Julie Iromuanya - Mr. and Mrs. Doctor

“Kedu, how are you?” she asked.

His voice was a muffle. He headed straight to the bathroom. Water burst from the showerhead.

“You will not eat first?” She made her way to the bathroom. “Your food will be cold,” she said to him in exasperation. And then you will complain without words, she thought to herself. He would sigh and chew with demonstrative difficulty, giving his bowl vigorous stirs with his spoon after each bite. Then, This is not the village. You people come to America. . he would begin. Ifi laughed to herself as she stepped into the bathroom.

Inside, the sink was splattered with droplets of watered-down red. Job’s clothes were crumpled in a soiled heap on the tile floor.

Her hands felt gummy and thick at her sides. “What has happened, oh?” She swiped the shower curtain back. Water came down in sheets, blurring Job’s features.

She shouted into the rain, “What is this?”

With force, he shut off the water. He yanked a towel from the metal bar. She grabbed another. Together, the two dried his body in struggling turns. She couldn’t see any scrapes or cuts on his body. “What did you do?” Ifi asked.

Finally he turned to her, and she gasped. Gashes were spelled out across his face.

“Chineke!” she said. “Are you all right?”

Job tried to push past her, but she blocked his way with her girth. She had never been a woman of size, but now here she was, large the way mothers and women were supposed to be. Naked, he balanced on the edge of the tub, his belly drooped at his waist like a gunnysack. When she pressed the pale-blue towel to his face, it came away dark with his blood.

Without thinking she guarded her belly, the baby. “I will call hospital.”

“No!” Knotting the towel at his waist, he righted himself and stalked past her to the kitchen, to the pot, to the heaping bowls.

“What happened? Tell me, now,” she said. “We must call police.”

“I am fine,” he said. “It’s done.” One cut was set deeply into the side of his face, near his lip. Ifi tried to touch it with the towel. Job’s expression turned into a scowl. He snatched the towel from her hand and flung it across the kitchen. He returned to the pot and added a heaping spoonful to his bowl before sidestepping the kitchen table for the living room couch. Clumps missed his mouth as he swallowed. Ifi took her bowl and stood in the doorway gazing at him, unable to eat.

That afternoon, the storms began. Snow rushed past the window in flakes that grew in size, hour after hour. By night, the falling snow outside reminded her of the staticky television she had grown to hate. It talked, it gurgled like a live, breathing person, witnessing and judging their every misstep in America. From the living room, Ifi could hear the sounds of its babble, and eventually Job’s gurgling snores. Snowstorms were silent, but Ifi expected lightning, thunder, something dramatic to account for the snow that would meet her knees the next morning, something to account for the day ahead of her.

HE MUST FILE THE POLICE REPORT IN PERSON. THIS WAS WHAT THE NASAL voice on the telephone said to Job. Slowly, loudly, for his immigrant benefit, the man pronounced the charge. Not only must he file in person, he must be examined, thoroughly, from head to toe, for a proper report of his injuries. None of this sat well with Job. But then, they had told him that a vehicle had been impounded, that it might be his, and so he must go. If the matter was handled correctly, he would have his car and the scrubs and nametag that were balled underneath the seat. He would warm his car, scrape it clear of snow, go to work, and Ifi would never know a thing. She couldn’t know a thing. How can a woman respect a man who has been treated in such a way by mere boys?

Standing in the doorway, her hands wet and red from the dishes, Ifi wore the frown of a child when he told her about the car. “They have asked me only to identify and sign. You see, this is why I drive the old car,” he joked. “A silly thief who suspected a doctor like myself is a millionaire is incorrect.”

She didn’t believe him. But never mind that.

“I will come with you.” Ifi grabbed a bra from the laundry heap, lowered her wrapper, and began to snap the hooks into place.

“Stop this, now. You are nearly eight months pregnant,” he said. “There’s no need. I’ll collect the car and go to work from there. You are delaying me.” He glanced at the clock. In an hour his shift would begin.

His body was an open sore. It hurt merely to breathe. But he righted his legs and moved as swiftly as possible to disguise the pain. In the living room, he found his pants and his lab coat clean and ironed on the couch, the same place she laid his clothes out every day. Faded bloodstains marked the shame of the night before. She had no doubt scrubbed while he slept through the day and evening. Job gazed at the coat for a long, hard moment.

“You will have to buy a new one,” she said, softly. “No patient should see you this way.”

All but the jacket was on him now.

“It’s not clean,” she said, taking three unbalanced strides across the room. For a brief moment, the jacket was in both of their hands and they fought with it. Her will was stronger than Job’s, or perhaps he feared that his only white jacket would be split into two. He laughed. “Solomon’s judgment.”

She glared at him. A small orange container of baking soda was in the refrigerator. She dumped nearly the entire contents on the scarred cloth. Under the sink, she found a brush. She wet it and furiously scrubbed at the stain.

Nothing but the scratch of the brush fibers could be heard. The sound was like chalk on a board in Job’s ears. He snatched the jacket from her grasp.

“Give me time, now! No patient should see a doctor like this,” she protested.

“You have done good work,” he said. “In the proper light, no one will notice.” Indeed, obscured by the shadows of the room, it was barely noticeable.

“And your face. You’re so ugly.” An accusing finger jabbed at his raw wounds. “Who will see a doctor as ugly as you? Eh?”

“My junior brother received the looks in the family. This, I’m afraid, is improvement, plastic surgery.”

“You’re so funny. But you will not be so funny when they come back.”

“They won’t be back,” he said calmly. “They’ve taken my wallet, what good thieves are always after.” For good measure, he added, “You stay inside. Don’t make any foolish trips. Let my injury warn you of the dangers in America.” Even as he joked, Job felt his body rippling with the fear that he had felt that night, the moment when he had realized that he was trapped.

“Don’t patronize me. What type of clinic do you work where you will be attacked like this? I will have the baby, I will find work, and you will find a clinic elsewhere.” Gripping her wrapper, she faced him. “We’ll leave this place and go back to Nigeria. I will not die in this country.”

“What is this?”

“I don’t like this America,” Ifi said. “The food tastes of rubbish. Every day is cold, and there is no one, not even one person outside, except that nonsense old lady,” she said with a shudder.

Job saw the pain in her eyes, and he felt a twitch in his belly. But he hid his hesitation with a broad smile. “I believe the nonsense old lady is your friend, no?”

“You’re so funny,” she said again.

But suddenly, he felt himself giving in to the feeling and agreeing. “Let’s go back.”

“When?” After a moment, she said, “You are mocking your wife.”

“I’m not joking. Tomorrow. No, no, not soon enough. Today.” Ifi was frowning, but Job couldn’t stop himself, and suddenly he meant it. Such an outrageous idea, but why must they stay? Why must we stay in America to do humiliating work, to live among riffraff, far from our families? “Yes, that’s right. Instead of going to the police station, I will go to the airport and buy two airplane tickets. By tomorrow night, we will be home.”