Living Right on Wrong Street Read Free

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    â€œI believe you’ll do your best.” She grabbed his hand. “But right now we need to pray for our meal, and ask God to continue to guide our future.” Monica closed her eyes.
    Job shut his eyes, but he didn’t feel like offering any words up to the Lord. As far as he was concerned, Monica was only half right. His actions alone would determine their future. God was a figure-head for Sunday worship, not an immortal to lean on for life direction.
    Monica opened her eyes. “I’m searching in Phoenix for a job myself. Just a back-up, you know what I mean?” She sounded almost apologetic.
    Job would’ve felt better had he been able to tell Monica that her job searching wouldn’t be necessary and that his income would be sufficient. But he had been forced from a six-figure range down to—if the teaching position was given to him—the middle five figures. He pulled at the edges of the postal package. “Hey, honey,” he said, “let me ask you something ...”
    Monica paused and turned to him. “Hmm?” “Are you happy with our move?” he asked.
    â€œI love the west and Phoenix is beautiful. It’s an excellent opportunity for both of us.” She sighed and looked Job square in the eyes. “If we don’t foul it up.”
    His thoughts lingered on the falsified employment application. He wondered just how Monica would react if she had all the facts about what had caused the realty firm’s dissolve. He had to keep certain details buried from then to eternity. “I just want to know how you feel, that’s all.”
    Monica squinted, as though she was assessing Job from head to toe. “Stop racking your brain over how I feel,” she told him. “I’m okay.”
    Monica would, after all, be closer to her roots with the move. She was born in Nevada as part Lovelock Paiute, part Italian, and part African American. He had landed himself a multi-cultural woman. But at a quick glimpse, most would simply say, Black . He glanced at his plate, noticing that it was paper.
    â€œSo I guess you’ve packed the real stuff,” he said as he gathered the last bites of food.
    â€œIf it makes you feel any better,” she tapped an empty dish, “know that it’s Chinet, not just any paper plate. I’ve packed most of the real china, which is more than I can say for you. You do understand that the closing, c-l-o-s-in-g, is in two weeks?”
    â€œPlease don’t remind me. I know we’ve really gotta step up and find a house.”
    â€œI’m waiting on your lead.”
    Job assured Monica that he had talked to a relocation specialist about certain subdivisions inside and outside of Phoenix’s city limits, and a list of potential houses would be emailed to them in a couple of days. “Remember, this is my expertise.”
    After silence thickened the air for a moment’s time, Monica said, “I don’t want God taking His hand off us like He did a few months ago.”
    Job stopped eating and glared. “God has nothing to do with any of the things that happened, good or bad. If we do what we’re supposed to do, we’ll be able to see our way again. Clearly.”
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    It was on the following day that Job packed and emptied the home office. Monica rewarded him that evening with hours of physical love that had been withheld until he had done what she had been begging him to do.
    The master suite was bare except for their makeshift bed of a bedspring with a mattress. A bowl of leftover kiwi was at her feet with lavender scented candles marking the four corners of the room. Remnants of his Fahrenheit cologne adorned her nostrils. The last track of Grover Washington’s Winelight CD reminded her that the portable player was still on.
    Job was the first to rise out of bed about 6:00 A.M. , Wednesday. Monica’s eyes traced up his spine to the neck and head she had