Julie Iromuanya - Mr. and Mrs. Doctor

Everyone was so foolish with pride when they saw Samuel in that uniform. They had even thrown him a big party before he left for military training, convinced it would be over in a matter of days. They were fooled, all of them. But most of all Samuel, whose body came back in a bruised wooden crate, damaged from its bumpy ride home in a street lorry.

Glaring at the dingy stage, Job’s memory set on the image of the battered crate, and he was filled with such a surge of simultaneous rage and remorse that he ordered bourbon and drank it so fast that it choked the words that were in danger of escaping him. Bourbon drowned the accusations in his heart — against Samuel, the one meant to be the doctor, meant for America; against Ifi and her malcontent.

After some time, the bartender slid the bill across the damp bar. While he half waited, half slept, Job and Emeka argued over who would pay the bill, until Job stumbled and told Emeka that his practice was growing larger and he didn’t need help from anyone to pay any of his bills. And his wife was just fine and happy with it. Emeka gave him a strange look, but allowed him to pay. Job paid with a MasterCard, signed the bill, crumpled it, and placed it in his pocket without looking. Still, no one surrounded Job gleefully to pat him on the back and call him “buddy,” and, as a result, he scowled as they made their way to the car.

It wasn’t until they were on their way down the long stretch of highway that Job realized that in the past, he had told Emeka and Gladys that he was not in private practice quite yet, that instead he worked for a regional hospital. It surprised Job that Emeka hadn’t caught his mistake. And then it pleased him. Emeka is the fool, he thought, and the ride back was liquid; Job’s face relaxed into a tranquil smile and Emeka’s a complement.

On the way into town, they took a different route, skipping across Highway 6 and cutting to Interstate 80. It was a longer ride, but Job said nothing until they’d pulled onto a service road. A string of glass storefronts faced the main road, and they stopped in front of one with miniature bears and helium-filled balloons in the window. Emeka selected two stuffed bears with candy canes in their mouths. At the register, he plunged his hand into a barrel of candy canes and dumped the heap into a plastic bag. A pot of plastic lilies sat on the countertop, the kind with little faces meant to be filled with photographs. Without words, Job already knew. This one would be for Gladys. Emeka paid and collected his peace offering.

Not until they were out the door did it occur to Job that perhaps he should purchase a gift for Ifi. By then, something had caught his eye: an electronics warehouse at the end of the storefronts, with a faded billboard and a banner with markdowns indicated by slashed-through numbers. “There,” he said, and the two went into the warehouse.

A red-faced salesman in a collared blue shirt greeted them. Almost immediately Job saw the one he wanted. He marched past the salesman.

“Thirty-two inches,” the salesman said, following them too closely. It was the same size as Emeka’s. “Crystal-clear picture—”

“No, no,” Job said suddenly. He swiveled away and pointed at an even bigger television. “This one.”

“You are drunk, my friend,” Emeka said, his eyes growing large.

The salesman gulped. Job could see him retracing his steps, going through his script a second time to find where he had left off. “It has a crystal-clear picture and excellent sound. It’s compatible with the latest digital technologies. Your own home theater.”

“I’ll buy it,” Job said.

“What do you need that for?” Emeka asked, his voice tight. “What are you trying to prove?”

Both Job and the salesman ignored him. The salesman beamed. “In-store credit. No interest for the first twelve months. Free delivery.”

“Good,” Job said, “I want it now.”

“Not a problem, my good man. We’ll have two fellows get it on a truck ASAP.”

At the register, Job filled out the application form. The clerk ran his credit, approved him, and Job left with a small plastic yellow bag full of receipts and warranty information.

On the way back to the hospital, as Job grinned with satisfaction, Emeka glared at the road ahead. His hands wobbled on the steering wheel. He complained that Americans watched too much television. He said it was bad for the eyes and for the brain. He said his daughters were university educated because he had restricted their television use. He said he didn’t care for any of the nonsense that came from television. To illustrate his point, he took the card out of his pocket with Sheryl’s phone number on it. He tore it in two and tossed it aside. It landed in the plastic bag on Job’s lap.

Cheryl clutched Ifi’s letter, still folded into a tight square, when Job arrived at the lot in the early hours of the morning. His stomach grumbled. He shivered and felt exhausted from his overnight shift, another night of Captain’s howling complaints about his “son,” an angry night spent lashing out at the nurses as they entered his room. Job was the only aide who could comfort him, and as such he was left to attend to Captain’s rages, his bloodcurdling shrieks, brutal curses, and gummy blows. Still, Captain’s wrath was a reprieve from his sorrow. Tomorrow would be a sad one. Tomorrow Captain would curl in a ball on his bed, his body wracked with unanswered grief, and that, for some reason, was the hardest to bear.

Job snatched the letter from Cheryl’s hands, feigning disgust to disguise his relief. His in-laws would never see another one of Ifi’s letters again. He would make sure of that. Only after he had crumpled the letter and allowed it to drift into the snow did Job notice Cheryl closely observing him.

With a shivery laugh, she said, “Good riddance. I’d have done it myself if you’d just asked.”

“It’s nothing. Just some nonsense.” After a moment, reluctantly, he added, “Thank you.”

Snow had begun to fall, light flecks that coated her eyelashes. An awkward moment passed as Job pried open his door, heavy with ice. He said good-bye, thanked her again, and started the car. Only after he’d circled the lot to make his way to the street did he glance back and notice Cheryl pulling the lip of her coat up past her chin to her nose before steadily bearing her weight through the snow. He wondered how far away she lived, and, begrudgingly, he admitted to himself that when he had arrived at work that night, it had been Cheryl who had called to let him know that she had Ifi’s letter. She could just as easily have kept it for herself or read its contents. As far as he could tell, she had done neither. He’d be late arriving home, but he was filled with a sudden rush of relief at the certainty that the letter would never make it into the hands of his in-laws. He turned the car one last time and opened the door for her.

Cheryl climbed in, shivering. “Thanks. I mean it,” she said. “My car’s in the shop. Piece of crap has a broken muffler.”

Heat from their breaths clouded the windows as they drove through the calm streets. Every few minutes Job dragged his forearm in a circle along the windshield so that he could see out. His woolly coat left a jagged streak across the window. When they arrived in front of the tall wooden house, with its peeling siding and lopsided gateposts, they sat for a moment in mutual stillness. In the early morning hours, the street was quiet, a fading streetlight lazily flickering. One lone bird, abandoned for the season, waded across the street before clumsily tottering away. This was Cheryl’s home, the source of their strange encounter. Had it not been for such a place, they might never have met all those years ago for a marriage of convenience. They might never have met this time. This was what she was willing to fight for.