He rested at the computer chair, and clicked on the Navigator icon. The machine started talking back; fans whirled, indicator lights flashed. He was in.
Like pulling out a precious stone, the article emerged from his pocket. He unfolded it, studied it, and outlined keywords in yellow. He placed it on the computer desk and left-moused the SEARCH button. He started sweating. It wasn’t physical labor. It was a colossal moment, a breaking point. His only trouble was deciding which key word to search first.
He had to blink, clear the celebration in his head. Each word took a life; break-dancing, hip-hopping, vying for his attention, wanting to be the first to be typed in.
Mountain River High School, Bianca Rizzo, Paradise Valley School District, Disney Teacher of the Year—decisions, decisions, et cetera ...
The search for Mountain River gave him a phone number. There would be no better day to make a long distance connection than on one of Job’s workdays. It was the opportune time to reach Phoenix Arizona. Zero. Six, zero, two...
“If you accept the responsibility for collect charges, please press one,” Delvin heard the computerized operator say.
Silence.
“Bianca Rizzo,” the voice said.
Delvin was used to staunch, pretend-like-you-can-control-your-urge female voices through receivers. He’d been around women like that all of his adult playmaking life. In times past, he’d even made bets with acquaintances on how fast he could lure the female behind the voice on her back, begging him for repeats of physical gratification. And he would oblige. “This is Delvin Storm.”
As if she wanted to tell him so what, she said, “And the purpose of your call?”
“I have some information that I’m sure you would be interested in.”
“Excuse me, but am I supposed to recognize who you are?”
“You accepted the phone charges,” he said, trying not to sound defensive, “or do you make it a habit of taking calls from strangers?”
“School district policy. Mr. Storm, is it? We’re required to take the call. We never know if it’s an emergency. And I know how to reverse the charges if a person is playing a hoax. State your business.”
“Don’t you have a Joseph Wright teaching at that school?”
“Yes, we do. Business and Technology.”
“Well, I was Joseph Wright’s realty partner in Kentucky. He never mentioned his previous occupation?”
Momentary pause. “Of course he has, in a roundabout way,” Bianca said. “But he’s not at work today.”
Delvin wondered why, but didn’t ask. “I didn’t call to speak to him. I needed to talk to you. What do you know about Mr. Wright?”
“What do you know about him?” she shot back.
“Enough to know that he shouldn’t be in a classroom.”
“Just a moment,” she said. There was a silence, but Delvin could tell that the line had not gone dead.
A minute passed before Bianca returned to the phone.
“Look Mrs. Rizzo—”
“Ms.”
“Okay, Ms. Rizzo, I only have so much time on this line. Are you ready to hear what I have to say?”
“Mr. Storm, you’re on my dime. What’s the hurry?”
“Problem is they give us a time limit on our calls. Guess they figure if we were on here too long, we’d plot a prison break or something.”
Delvin heard a short beep interrupting his conversation. He presumed the phone to be tapped. “You ready to listen?”
“Go ahead, Mr. Storm.”
Delvin went into his abridged, fraudulent version of how Job concocted a scheme to defraud consumers of down payment funds held in Wright & Storm’s possession until their transactions closed. Then, he added a spine-tingling touch by telling Bianca how he became the victim, imprisoned for Job’s crimes. “His lawyer was slick, better than the fool I had.”
“This is some kind of trick, isn’t it?”
He had a feeling that if Bianca could’ve seen his face, she would have been able to pick through his deception. At that moment, he was thankful for the telephone. “Lady, I’m in prison. I’d rather be out, living the life. Do you really think I would’ve spent the last year locating Mr. Wright just for the fun of it?”
“It wouldn’t be beyond some people’s comprehension.”
“I’m not into games, Ms. Rizzo.” He pulled the phone from his mouth, and chuckled. “I’m merely trying to right a wrong.”
“That’s what lawyers are for.”
“If you ever get the opportunity to witness prison adjudication like I have, you’ll know that it doesn’t work most of the time.”
“Assuming that all you say is true; what does your story have to do with me?”
“You’re my means to justice.”
“I don’t understand. True, you must be Mr. Wright’s former partner, I can plainly see that.”
“So you believe me?” he asked.
“I know for certain that a man named Delvin Storm was Mr. Wright’s partner. The reason I know this is because a magazine I have shows the two partners. And it shows me how you look.”
Just like a woman. I gotcha. “I’m not quite like that picture anymore.”
“Umm. I question whether you’re telling the truth about Mr. Wright. It sounds far-fetched.”
“Oh it does? So, I see you’ve fallen for that conniving excuse of a man, huh?”
“I believe I support a gentleman who in a short time has proven himself a worthy educator. This I’m sure of.”
Another short beep pierced the receiver. “Well, I have a suggestion for you, Ms. Rizzo.”
“I’m all ears.”
“You might want to do a little checking on your great educator. One thing I know for certain is that you won’t be disappointed with what you find.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“No,” he said emphatically. “You’ve got to promise me, Ms. Rizzo.”
Delvin heard Bianca heave a breath. His skin began to itch from excitement. Her snooping from the outside would arouse just enough suspicion to make Job uncomfortable. Since she didn’t give an immediate ‘no’ to his request, there was hope.
“C’mon, Ms. Rizzo, you have nothing to lose. Keep your search quiet at first if you want. Just promise that you will look into it.”
“Okay,” she relented. “I’ll check around.”
“Good. You can always call me. I’ll have your name added to my contact list.”
“I’m not sure we should ever talk again, Mr. Storm. But I’ll make the appropriate contacts and do some checking.”
That was all he wanted to hear.
Chapter 22
Judge not, and ye shall not be judged: condemn not, and ye shall not be condemned: forgive, and ye shall be forgiven.
Luke 6:37
After spending the last two days running errands by car and sleeping in luxurious but unfamiliar surroundings, a spiritual experience at Chapel in the Desert was the buffer Monica needed to get through the next week.
Prior to the beginning of service, a small fellowship of members including her, Job, and the Logans, formed a circle and offered words of prayer. During worship service, the praise team sang a powerful medley of inspirational selections. She was encouraged by all of it. But it didn’t satisfy her craving.
The pew wasn’t comfortable that Sunday. She had elbowed Job in the ribs and stabbed his ankles with her shoes a couple of times, and he had to be annoyed. Whether he was engrossed in his own concerns or flat out fearful, he declined to ask the meaning behind her constant shifting. It had to be the anticipation of the Word putting her on the edge.
Pastor Harris, wearing a robe for the first time in months, began his sermon with, “Many of you, I’m sure, have wondered why my comments about the 9/11 attacks have been limited to a single corporate prayer. You will find out today, why I’ve said so little.” He paced a few steps and turned right in Monica’s direction.
The murmuring made Monica believe people had
actually thought about Pastor Harris’s reluctance to speak of the world event. You couldn’t pass a TV, radio, or web pop-up without some preacher taking his or her fifteen seconds of fame to downgrade Osama, Bush, or the entire situation.
Monica’s personal problems kept her from focusing on 9/11.
“I needed to wait for that opportune moment when this nation, particularly my congregation, wasn’t so emotional with the immediacy of the matter.” Pastor Harris put on a compassionate smile. “This way, I would have your attention on what I have to say.”
He requested that the congregation turn to Luke, the seventh chapter.
“If I had to narrow my sermon down to a subject, it would be one word. One powerful, difficult-to-deal-with, word. Forgiveness.” He told the crowd to look at a neighbor and repeat the word. They responded with claps and shouts.
He continued. “Look at what the terrorists did. They killed.” Turning in the opposite direction, he said, “But look at what we do. Led by the President, this United States of America goes on a retaliation spree against the enemy while praying for the victims. That’s okay, I guess, but that’s not what the Bible says we’re to do.”
Monica listened, anxious to know where his message was going.
“The Bible says to pray, forgive. It doesn’t tell us to seek revenge on the enemy. We are to pray for them, too. You know, we can always tell what a person’s thinking, because they can’t help but speak it. Doesn’t matter whether it’s evil or good. Revenge seems to be on the mind of the United States of America, because prayer isn’t really on our president’s mind. Revenge is.”
Monica looked at Fontella and nodded. In her mind, he was telling the truth.
Then Pastor Harris said, “We are not terrorists, but we commit terroristic acts in our very homes.” There was buzzing in the crowd. “We do and say things, hurtful things, to each other. Then what does the other person turn right around and do? Retaliate.”
On the inside, Monica stopped smiling.
“My people, unless you’ve become adept at lying, the things you feel are the ways you speak. The Bible doesn’t tell you to retaliate anymore than it tells this nation to. For if we could only see fit to forgive a mass murderer after we’ve been attacked, then we truly have achieved a spiritual greatness. We then have drawn an oppressor under our feet, while God exalts us in the process. When we say we love, then we should truly be able to forgive. Amen?”
And the people said, “Amen.” Pastor Harris left the platform as shouts lifted and the praise team sung a song of invitation.
Monica said, “Amen,” with a sigh and shame. She kept on a face of contentment for Job, Larry, and Fontella, but inside, she felt a conviction. She couldn’t vouch for the other two thousand congregants, but Pastor Harris had struck her with his message. She hadn’t committed a terroristic act, but she had trouble forgiving the other half of herself. Considering all she and Job had gone through and had to overcome, speaking favorably to and about her husband was difficult to do.
At the Logan’s insistence, the two couples took the Sunday afternoon to load up in Larry’s car and take a trip to the cooler temperature and higher elevation of Sedona. Along the way, they stopped at a local mom and pop Mexican restaurant, where they feasted on garbage burritos and procured some touring information.
Larry suggested that they stop up Highway 179 to Tlaquepaque, the “art of soul of Sedona.” It turned out to be a favorite destination for the Hollywood movie industry, with huge sun-touched mountains, and high-walled canyons flanked by towering pines and sycamores. It was sacred to Native Americans going back some ten thousand years. People in contemporary society visited for physical and mental renewal.
Job was appreciative of Larry’s and Fontella’s thoughtfulness. He was badly in need of renewal.
Monica and Fontella left Job and Larry after they made sure they were connected to a credit card or two.
The men found themselves wandering into the Red Country Center, a reservations office for Jeep Tour Guides of Sedona. After Larry’s hefty deposit, cell phone battery checks, and a thirty minute orientation, they were roughing it four-by-four style.
Job wanted to believe that the forty-five hundred feet above sea level was giving him the jitters. Not so. This was an opportune time to confide in Larry who, in the past, gave him advice without judging him.
“God showed His tail, didn’t He?” Job trumpeted almost breathless at the panoramic view. “Awesome.”
Larry agreed. “Now I see why people come here to relax. The place is lost in time.”
Job leaned against the Jeep. “You didn’t have to do this, you know. I would have footed the bill.”
“No, you wouldn’t have, because I wouldn’t have let you. This is our treat.”
“The last thing—”
Larry interrupted Job before he went into his soliloquy about not wanting to be a charity case. Larry gestured to him, telling him that he didn’t think of it as that. “We’re friends, so what’s a little money spent to take your mind off your predicament? I don’t know what kind of mental state I’d be in if our house burned down. Swallow your pride and take in the moments God’s nature has provided.”
“I’ve spent the entire day thinking about stuff ... just stuff. How we came to Phoenix and how things were supposed to be good,” Job said.
Larry looked on without a discernible expression, making no comment.
“I’ve even considered an affair. I mean really, really, considered it.” Job sighed in relief. He had admitted it to someone other than himself.
“An extra marital affair?”
“Yeah.”
A long, tense silence followed while they were fixated eye to eye.
Job broke the thickness of the air, telling him, “Nothing’s come of it, believe me. Nothing drastic.”
“How far has this ... consideration ... gone?”
“This woman and I talked, that’s all. It didn’t go all the way.”
“You mean,” Larry paused, tossing his cell phone into the vehicle seat, “there’s been no sex.”
“No.”
“Okay. So, does your wife know about this?”
“I’m standing here living, ain’t I?” He tried to lighten the conversation, but Larry didn’t follow the humor. “I can’t tell Monica. This almost-affair was with my boss.”
“Aww, man. You let that nature thing get in the way of your common sense.” He nodded, making Job concentrate on his slip in judgment. “What was it? Looks? She can’t possibly be better-looking than Monica. God help you for whatever your reason is.”
“No. She was just there for me in ways that Monica isn’t. It was her ... I can’t really explain it. The woman had a way of making me feel good. Like a man.”
“I’m speaking from personal experience, you understand; any woman has the capacity to make you feel like that. But believe me when I tell you that it’s a false sense of security. This woman that’s after you has nothing to lose. She’s not trying to marry you.”
“I imagine you’re right.”
“I know I am. And they don’t want to be married to you. They remember that you could do the same to them that you did to an ex-wife. Cheat.” Larry shook his head. “If you haven’t done it already, do yourself a favor, drop it, cut it off.”
“I have. Promise you’ll keep this to yourself, especially away from Fontella and ... my wife,” Job pleaded.
“The fact that you realize what you’ve done should be punishment enough. I don’t have to say a word. Anyway, that’s not my place. You have to make the decision whether you’ll admit it to your wife.”
“It’ll make our marriage go down the drain.”
“If it does, your marriage was never meant to be. Only the Lord holds that knowledge. You know what I mean? He knows what will happen and what won’t.”
Job had to admit that Larry’s advice stung, but he appreciated it. Driving that Jeep off one of the cliffs would have been easier than accepting what he
said, though.
The fact that it was Sunday didn’t slow the Sedona Starbuck’s one bit. Monica witnessed shouts of latte, mocha and, espresso from the corners of the shop while inviting aromas occupied the gaps. People were lined up like eternal life could be ordered by the cupful.
She and Fontella moseyed around the room as two inconspicuous listeners, deciphering the central buzz as theocratic dialogue. How the Methodist compared to Baptist. Whether praise and worship was more effective than hymns. Charismatic versus high-church. The usual denominational debating that never comes to a resolution.
Monica wanted to get some things off her chest, and she assessed that inside the coffee shop was the wrong place for an in-depth discussion of her life.
They took a seat outside under the shade of a broad, teal colored table umbrella. The afternoon was pleasant; the closing stages of monsoon season had kept the desert heat at bay.
Fontella took a sip of her mocha frappuccino. “Have you found out how the blaze started?”
“We don’t have a clue. Our insurance adjuster should be getting back to us the early part of this week.” Monica had taken great pains to avoid thoughts of all she and Job had lost. She didn’t blame Fontella for bringing the subject to the forefront, but a frantic struggle to get life back to some decent order had kept her from pondering the source of the fire.
“You should know by now that if you need anything, all you have to do is say so,” Fontella told her.
“I know.” She sniffed her caramel apple cider, hoping the aroma would settle the explosion mounting inside her. “Girl, I—I want you to help me.”
“What’s the matter?”
Monica lowered her cup into her lap. “I’ve been thinking about leaving Job.”
“You’re not serious. Why?”
“It’s not on my mind as strong as it had been, but the thought hasn’t completely left me.”
Fontella’s concern escalated. “For some reason, I was sure you all were working together through this gigantic mess.”
“It’s just appearances. We can’t seem to agree on anything.” She held up her hand and spread out her fingers to count. “How we live life. Should we have a baby? Will we run out of money? Is our spirituality on the right track?” She dropped her hand. “Nothing’s working for our well-being.”
Living Right on Wrong Street Page 17
