Julie Iromuanya - Mr. and Mrs. Doctor

There was a knock at the door. It was Mrs. Janik. “I just came to offer you my support,” Mrs. Janik said. “We women just can’t put up with the abuses men give us. He can go back to his prostitute. He can keep her diseases to himself.” She leaned in. “You know there’s an AIDS epidemic. And it’s because of men like him.”

Job turned on the couch.

“You just tell him you don’t want to have anything to do with him. You pack your things, and you can come over to my place.”

Job turned again, slowly.

“Yes,” Ifi said.

Mrs. Janik waited expectantly. She tried to glance around Ifi into the room.

“I will do it when he wakes,” Ifi said.

Mrs. Janik arched an eyebrow. “Listen, you tell him this isn’t Africa. I was reading about them men. Twenty wives! Well, he can’t do that here. He can’t own a woman in America. We got our own minds and our own money to do what we want.”

Ifi nodded. “When he goes to work,” she said.

“I’ll come over and get you,” Mrs. Janik said. She leaned in farther and whispered to Ifi, “It’s probably better that way. We don’t want him to get violent or anything. If there’s one thing I won’t tolerate, it’s a wife beater.”

Ifi nodded and let the door close on Mrs. Janik. When she turned around, Job was sitting up. The letter was on the floor. Mrs. Janik was right. Who knew what such a man was capable of? In three quick strides, she walked to him and stepped on the letter, hiding it.

“Which man beats his wives?” Job asked. He yawned and stretched.

“The Mexican.”

“With the nine children? The wife that’s a prostitute?”

“Yes.”

He laughed. Ifi’s laugh was an imitation of his.

“Imagine what that crazy old lady has to say about us,” he said.

“What do you think she says about us?”

“Never mind her. She is a useless woman.” Job said these last words with a yawn as he rolled over.

But Ifi wanted to know, and it made her angry that he hadn’t bothered to answer her question. It bothered her that he could so easily dismiss Mrs. Janik. Mrs. Janik was right; Ifi would not be deceived. She wondered what he would do when he woke to find that she was gone.

For the first time, she slipped on her shoes and coat and went next door to Mrs. Janik’s place. Like Ifi’s building, the concrete was broken, and the front door hung on its hinges with a torn-out screen. There were three buttons, and Ifi found the one labeled Janik. She punched the button several times, but there was no answer. Just as she was beginning to lose her resolve, Mrs. Janik stuck her head out her window at the top of the building.

“Hiya!” she said. “It doesn’t work. I’ll let you up. Gimmie a second.” She arrived at the door in moments, breathing heavily, her rear stooped out behind her. “Come on in, sweetie.” She threw the door open and Ifi followed.

“Where’s your stuff?”

“I’ll get it later, when he goes to work,” Ifi said. But she dreaded going back. She never wanted to see him or that dump again.

“Well darling, you don’t have to worry. I wouldn’t let that dog lay a hand on you.”

“Darling,” Ifi said softly. She cringed. It was a word she could only understand in the context of lovers, lovers who were quarreling.

They proceeded up the steps, three tall wooden flights of stairs that wound up the old building. The hallways smelled musty. As they passed each landing, Ifi could see used, dirty newspapers.

Mrs. Janik lived on the top floor, even at her age. It occurred to Ifi that she wasn’t exactly sure how old Mrs. Janik was. She hadn’t yet learned how to tell the age of a white person. Before Mrs. Janik opened the door, Ifi could immediately smell the strong scent of cats. Once inside, she glanced around, looking for the offending animals. But she couldn’t find them. Instead what she saw was an orderly, windowless room with a harsh overhanging light that illuminated row upon row of dusty porcelain figurines along shelves pushed against every inch of wall space. Small porcelain children, dogs, birds, cats. Ifi leaned in and sniffed one of the cats.

“I can’t ever seem to keep the dust from coming in,” Mrs. Janik said. She picked up a duster from a drawer and proceeded to swat at each figurine, succeeding only in stirring and rearranging the dust with each whisk. It was no use.

Mrs. Janik showed Ifi around, pointing out the kitchen, the bathroom, her bedroom, and a small closet with a sewing machine. It was the same story in each room: shelves lined with tiny porcelain figurines with matte finishes from the fine layer of dust. “You can sleep in the guest room,” Mrs. Janik said once they stood outside the sewing room. “You can have it as long as you like. I’ll even pull in a cot for you to sleep on.” Then, for good measure, she happily added, “We women have to stick together.”

Mrs. Janik poured them cold tea in small cups from the back of her cabinet. They sat around a wooden table in uncomfortable wicker chairs. It reminded Ifi of staying with Job’s family for those three months. Tea after church on Sundays, the white wicker chairs, and the way Job’s sister, Jenny, and his mother would regard her with a look that was a mere shrug between disgust and acquiescence. The Ogbonnayas were of the haves who no longer had, those who had once lived in wealth and then found a way to lose it all. Even then, Ifi knew that they were settling on her, a girl without even a first degree. The only thing she had was her good name.

“Ifi,” Mrs. Janik said now, “you haven’t had your tea. Drink up. It’ll get cold.”

Ifi sipped the cold tea.

“You’ll like it here.” Mrs. Janik pointed to a spread of home decorating magazines, selecting one. “I noticed you reading one the other day,” she said. “I read them too.” Then she looked around the room and beamed. “See? I’m the queen in my home. Tomorrow we’ll go and get you whatever it is you want to eat at the grocery. And you don’t even have to cook it.”

How could she be queen of such a place? This could not be Ifi’s home. Her eyes rested on the magazine cover, the gloriously furnished room with its skylights and sleek leather furniture. This was the home she would make for herself. This was the place she left Nigeria for.

“Don’t worry. You can stay as long as you like,” Mrs. Janik said. “I know you’re not like them.”

Ifi nodded as Mrs. Janik made her way to the kitchen. She’d heard her reasoning before. Mrs. Janik had explained that the black woman across the street was a prostitute. After all, there is no way a girl her age could afford to live on her own, and so many men come in and out of her home. Ifi had seen the men before, all tall and narrow, like the woman. For the first time, she realized that they could merely be her brothers and uncles. She felt ridiculous. Surely there was a logical explanation for Job’s letter. Suddenly, all Ifi wanted was to leave. Soon Job would wake for work. She would start another letter to Aunty tonight. It would ease her mind. Already Ifi was crafting the letter in her mind, imagining the details of the magazine, describing the skylights and the finish of the wooden furniture. She gazed anxiously at the magazine. There were so many that Mrs. Janik would not notice. She slipped it under her wrapper.

“I have to go,” she said when Mrs. Janik returned.

“What?” Mrs. Janik frowned.

“After he leaves, I’ll return.”

“Okay,” Mrs. Janik said. “I guess it makes sense. We don’t want to make a scene when he gets violent. God knows I can’t stand gossip.”

Job was still asleep when Ifi made it back to the apartment. She returned to the bedroom and sat staring at the suitcase with the clothes in it. Nothing was hers. Not the yellow dress, not the Nebraska sweatshirts or jeans. He’d bought them all. After a while, she put the clothes back and sat gazing out the window. A thin veneer of frost outlined the panes. The colors outside were muted, ash gray. She hated this place.