Julie Iromuanya - Mr. and Mrs. Doctor

She seemed to hear him, because suddenly she spoke, but she didn’t say what he expected to hear. “I never had all of those nice things,” she said softly. “I been working my whole life, and there’s nothing to show for it. Just the house, and I can barely even keep it up. You just got here, but you, you’ve made yourself a success. How is it possible?”

Job burned with shame. “You read the letter.”

“I thought it was one of my letters.” She bit her bottom lip, but instead of guilt, a pained expression crossed her face. “I’ve never been the type to bring that kind of treatment out in any man, just lies.” When she said this, with the strange note of jealousy in her voice, Job’s fists relaxed. She had believed every word of it. With all of Ifi’s bragging, all of her exaggeration, it was as if she had entered the car and interceded on his behalf. Cheryl offered a dry laugh, and only because he felt it was the polite thing to do, Job laughed along with her.

A deep frown set on her face. “She must be the happiest woman in the world. I can’t even fix that stupid piece of shit for a car. A hundred dollars left, and the jerk mechanic holds it hostage. Complete asshole. I’m not a thief. I always pay when I get the money.” She paused and grunted. “Your wife must have it made.”

“She does,” Job said with sudden pride. “My wife has enjoyed many blessings in her life because of me. She no longer has to work. She will go to university in America. I have decided that she will be trained to be a nurse in my clinic. It is I who brought water and electricity to my in-laws in Nigeria, sef. I have provided for her cousins’ education. Just yesterday, I bought her a new television. It is a surprise, but I am sure she will be pleased.”

“Shit,” she said in awe. “What are you, a messiah?”

“Ah, yes, messiah.” Then, he couldn’t help but add, “It is not in my nature to brag, so I will only say that this television has crystal-clear picture and digital technologies.” Job looked out onto the street. He felt, strangely, as if he owned all of it. He was a big man. Then, as Cheryl’s eyes grew in alarm, Job found himself unfolding five twenty-dollar bills and casually tossing them at her. For just a second, a flicker of worry rose on the crest of his brow, but then he quickly dismissed it. His next paycheck was only a week away, and if they needed groceries or gas for the week, he would pay with his MasterCard. “Fix your car,” he said easily.

She lunged toward him for a hug. “Thank you.” Tears started forming in her eyes.

He shrugged her off, faked a sigh of annoyance. She smelled of cigarettes and strawberries. Up close, he could make out the whiskers around her eyes, the chapped lips. “Just take it and fix your vehicle.”

After Cheryl entered her house, Job returned to his car lot, and sitting there, it occurred to him that he had never seen his hideaway during the day. In early morning light, the outlines of a warehouse and two adjacent suite-style offices — tall brick buildings — were nothing but stark shadows. Now, in daylight, men arrived in black suits, swinging briefcases at their sides as they purposefully marched through the snow to their office buildings. Job pulled up to the spot where he and Cheryl had met earlier that morning in the graying light, and he retrieved Ifi’s crumpled letter. With the same jealous note in their voices as Cheryl, his in-laws would read another of Ifi’s letters. They would nod triumphantly. They would brag about his successes in a land far away. Because it was so early in the day, the letter was only damp. He smoothed out the wrinkles, affixed postage to the envelope, and placed it in a blue postal drop box before heading home.

Between two uniformed men and a dolly, the television made it up the creaky flight of wooden stairs, only getting dropped twice. After much struggle, the deliverymen had realized that the television couldn’t fit through the frame of the doorway, so they charged Job extra to take the frame off the door. And then they charged him again to put it back on.

Finally, the television squeezed through the door sideways. One of the men held his shoulder where it hit the doorway. Circles of sweat were in the other man’s armpits. They were both skinny, one tall and one short, and when they had first arrived at the door with their clipboard, Ifi had thought they were the fumigators coming to spray the apartment for roaches again — since, she had learned, landlords did this sort of thing all the time in America. Since the fumigation hadn’t worked very well to begin with, she had signed their papers without really looking. And because she had thought it was the fumigators again, she hadn’t even bothered to wake Job. They were supposed to leave the apartment whenever the fumigators came, but they never did, and so she left Job sprawled across the couch in his underwear, snoring loudly, only draping his naked chest with a blanket.

That is, until the uniformed men appeared at the door again, covered in sweat, with a turned-sideways box big enough to fit three small children. Mrs. Janik was with them. Even after the two men left with the delivery tip, Mrs. Janik remained, scrutinizing the television from her position on the couch between Ifi and Job, who now had the blanket tied at his waist like a wrapper.

After a lengthy silence, Mrs. Janik was the first to speak. “I never seen one that big before.”

Simultaneously, the three gulped. They’d had to move a few items around to make room for the television. Now the couch backed the kitchen, and the television was anchored against the back wall, blocking out part of the window. Two long, winding plants sat atop the television on either end, with their leaves dangling down the sides of the screen. Only a foot of space was left between the couch and the center table. It leaned against the base of the television.

Job stood in front of it, gathering the blanket around his waist. He swept his fingers across the screen and instructed Ifi and Mrs. Janik to do so too; they obliged. Ifi felt the spark and crackle of the static on her fingers. For a moment, it filled her with delight.

“You people see this?” he said. “Crystal-clear picture and compatible with the latest digital technologies. My own home theater.”

Exactly what he meant wasn’t clear to Ifi, but Mrs. Janik nodded vigorously, so Ifi nodded her assent. Carefully, she repeated his words: “Crystal-clear picture and digital technology.”

On, the television was less of a miracle. Static rained down, and a permanent crack in the image, received during the television’s wobbly ascent up the steps, would always remain. That day, however, Job didn’t seem to notice.

Ifi took the remote control and flipped to one channel and then another. Each channel lent a different texture to the warbled images and snow. On most channels, there wasn’t even any sound but a roar. “What is wrong with this?” Ifi asked. She handed the remote back to Job. “Chineke, they have damaged it.”

“You gotta order the cable now,” Mrs. Janik said. Her eyes were somber moons.

“Yes,” Job said, slowly. “Soon.” Then he harped on all the channels they’d be able to watch. They’d even be able to watch Nollywood movies. “It is my own home theater,” he said again.

When he finally left to shower and dress, Mrs. Janik leaned in and whispered to Ifi in a shrill voice, “I knew what he was up to as soon as I saw the deliverymen outside. I just knew it.”

Ifi nodded. Admittedly, she hadn’t understood any of it. She still didn’t. When Ifi had asked about where he had purchased the television, why, the cost, Job had said, “You people think you are still living in the bush. This is America.”