“Shit,” she said in awe. “What are you, a messiah?”
“Ah, yes, messiah.” Then, he couldn’t help but add, “It is not in my nature to brag, so I will only say that this television has crystal-clear picture and digital technologies.” Job looked out onto the street. He felt, strangely, as if he owned all of it. He was a big man. Then, as Cheryl’s eyes grew in alarm, Job found himself unfolding five twenty-dollar bills and casually tossing them at her. For just a second, a flicker of worry rose on the crest of his brow, but then he quickly dismissed it. His next paycheck was only a week away, and if they needed groceries or gas for the week, he would pay with his MasterCard. “Fix your car,” he said easily.
She lunged toward him for a hug. “Thank you.” Tears started forming in her eyes.
He shrugged her off, faked a sigh of annoyance. She smelled of cigarettes and strawberries. Up close, he could make out the whiskers around her eyes, the chapped lips. “Just take it and fix your vehicle.”
After Cheryl entered her house, Job returned to his car lot, and sitting there, it occurred to him that he had never seen his hideaway during the day. In early morning light, the outlines of a warehouse and two adjacent suite-style offices—tall brick buildings—were nothing but stark shadows. Now, in daylight, men arrived in black suits, swinging briefcases at their sides as they purposefully marched through the snow to their office buildings. Job pulled up to the spot where he and Cheryl had met earlier that morning in the graying light, and he retrieved Ifi’s crumpled letter. With the same jealous note in their voices as Cheryl, his in-laws would read another of Ifi’s letters. They would nod triumphantly. They would brag about his successes in a land far away. Because it was so early in the day, the letter was only damp. He smoothed out the wrinkles, affixed postage to the envelope, and placed it in a blue postal drop box before heading home.
Between two uniformed men and a dolly, the television made it up the creaky flight of wooden stairs, only getting dropped twice. After much struggle, the deliverymen had realized that the television couldn’t fit through the frame of the doorway, so they charged Job extra to take the frame off the door. And then they charged him again to put it back on.
Finally, the television squeezed through the door sideways. One of the men held his shoulder where it hit the doorway. Circles of sweat were in the other man’s armpits. They were both skinny, one tall and one short, and when they had first arrived at the door with their clipboard, Ifi had thought they were the fumigators coming to spray the apartment for roaches again—since, she had learned, landlords did this sort of thing all the time in America. Since the fumigation hadn’t worked very well to begin with, she had signed their papers without really looking. And because she had thought it was the fumigators again, she hadn’t even bothered to wake Job. They were supposed to leave the apartment whenever the fumigators came, but they never did, and so she left Job sprawled across the couch in his underwear, snoring loudly, only draping his naked chest with a blanket.
That is, until the uniformed men appeared at the door again, covered in sweat, with a turned-sideways box big enough to fit three small children. Mrs. Janik was with them. Even after the two men left with the delivery tip, Mrs. Janik remained, scrutinizing the television from her position on the couch between Ifi and Job, who now had the blanket tied at his waist like a wrapper.
After a lengthy silence, Mrs. Janik was the first to speak. “I never seen one that big before.”
Simultaneously, the three gulped. They’d had to move a few items around to make room for the television. Now the couch backed the kitchen, and the television was anchored against the back wall, blocking out part of the window. Two long, winding plants sat atop the television on either end, with their leaves dangling down the sides of the screen. Only a foot of space was left between the couch and the center table. It leaned against the base of the television.
Job stood in front of it, gathering the blanket around his waist. He swept his fingers across the screen and instructed Ifi and Mrs. Janik to do so too; they obliged. Ifi felt the spark and crackle of the static on her fingers. For a moment, it filled her with delight.
“You people see this?” he said. “Crystal-clear picture and compatible with the latest digital technologies. My own home theater.”
Exactly what he meant wasn’t clear to Ifi, but Mrs. Janik nodded vigorously, so Ifi nodded her assent. Carefully, she repeated his words: “Crystal-clear picture and digital technology.”
On, the television was less of a miracle. Static rained down, and a permanent crack in the image, received during the television’s wobbly ascent up the steps, would always remain. That day, however, Job didn’t seem to notice.
Ifi took the remote control and flipped to one channel and then another. Each channel lent a different texture to the warbled images and snow. On most channels, there wasn’t even any sound but a roar. “What is wrong with this?” Ifi asked. She handed the remote back to Job. “Chineke, they have damaged it.”
“You gotta order the cable now,” Mrs. Janik said. Her eyes were somber moons.
“Yes,” Job said, slowly. “Soon.” Then he harped on all the channels they’d be able to watch. They’d even be able to watch Nollywood movies. “It is my own home theater,” he said again.
When he finally left to shower and dress, Mrs. Janik leaned in and whispered to Ifi in a shrill voice, “I knew what he was up to as soon as I saw the deliverymen outside. I just knew it.”
Ifi nodded. Admittedly, she hadn’t understood any of it. She still didn’t. When Ifi had asked about where he had purchased the television, why, the cost, Job had said, “You people think you are still living in the bush. This is America.”
Mrs. Janik blinked. “He’s trying to make you forget about his mistress. He thinks this is all it takes. Like you’re some cheap prostitute he can purchase and take back when he’s through.” She worked herself up into her own rage.
“I’m fine,” Ifi said. A path of muddy track marks led from the doorway into the room, from the deliverymen. She wetted a rag and started to wipe at the stains.
Mrs. Janik sat back on the couch. With much effort, she lifted her two legs onto the center table, pushed the magazines aside, and picked one up. It was the interior design magazine that Ifi had taken from her apartment. Ifi felt a sudden chill.
Mrs. Janik thumbed through the magazine, settling on the well-worn pages like Ifi had. Ifi had memorized the pictures by now: the all-white living room on page twenty-five, with the shiny black contemporary furniture, the Chinese tapestries draped along the walls, and the Berber rugs on the gleaming hardwood floors. Ifi had already begun to compose a new letter for Aunty, describing the texture of the rug in precise detail. Now, she felt cold and ashamed, like a common beggar. But it wasn’t stealing. “My dear,” she said in her calmest voice, “thank you for dashing me your magazine. You see, I planned to bring it back to you tonight.”
Mrs. Janik didn’t seem to hear her explanation. “So what happened to you that night?” Then she answered her own question. “Listen, you got nothing to be afraid of. We’re in this together. I won’t let nothing happen to you.”
Ifi put the rag down. “It was a mistake,” she said. Wasn’t it? Surely she had jumped to conclusions. Yet, she couldn’t bring herself to present Job with the letter. In fact, the letter was once again in her pocket.
“Do you still have it?” Mrs. Janik asked.
“What?”
“The letter of course!”
“No, I threw it away.”
But it was not true. The letter had driven with Ifi and Job to the hospital. It had been in her pocket when Gladys’s little girl had taken her hand. And it had also been there as she gently rocked the girl in her lap until her sobs subsided. It had even been there when the baby in Ifi’s stomach had begun to kick for the first time. Although she knew immediately what it was, it had felt like a rumble inside her belly. She hadn’t expected it to feel like that. Ifi had taken the little girl’
s small palm in her hand and pressed it into her belly. The little girl had looked at her with dark eyes and said, “My brother did that too.”
Ifi pulled her closer and kissed her forehead then, thinking of the colorless body in the incubator. Emeka and Gladys had agreed with the nurses that the girls ought to have a chance to say good-bye to their little brother. And then, while everyone had waited outside, their angry raised voices had argued that they had done it all wrong, and the girls should never have seen the dead baby. But Ifi had silently disagreed. Had she seen her mother and later her father when they passed away, it might have made more sense that they were never coming back. Perhaps her nights wouldn’t have been filled with silly fantasies. Ifi had kissed the little girl’s fingertips and pressed them to the lump on her lip. She had told the little girl that her baby brother was in heaven with Jesus. Since that time, Ifi hadn’t been able to think about anything but protecting the baby inside her. It astounded her that she could feel such love for someone she had never met. She thought of Job.
Mrs. Janik flipped through the pages of the magazine so quickly that she ripped one of them. “Don’t you even wonder what the woman looks like? Aren’t you even a little curious?”
Ifi scrubbed harder at the spot on the floor.
Mrs. Janik had the rag in her hand before Ifi realized it. She glared into Ifi’s face. “If I were you, I wouldn’t take this lightly. You think this is the last you’ve seen of this prostitute? Well, you’re wrong. You’re wrong. Do you understand? That prostitute is coming back. And if I were you, I’d want to be on the offensive.” She dropped the rag in front of Ifi, straightened up, and headed for the door, letting it slam behind her.
Ifi shook her head. What an ugly woman. Useless, just like Job had said. No husband, no children, no family, sef. There was a sister somewhere, but Ifi had never seen her, probably because she didn’t want the woman’s bad luck to spoil her. Ifi shivered at the thought of the cat smell in Mrs. Janik’s apartment and the dusty porcelain figurines all along the walls, like a mausoleum of animal corpses. Again, Ifi thought of the lifeless baby boy in the incubator.
She rinsed out the rag in the sink and spread it to dry. Balancing her hand at the base of her back where the weight of her belly seemed to rest, she struggled to squeeze through the small space between the center table and the couch. Ifi rearranged the items in the living room, shifting the plants on top of the television and stacking Job’s boxes on the floor in an orderly arrangement. Wobbling lines greeted her when she turned on the television. Ifi glared into the screen, trying to piece the warped images together into one.
And then she felt the baby kick again. A yell rose in the back of her throat. Job, wrapped in a towel, rushed in, dripping and warm from his shower.
“He’s kicking.” Ifi guided Job’s hand to her belly.
He could only murmur again and again, “Je-sus Christ. Je-sus Christ.”
They both realized that the shower was still running, and he rushed back to turn it off. It was then, with Ifi low on the couch, straightening the items on the floor, that she stumbled on the plastic yellow bag from the electronics store. Receipts were stapled together in a cluster. Her eyes widened at the number of nines behind the dollar sign. But she pushed it back into the bag. There, she found half of a torn business card, one half that read: Sheryl.
CHAPTER 6
ONCE MRS. JANIK WAS SEATED NEXT TO HER IN THE TAXI, IFI REACHED into her handbag and set the interior design magazine on the slope between them. Mrs. Janik didn’t even look at it. Instead she pulled the shaggy brim of her snow hat so that it rested just above her eyebrows. “Let me see it here again,” she said. She meant the business card, but Ifi pushed the magazine into her lap anyway. It stayed there unopened and untouched for the remainder of the drive, and when they made it to their destination, Mrs. Janik left it behind.
They stood before a large empty lot backed by a line of squat storefronts; the one on the end was hers, Beacon Boutique, a shabby affair. Most of the stenciled letters on the façade had begun to fade and crack. Dead cigarettes were scattered along the pavement. Ifi thought it must be a mistake; the driver said it was not. To prove himself, he pushed the torn halves of the business card together. The numbers on the building matched. He didn’t bother to ask them what they were doing there, a pregnant African woman and an old white lady. And this—and this alone—was what frightened Ifi the most. With little more than a cluck, he dropped them off and drove away, taking the crumpled bills from Mrs. Janik. The abandoned magazine shrunk the farther the cab drove away.
To come to this place had been Mrs. Janik’s idea, although, to be honest, Ifi had helped in forming it. After she had seen the business card, Ifi had pounded on Mrs. Janik’s door. She was right. She had been right all along. They had a problem. She needed to be a woman and take care of it. And it had only taken that for Mrs. Janik to insist that the prostitute had gone just too far, buying the peace offering with her man.
Now the two stood outside the dark, empty building, their hands frozen in their pockets, uncertain of their next move. Nearby a stooped streetlight illuminated a row of bus stop benches with a dull orange glow. Spread across the lot, there were two abandoned cars, newer models, big, boxy cars. But it was such a desolate scene that Ifi couldn’t imagine the cars having ever belonged to anyone. It was nearly seven, so early that the sky was nothing more than a dark strip shrouded by pale fluff. Job would be home soon, and, Ifi supposed, in their haste, they hadn’t exactly come up with a plan; they hadn’t figured out how it would be done, or, for that matter, what would be done.
In turn, they peeked into the storefront window, clouding the glass with their heat. After a while, Mrs. Janik said, “We’ll just wait out here in the cold until she shows up? That’s what we’ll do?” She indicated the faded timetable on the door. “We’ll wait here until nine for her to open?”
“Yes, that’s what we’ll do.” Ifi glared through the windows at the shelves. She could just make out the books and toys, the clothes hanging on skinny wire hangers in the back. The longer they waited, the colder she felt, and the angrier Ifi found herself. She thought of the magazine riding through the dark city streets. In her next letter to Aunty, she would have to describe the details of the furniture and the rug from memory. Will Aunty doubt me? she wondered.
“Let’s go,” Mrs. Janik said. “We can come back tomorrow.”
“No.”
“She’s not here.”
“She will come.”
“And your husband. He’ll be home soon. What’s he gonna think?”
“That will be for him and his maker.”
“Maybe we were mistaken.” Mrs. Janik shoved her hands farther into her pockets. “We’ll just wait out here until she shows up?” She nodded her head assertively, as if convincing herself of this logic. “That’s what we’ll do.” She yanked at the brim of her snow hat. “You know who this prostitute is and what she’s doing with your man.” Short concrete slabs circled the perimeter of the parking lot. Mrs. Janik dragged her narrow legs along one. “We should make her pay.” She gave the slab a swift kick, stronger than Ifi expected of a woman her age. The concrete crumbled into smaller pieces. Mrs. Janik glared with pride. “You know, these prostitutes, they think they can mess with me. But they can’t.” Another kick and a block of concrete spiraled through the air, striking the storefront window. It wasn’t even Beacon Boutique. Webs spread out along the glass. “Oh goodness!” Mrs. Janik clasped her palms together. “Oh goodness gracious!”
A dull light blinked on in the rear of Beacon Boutique. Mrs. Janik backed away from the building. With the baby acting as a barrier, Ifi tried to reach out to Mrs. Janik, but to no avail. Almost immediately, Mrs. Janik stumbled over backwards on one of the parking slabs and landed flat on her rear. She started to cry. Mean old lady tears.
When Ifi saw the flash of Emeka’s eyes, she started to run away, waddle really. What will he say to Job? Surely he will say something to his good frie
nd. How can I explain myself? But it was strange. He said nothing to her, as if meeting Ifi in the parking lot of a strip mall so early in the morning was the most ordinary event of his day. He lifted Mrs. Janik off the ground. Her pantyhose were torn. Pebbles were caked into the backs of her doughy legs. “Are you all right, madam?” he asked.
Again, those old lady tears. Mrs. Janik bent to examine her leg and whimpered. She looked so small and pitiful, so old as Emeka took her by the arm, led her to the side of the building, and helped her sit. Ifi thought of the twelve dollars Mrs. Janik had paid for the taxicab, and she wondered why she hadn’t done this alone. Would I have needed such a woman in Nigeria?
“Everything okay?” This second voice belonged to a woman with a withered face, white with powder. She wore a shiny silver jacket, hastily thrown on.
Ifi’s eyes trained on the woman. She nodded slowly. This couldn’t be his woman. Her stare hardened as she looked the lady up and down—so old and withered—until the woman turned to face the glass storefront. “Sheesh.” She gazed at Ifi. “You did this?”
“What is your name?” Ifi asked.
Mrs. Janik made fresh tears. “I didn’t mean it. It was an accident.”
“Well, I don’t like the jerk that owns that one,” the lady said after a pause. “Puts his cigarettes out. Never picks up after himself. You get out of here real fast and no one will know.” She nodded to Emeka.
Emeka started his car. Mrs. Janik followed, but Ifi waited.
“You own this store?” Ifi asked.
“Yes, Beacon Boutique.” She thrust out a hand. Without thinking, Ifi took it. When she pulled her hand away, Ifi found a cold, hard piece of cardboard identical to the one in her pocket with the name Sheryl. “Whatever you need in fellowship, I have it.”
Ifi glanced back at the store. Now that it was illuminated, she saw the miniature ark and stuffed giraffes, elephants, and tigers. A train of crucifixes followed a Mother Mary doll. What kind of prostitute owns such a store?
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