Julie Iromuanya - Mr. and Mrs. Doctor

I can’t do this anymore. Today, he decided. Today will be the day. I will try again. After all, it had been a long time. Nineteen years. He would go to the bank and take out the money, minus what he had given to Cheryl. Forget their faces, all those years ago, when he had arrived at the admissions office and told them it was a mistake. Yes, he had seen the academic probation notices, but wasn’t there someone he could speak to? Where was the chair, the dean, the provost, someone important, not the silly secretary? And so he had gone to see the bald-headed dean, sitting there in his suit and tie. An important man. The man his father was. The man Job would be one day, if he only had the chance. A man who could make things happen. He had heard of it being done in Nigeria quite easily. Although he had never admitted it to himself, he wondered now if his father had done just that for him, had spoken to the right man, negotiated in the right way for him to easily pass his JAMB, the highest standard, and then the TOEFL.

Standing before the dean, Job reached into his pocket and slid a hundred-dollar bill to the man. The dean took the money and stared. Not enough? Job slid another hundred-dollar bill to him, then another. As it dawned on the dean what was happening, he shifted back into his rolling chair behind the desk. Then he bellowed, “You lazy, immigrant bastard! Go back to Africa.”

Forget all of this, Job said to himself. Now is the time. Many years have passed. The money was still in the account. This morning. He would not even sleep. He would go directly to the bank and then the admissions office. He would finish his classes before Ifi knew it. Before long, he would be making real money. And then he wouldn’t suffer each time he sent his family a check, nor would they ache in their silent poverty. They would rise to the station they once had when Job began his life in America. He pulled on his trousers and lab coat. His body trembled. He released a long, drawn-out breath. What have I been so afraid of? What is keeping me from following my dreams? Job smoothed out his stethoscope. He placed an eartip in each ear and listened to the beat of his own heart.

Job’s thudding heartbeat was still on his mind as he filled his car with gas. It was there, in the palm of his free hand, that he saw the first signs of the great snowfall that would come that night. He released the pump and met the eyes of the stars that descended on him, tiny and moist. The ash-gray sky was pierced only by the wavering glow of the headlights he had forgotten to turn off. He tried to think of his child, but all he could think of was the childlike look in Ifi’s eyes during her first snowfall.

Bank. Admissions office. Today will be the day. Elated, he smiled. He dried his palms across the thighs of his dark pants and brought them to his face. The scent was strong, like kerosene. It reminded him of his grandmother’s kerosene lamp back in the village. It reminded him of the darkened home he had visited on that humid summer day, with the lamp flames casting shadows on the walls, the girl with the slim hips and pointed breasts sitting on the couch between her guardians.

In the gas station, he stalked back and forth between the aisles, his back straight, an important man making a decision, letting his fingers rest on bags of potato chips that he knew he’d never had a taste for. He stopped only after the clerk, a boy in dark frames, sent him a sidelong glance.

“You got gas on two?” the clerk asked.

“Yeah,” Job said, in his best imitation of an American.

Just then, three tall black Americans came bursting into the store. They were young and loud, wearing baggy pants, their hair in plaits or hidden under pantyhose covers. They were boys, no more than seventeen in age. Job had been in America long enough to know of this type. They took off in different directions. One disappeared into the cooled Spirits section, another shuffled through the potato chips Job had just grazed. As Job hurried to the register, the third broke for the register as well. They arrived at the same time, and there was a tense moment as Job shifted from one leg to the other. The boy had calm, sleepy eyes. He was small, the youngest of the gang, likely no older than twelve or thirteen. He nodded to Job, and Job paid the clerk before hurrying out the door, away from trouble. On his way, he bumped into another boy. They were just feet from Job’s car.

“Motherfucker, get the fuck out of my way,” the boy said to him.

He was nothing. A boy of such a young age and low education would not speak to Job like this anywhere else. Only in America. It angered and humiliated him. He should have hurried away, but he didn’t. Not this time.

“Why he looking at you like that?” one of the other boys said, egging him on. “Like he want to kill you.” Foil crunched in his hands as he opened his bag of chips. A chip crunched loudly in his mouth. Flakes drifted from his face. His cheeks were slick from its grease. “Want one?” He held a chip out to Job and grinned. “They tasty. Smell it.”

When Job didn’t respond, the boy put it so close to his face that he could smell its salt. His mouth watered. Between them, the potato chip hovered, a bullet in slow motion.

The filth. The filth on his hands, on his body, the stink of Captain, the stink of gasoline. It filled Job with rage, and the rage tasted like shit in his throat.

“I ain’t playing. They good,” the boy said, laughing. As he pulled the chip back, it fell from his hand, landing in a puddle of shrinking snow. “Aw, man, you made me drop my chip.” He reached into his bag, found another, and chomped loudly, his mouth open.

Now all of the boys were there. “He should say sorry,” the first boy said. Initially it sounded like he was joking. One or two even laughed. But Job knew better.

The skinny attendant was bolting the door. He didn’t say, “I don’t want any trouble.” He didn’t say, “I’ll call the police.” He simply clicked the door locked and returned to his post at the register.

“Motherfucker,” the boy said, getting close to Job, so close he could smell cigarette ash on his breath, “say you’re sorry.”

Sleepy Eyes shrugged.

“Naw,” the boy said in reply. “I want this motherfucker to say it. And then he gonna eat that chip he knocked down with his funky breath.”

In the back of his throat, Job heard the word forming. By the time it left his mouth, he was stunned by it. He’d never said it, except to make fun of the kind of boys who were in front of him now. “Motherfucker,” Job said.

A pause.

Then Potato Chips laughed. Sleepy Eyes joined in. Finally Apology laughed, hard, a revolving laughter that didn’t stop, but only grew.

“Say it again,” one said, and the others chimed in, imitating his accent. “Mudd-ah-fock-ah!”

As the impotent word shrank in the folds of their laughter, Job burned with humiliation. These boys, nothing but riffraff who know nothing, who cannot even speak their first language correctly, have shamed me. They should fear him. They should respect him. In his mind, Job rehashed a million scenarios that ended with the boy’s face cracked on the pavement, the jeering faces of his friends frozen in fear. Job, still carrying the stink of Captain on his hands, still pinned with the badge that read Job Ogbonnaya, Certified Nurse’s Assistant, thought to himself, They will fear me.

Seconds before the door opened, Ifi heard his footsteps as he made his way up the stairs. Only then did she drag herself to the kitchen, giving the pot of soup one final turn before shutting it off and filling two bowls deep with meat, mushrooms, and greens. She had made his favorite soup, an apology of sorts. Emeka had cleared things up for her. How could she ever forgive herself for not believing in her husband? He was right about everything. Things would happen. In time. After the baby.