there today, he was convinced the deal wasn’t meant to be closed. His plan was fast-paced. Less apprehensive that way.

  He opened the door to the lounge and found Frances directing the other administrative assistants on how to set up light refreshments for the faculty. Petit fours, vegetable and fruit trays, and punch were available for the staff to come, sample and go as they please. Too many nosy people in that room to suit him. But without the address, he wouldn’t know where Bianca lived.

  His hands got clammy as he thumbed the pages in the white section. The RIL to RIZ page was extensive, but Job found that there were only four Rizzo’s. It was just as Bianca said. She was in the book. He held it in his lap, peering around for any onlookers.


  It seemed like everyone was occupied with their own business. He wiped his forehead and reached into his pocket for paper and pen. He scribbled her address on the paper, crumpling it in his hand. Before anyone asked questions, he stumbled out of the lounge without sampling the repast.

  He went straight to Bianca’s office, sidestepping France’s empty desk. He knocked and refused to acknowledge his brain waves. Make that about-face. Go to your classroom.

  Bianca was at the door, standing in the opening. “Well. You’re not avoiding me today ?” she asked.

  “No reason to.”

  She moved aside, allowing him to enter. “Is your wife recuperating?”

  “No. She thinks she’s superwoman. She played hard-head and went to work.”

  “Oh.”

  “You know how you women are. Can’t tell you anything.”

  “Please don’t try lecturing on our gender. We could go all day telling men about themselves,” she said jokingly. Bianca gestured for him to have a seat, but Job refused.

  “I’m not staying long. Just came by ...” He folded his lips inward and moistened them. “Does your offer still stand?”

  Every item in the room, every molecule in the office, stood still as Bianca’s eyes narrowed. Under any other circumstance, she would have responded quicker with a witty answer, but that moment was different. She needed contemplation time.

  “When do you want to see m—”

  “Today,” Job interrupted. “I wanna see you after we leave work. You okay with that?”

  She moved a strand of hair away from her face. “Sure. Yeah. Umm, today’s all right.”

  “Fine. I’ll see you then. What? Three? Three-thirty ?”

  “Three-thirty. I don’t know what to—how did you—what made you decide ... ?

  Job had a fleeting regret for what he had done. It passed as fast as it came. He sighed. “We’ll talk it over this afternoon. I have the address.”

  “Okay,” she said. There was a question in her reply.

  Job stood and left her office, surprised and satisfied that they’d just danced, and she allowed him to lead.

  The drive from the school to Bianca’s was a considerable distance, which Job appreciated. The time was useful as he gathered his thoughts and strength. I want to talk to her. I only want to talk.

  Bianca’s subdivision in Deer Valley looked similar to Resi’Stanz. There were few streets, few houses, and each path ended in a cul-de-sac.

  “Well, hello.” Her words dropped from her lips as tiny crystals in a path. Her boss-to-employee demeanor had taken a back seat. She widened the massive, ornate door for Job to enter. “What route did you take to get here?”

  “West on Bell. Up Tatum.”

  “Good choice. You avoided the heavy evening traffic that way.” She closed the door, walking him into the living room.

  Job couldn’t help but watch her. She couldn’t help but be seen. Her business attire had been shed for some washed-and-worn crop lounge pants that left the midriff for the imagination. She didn’t fill out the backside as well as Monica would have, though.

  There was an aroma creeping in from the kitchen, intense with garlic and tomato. She wanted to return there and check on things. “You know, there’s a bottle of Chianti on the buffet. Why don’t you open it? Let it breathe.”

  Job uncorked the bottle and placed it in a copper-laced bucket swimming with ice and water. While sniffing the cork, he took inventory of his surroundings. From its exterior, Bianca’s home was any ordinary Southwestern residence composed of adobe and enclosed by a cactus yard. The inside, however, was a Tuscan cornucopia of brilliance with terracotta tiling in the foyer. Drapes and seating were burnished orange. Oak pieces accented the soapstone fireplace. A billiard room with a life-sized picture of Al Pacino on the wall. The only thing missing was someone to hum the Godfather theme, and then the Corleone would’ve been proud.

  I only want to talk. Right? I only want to talk. Job changed his cell phone to SILENT mode while he waited for Bianca to return from the kitchen. He sat on the sectional, face to face with the entertainment system. The various equalizers, players, and amplifiers seemed to take life, telling him to power up. He obliged, found Boney James’s Ride album, and popped it in.

  As the tenor sax filled the cool air with syncopation, Bianca returned with a tray of various cheeses, pickles, and olives.

  A mood was being set, he couldn’t deny. The food, the music—well, he chose the music—everything he heard, smelled, and watched was sucking him in. Right then, just about any woman could’ve wooed him since it had been weeks since he and Monica had attempted to enjoy each other. But Bianca had the look, intelligence, and vitality that fared above just any woman. If Job wanted to call a halt to the proceedings, it would have been difficult.

  She sat next to him. There wasn’t enough room between them to place a Coke or a smile. He clamped his eyes tight enough to see a kaleidoscope and sighed.

  “Are we off the clock?” Job asked her. “I mean, right now, are we Mr. Wright and Ms. Rizzo, or are we Job and Bianca?” He shifted positions. “I want some clarity, ’cause I don’t want to have to face any kind of retribution later.”

  “Hope you like pasta.” Bianca edged closer. “Manicotti,” she purred.

  Job took in the mint from Bianca’s breath, and then he shook off its effect. “Did you hear what I said?”

  Her gaze traveled up the length of him. “Honestly, you think this is about trying to test the limits of my power?” She plucked a huge olive from the tray. “At this very moment, we are Job and Bianca, stripped of our titles. Now, here ...” She squeezed the appetizer between his teeth. “Chew.”

  He did as she requested. He crunched the oil from the olive while considering where he was and what he was doing. He swallowed.

  She tried to feed him another, but he caught her hand. “Why were you approaching me in the first place? We’ve got to be way beyond anybody’s professional code of conduct.”

  “It makes it so intriguing, doesn’t it?”

  “What’s behind this ... this ... whole seduction ?”

  She reached over to the far end of the table, taking a magazine with a black glossy covering, and flung it by the spine onto the table. When it stopped swirling and Job read the cover, he knew she’d done her research.

  Bianca stabbed the magazine with her finger. Black Enterprise. August. 1999. Cover story read, “Louisville’s Power-Brokerage Duo.” She started rambling out loud. “Isn’t this something? You. On the cover?” The sneer on her face spoke volumes.

  Wow. Such an in-the-face reminder of the recent past. He used to make the high dollar in the family. He used to rule a piece of Louisville’s financial pie. Now, the only pie he saw was the kind donated to the faculty lounge.

  Bianca moved back into his personal zone. “I can see ambition isn’t a new thing to you. Neither is success. That’s evident. A man as fine, intelligent, and ambitious as you deserves unbridled attention. Stop trying to tell me that you don’t like the interest I show you.”

  “Hmm.” He needed to tiptoe around that admission. She was well-versed in what to say and do. Her seduction was melodious—a song not being played on Rong Street.

  “So,” Bianca raised her eyes to meet his, “why have you given in to my pursuit? Actually, you know, you were pursuing just as strong. Explain that to me.”

  Stick to what you rehearsed. “I came over to talk. That’s all.”

  Bianca chuckled.

  Job tried to ignore her. He looked away and then turned back to her. “I go home. Nothing happens. We eat in silence. We spend the majority of our evenings in opposite ends of the house. She wants things. I want things. What we want out of life seems totally different.” He cringed when he realized he’d just itemized his problems to someone who probably cared less.

  “And lovemaking?”

  He paused. “Forget that. Nonexistent. No ... I can’t lie. It hasn’t been great. You know, when you can’t have a d
ecent conversation about the simplest of things, making love doesn’t cross your mind.” He wondered how she dared bring up the sex subject. But it was he who wanted to talk. Any topic was fair.

  Bianca threw him a quick glimpse. He shot one back.

  She said, “I don’t see how anyone could get by without sex. Good sex, I mean.” She stood up. “Want a glass of wine?”

  He nodded. He wanted to see her stroll toward the ice bucket. It gave him an opportunity for his mind to ricochet about the way she had said good sex.

  She returned with the wine saying, “Successful black men are a rare find here in Phoenix. I’ve never been with one, so I’m ready to take my chance.”

  “But I’m married.”

  “Is this the only explanation you can come up with? It’s a poor one when you look around and see you’re in my house claiming you just need to talk to me. You can’t lie. You want my body more than my conversation.”

  He sensed her firmness. “I think I did want ... you know. But now, I’m not really sure. I can’t tell you what I want.”

  “Then let’s try it out, see where it takes us. I’m willing. You?”

  His hands fumbled to find his wine glass. He gripped it and took a gulp. “I don’t believe you said that.”

  Bianca backed up, giving them at least arm’s length distance. Why, Mr. Wright,” she purred in a 1-900 voice, “maybe you don’t realize where you live. This is the Hoopla Capital of the Midwest. Married. Single. Gay or straight. Doesn’t matter. People get together. Stick with your wife, I don’t care.”

  Job had gone off-track in a wave of conflicting thought. He glanced at the magazine and then at her.

  She told him, “Let’s take our time. Pace the relationship.”

  “Huh?”

  “I can take it slow. There’ll come a time when I don’t have to ask. I won’t have to request. I’m confident enough to know that you’ll want to let your wife go and, be with me instead.”

  “What?” Job set his glass down, shocked that he didn’t break it by the stem. “You done lost your mind for sure. How you came to that conclusion is beyond me.”