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“I’ve seen you with three women since your release. Two were prospects and then there was this young lady we’re discussing.”
“Ashir—Witherspoon,” I corrected myself when trying to give a name to the subject.
“Pardon me: Witherspoon.” Ezra acknowledged. “She either didn’t read your silent energy of preferring personal space or didn’t care. I hadn’t seen that level of comfortability to you from any other woman.” I didn’t get it, so I couldn’t agree. Back at the safe house in February, I wasn’t checking for Witherspoon to have measured either of our body languages, especially not hers. “She’s also intimated not being your ‘type.’ Strange declaration, considering it wasn’t a topic of discussion. And not to mention, last month while you and I were in the middle of a conversation, sheFaceTime’d you just after Cynthia, and you didn’t hesitate to answer the call.”
“That struck you as odd?”
Ezra smiled before challenging with a raspy, “Why would it not?” We stared at each other for a few seconds. A muted boundary being pushed. “Do you plan on being with Ms. Witherspoon again?” I shook my head. “Then move on from it. You’re not cursed for a mere slip up. I believe Christ gives consequences to what we have in our hearts, not a single lapse in judgment. What is your fear from this?”
“The distraction.” I rubbed my eyes as my damn stomach turned over. “The covenant being broken…promise not kept.”
Ezra nodded in a way that made me feel he understood. “The Bible asks in Romans chapter eight,who shall separate us from the love of Christ?Shall tribulation, distress, persecution, famine, nakedness—your slip up with Ms. Witherspoon? No,” he croaked. “Nothing. In verse thirty one, we ask,what then shall we say to these things?If God is for us, then who could be against us?”
Nodding, I explained, “I don’t want to be the one against me. I can’t afford to lose His grace by doing recklessshi—things that require His mercy instead.”
“We all need both. Coincidentally, it is why they’re renewed each day. Instead of tormenting yourself about an isolated mishap, why don’t you revisit your purpose for abstinence? Remind yourself of why you vowed it. Redefine your need of a wife. That may help you put things into perspective and perhaps keep your hands off of Ms. Witherspoon.” He stood from the sofa and walked off.
“So which is it?” I posed to two in particular at a table of sixteen.
My eyes swung between Cecil, the garage manager, and Robert, the head motor vehicle technician.
Cecil’s eyes fell. “Trucks are not available—or conveniently available.”
Robert, a veteran here atWitherspoon Homesnearing seventy years old, sighed. “Come on, young man. That ain’t true and you know it.”
“Please reference me according to your age and not your level of maturity,” Cecil softly requested.
My father next to me cleared his throat, readjusting himself in his seat. It mirrored several people at the table. This was our staff meeting set in the conference room. The meeting was the last item on our agenda and, already, I was over it. It was almost eleven in the morning, and I had a shit load of work to pore over at my desk, other meetings with my father shadowing me, and a site visit. Sitting through Cecil’s punk ass, passive-aggressive approach to his subordinate once again wasn’t on my list of shit to endure today.
Robert’s head shot over to Cecil, who wouldn’t give him eye contact. There was a groundswell of tension in the room at this point. Even Marge-Jean twisted her neck in response to the troubled atmosphere.
Robert then peered at my father, eyes pleading. “Noel, man, you see what I mean?”
My brows shot up and I turned to my father. I didn’t know what pulled at me more, the fact that he was expected to come to someone’s defense or that he had a pulse on anything going on at the firm.
My father cleared his throat again. “Rob, I’m sure you and Cecil can work something out after the meeting.”
“No,” I enunciated. “This is the fourth time this issue has come to my attention this year. It was an issue last year and the year before. It’s an ongoing issue.” My eyes swept over to Robert and Cecil, separated by Marcia Wooden, one of the accountants. “Let’s get to the hemorrhage here. Trades are showing up to sites late, slowly shrinking the window of productivity. So let’s start from the beginning.” I glanced down at the pile of reports. “Thomas Gaft said he was late to the site because it took forty-five minutes to locate a lift. Tell me, how could that happen?”
“Oh.” Robert chirped. “I remember when Tommy came that day. It was behind the garage. I had it in line to work on that week. That’s all.”
“Cecil?” I invited him in to explain.
I saw when he swallowed. “But is that in compliance with operations, Robert?” his tone firmer.
“What?” Robert asked, face disgusted. “What you tryna tell me about the compliance rule for?” He muttered, “I been working here since two years after the doors opened. I know how to do my job.”
“That’s not the issue at hand,” Cecil argued. “No one’s questioning your ability to diagnose and fix issues with vehicles. As I’ve been telling you since I’ve come aboard as the garage manager, there are recorded procedures for how the vehicles are to be checked out and returned to their designated spots in the garage. The policy states for all vehicles to be returned to their designated parking space regardless of maintenance being needed. For years, you allow trades to just drop off vehicles anywhere outside of the parking lot as long as they leave the keys inside. It creates havoc and makes it difficult to track them down.”
“Why do they believe it’s acceptable to operate against policy?” I asked.
Dramatically, Cecil’s head whipped over to Robert.
“Ms. Witherspoon,” Robert tried to explain. “Vehicles don’t need fixing every day. We’re just talking about a handful here.”
I thumbed through the reports. “A handful that’s creating subsequent violations. Robert, when trades are late reporting to sites, projects get delayed.”
“Now, Iunderstand—”
