Mr. and Mrs. Doctor

by Julie Iromuanya

When they arrived at the apartment, Job carried the stroller, with the boy in it, up the stairs to their flat. Lights filled the room. Mrs. Janik peered at Ifi from her position on their living room couch. When she saw Ifi, her expectant eyes hardened. She started to speak, saying, “I warned her. I tried to warn her,” but Job cut her off. “Thank you, thank you, Mrs. Janik. Thank you so much for your help. What would we do without good people like you?”

  “Was nothing at all,” she said. “Just being good people. That’s all. I come from good stock. Like you.” She nodded furiously at Job. All the while, he ushered her out the door.

  Suddenly, one hand on either side of her body, Job shoved Ifi onto the couch into a sitting position, pinning her there. Only after he realized that it was not her body that was struggling and thrashing to free itself but his own trembling body pushing her one way and the other with force did he finally free her. He took the crying baby. He held his son to his chest, hoping that his own rapid heartbeat would calm the boy. It didn’t.

  His eyes rested on the frizzing plaits on Ifi’s head, the unrepentant eyes, the shadows that whispered just about her eyes. This was not the shy girl he had met one evening in a darkened living room, the girl who was praised for her cooking, her quiet ways, her obedience. Again, it occurred to Job that he knew little about his own wife, little more than he knew about her those months ago when she arrived with her belongings, little more than he knew of her when he met her on the day of their arranged honeymoon. “Who are you?” he asked.

  She was no mother. What kind of mother? he thought, could drag her only son into harm’s way, could drink alcohol with strangers while her exhausted son fought for sleep. I cannot leave my first son with such a mother, Job decided. I will take this boy somewhere else. No, he thought. “I will send you back,” he said aloud. Since he did not know anyone in America, he would take his son to Nigeria, to his mother, to his sisters. They would gladly raise his child properly. After all, in Nigeria it was customary for the child to follow the father during a divorce.

  Ifi wept. What of it? he thought. Your crocodile tears mean nothing to me. You have made your bed!

  Now the baby was howling and hiccupping with such vigor that his whole body erupted. Job rocked him slowly, shushing him. As the cries intensified, he rocked him harder. Ifi gripped his wrists. She was so close again that he could smell the alcohol on her breath. He did not know how to make the boy’s wailing stop. She pried the boy from his hands. As she wept, she released her bra from her shirt and pushed her throbbing breast into his mouth. There was nothing Job could do but watch and wait. Both knew the boy would fall into a fitful stupor, drunk from the taste of her milk.

  CHAPTER 11

  THAT NIGHT, CAPTAIN PASSED AWAY. ONE MOMENT, JOB STOOD OVER Captain’s slack limbs, wiping as his words came out in a rush of trembling accusations—“How can she be so careless? What kind of mother is she? Does she not see the danger of America? Does she not understand the trouble of akatta? Already, America has spoiled her!”—and the next moment, Job had his back turned to Captain as he emptied his bedpan. When he faced the old man again, the fragile light was gone from his eyes. Thirty minutes later the coroner arrived, and Captain’s stiffened body was carried away on a stretcher.

  Forms on state-issued letterhead acknowledged the time of death and the actions just before and after. For the rest of the night, Job briskly moved from room to room answering lights, rationalizing the events that had just passed: Patients come and go, he told himself. Nothing has changed. This was just his work, a temporary situation. Of course it was time for the old man to cross to the other place. After all, months ago his mind had already gone. Not only that, but the old man had nothing left inside him. Nothing at all. He was nothing more than a mere shell emptied of its contents.

  Later that night, Captain’s belongings—his letters all addressed to his imaginary son, his photographs, his clothes—were neatly fitted into four cardboard boxes and placed in storage for his family to collect. His bed was stripped of its sheets, his room sterilized, his chart removed.

  By the next night, another patient occupied Captain’s bed, a wide-eyed, elderly lady with a constant look of having been startled awake after a long night of dreaming. Job avoided the room. Each time her light came on, he found one task or another to divert his attention. At the end of his shift, he stepped outside into a retreating night, stippled by attacking strips of light.

  Days later, Job, on the way to his car at the end of a shift, bumped into a middle-aged woman struggling at the door with a collection of cardboard boxes. She gladly accepted his offer of assistance. As he lifted one of the boxes from her hands, he identified it immediately as one of Captain’s. Only then did he recognize the sandy-haired woman as one of the faces in the photographs dotting his nightstand and window ledge. What was he like as a young man? Job wanted to ask. Instead, he said, “I knew your father. He was one of my patients.”

  “Oh yeah?” she asked.

  “I was his doctor.”

  “Oh.” She looked grateful, so Job continued.

  “He spoke of you often.”

  “Did he?”

  “Every day.”

  “Really? I thought it took his mind,” she said, twirling her finger at her head. “He never seemed to remember me when I called.”

  Finding a towheaded little boy waiting in the car, Job stumbled in awe. This was Captain’s imaginary son. “No, no, he spoke of you often. Dementia,” Job said, remembering Captain’s chart, “it never completely melts the brain. If you have made a strong impression, the marks will leave a space in his brain, and his memory response will find a place for it, like a repository.” Again, Job said, “He talked about you. He wrote you letters.”

  “Really?” She glanced at the box of letters she would soon find addressed to her son instead of her. She gazed out over the tops of the cars at the receding night. “Then I should’ve come more. I thought, well, it didn’t seem to matter if he wasn’t going to remember me anyway.”

  No, Job wanted to say. He didn’t remember you, but he could feel your absence in his aloneness. You are a bad child. You pushed him to his grave. In Nigeria, he said to himself, the old never forget the young, and the young never forget the old. Family is the most important bond. Job placed each box in the trunk of the car. Then he waited and watched as the car pulled away.

  A few days later, as Ifi, with a wooden spoon, pounded fufu on the heated stovetop, Job glanced at her, turning away from the blurry news on the television. “I’ve sent money to Aunty so that she can come look at the boy.”

  Nothing unusual about that. After all, it was custom for a female representative of the family, preferably an elder, to visit the family after the birth of the first child, to teach the new mother and to ease her into motherhood. Still, the real purpose was undeniable, a purpose they both refused to openly acknowledge. Since the night Job had pinned Ifi to the couch, the smell of beer on her breath, they had not spoken. Instead, they resumed their daily tasks. Ifi turned the pot, changed the boy’s soiled diapers, and listened to the radio. Job rushed from one workplace to the next, rinsing his grimy body after each arrival before falling into the deep well of sleep.

  Because Ifi did not work, and because of the sudden expenses the little boy had incurred, they really couldn’t afford to invite Aunty for a visit. Nonetheless, she would come. She would be with Ifi throughout the day so that she would never have the opportunity to mingle with troublemakers. Between the meatpacking plant and the hospital, Job was already working the first and third shifts. Still, he refused to touch his father’s tuition money. If I cannot go to medical school, my son will, he told himself. To make up the money for the travel expenses, Job picked up extra weekend shifts at the hospital on his days off and applied for three credit cards before one was finally approved.

  At first it was exciting, the thought of someone familiar entering Ifi’s new life in America. After Job left for work one afternoon, with the boy resting on o
ne arm, Ifi sat down to compose a letter to Aunty. In excitement, she began by describing the boy’s ways. He constantly cried. Always hungry and furious, he balled his small fingers into fists and blindly scratched and clawed at her until she fed him. Nevertheless, in the letter Ifi wrote, Your boy is strong, Aunty. His name, Victor Ezeaku Ogbonnaya, the victorious king, is fitting.

  Then she remembered her first letters to Aunty on her arrival to the States—the wide, expansive rooms she had described, the brand-new furnishings, the curtained windows. A look around, and Ifi was suddenly reminded of the peeling walls, the holes, the taped-over windows, the old suitcases and boxes lined against walls instead of dressers filled with clothes. Shuddering in shame, it suddenly dawned on her that she couldn’t possibly bring Aunty to this place. What will she say? Ifi thought with a tremble.

  As she washed the dishes one night, Ifi called to Job, “Where will Aunty sleep?” Since the night of Mary’s party, it was the first time they had exchanged more than a few cursory words to one another. With only one bedroom between the two of them, crowded by the boy’s crib, the question had merit. Without saying so, the meaning was immediately clear to both of them: they needed to find another place.

  Job said nothing.

  Some husbands struck their wives with regularity, but Job had never been such a man. In fact, the day of Mary’s party had been the first time he had ever laid a hand on Ifi, and even then, he had only pushed her to the couch and held her there. When she spoke of topics that displeased him, Job simply reacted as if the words had never been said. Ifi found herself believing that her husband’s silence was a worse offense than receiving a blow from him. At least a blow would signify that he even acknowledged her. Today his silence would not be enough. With the sink running, she strode into the living room and stood before him, a plea in her voice. Her wet hands left a print at the waist of her wrapper as she demanded once more, “Where will Aunty put her head?”

  Job didn’t look up to meet her eyes. Instead, he thought of the time he had spent painting walls, taping over cracked windows, and patching holes before Ifi’s arrival. He had even purchased a bed with a frame and a headboard. Before that, he had been comfortable enough on a simple mattress pressed into the floor. All in the hopes that his humble home would meet her needs. Nevertheless, he unwillingly admitted to himself that she was right. What will the woman think? he thought. His in-law had not been an easy woman. During the marriage negotiations, the first item on Ifi’s bride price had been indoor plumbing for her aunty’s home. That had been six months’ worth of double-shifts. More importantly, he knew of his in-law’s mouth. What will she say to her neighbors and friends when she returns to Nigeria? Job thought to himself. After all, I am still Mr. Doctor.

  In the time that passed before Aunty’s papers were in order, Ifi and Job spent countless hours patrolling the streets of neighboring towns in search of a new dwelling. The neighborhoods were inevitably the same: peeling siding, scratched paint, cracked walkways. Many canines howled on street corners, and women with chipped toenails in flip-flops answered the doors of the duplexes, townhouses, and multiplexes, their faces turned away in mock confusion.

  “You must have the wrong house,” one would say.

  Another might explain, “Well now it’s occupied.”

  And yet another, “Someone’s looking at it today, but if you give me your number, I’ll call you later.”

  One landlord even inquired up front if they were employed, if they were illegal. In defeat, they returned to their apartment, its stained walls, browning carpet, faded linoleum, and creaking floors.

  With only a week remaining until Aunty’s arrival, on the way home from work, Job noticed an apartment on the neighboring street. For months it had been unoccupied, with a faded red For Rent sign plastered in its window. It was a tall, sturdy brick building backed against a chain-link fence that wound down the street. There was no yard. Instead, like in Nigeria, a concrete walkway surrounded the building. From the outside, the building was taller and wider than the one Job and Ifi lived in, and he imagined that the rooms were larger, more expansive. Tentatively, he telephoned the landlord.

  In spite of his accented English, the landlord arranged to meet with them immediately. The next afternoon, Job, Ifi, and the boy arrived. A balding white man, wiry, with the look of a spider, answered the door. His bent legs moved through the apartment, pointing out the two graying bedrooms and the single bathroom while avoiding the holes in the walls and the rusted piping. Job and Ifi shared an eager glance. While the apartment was not ideal, it was an improvement. Without a word exchanged between the two, it was decided: they would rent the apartment.

  The landlord was indifferent but not unpleasant. He curtly discussed tenant and landlord responsibilities. He explained the cost for rent, the preferred payment method, and the length of the lease. Job filled out the form. As a formality, he also filled out a release to review his credit history. Before they left, the landlord shook hands with Job and said, “Welcome to your new abode.”

  At the landlord’s call the next morning, Ifi shrugged Job awake and eagerly handed him the phone. Minutes later, the phone call ended with Job slamming the phone into its cradle.

  “What is wrong?” Ifi asked.

  Job smiled, nodded, and told her, “Everything is okie,” though the deep recesses in his forehead told her that something had gone terribly wrong.

  The Somalis were praying. Job slipped out among them, finding his way to a payphone just outside their prayer room in the meatpacking plant. No longer could he wait. A blinking fluorescent light was the only sign of movement left in the hallway. The phone was beat up and smelled foul. He put his change in twice before he heard a dial tone. His hands shaking, he placed the call. Listening to the ring, he anxiously coiled and uncoiled the telephone cord around his palm.

  In a low, raspy whisper, Cheryl answered on the fifth ring. “Hello?”

  Anger rose like bile in his throat. “What have you done to me?”

  “What?”

  “You have ruined me. They will not allow me to rent in this city.”

  “Job?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  A pause. Then, “Job, I’m sorry. It just happened. I fell behind. I tried. Just couldn’t make it. I sold everything I own. Now it’s just me and that empty house, and they’re going to take it away.”

  “You are lying to me. As God is my witness, you are lying to me. What of the money I sent you last?”

  “It wasn’t enough. You fall behind once and the late fees. They get you.”

  “What about me? I did nothing. What about me? Now they will not rent to me in this town. You have crooked me again.”

  “No, that’s not fair. I’ve been good on our deal. Besides, we were still married when this started. I was within my rights. Married couples share everything.”

  “You were never my wife. That was,” he looked for the right word, “an arrangement.”

  Another pause. “Look, I’m sorry. I can’t ask you for more money now, so I won’t, but if this house forecloses, it’ll be a stain on both our records. We won’t be able to rent or buy another property for the rest of our lives.”

  “You use me and lie to me again!”

  “Job, my daddy built that house for my mother.” Her voice trailed off.

  “You lied and used me.”

  “You used me too. And you lied too,” she said. “You’re a citizen because of me. You brought your pretty wife to this country because of me. You can practice medicine legally in this country because of me. I think that makes us even.”

  He pushed the phone so close to his mouth that his lips wet the mouthpiece with each word. A muscle on his jaw was so tight that it twitched with the effort. “I did nothing wrong. You stole my identity. I cannot even rent an apartment in this America because of you.” Job had been in America long enough to know the single threat that Americans issued with the most vigor. “I will take you to court!”

 
She only sighed. “You and everyone else.”

  The Somalis were pouring out of the prayer room in a single-file line. “That is it?” Job asked.

  “Look, I’m sorry, Job. I mean it.”

  “That is all you have for me?”

  “I feel bad,” she said. “Just let me see what I can do, and I’ll get back to you.”

  Before Job could say another word, she hung up. The dial tone followed. Job shuddered and pulled the phone to his chest. His body quaked. I will call police, he thought. I will tell them about this crook! He would tell them all about Cheryl’s scheme, how she had used his name for money and then refused to pay it, how she did this all without his consent. Married or not, surely this was illegal.

  A voice answered immediately when he dialed the police, a thin American voice, dull and bored. How will I explain the marriage and the divorce? Job wondered. What will these people say? Again, he was reminded of the horror at the police station on the night of the attack. They would fingerprint him again and photograph his face. They would order him to strip this time and search his body before finally deporting him. Their excuse would be that he sold drugs, and that he stole from law-abiding Americans.

  Job let the phone fall from his hand, the voice asking, “Yello?”

  Blending in among them, he joined the march of Somalis, his shoulders tucked, his eyes low, as they returned from their prayer break. Listening to their joyful, energized voices as they reentered the main breezeway, Job stopped to scrub his hands and snap his hat and gloves into place before resuming his position on the line.

  Throughout the remainder of his shift, he struggled to stay focused, but his mind wandered. Regardless of what happened, there still remained the apartment. Perhaps if he called and explained the situation, explained that he had been crooked by a way-o American, the man would understand. But Job recalled the indifference in the man’s tone. Deep inside, Job knew that whatever he said would not matter. What will I say to Ifi? he thought to himself. How can I tell her that we have lost it? What will my in-law say when she visits? What will she say to my family when she has returned to Nigeria? Again, his mind returned to Cheryl. Everything bristled inside. She needed to make things right. He would have to find a way for her to do so, even if it meant that he must plead with her.