Julie Iromuanya - Mr. and Mrs. Doctor

“Gladys,” Job said, “abeg, don’t listen to your husband’s foolish jokes.”

Emeka chuckled and nuzzled into Gladys’s chin, gracing her with a kiss. “Don’t mind him, my dear. It is because he is alone. One day, my friend, you will find a jewel like this one. One day. And then you will not waste your time with whores.”

Imbecile. Only in America could a man like Emeka rise to something. In Nigeria, he was nothing more than a pauper’s son, unlike Job. Most of all, he hated the imaginary American woman, the tall-legged model, and the red-haired Cheryl, with her small boy’s face.

Nineteen years later, it was the fall of 2001, the year the United States was attacked. Just days before Ifi was to arrive in America, it was the small boy’s face, the mouth full of teeth, and the red hair that Job remembered when he heard the voice on the other end of the phone. He went cold and set down the paintbrush in his hand.

“Job, it’s Cheryl,” she said. And then, as if it was an afterthought, she added, “your wife.”

Remembering the paint on his hands, Job stopped the fingers that ran through his hair. It was under his fingernails and even on his bare feet, this eggshell white that the fools at the hardware store had lied about to him and said was as white as the notebook paper he had brought in for them to sample for the walls of his apartment.

“You are not my wife. You are a liar,” Job said. His voice choked with emotion. The marriage was done with, he told himself. He had been a citizen for nearly nineteen years. There was nothing more to say about it now.

“Don’t hang up. Please, Job,” she said. “I’m sorry. I was a stupid kid. And well, it was Luther. It wasn’t even my idea. The whole idea was Luther’s. I didn’t want to have anything to do with it, but he made me. I’m an honest woman. I keep to myself and go to work and file my taxes. That’s what I do. And I bet you don’t even pay taxes. But me, I always pay mine. And I never cheat or lie on them like most people.” Her voice was liquid with tears and snot.

“I am hanging up the phone now,” Job said.

“Wait! You can’t hang up,” she said. “Please. There’s something you gotta know.”

Job waited.

“After we got married, I needed more money. You didn’t give me enough for the house.”

“What?”

“Don’t be mad at me,” she said. As if they were old friends. As if this was just a small disagreement. “There’re some things I applied for using your name and mine.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Anyway, we were married. It’s totally legal. I didn’t break any laws.”

“That’s fraud,” Job said, heat rising to his face. “Won-der-ful. I have met Satan.”

“No, no, no!” Her voice rose like a siren. “I never stole any of it from you. I paid it all. You probably got better credit because of me.”

“Tell me, what is this?” His volume met hers.

“I couldn’t open a line all by myself after Danny — my ex, the first one. That’s it. Anyway, Luther, that bastard, he says he’ll turn me in to the police, knowing full well it was his idea to use your name. Job, you can thank me,” she said. “You have good credit because of me. I paid the bills every month. I did what I had to do to pay them.”

“Luther.”

“Your brother-in-law. My bastard brother.” She gulped, and the wail started again. “He says we should take the loss and sell the house. He calls it dead weight. But I won’t, Job. I can’t. My daddy built this house for my mother. He had nothing, put everything in it. And me too. I don’t have a single good thing. All I got is the house. I got nothing, and the house has everything. And Luther never did anything to help, even though he’s getting those disability checks.”

“What do you want?” Job asked. “Again, you ask for money.”

“No, no money. I wouldn’t ask for a dime, I promise.”

“You want a cigarette lighter?” The laugh began deep in Job’s chest and spilled out sideways.

Cheryl joined in his laughter, an uncertain, nonsensical laugh that built in pitch. “No, no, of course not,” she said. “I’m just a little behind right now, you know? I been paying the bills real good all this time. I work in a florist shop. I wait tables. I do landscaping. I walk dogs. I wash dishes. I do it all to make those payments. Only now. .”

“You are asking for money. Like last time.”

“This time is different. I’ll pay you back. It’s a loan.”

“No,” he said. How simple.

“It’s not like that, Job,” she said. Her voice floundered between mean and desperate. She hadn’t decided. “We’re together. We’re in this together, whether you like it or not. We were married. I’m within my legal rights.”

Together. The first time she said the word, it sounded foreign to Job. Imagine, the ugly, redheaded American with a small boy’s face. The second time, it filled him with rage. Thinking of Ifi, thinking of her smile on the night of their arranged honeymoon as he danced for her, he said, “Cheryl, there is no together.” The dissolution of marriage papers had been signed years before, submitted to the county clerk with no contestation from her. In fact, she hadn’t even bothered to show up to the hearing. On the line labeled Reason, he had written Irreconcilable differences. What an understatement. She was ugly, crude, a liar, way-o.

Now he was a citizen. An American. He had no need to even hear her voice. He would return to painting this room for his wife, his real wife. “There is Job. There is Cheryl,” he said calmly. “No together business. I will help this Luther send you to jail. And you will never call this number again.” He left room for one final word before he pounded the phone into the receiver. “Thief.”

AT THE AIRPORT, IFI WAS SUDDENLY AFRAID. WITHOUT THE YELLOW DRESS and lopsided bra, Job was unfamiliar to her. He wore a white lab coat over a flat black suit. Protruding from his right pocket was a stethoscope.

They did the dance: their eyes met, separated, reconnected, and separated a final time before Job collected her bags. “Kedu?” he asked.

“Ọ dị mma.” Fine, Ifi said.

“Welcome.”

She gazed curiously at his stethoscope. “You have just come from hospital.”

“Yes,” and he added importantly, “a patient, a most troubling one. This man’s dementia has left him nearly crippled. He needs extra care. Many nights, I’ll be away.” He paused and continued carefully. “He was an important man once. All the nurses— my nurses — call him Captain.”

Ifi nodded. “Captain. He is important. Will I meet him?”

“No.” And suddenly, he laughed. “Of course not. No need to worry yourself over patients. This is my business.” He paused, and she felt him drawing his eyes over her coat. “You are wearing it. Good. You will need it this winter.”

Carrying the fur coat from Port Harcourt, to Lagos, to London, to Minneapolis, and finally to Omaha, Nebraska, had been a struggle. It was much heavier than she had expected. But each time Ifi removed the coat — to slide it through conveyor belts for each security screening — she reminded herself that she was a big woman now, a doctor’s wife, Mrs. Doctor, no longer the skinny housegirl in Aunty’s home. So she held her head up high. Even when a customs agent asked if she was on her way to Russia. A joke. Ifi had laughed with the poor woman and turned up her nose. Somewhere better, she thought to herself. “America,” she had said.

“How is everyone?” Job asked.