Julie Iromuanya - Mr. and Mrs. Doctor

Now she’d gone, and they were singing and laughing out the window, talking about the way her breasts jiggled, taking in the hot night air. Emeka held up the scrap of paper with her number on it. Just about to flick it out the window, Job snatched it from him and stuffed it in his pocket. “No, uh,” he said.

“She was an ugly elephant with a stinky ass,” Emeka said.

He’s only angry because she gave me her phone number, Job thought. No way was he letting this go. She had a choice. “She gave it to me,” he said aloud.

A black sky overhead freckled with stars. Ifi and Cheryl. Job groaned. Would they go on spoiling his night by intruding on his thoughts? What were they doing now, erecting a wall with poles, wrestling, or baking lasagna filled with goat meat and American cheese? He shuddered. No matter what, it looked bad to him. He couldn’t go home. He would go anywhere Emeka took him.

Emeka had the tight look on his face Job had seen many times before. He was thinking. As he drove, Emeka reached behind his seat and slipped his hand into the back pocket. He pulled out a handkerchief and mopped up the streaks on his face. He tasted something bad and spat out the window.

Emeka chuckled. “So your two wives have come to you, eh? Your chickens have come home to roost.”

Job laughed uncomfortably.

“Think about it, my friend. This is perfect. In Nigeria, I tell you, no one would punish you for this. Only in America. A man can have two wives, split the house equally. And everyone will be happy. Today you service one. Tomorrow you service the other. Equal. They are both happy.” He placed a slippery palm on Job’s shoulder. “You know, this divorce business is only in America. Cheryl is senior wife. Ifi is junior wife. Ifi knows. She is only a traditional woman. You should praise her for agreeing to share.” Again, he laughed hard.

But that wasn’t what Ifi had in mind when she drew the line on the floor. Was it? he wondered. In a strange way it was funny. Wasn’t it? He could almost imagine it, his obi, a room at the center just for him, the husband, and his two wives in their bedrooms with their children. His parents hadn’t done it that way, but their parents had and their parents before that. Strange how things come full circle, he thought. He couldn’t help but laugh.

“You are laughing, my friend, but what will you do? Have you learned to please one woman, sef?” Emeka asked.

“I have taken three at once.” They both knew it was a lie.

“Oh yes? When was this?”

“In 1970. After the war. They were traveling dancers for Fela. I was just a boy, yet I was already a man.”

They pitched forward into the black night, choking with laughter. A fly crushed its wings on the windshield. Emeka squirted water from the wipers. Bits of fly washed away in the water. Emeka chuckled. It is impossible, Job thought. Three women at once? Just a boy? Maybe he’d gone too far with that justification. Still, no matter. They’d been at it all night, laughing, reminiscing over things that had never happened rather than the things that did.

Job: I wrestled five men at once, beat them all in. They were akatta basketball players, tall as giants.

Emeka: Donald Trump, that man is asking me to work for him, but me, I have no time for this. I told him, me, I will think it over.

“And what of you?” Job was still laughing.

Emeka was not laughing. “What of me?”

“What would you do?” He was asking about Emeka’s life, and Emeka knew it. What would he have done in such a situation? Job needed a blueprint, though he couldn’t admit it, not to Emeka, not even to himself.

Emeka’s face grew serious, almost somber. “Whatever makes her happy.”

“You liar!” Job shouted.

“It’s true,” Emeka said halfheartedly.

Job stewed with rage. Emeka always said one thing and did another. He was always on a quest to make a fool of Job so that he could sit around with his family, with Gladys, and laugh at him one more time, so they could all talk about silly Job in his house with two women ruling over him.

“I know what you would do: You would go to Nigeria and marry another wife. You would forget this nonsense and start over.”

Emeka laughed again. “You are right, my friend. You know me too well.” He laughed again and dabbed at the corners of his eyes.

Headlights glowed on the other side of the road, something big, a truck maybe. It blared a horn. They’d crossed over the line. They swerved back over. Emeka had had too much to drink. They both had. Still, Job should probably take over. He laughed. They’d battled this way many times: My friend, you drive like a woman, Job would say one day. On another, Emeka taunted, Come now, my grandmother has faster legs.

“Pull over,” Job said. “Let me drive before you kill us.”

Emeka’s laughter caught up to Job’s. He didn’t make any indication that he’d even heard him. His eyes were tight again. Only his lips moved. “Job, my friend. You know, I felt sorry for you only until a day ago.”

Now Job was not laughing; Emeka was. “I felt sorry for the man who failed at everything he tried. I felt sorry for his simpleness. ‘What a simpleton,’ I have said to myself many times. ‘His plastic bag. His white coat.’” Another laugh, deep and throaty.

But Job was silent.

“Come now. This is funny, no?” A glare crossed Emeka’s face, but he still chuckled. His eyes were thin, drunken slits. He was sweating too much for the heat.

“No.” Job crossed his arms over his chest. “You are not funny. You are drunk and silly. Let me drive before you kill us both.” He’d get Emeka home, then he’d go to a motel for the night. That would be the plan. He could piece everything together tomorrow morning after a night of rest.

Job waited for the fight, but there was none. Emeka threw up his hands. “Okay. You are right. I’ll pull over.” He drove up ahead and began to pull over onto the shoulder. Another car, another Nebraska truck, streaked past them as they slowed. Another horn blared. The sound rattled the engine. The driver flashed his lights this time.

Emeka’s brights were on. “Your lights,” Job said.

“I’m coming, I’m coming.” Emeka didn’t understand, or he refused to pay attention, or he was too drunk for it all. But at least he was finally pulling over.

He didn’t cut the engine off completely. He didn’t get up from his seat. Instead, Emeka left the keys in the ignition. He leaned back, took a deep breath, and chuckled softly to himself. He sang a little: “ Zombie o, zombie .” He had a good voice. He could sing backup for King Sunny Adé or Femi. Like Samuel, Emeka was good at everything.

“And she was playing Fela,” Emeka said with a giggle. “The white woman was dancing to Fela. Why was I not there to witness this? A-mer-eeka!” He glanced at Job through half-closed eyes wet with tears. “But could she dance? That is the question. Did she have the rhythm?”

“Sadly, no.” Job laughed with Emeka. It felt normal again. It’s early, he reminded himself. There was a saying. How did it go? It’s five o’clock somewhere. He took the long descent down the running board and into the night. He felt smooth. Over his shoulder, he shouted up to Emeka. “Let’s go to your house, my man, and drink whiskey.”

“You know, my simple friend,” Emeka bellowed out the door to him, still laughing, “I felt sorry for my simpleton friend until I saw his simpleness in my simpleton boy. And then. .” he looked at Job. His face was suddenly long and still; he almost looked sorry. “And then I looked at my son, my Michael, and I put two and two together.” He’d reached the punchline. He laughed, a hard, guttural sound.