But and if she departs, let her remain unmarried or be reconciled to her husband.
I Corinthians 7:11a
Job returned from Florida that Sunday as a household name in the Paradise Valley School District. He had ten thousand dollars worth of blessings in his pocket, courtesy of the Award Selection Committee. Above it all, he had spent invaluable time with God.
He ran through the airport concourse, scooped up his luggage and went outside of the terminal so that Monica would be able to see him.
Minutes went by. He patted his pants and belt, but had forgotten that he’d left his cell phone uncharged. Is she coming?
He let out a sigh of relief when Monica pulled up to the curve. When she got out of the car, he grabbed her and swirled her around. “I missed you,” he said.
“I missed you too.” She breathed short, intermittent pants that left her with a polished, rosy appearance. “Guess all the activity was overwhelming.”
“It’s much more than you can imagine. I had a tremendous time in Florida—”
“Fun?”
“It was nice, but the award and the city’s attractions are not what I’m talking about.” He paused to keep his emotions at bay. “I got what I needed while I was there. From God.”
“What happened, Job? You all right?”
“Oh, I’m fine. Couldn’t be better. I want you to know that I’ll never keep anything from you or lie to you again. Let’s make a fresh start.”
Monica’s expression seemed pleasant, but was indefinable.
“Let’s just say I got what I needed. I don’t know any other way to put it, other than ... I want our marriage to work,” Job said.
“I’ve done a bunch of thinking,” she told him, “and we’ve got a lot of catching up to do. This time, I’ll listen more and criticize less.”
“Me too, Monica.”
The drive to their suite was emotional, stimulating. Neither of them gave a look that brought back the dreadful years of their marriage.
“We’re going to get through this time,” Monica said. “You’ve been right all along.” She pulled out an envelope with the return address of their insurance company. “Let’s get our house built. I’m ready to start living on Rong Street again.”
“Me too.” Job couldn’t help but look over at her and see the glow that shined through her expressions. He didn’t want to spoil the moment with questions, but he needed to know. “Honey, umm, what did you do while I was gone?”
“Seek answers, that’s all.” It was evident she did not want to elaborate. He didn’t care, because at that moment, all that was dear to him was the hope for delightful times ahead.
“Me too.” Job planted his attention on the highway.
They arrived at their suite and, after emptying luggage, sat at the dining room table, replayed the voice mail messages, and began rummaging through the thirty-some odd offers for summer property, complimentary carpet cleaning, or lowering their house payment overnight.
There was a detailed message from Assistant School Superintendent Buddy McManus, requesting to see him on Monday morning in his office. “Your classes at the high school will be covered,” was the last sentence.
“Sounds like Mr. McManus is planning to give you an extended vacation. Paradise Valley’s really made this Disney Award thing a big deal. Well ... I guess it is,” she said.
“You oughta be proud of me.” He pulled the award envelope out of this pocket and began to shake it in the air. “We got some much needed cash out of it.”
Monica walked around and grabbed it from him, looking inside the envelope. She appeared to lose her balance, her eyes sparked with laughter. “Oh, my ... I am proud. You had to ask?”
“It’s good to hear you say it.” Job stood up and approached her.
Monica shrugged, eyeing him with a blink in her eye. “I’m saying it, satisfied?”
Job felt his desire ignite, and he slid his arms around her waist. “You know the last lie that I need to correct?”
“What’s that?”
“When I said I got what I needed in Florida ?”
“Yes?”
“I got the spiritual part. This other part I need only you can provide.”
She nuzzled her head against his abdomen. “Oh.”
The next day, Job wore a suit and tie for his visit with Buddy McManus, figuring it would be fitting for his meeting with the always-animated head of personnel. He felt like high-stepping into the opulent surroundings. Once inside though, he became unpleasant.
The custom paintings and exotic fish seemed to have taken a battle stance, closing in on Job as the draftee who had left as war a hero and returned as an enemy.
Buddy sat behind his desk, twirling a monogrammed letter opener with his fingers. He was crammed into his chair, unsmiling; his countenance, a contradiction to the personality Job had known at every other meeting.
“Mr. Wright,” was his terse greeting.
Job wanted to be jovial, but he was too busy surveying the unknown. “You wanted to meet with me?” he asked.
“For the last few days, I’ve been hoping—dern near at the point of praying—that the information Ms. Rizzo had given me is wrong. It can’t be right.”
“Huh?”
“I’ve been saying to myself that maybe so much Phoenix sun’s been beating down on the people here that they have a bad case of the sunstroke. But then, what I’ve been told didn’t come from out of Phoenix.”
Didn’t come from out of Phoenix? Job’s fear grew larger than reason, and he didn’t know why. “Mr. McManus, what’re you talking about?”
Buddy’s mouth turned under. He had the look of keen mental insight, about to impart hidden knowledge. If his intention was to make Job’s seat tighten in on him, it was working.
“I don’t know what all I could be talking about. But there’s one thing that seems to be evident. You had a heap bit of trouble back in the little town of Louisville. Am I right?”
Louisville. Trouble. A heap bit. Job thought words like those had been buried in the deepest recesses of his memory. Out of the reach of other’s discovery.
“This is just ... man.” Buddy tossed the letter opener in the air. Wood and metal landed against Plexiglas and wood. “I don’t know what to call this.”
“Listen, I can—”
“I’ll call it a sheer disappointment, that’s what I’ll call it,” Buddy interrupted. “When you first came here, I told you about our image. I know I did.” He slammed his fist on the desk. “Never would I have dreamed in a thousand lifetimes that in one week the most celebrated teacher in America would deface our district image. Never.”
Lord help. “Whatever it is that you think you know, I guarantee you, there’s an explanation.”
“For all our sakes, Mr. Wright, I hope you have a believable one. Believable enough for the school board.”
“The board?”
“Yes. Anything, anything questionable has to be investigated by the school board. In the meantime, I have to follow policy and—suspend you.”
“Aw, no. C’mon. Please. You’re making a mistake.”
“I wonder. Just how much of a mistake have I made?” He pulled out an 8½ x 11, mauve piece of paper. It had the Paradise Valley letterhead and was entitled FORM 1195. “I need you to fill this out for my office. I need a complete explanation as to the alleged falsification of questions relative to your criminal and civil discretions that a background check could divulge.” Buddy gave the form to Job.
He refused to pick it up. “Please, Mr. McManus.”
“Policy, Mr. Wright. I follow policy. Fortunately, this suspension isn’t because of acts in the classroom. And, because of your recent notoriety, it’s easy for me to justify suspending you with pay. Pending the outcome of the investigation, though, you may be dismissed. You can’t know how sorry—no—extremely disappointed—I am.”
Job picked up the form. “I cannot believe this is happening.”
“If the truth d
oesn’t incriminate you, Mr. Wright, then you have nothing to worry about. Nothing.”
This is exactly what Monica told me would come to haunt me. Lord, you’re gonna have to guide me on this one.
Job sat in Paradise Valley’s parking lot under a canopy with his car off and the windows down.
“Well, it’s too late for ‘I told you so.’ But I did,” Monica said when he had gathered up enough nerve to call and break the news to her.
“It just ain’t right, it ain’t.”
“You’re dealing with people. The same ones that praise you one minute will kill you the next.”
“But what they may find out about me, what they will find out, is nothing.”
“Honey, I hate to be the one to tell you this, but I’m saying this in love. What they will find out is that you didn’t tell the absolute truth on your employment application. You didn’t know when or how, but you should’ve known they were eventually going to find out about Louisville.”
“I know. You said it from the very beginning. What’s puzzling me is—how?”
Monica told him, “It doesn’t matter how they found out. Fact is, they didn’t find out from you. But I’m not going to fret over it. We’re in this together, no matter what.”
She spoke with an assurance, which was far from the chastising style she had used in the past. “You mean, that’s how you really feel?” he asked.
“I’m not backing out now, Job. We said we would take our marriage to a new level. With the Lord’s help, that’s what I intend to do.”
“Okay, honey. I’m with you.”
“We have to get past the troublesome points in our history. This go ’round, we’ll get past it in truth, in Jesus’ name. Then our future will come out right.”
Job started his ignition and flipped the air conditioner to ‘cool.’ “In a few minutes, I’m going to write my explanation on this form and turn it in. I’ll go home. Then I’m going to pray and continue to put my trust in God. Whatever He allows, although we may not see it, will be for the good.”
Chapter 32
The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death.
I Corinthians 15:26
The following morning, Delvin bypassed breakfast to meet Shiloh under determined circumstances.
“You’ve had very little sleep. I can tell,” Shiloh observed. Inside the chapel area, a small space had been partitioned off, studded in concrete, as a designated office. He reached into the drawer of his desk and handed a couple of granola bars to Delvin. “I always keep several of these handy for those times when I don’t want the prison food. I’m sure you can relate to that.”
Delvin took one of the granola bars and opened the package. He said nothing. He didn’t realize how famished he was.
Shiloh walked over to a compact fridge, the type parents send with their college freshman children, and pulled out a small carton of orange juice. “You’ll scratch your throat without something to wash that down. Here.”
Delvin took a couple of sips, and yanked the carton away from his lips. He couldn’t recollect having had any orange juice without some Grey Goose or Armadale mixed in. He got used to the initial taste shock and gulped it down. After resting for a moment, he said, “I need you to do a favor for me.”
Shiloh’s eyes widened. “Me?”
“Yeah. And for your eyes only.”
“But you’re a trustee, Mr. Storm. I’m positive Warden would do you a favor—”
Storm waved his hand. “Not this.” He pulled out the mishmash stack of papers he’d spent the better part of last evening writing. “You have stamps, envelopes?”
After a brief hesitance, Shiloh took the stack of papers. “May I?” he asked.
Delvin assumed he wanted to read the contents. “Yeah.”
Minutes passed. Then, an hour. Shiloh politely put off a couple of inmates who wanted to speak with him and kept his attention on Delvin and the letters.
Shiloh read each one, then reread. Delvin kept silent, allowing the chaplain as much uninterrupted time as he needed to ingest the chronology he had documented in one evening.
“This is ... humph,” was Shiloh’s response. “You don’t need copies of these lying around.”
“Do you see why I didn’t want anyone else to see these? Why a head guard wouldn’t allow this to pass mail inspection?”
“I do.” Shiloh rubbed his bald head until it turned pink. “Why now, though? What’re you hoping to accomplish?”
Delvin remembered the troubles he was sure he’d caused Job. They could only be a glint of what his former partner must’ve endured. “Maybe it’s not too late.”
“I’ll mail them for you, Mr. Storm. It’s probably best that I allow your letters to be on the inside of the envelopes, but mail them with my signature and my return address. But your work is what the recipient will get, I guarantee.” He straightened the stack of letters. “Are you positive that these addresses are correct?”
Delvin told him, “One hundred percent.”
Shiloh put the stack in a center drawer and locked it with a key from his vest pocket. “Then they will go out in today’s afternoon mail. But I’m curious. What do you mean by, ‘maybe it’s not too late’?”
“You know ... to set the record straight.”
“Redemption.”
“Yeah.”
Throughout Saturday night, a monstrous mid-May storm swept the entire state of Kentucky—tossing brush and drowning greenery.
Ashland remained a mighty fortress, withstanding the thunder, wind, and rain. Although the building itself was left intact, the weather kept the inmates stirring for one reason or another. Including Delvin.
He retired before the routine call for lights out; usually half past ten. He awakened at midnight, shaved by feeling his way in the dark. Back to bed around 1:00 A.M. Awakened by earthquake-like thunder. Must’ve been around 3:00 A.M. Thinking that it was better to give in rather than fight the insomnia, he sat up, and read the Bible by pen-light.
There was no sensible progression to the passages Delvin chose to read. He wasn’t trying to find one. The hours until daylight were waning. He didn’t want to be discovered by fellow inmates with his head still buried in scriptures around the time bacon and eggs were being served.
For him, it wasn’t to critique the book’s validity. Or to see if the King’s English had a flaw. He was reading for a single motive: Inspiration.
Four A.M. He’d forgotten there was a storm, and he briefly disregarded the fact he was imprisoned. He’d run across a story that held his interest.
Delvin read and reread until he almost had it committed to memory: A particular man, who couldn’t make children, had a large amount of the financial power in Egypt. The same man had a problem understanding God’s Word.
He met some guy named Philip, who showed him how to get an understanding of the Word. He eventually asked if the man believed in Jesus. The man said he did. The Philip guy told the man, “That’s all there is to it.” Just believe that a guy called the Christ died on the behalf of others who do wrong but willing to do right. Make a change. Believe.
For Delvin, the comforting words lifted off the pages of the cheaply produced Bible, clung to him, seeped through his skin, and plowed through the hardened ground of his heart.
Six A.M. Delvin had ruined those few pages of Acts with the uncontrollable water from his eyes. The black ink on the flimsy pages had turned blue, then pink.
Delvin’s heart was washed white. It was evident. He had taken the Lord, the Christ, as his Savior.
The Catholic mass that morning had a late start; it began at 9:20. Delvin observed the men filing into the chapel area from his cell. For the next hour, he listened for music, a loud cry, anything. Not a thing. The men filed out.
The Protestant service followed at 11:00 A.M. Delvin joined the other inmates for that service. In fact, he beat them there.
He sat on the first row of chairs; it was three chairs wide. He didn’t care. He had been
told, and he later learned, that spirituality wasn’t about the aesthetics of the building. The men were unfamiliar to him. No Saks, of course. No Stinson, no Murphy. Yet, at the same time, he could see the familiarity in each of their eyes. A kindred desire. A sincere yearning to be better men. A wonderful feeling to have.
Shiloh entered from the back, making his way down the short, narrow aisle to the rostrum. Delvin saw Shiloh glance his way, but he neglected to make his recognition obvious.
“God is good. The way that I know He’s good is that I look around and see that each of you in attendance have made it through another week, unharmed, in good health.”
Delvin heard murmurs. He didn’t turn to see the physical activity behind him.
“I want to talk to you about the pain and suffering Jesus Christ endured on your behalf. Actually, it was known that He would have to endure torment before He was born. Years before He was born.” Shiloh asked the inmates, those who had their Bibles, to turn to Isaiah, the fifty-third chapter. He paced the room, shaking hands with the inmates as he delivered his ten-minute sermon.
Delvin listened to Shiloh’s every word with intensity. He even took out a ballpoint pen and made notes in the margins of his Bible.
Shiloh had worked the entire room, making his way back to the front. “For our music today, I found this tape by an African American brother named ...” Shiloh paused and glanced at the face of the audio cassette, “... Ronald Winans.”
Delvin chuckled at the way Shiloh twanged out the “African American brother.”
Shiloh continued. “It conveys the message with such lyric, such a clarity; I would have had to practice preaching for years to compete. Listen,” he instructed.
Shiloh slipped the cassette into the player. Although the tape was scratchy, Delvin agreed; the song said it all:
Come on let us reason together
I already know what you’ve done.
“So, if any of you are ready to come home,” Shiloh chimed in as the song faded, “home is ready for you. Won’t you accept Him?” He stretched his arm up and out.
Living Right on Wrong Street Page 22
