Julie Iromuanya - Mr. and Mrs. Doctor

So he said none of these words. His tongue was in knots. He did not tell the officer about the potato chip, or about the way he swore at the boys. He did not even tell the man that they were boys. Were they even old enough to purchase alcohol in this country? He did not tell the officer about the things they had said to him.

Instead, Job heard himself repeating, “I am a doctor, and I find no trouble from these black Americans. I am not illegal like the Mexicans. I am a citizen.” He dug into his pocket and retrieved his wallet, showing him the card.

After a long sigh, the officer scrawled a number onto a card and handed it to Job. “That’s your case number. I’m Officer Peete. Right there. That’s my number here at the station. You call if you can provide any other information.”

“That’s it? What of my car?”

“On the report, you gave a description of your car being a blue-gray, two-door Audi, dent on the driver side, cracked taillight.”

“Yes.”

“That’s not your car in the impound.”

“Yes it is.”

“And I believe you.”

Job was stunned, silent.

“And because I believe you, I suggest that you file a report with your insurance.”

“No, no, no! You said you have my car.”

“Mr. — Dr. Og-ban-ooya. The vehicle we have is suspected in a botched narcotics transfer.”

“No, you have my car. Allow me to see it!”

“We’ll do our best to recover it, but I can tell you now, it’s a long shot. By now, they’ve probably stripped it for parts that are on their way to South Dakota. Your best bet is to call your insurance and report the loss.”

Job swallowed. “What of the thieves? Won’t you arrest them?”

“We’ll call you if we apprehend the suspects.”

“You will just let them go free?”

“Like I said, if you can give us any other information you think will help, call the number on the card.”

“But my car. .” Job felt a shake beginning low in his body. “How will I go to work? I am late already.”

“There’s a phone in the lobby. Call someone. Your wife? A friend?”

“No,” Job said, grimacing as he imagined Emeka’s smirk.

Large fluorescent overhead lights cast deep orange pools on the tiled floors of the lobby. Little else was in the room except for two flags that hung limply from their pedestals over a carrel of hard-backed plastic chairs. Job flipped through the phonebook and found the number for a taxicab company. But when the cab arrived with a “Cash Only” sign glaring through the back panel, remembering that he had given all of his cash to Cheryl for her car repairs, Job abashedly admitted that he could only pay with credit card or check. He tried to explain that he had been the victim of an assault; they stole his cash, beat his face — he was not a criminal — but even dressed in his crisp doctor’s suit with his stethoscope dangling from the front pocket of his jacket, the driver cursed him, shouting that Job was supposed to request a cab with a credit card machine, and he had wasted his time and cost him his gas and a fare, and for that Job was a motherfucker. The driver spat out the window and squealed around the corner, leaving Job to stand limply in the cold.

One last time, he reentered the police station and braced himself before dialing Emeka’s number. But when he heard Emeka’s arrogant voice, Job couldn’t bear the thought of his friend’s admonishments: Have I not taught you anything? Job slammed the phone down. Reluctantly, he dialed the only number he could think of: Cheryl’s. After all, she did not know Emeka, Gladys, or Ifi. He had even given her money to repair her car.

As he waited, the entire scene reminded him of the day they had married: a room cold with the thud of empty footprints across the tile floor, flags hanging limply against one wall, a potted plastic tree on another end, and the sound of telephones ringing from distant rooms. Like then, everything had a fakeness to it. Important business could not possibly happen here. For a moment, he locked eyes with a janitor who brusquely swept the floor.

The man whistled and shrank back at the sight of Job’s face. “Sonny, it looks like you were doing business from the wrong angle.” He set the mop aside. “Look-a here. Put a pack of tenderloin on that, press it in real good, and it’ll be gone in no time.” Setting the mop aside, the man encouragingly motioned where Job should place the meat on his face. Of course he had nothing to do with the attack, but instead of the wrinkled face, chin ashen with gray hairs, and body stooped with age, all Job could see and hear was the man’s skin color and the voice carrying the rhythm that sounded so similar to the young boys’ voices. A fresh chill of fear climbed up his spine. Long ago, this old man had been one of those young boys, wearing women’s hose over his plaits and trousers so low they exposed his underpants. Akatta, he said to himself. A black American. Riffraff, Job decided with such bitterness and anger that it turned to hate, just like those criminals.

“Those bastards!” Cheryl exclaimed as Job climbed into her 1980 Ford Thunderbird, a rusted red, the pieces of its frame fitted together like Legos. As they pulled away, the Thunderbird let out a metallic screech. When he had called, Cheryl had answered after three rings. At the time, he had oscillated between how to ask a favor of her, a woman he had been married to but still considered a stranger. Should I order her? he thought to himself — after all, he wouldn’t have needed her help if he hadn’t provided her with the last cash remaining in his wallet. Should he try to gain her sympathy by explaining that he had been brutally beaten by three black men? Surely she would empathize with his fear. Or should I treat the whole affair with nonchalance? She must remember that they had at one time shared a reluctant, though lawful, mutual union.

In the end, he hadn’t needed to say any of those things. When Job mentioned that he was at the police station and that his car had been stolen, Cheryl arrived within twenty minutes. She knew the police station well. Luther, her brother, had been arrested on a number of frivolous charges over the years, and she had been forced to pick him up and bail him out on many occasions.

One time in particular stood out in her mind, and as they headed for the hospital, Cheryl lit a cigarette out the window and stuttered the first words to the story. “He had too much to drink. He was having a hard time dealing with our mom’s passing. Anyway, the police, they pull him over, he gets out. They tell him to put his hands up and all that. He does. And they’re asking all these stupid questions. And he can’t say anything.” Her hands shook as they gripped the steering wheel. “So they beat him, you know? They beat him up because he wouldn’t talk,” she said. “He tried to show them his wallet, to explain that he couldn’t talk, you know? He’s mute, so they almost killed him. When I arrived, he was still unconscious. Said they thought he was reaching for a weapon, the bastards.” She paused at a red light. “That was the day something changed in him. He didn’t give a shit about anything after that. He didn’t give a shit about me, about the house, about our parents. That was it.”

Job let the weight of her confession sink in. A white man born and raised in this country had faced such a fate. What are the chances of me, a Nigerian, receiving justice if a white man receives such treatment? It stunned Job. They passed his hideaway lot on the way, and he glanced out the window, glaring at the muted brick façade of the office buildings.