Julie Iromuanya - Mr. and Mrs. Doctor

Grinning dumbly, he nodded furiously. Still clutching the letter, Job stumbled into the reception area, his hands shaking, his mind attuned to the new problem at hand. Ifi did not have the number to his workplace. He had made sure of it. No one knew where he worked, not even Emeka and Gladys, and for good reason. What would they say? Panic swelled in his chest as it occurred to him how easily his supervisor could have answered the phone and given away his secret. As he glared at the glowing switchboard, his hand paused over the phone. How could he explain? A miscommunication, he would say, a jealous attendant. He was not a nurse’s aide. He was the doctor. And the television, he thought, remembering the letter. That I can buy if I want, but there is no need. It is a foolish waste of money. He repeated these words to himself, the whisper in his head faltering as it rose in fervor.

“Job?” The voice was soft and airy. He was so caught up in his worry that at first he didn’t realize the voice belonged to Cheryl. He was only immediately grateful that it was not Ifi or Gladys or Emeka. It must have been this note of gratitude in his tone that she registered as his pleasure, because her words sounded light with relief. “It’s me,” she said.

Job swallowed, regaining his composure. “How did you get this number?”

“I have my ways.”

He moved the phone away from his ear.

“You hang up, Job, and I’ll just call you back again and again until you speak to me.”

He peered around the bend of the reception desk, hearing the clatter of voices and footsteps down the hall. He softened his voice. “Leave me alone.”

“You don’t answer my calls, my letters — what am I supposed to do?” A pause. “Just hear me out.”

“I cannot speak to you now. I am at work.”

“Then I’ll meet you somewhere.”

Now a sound cut into the call, another call illuminated on the switchboard. He glanced at the clock. Soon the day shift would arrive, and he would have to stand among the other nurses as the charge nurse gave a report of the night’s activities. He had to end the call fast, or there would be too many questions. Of all the secret places to go, Job could only think of his abandoned parking lot, where nightly he changed from suit to scrubs as he passed from the world of his imagination into the world of reality. He gave her the directions.

By the time Job arrived, Cheryl was already balanced along the side of the building, her back hunched over a cigarette. Illuminated by the dusted clouds, Cheryl seemed much smaller to him than he remembered all those years ago. Instead of the denim skirt with the frayed ends, she wore tight jeans and a heavy overcoat. He gazed about the lot looking for a second or third helper, like the day of the marriage. But there was no one, just Cheryl quickly putting out her cigarette on the back of her snow boot. As he edged the car to her and climbed out, his throat smarting from the cold, she straightened up. Losing his footing on the snow, he caught himself just before he reached her. She greeted him with a smile.

“You’ve changed,” she said.

“You are the same,” he said, though it wasn’t true. She was smaller, thinner; that much was true. But there was something else about her that was different. He just couldn’t put his finger on it. The hair was still red, mostly, except for the silver lines that reached along the contours of her forehead, where her hair was neatly parted. As she grinned at him, the smile still revealed the small boy’s teeth. What is it that has changed about her? he wondered. And then it dawned on him: She was wearing rouge. Her pale cheeks were accented by powder. There was a flip to her otherwise limp hair. She was even wearing earrings, shiny pieces that caught the morning light. Cheryl had tried to make herself presentable for him. Indeed, much had changed since the morning of their courthouse wedding. What she had now that she didn’t have for him then, Job realized, was respect. Recognizing this calmed the nervous shake of his hands, and he loosened his grip on Ifi’s letter in his pocket. “Hurry now. What is it you want?” he asked with confidence.

“All right, you’re here. You’re finally here,” she said, taking a deep breath. “And now I’m nervous.” Her smile dropped as Job backed away from her in his impatience. “But you’re leaving. All right, out with it, Cheryl,” she said to herself. “I’ve called you here to ask for a loan.”

He waited for the tears, the wails, the moans, the big show. But there was none. Instead, Cheryl lifted her eyes and said, “I will pay you back, every cent, when I get caught up. I mean this as business, an arrangement. I’ll pay it back. No games. Here.” She knifed through a big tote bag, pulling up papers. “This is the deed for the house. This is the letter from the mortgage lenders. I will gladly give you whatever you need as collateral. Your name is on it too, see? As soon as I make the next payment, your name will come off. You hold the papers until I give you a return.”

“You have used my name to steal?”

“Christ, I thought I told you on the phone.” The papers in her hands scattered, fluttering to the snowy lot. “Shit.” She reached for the papers and stumbled, losing her grip on the tote bag. Without thinking, Job reached to catch the bag before it hit the snowy pavement. In doing so, Ifi’s letter left his hand and ended up among Cheryl’s belongings on the moist concrete. Now Cheryl had his letter and he had her bag. Their hands awkwardly met in an exchange.

“My ex — the first one — ruined my credit. I was dumb and seventeen when I first met him. I let him take advantage of me, and I was stupid enough to let him do it again. Then my brother, Luther, he says we should refi the house. He says we should use your name to get the money, since my credit was so bad. Then, soon’s we get the money, he takes it and bails.” Cheryl sighed. This time when she looked at him, her eyes were wet. “You know what it’s like to have your own family do that to you? You know how stupid it feels?”

Job had no words. His own siblings would never do such a thing to him. But then he thought of his father and the money that he had put into the savings bond, all the years of his father’s earnings thrust in earnest at Job’s education. For a moment he floundered, guilt rising in his chest. But he shook it off. With the marriage and now the baby, the thought of going back to school just then was impossible. He would go back in good time. Joking around as a boy, not understanding America, that was what had prevented him from becoming a doctor. But now he was a man. His thoughts turned to Ifi’s letter and the description of the television set. What did one need with a thousand channels anyway? With resolve, he repeated the mantra that had kept him afloat over the years. He would use his father’s money as intended and become a doctor. Only now was not the time.

“I tell Luther I’ll call the police,” she continued, “and he says he’ll tell them about me and you, our arrangement.” She squinted at Job, and suddenly he felt complicit in her thievery. “Me and you,” she said again, slowly, “that we frauded the government with our marriage.”

“Won-der-ful!” Job sighed.

“I know, that’s what I said. But I tell him I can’t make the payments, it’s too much. He says, ‘The money’s gone’—he lost it on a score—‘so sell the house. Be done with it.’ But I can’t.” She stopped and looked at him. “Job, I can’t. I can’t sell the house. It’s all I got. And I’m sorry that I dragged you into this, but now I’m trying to do it the right way, so I’m asking you for a small loan so I don’t default. I promise I’ll pay it back.”