Julie Iromuanya: Mr. and Mrs. Doctor

“I will not buy you anything more. You understand.”

“Wait a minute,” she said. “You think I want you to buy me clothes? You? ” She spoke as if conversing with a diseased goat.

Job shook his head. He would have to tell the broker that this one was not good for the price.

“First of all, this is not Africa, O.K.? This is America. It’s a free country. We can wear whatever we want here. Second of all, I don’t need your money. I don’t need to take anything from you. And third of all—” she took a deep breath. “Do you have a light?”

Just as Job reached into his pocket for his lighter, she produced a packet of cigarettes. He stopped himself. It was one thing for her to dress so foolishly on such a day. It was yet another for her to smoke like a man in his presence, America or not. “No, I am sorry,” he said.

Across the parking lot, there was a strip of faded brick buildings and linked to those, a gas station convenience store. “I’m gonna run down the street to the gas station and get a lighter,” she said.

“Come now,” Job said. “You can smoke your cigars after. One hour is remaining. They are waiting.”

“Just back off, man. I need to relax.” She kneaded her fingers into her face. “I need a cigarette.”

Slowly, he lifted the lighter out of his pocket. Fixing his gaze on her, he spoke coolly. “You need to smoke.” When she sucked her teeth in surprise, he did not bother to feign an apology.

She poked out her lips and put the cigarette between them anyway. Again and again she clicked the lighter on, but there was no flame. She flung the lighter into the street. “You did that on purpose.” Her fingers pressed into her temples so hard that they left red prints along her hairline. “Fuck, I can’t do this.”

“Okie,” Job said, frowning. “Okie, we will buy you a cigarette lighter.”

They stood along the doors of the gas station. Cigarettes were a part of the job, she said. So he was paying for that now, or it would be added to everything else in the end. Fine, Job had said. Fine. She hadn’t eaten, and when they entered the gas station she wanted food too. But he drew the line at the cigarette lighter.

Once outside, she wouldn’t light the cigarette until he turned away. He was making her “antsy.” But he would only go as far as the end of the building. From a payphone, Job dialed Emeka’s number.

“Emeka,” he said, “how are you, my friend?”

“I am living on top of the Chrysler Building. And you?”

“My man, I am preparing to become an American citizen.” Job laughed into the phone. He turned away from the receiver and faced Cheryl, who was still sucking on the cigarette. She twisted the frayed ends of her skirt with her other hand.

“Excellent,” Emeka said, “and after, you will come and we will celebrate.”

“Of course, my man,” Job said, “but I am wondering: are some American women more prepared in these arrangements than others?”

“Abeg, Job. Have you not listened to me? I hope you are not wining and dining for this American.” Emeka sighed into the phone. “Do not make a fool of yourself. Americans are way-o.”

“What are you talking about? Do I look like a fool?” Job asked. “Ah-ah! She is long legged and blonde, like a model.”

Cheryl pinched the cigarette with the heel of her shoe, gathered her worn-out purse straps, and started for the county clerk’s office.

“I have to go. I will call you back.” Before Emeka had a chance to respond, he hung up.

This time, Cheryl entered the county clerk’s office before he did. All the way down the dark, airless halls, her sandals left a hollow thud while his scuffed soles creaked.

Two men in tan slacks and tucked shirts leaned against a tall wooden door with the number 113 stenciled on it. One of the men was white with tufts of hair sprouting from around a faded baseball cap, and the other was a Native American with a greased ponytail. When Cheryl saw the men, she stopped.

“I need to eat,” she said. “I feel sick to my stomach.”

“Let us finish this, oh,” Job said in exasperation.

“We need to eat now,” Cheryl said.

“You want chips? You want Coca-Cola? We will buy you Coca-Cola when we are finished.”

“Look,” Cheryl said. She was beginning to shake. “I am not some whore, O.K.? I barely know you.”

Down the hall, the men glanced in their direction.

“Lower your voice,” Job said.

Cheryl’s lips had whitened. “You think just because you come to this country and we give you a job and you make a little money, you can do whatever you want. It ain’t fair.” She was near tears. “I mean, I was raised Catholic.” Her voice lowered. “Marriage is forever.”

Job thought her words over. Cheryl had been married and divorced twice. That was not the problem.

She gripped the edges of her skirt. “My parents, they would be turning in their graves over this. You .” Again, there was that peculiar note of disgust.

Sweat dampened Job’s brow. “What is the problem?”

“I’ll be sick. I ain’t some actor, you know. If I go in there feeling like this, I’ll give it all away. My brother has the liar’s face, not me.”

Her brother. Job remembered the name on the card. Luther. He thought of his own brother, Samuel — older, taller, stronger, smarter — the first son, the one meant for America. “Luther,” he said, gently. “What is his age?”

“He’s a year older — that makes him thirty-three,” Cheryl said. “But he’s no good. A prime-time bastard.”

Again, Job thought of Samuel. Sharp in a way his father had glowingly called wit, tact. But was it really that?

She clenched her fists at her sides. “I lose my job and everything goes to shit. We lose the house and then there’s nothing.”

“Everything will be okie,” Job said. “We will finish and you will receive the second half of the money.”

“No!” Cheryl said. She started to walk away. “Fuck it. I don’t need this. Fuck you and fuck Luther.”

Job grabbed her by the wrist. “I paid you.” Glancing up, he met the eyes of the white man. The man untucked his shirt and started toward them.

“It ain’t even enough money,” Cheryl said.

“You will get the second half when we are finished.” Job’s voice was a whimper.

“You can’t speak English? I said it ain’t enough.”

“You want chips? You want Coca-Cola?” Job asked. “Fine. But I will not take you to eat in a restaurant.”

“Is there a problem?” the man asked.

“No problem,” Job said. Cheryl pushed out her lips.

The man rushed toward Job and turned up the collar of his shirt. “Are you trying to run a scam?” The man looked to Cheryl for an answer, but she was suddenly still. He turned from her to Job and back to Cheryl again. “Silas said be here at four and you two don’t show up and it’s almost five. What’s going on?”

“There is no problem,” Job said through gritted teeth. “I am paying the woman.” Without counting, Job reached into his pocket and produced the remainder of cash in his pocket. The man loosened his grip. Job adjusted his collar and flicked it where the man’s filthy hands had touched him. Only after he handed her the money did the man back away. Cheryl stuffed it into her purse.

“And after we’re done, he’s gonna pay the other half, right?” she asked.

The man looked from Job to Cheryl. Job’s fists tightened. He met the eyes of the other man, who gave him a long, tired look. It was as if he met this scene once a day. It was as if he was saying, You Africans fall for this every time. Job felt the blood rush to his face. He nodded slowly. Then, once again, he flicked away at the filth of the white man’s farmer hands from his neckline.