Julie Iromuanya - Mr. and Mrs. Doctor

“How should I help a thief like yourself? Are you sick? What is wrong with your head?” Job backed away again, the words leaving his voice in a splutter. What am I doing here? he wondered. Why have I agreed to speak with this charlatan? Was it fear? Perhaps. After all, she was an American. He remembered that day, standing in the hallway of the county clerk’s office with Cheryl’s two accomplices making their way toward him. Job looked around again, catching nothing but the ripple of a cold wind off the façade of the brick office buildings. She is only a woman, he reminded himself.

“I’m not a thief,” Cheryl said firmly. She sucked in a deep breath. “Besides, you, you’re the only person I know who is capable.” At the conclusion of her words, her eyes trembled.

“Capable.” Job frowned. He didn’t understand.

“Yeah. I mean, you’re a doctor. You can afford a small loan, right?”

He stopped backing away for a moment and took in the word: capable. How could someone like her, born and raised in this rich land of opportunity, her father’s land, have nothing, be nothing? It was strange to him, an American in her homeland, appealing to him, a foreigner, for help. Yes, he agreed with her words. He was capable. Perhaps, in a strange way, it had taken her words to remind him of this. He was a man after all. He could do anything. It was only a matter of his desire at the moment. Anything, he said to himself, thinking of Ifi’s letter and the television set. If he wanted to, he could buy a television set with one thousand channels.

Job frowned at Cheryl — her shoulders were bowed, her papers a clumsy sheaf. With grit he murmured, first to himself, “I am capable.” Then he repeated himself for Cheryl to hear. “I am capable,” he said carefully, “but why must a man like myself help a crook like you?” Still, even as he said the words, he remembered the savings bond, his father’s money, and he knew that he would help her.

Not long before Job was to arrive home from work that morning, there was a knock at the door. It was Mrs. Janik, standing in the entryway, its wide window overlooking the patches of frost outside. With ragged curls in her hair and a few missed rollers still dangling, she clasped her hands together and apart in excitement. She had no children, no husband, and lived alone next door, an American life that would shame a Nigerian woman. Perhaps it was with pity that Ifi received her, or perhaps it was simply loneliness. Either way, one thing was certain: In Nigeria, a doctor’s wife would never associate with such a woman. It would shame her. Still, every afternoon, when it was Mrs. Janik’s ritual to hurry outside just as Ifi checked the mail, Ifi would wait every time Mrs. Janik hurried down the steps to purse her lips together and shout a breathy, “Hiya!”

And then:

That Chinese lady, the one with three teenage boys across the street. They have filthy character. They invite prostitutes into their home. With their mother right there, they sleep with all of them at once. But is it any surprise? The apple don’t fall far from the tree.

And the black girl over there. C level of Apartment 3. Yeah, over there. She’s a drug addict, a prostitute to support her habit.

And the Mexican with the toolbox — a liar, a thief, an illegal. And his wife is a prostitute too. None of them nine kids is even his.

Ifi didn’t exactly believe Mrs. Janik. But she didn’t exactly disbelieve her, and so when Job returned from work most mornings, as he furiously chewed chunks of meat or swallowed balls of garri, she repeated these stories with the certainty of a firsthand witness.

“We’s the only two civilized ladies in this neighborhood,” Mrs. Janik said, concluding her monologue for the day.

“Yes,” Ifi said.

She started to let the door close between the two of them. There were dishes to wash, a soup to prepare. But Mrs. Janik stopped her with a single envelope.

“Someone put it in my mailbox, but it’s addressed to your husband.”

“Is it?” Ifi snatched the letter from her. It had already been opened.

“Some kinda mistake, huh?” Mrs. Janik laughed in her horsey way. “I mind my own business, but I just wasn’t looking. I usually assume a letter in my mailbox is addressed to me .”

“Yes, I know you did not open it intentionally,” Ifi said.

“What kind of news do you suppose would be delivered by hand?” Mrs. Janik asked. She stabbed the space missing a stamp with a bony finger. “And whyn’t she just go up to your door and hand it to you like a real woman?”

“It’s a patient,” Ifi said, but the uncertainty in her voice gave itself away immediately. “And why must it be from a woman?”

“Named Cheryl.”

“Cheryl.”

“Maybe she’s a prostitute.” The look of horror on Ifi’s face only gave Mrs. Janik a slight pause. Ifi could only think of Job’s magazine on the night of their honeymoon. “Well, maybe not a prostitute,” Mrs. Janik continued. “Maybe just a woman who does things with men for money.”

“A prostitute,” Ifi said.

“You tell me, honey.” Mrs. Janik rifled through the two letters in her own hands. “I wouldn’t worry about it. All men are dirtbags,” Mrs. Janik said. “That’s why I didn’t get married. What would I want with one? I say you kick him to the curb.”

Ifi put the letter in her pocket. “I am not worrisome.”

“Ain’t you going to read it?” Mrs. Janik asked.

As she prepared the meal for the day, Ifi meant to forget about the letter. While slicing greens and spinach, the letter remained off to the side on the countertop. “He will find the letter,” she told herself. “He’ll look at it, and whatever he says will make sense.” But then, just when she heard Job’s key in the door, she slipped the letter into the tie of her wrapper.

Immediately Ifi could tell that he was in a stormy mood; she was too. Just like most mornings he returned, stripping down to his underwear and splaying each article — from the white lab coat to his socks and his briefcase — on the living room couch. Today, he did it all with his face creased into a frown. There were no chairs, so they ate the slightly scalded soup standing over opposite sides of the countertop, Job with his hairy belly sagging over his underwear. As they ate, Ifi imagined every possible scenario of sliding the letter to him and watching as he read it carefully, listening as he offered an explanation. But she would not; therefore, he did not.

Later, in the bathroom, Ifi crouched on the toilet, silently reading the letter.

Dear Job,

Whether you like it or not, we did get married. And that means I’m entitled to some help. I don’t ask for help from anyone. But this is a big deal. Just talk to me. Please.

Love,

Cheryl

Ifi punched the wall, upsetting a mousetrap and staining the wall with peanut butter. Suddenly she remembered. Just after she had arrived, there had been that phone call. Why hadn’t she questioned him about it? What a fool she had been. Nothing more than an ignorant housegirl in a big man’s house. She cried. There had never been plans for her to be educated, to become a nurse. He was shifting his money to each of his mistresses. He has brought me to America for this?

He was still asleep on the couch. Her hands fumbled with the buttons of the phone dial. Aunty would advise her well. Ifi had never placed a longdistance call from America. Job had explained that the cost was far too expensive. And if Aunty were to receive such an expensive call, at such an hour, the only explanation would be a death. She set the phone back in its cradle. She would handle this on her own. After all, she was no longer a young girl. Ifi placed the letter on his slack chest, went to their bedroom, and began to pack her belongings: the jeans, the Nebraska sweatshirts, the yellow dress.