Living Right on Wrong Street

by Titus Pollard

  Delvin turned and looked behind him. Never had he witnessed a gang of men, regarded on the outside as financial wizards gone bad, making such sensitive cries for someone he had learned was born two millennia ago. He was now in that gang of men. He stood, approached Shiloh, and reached out his hand.

  Shiloh grasped his hand and embraced him. He whispered in Delvin’s ear, “Your letters were your repentance. Welcome.”

  Delvin felt a season-changing comfort, unlike anything he’d experienced before. It choked him up, made him overflow—without any thought of who might be observing. It doesn’t matter. “Thank you, Reverend,” he replied. “I accept Him as my Savior.”

  “I knew this day would come,” Shiloh said with an air of confidence. “I’ll come by to see you late, late this evening to talk. Only if you want.”

  “Please.”

  After dinner, Warden had sent word through the cell block supervisor for the evening shift that he had some papers that he wanted Delvin to file. “The usual stuff,” were his exact words, according to the guard.

  “Yeah, okay,” Delvin replied. He was busy with an important task. At least it was important to him. Pulling, ripping, exposing his cell wall shred by shred. Tearing down mischievous representations of his past. He wanted to be rid of his personal shrine to Joseph Bertram Wright’s destruction before nightfall.

  The guard escorted him to the showers, where he finally washed Saturday, and now most of Sunday, away. With fresh clothes and a hygienic feeling, he made his way to the administrative wing of the prison.

  Warden greeted him in what Delvin felt was a reserved form of cordiality. He paid it no mind. It was likely that Warden still had doubts about his innocence; Stinson’s killer was yet unidentified.

  But he still seemed to possess enough confidence to leave his office in Delvin’s hands; a guard posted, of course.

  “You know what I need, Storm. This stack of papers should have you in a sweat over the next couple hours, so take your time. No hurry.”

  “I’ll get right on it.” Delvin wasted no time sorting through the various documents. Again, it was old stuff, left unfiled from years of neglect.

  An hour later, he was inserting the last document and slamming the file door shut.

  He reached into his back pocket, the one normally reserved for a wallet. For an inmate, the least worn part of his slacks. What purpose would a wallet serve?

  Delvin reached in; he hadn’t forgotten. His trusted Gideon Bible, the pages of Acts chapter eight now dried and discernible.

  He went behind Warden’s desk and slumped into the battered leather executive chair. So many scriptures to read. He was a new Christian, and there was too much knowledge to gain. Much too much for one evening. He was happy to be able to start somewhere.

  Shiloh had told him about how the Old Testament, the first part of the Bible, gave hints that Jesus was coming. “Where was that passage?” he asked out loud. The half-asleep guard grunted and asked Delvin if he was talking to him.

  Delvin told him, “No.”

  Shiloh said Isaiah. Yeah. He thumbed through the pages, found the fifty-third chapter. After the first few verses, his eyelids began to weigh on him. He shook himself to restart his body.

  He read: ... wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities, the chastisement of our peace was upon Him; and with ... his stripes ... we are—

  Sleep.

  It was a bad dream. No, it wasn’t.

  Delvin tried to pinch himself into complete consciousness, but he was constrained. What he felt was reality.

  He could feel his eyes popping, his wind blocked. It wasn’t a rolling desk chair under him anymore. It was a sturdy, prison issue, metal one.

  One, two ... three men, all of them huge or at least, from his vantage point, they had excessive girths. They had him by surprise.

  He couldn’t make out anything they said, with the exception of one comment about cut off our loot, or something to that effect.

  Oh Lord. Delvin knew he was seconds, at the most, a couple of minutes—away from death. The truth came to light at the eleventh hour. What he didn’t know was how painful his termination was going to be.

  They had rendered him helpless, fixed his arms and legs like a quadriplegic.

  Delvin shook his head, trying to ward off punches while at the same time, get a view of the three men who had caught him by surprise.

  The rag they used to gag his mouth tasted of Dial soap, the same kind an old school teacher had given him in the fifth grade for cussing at another student. Tasted like Dial. Smelled like Exxon.

  They wanted to be cruel, and had planned it well. They kept his eyes uncovered so he could see his own paced, animated torture.

  Help! Delvin tried to scream, but it was shrill, muffled. Where was the guard? Paid off, lurking in a remote corner, eyes in another direction. Everybody has a price. How well Delvin knew.

  One leg broke away from their grips, punted one of his attacker’s private parts. “Ohh! Got me!” the guy shouted. His face contorted in pain.

  That made them more aggravated. One of them landed his hammer fist across Delvin’s jaw. One cracked mandible.

  What happened next had him counting down to a finish line. One of the men, tall, several days of gray stubble against his ashy brown skin, and a build more stocky and intense than Stinson’s, jammed a homemade shank into his chest cavity. Below the rib cage. Left-hand side. The red stuff spewed in every direction. Oozing on Delvin. Splattering on the other three.

  The trio left Warden’s office cracking jokes, cussing. Not dead yet, but fading.

  Seconds later, a shadowy figure passed by. A man with a drooped body. Recognizable. Barely.

  It was Deliverer, his eyes lit like halogen.

  Fine, Deliverer. This is how you do it. But I’ve made my peace with the Lord. I haven’t known Him long. But I’ve taken the opportunity to know Him. He knows me.

  It was finished.

  Chapter 33

  Therefore, my beloved brethren, be ye steadfast, unmovable, always abounding in the work of the Lord, forasmuch as ye know that your labor is not in vain in the Lord.

  I Corinthians 15:58

  Job experienced what he believed to be the most punishing two and a half weeks of his entire life. He was careful to obey the school board policy which forbade him from corresponding with school colleagues or students or their parents, and prohibited him from being present on Mountain River’s campus. Paradise School District had been hush-mouthed about their assessment or any action they were considering. He hadn’t heard a word from Bianca, which he thought was peculiar. But then, when he thought about it, resisting contact with her was a blessing in disguise.

  But he needed to do something.

  Monica had shown her spiritual and emotional support. On her suggestion, he consulted Wendy Axford, their attorney and friend from Louisville, who advised him on case law and precedent. When Wendy broke down her legal-speak to laymen’s terms, Job viewed realism face-to-face, and considered the fact he may not have a job to go back to once the district published their decision.

  There was just too much going in the right direction to have a setback based on long term unemployment.

  But he was realistic. The majority of their ten thousand dollar award helped them play catch up and take care of responsibilities not covered by homeowner’s insurance; but those funds were waning. And the district’s decision to keep him on paid leave proved beneficial during his forced hiatus, but keeping that job was, at best, a fifty-fifty chance.

  On that Thursday morning, November 1, he peeked at the clock and darted out of bed with a rush. He was sure he had told Monica not to let him oversleep because what lay ahead was a busy day. He and Larry had made last evening their time, but it wasn’t bogged down with their usual physical activities—bowling, pool, or sometimes weight training. Their time was consumed feasting on ribeyes at Ruth Chris’s and talking. He didn’t understand his exhaustion, but in the f
uture he would reconsider having a boy’s night out with Larry within hours before he would have a loaded schedule.

  The last comment Job remembered came from Larry, who had asked how he was holding out with a newfound destiny in the Lord, particularly with his most recent school district problems.

  Larry continued to be a source of encouragement. “Demons have a way of making your issues compound, especially when you claim an undying faith in God. Your problems stack up so they seem unbearable. It means the victory line is staring you in the face. Hold on, bro’.”

  After that, whatever was said and how Job made it home safe remained a mystery.

  Job trounced over to the bathroom door and found it locked. To his astonishment, Monica had not yet gone to work. And his banging didn’t make her move any swifter.

  “I’ll be out in a bit,” she scolded. After that, either time did a virtual frost over or her showering, eyebrow tweezing, and make-up application really was exorbitant.

  Job was thankful to whoever invented the shower massage on that day. It proved a brisk revival for his mind and body.

  When he left the bedroom for the kitchen and found Monica still in the suite grappling a glass of water, he knew something was irregular, but she didn’t elaborate and he didn’t immediately question.

  Job poured a glass of orange juice and took a seat beside her. “I’ve decided to make the district aware of Ms. Rizzo’s sexual advances,” he declared.

  Monica took a sip of water and met Job eye-for-eye, with an understanding expression on her face. “You think it will help your situation?”

  “I don’t know and don’t care. I only have one reason for wanting to make it known.”

  “That is ...”

  Job said, “If the record is going to be revealed about me, then the whole record needs to be revealed. The only discomfort I endured as a teacher involved her, whether she agrees or not.”

  “You don’t see it as an act of desperation on your part?”

  “With nothing hidden and everything out in the open, I can move on in a clear conscience.”

  She nodded. “If that’s what you think you should do, then do it.”

  All right baby. Your support makes me want to put a rush on it.

  “I’ll have a conversation with McManus today.” He snapped his fingers. “I better change that. I’ll send him a detailed e-mail. He’ll get the message, and that’s proof I sent it.”

  “You think Mr. McManus will act upon your accusation?” she asked.

  “Shoot naw. But I’ll know I did my part.”

  “And seeing him in person wouldn’t be better ?”

  “With all I need to do today, I can’t be pulled in two totally different directions. It’s been a long time coming so I’m going to see how our home is coming along.”

  He was correct. Between extensive periods of rain, Apex Construction had come from Mesa to remove the heap of charred remains and commence with what would soon become the new 2333 Rong Street. According to contract, topsoil had been graded, foundation had been poured, and the frame was pieced together. Job planned a visit to the construction site as subcontractors ran plumbing and wiring through the studs.

  Monica sipped the last drops of water from her glass. “Some people might see checking on home construction and defending personal reputation as equally important.”

  Her train of thought was unmistakable, but his relentlessness overshadowed her line of thinking. “I only have so much time today. I’m giving each issue the amount of attention they deserve.”

  When they talked about why Monica was in no rush to get to work, she made an inaudible but evidently sarcastic statement, dropped her jaw, and twisted her neck.

  Job didn’t pursue the matter any further. Anyway, he didn’t feel he had a right. He, after all, was the one suspended from a job. He did what he believed was the clever thing. He bowed out and left.

  It was effortless to picture each room of their home as Job stepped along the subflooring, examining the workmanship while he joked with the construction workers.

  As far as he could tell, he and Monica would be moving in by Christmas if Apex Company kept its pace.

  “I hope the weather holds up for a week without a torrential downpour,” the supervising contractor said.

  “Really?” asked Job.

  “Aw, man, yeah,” he said. “This isn’t like nailing planks or even laying brick for the exterior. When we spread this adobe, we need time when the stuff can dry.”

  Lord, please. I’m thankful for the suite. But I’m ready to move on. And move on was what Job decided to do. He had spent more time there than he’d planned. He needed to hurry to an appointment with Donald and Vincent.

  It was a working lunch date at, of all the unconventional places to meet millionaires, McDonald’s. Job arrived before them, so he went ahead and ordered a quarter-pounder meal. Job had to do a double-take when the two partners arrived. They looked more like a hip-hop musical duo than high-stakes real estate dealmakers. Donald was bespoke in ENYCE® and Vincent in Rocawear®. Their outfits bursted with tint and twinkle.

  Job stood up and bowed to them as a joke. “You’ll need to explain yourselves,” he said, referring to their dress.

  “There’s nothing to explain,” Vincent told him. “It’s what we like to wear. Surely you don’t think a brother has to always wear a stuffy gray suit, do you?”

  “Your point’s well taken,” Job said.

  After they ordered their lunch, they proceeded with the business at hand.

  It was Job’s responsibility to create a profit and loss projection based on a three-year period and usable square footage of the commercial property that the Fuquay & Terry firm managed.

  “This one’s in the hopper. If these numbers are, in fact, lining up, and they seem to be according to my calculations, then we can take this to the client. They’ll be pleased. Great work, Joseph,” Donald said.

  As they flipped through the proposal, Job wondered if there were any new commercial deals in need of consultation. He had caught wind of a Sedona mall project that their firm had won the bid on. “Hey, when do you plan on doing this presentation?” Job asked.

  Vincent and Donald exchanged glances, as if waiting for the other to speak.

  After Vincent jerked his eyes and raised a cheekbone, Donald came forth as the one tapped out to act on their behalf. “Hey, man, you know? It’s not our style to beat around the bush. It’s about this current client.”

  Job danced his eyes from Vincent to Donald to get some kind of take on where they were going. “Oh?”

  “Yeah, well,” Donald said, “your work with us on this project is pretty much completed.”

  Job took a moment. “Why?”

  “Well ... it’s not us, understand, but our client.”

  Job could not believe what he was hearing. “Yes?”

  “The guy heard about your trouble, especially the school district and all. Doesn’t want you involved in this undertaking. Personally, I don’t see how you’re able to stand upright. I couldn’t bear the pressure.”

  “Why? How did someone find out about that?” Job felt his skin gripping. He dropped his arm for a moment so the blood could circulate before he resumed the inquiry. “I’m doing the work, right?”

  “Oh, yeah, it’s not that. But hey, you know how word gets around. And the client is boss,” Vincent chimed in. “It’s not your work. The guy’s kinda paranoid. He thinks that if a school district will want to fire you, they’ll get crazy and not grant any building contracts to anyone you’re involved with.”

  Job checked his voice and frustration level to keep from drawing attention. “So what do you all say you want me to do? And who is this client?”

  “The client was generous; and, wants to remain anonymous with you. But the good news is that he wants you to get paid according to agreement. He just doesn’t want you physically on the scene, especially making presentations,” Donald said.

  “And you’re
saying?”

  Vincent replied, “Hey, man, it is a trip. But we’ve got to honor his request. You understand how it is when you work on commission. The client is king.”

  “Yeah, I see your point. What about other jobs?”

  Donald assured Job that they would be using him in the future, that that setback wouldn’t affect their relationship in the least.

  “I’m praying that this isn’t the end. Aside from enjoying what I do, I could use the work—and the money,” Job pleaded.

  “You’ll hear from us, no problem,” Vincent said.

  Job held no confidence in their promise, especially when he caught the two of them bouncing sly looks at each other.

  When Job had a moment to breathe and assess the day to that point, he found himself sitting on a couch in the foyer of Nine Iron. Whatever else needed to be done would have to wait. He had reached his finish line.

  “You know, when you don’t know what to do,” he told Monica when she made it home, “all that’s left is to pray.” He informed her in a brief synopsis about all he had witnessed. His lack of rest had caught up and overtaken him. He made an early evening of it.

  Job awakened, believing he would be able to match the efficiency of the previous day. The sleep left him refreshed, unlike the morning before. He thought about spending the day at Chapel in the Desert. The mission work there was a never ending cycle and the assistance of men during the daytime was always welcome.

  Job made up in his mind that whatever his activity was, it wouldn’t involve stress—like, worrying about money.

  He saw that Monica was already up and dressed when he made his way into the kitchen for his daily shot of orange juice.

  She was seated before a half-eaten turkey, bacon, and mayo on wheat as the mini-television yelled the day’s temperatures according to the Weather Channel. Her ambivalence to the noise was understandable, since she was engrossed in the front page of the Arizona Republic.

  Job took his juice and decided to stand near her at the counter top. “You don’t have to hang so tightly to the sports section. Who’s playing who this Sunday?” He was referring to the NFL.