Julie Iromuanya - Mr. and Mrs. Doctor

“Oh?” Ifi asked.

“For example,” he continued, “those who order lobster and crab are fools.”

“Why?” Ifi asked.

“We are in the middle of the country, and there is no ocean. You are eating the remains of a dog and its feces.”

“Tell me now, you are joking,” Ifi said. Could this be the humor Job had warned her about?

“I am quite serious.” Job was ahead with Gladys and the girls. Emeka bellowed to him, “What will you order tonight, my friend?”

Job thought it over, fingered through the menu plastered on the wall, and finally reached a conclusion. “Lobster.”

“Yes, a wise choice,” Emeka said. “You have chosen the most expensive item on the menu.”

“Only the best,” Job called back.

First Ifi laughed, but in an instant she was shamed by the look of delight on Emeka’s face. “What of this?” She pointed indiscriminately to the menu: spaghetti.

“No, no. You can prepare spaghetti in a can. You’ll enjoy the lobster. I eat it every time we come to this restaurant.”

Ifi walked ahead and leaned into Job. Just loudly enough so he alone could hear, she said, “You will not eat dog feces.”

Job gave her a quizzical look. Gladys interrupted just as Ifi was about to speak again. “Come now,” she said calmly. “Let us go.” She leaned heavily to one side, the girls heaped around her like wilted flowers.

“Why?” Emeka asked. “What of the reservation?”

Gladys did not bother to respond. Instead she led the way toward the door, and the trail of girls followed behind her, their litany of whines a chorus.

Job sent Ifi an irritated glance. They must have been late. She thought of the snow and the fur coat. They had missed their reservation because of her.

“Wait now,” Job said. “Allow me to talk to the woman.” He moved to the front of the line, and Ifi released a deep breath.

“Excuse me, missus. What is the problem?” he asked.

With a thick coat of red lipstick and glossy curls bunched in a ponytail at her nape, the woman before them was young enough to be Job’s daughter. “You missed your reservation. We’ve already seated someone in your place. I’m sorry, sir.”

“Our car stopped us on the way.” He glanced back at Emeka, then Gladys.

“It’s company policy to cancel reservations after fifteen minutes,” she said.

“I know this,” Job said, “but it is my wife’s first day in this country, and I would like her to enjoy a meal at the finest restaurant in America.” He beamed.

People waited behind Job in line, and the girl’s gaze drifted past him. It was as if he hadn’t spoken. Ifi remembered the small boy on their honeymoon night, the way he had cowered before them. She thought of the ringing tone of the barman as he threw Job into a thunderous hug and ordered their drinks on the house. This girl, with her bold lipstick and silly earrings. This child spoke to her doctor husband as if he were nothing. Ifi shuddered.

The hostess’s tone didn’t change. “Everyone in line has a reservation. We can’t change the rules just to accommodate you .”

Ifi hesitated behind Job. Perhaps she should say something, interject on his behalf. After all, she reminded herself, this was her fault.

Just as she was about to speak, Job turned to Ifi and smiled in a calm, placating way. “Call your manager. I would like to speak to him,” he said to the hostess. As the girl turned to go, Job nodded confidently. “Ask to speak to the manager and he will give you what you want. That is the first rule of America.”

Moments later, the hostess returned with the manager. She wore a buttoned-up black suit and tie, and her face was set in a deep frown.

Emeka stepped forward, dusting his hands together in front of him. He thrust a jovial palm on Job’s shoulder. “That is not necessary. My friend has wasted time curling his hair and applying his lipstick, and because of this we are late. We will eat at another restaurant.”

Job frowned. “We cannot eat at another restaurant at this time.” It was nearly nine.

By now the smallest of the girls was squirming at Gladys’s side. “Mommy, I have to pee,” she said.

“Why didn’t you come in and save our seats?” Job whispered.

Emeka’s voice was intentionally loud. “Come now, you are not going to insult yourself in front of your wife by saying we should have eaten before you came.”

Ifi shrank at the sound of “wife” from Emeka’s mouth. She thought again of Job’s cautionary words about Emeka’s humor, and she decided that Emeka was not funny at all.

Before Job could respond, Gladys turned a tired eye to Emeka. “We will go to the house, and I will prepare our dinner.”

A look of horror clouded Job’s face. “No, no. That’s not necessary. We will find another restaurant.”

For the first time, Gladys looked squarely at Ifi. “Your wife has not eaten. And it’s late. Let us go.”

In desperation, Job turned to Ifi. His look sent a chill down her spine. He couldn’t argue with Gladys’s expression, but Ifi, as a woman, could. All she could think of was the lobster of dog. And the venomous woman before her. And her coat, which was draped around her broad backside like a cape, while Ifi’s hung limply on her arm. Suddenly it became clear to her that, like the coats, Gladys’s home would not have mousetraps, holes in the walls, and splatters of paint. Instead of the real thing, Ifi’s was a poor man’s imitation. But she refused to submit herself to scorn. She would do anything not to go to Gladys’s home. “We will do this another night,” Ifi said.

“Nonsense, you’ll not inconvenience us. I will expect the same from you when you have the means.”

Ifi met Gladys’s eye, woman to woman, a knowing glance. “I have not seen my husband in many months. It is not lobster that I am hungry for.”

Gladys shriveled under Ifi’s gaze, and Emeka thundered into laughter. Gladys immediately turned on her heel, her fur coat sweeping the air in a smooth arc. At the hostess’s podium, all they could hear of her voice was the honey-silk tone. And then it was done. In a matter of minutes, both families occupied two tables pushed together at the rear of the restaurant, where glowing candles rippled against the hot breaths of each of Emeka and Gladys’s daughters.

Ifi couldn’t help feeling annoyed by Gladys’s haughtiness as she responded to Job’s gushing compliments, which he delivered through bites of dripping lobster meat. He had all but forgotten Ifi. “Tell me now, how did you do that?” he asked.

“Never mind, oh.” Gladys waved her hand at Job. “It takes nothing to speak to another human being in a civilized manner.”

“No, that was medicine.” He chuckled. “Eh? How do you do it?” He beamed, turning from Gladys to Ifi. “Ifi, my dear, you must follow Gladys. Learn her ways. If you do, success will find you in America.”

Ifi leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. The only reply she could muster was “Yes, of course.” She had not seen Job so animated since the night of their honeymoon when he danced before her, when he had forced a smile to her lips, though she had resisted it. He had, for that moment, shrouded in the flicker of shadow and light, taken over the muscles of her face and pressed her lips into a smile purely through his actions. That thought had sustained her and insisted that life with him would be something more, even on her loneliest nights with his family in Port Harcourt.

Now, he swept one palm across his face, coating his mouth in butter sauce as he recounted Gladys’s many successes. In the course of an hour, Ifi learned that Gladys was a CPA, had a master’s in actuarial science and another in theology, was the leader of a women’s society at home in Nigeria, had sponsored two local businesses in her native town, and had begun second renovations — elaborate designs, imported furniture, marble — on their retirement home. Throughout the conversation, Job had not once mentioned any of Ifi’s achievements — her impressive JAMB scores, her proper soup, her skill with difficult stitching techniques, all praised during their courtship — but then, she admitted to herself, who could compete with Gladys?