Mr. and Mrs. Doctor Read online

  “I have said you are not to call again,” he was saying.

  Set imperiously alongside the couch was the only new object in the room: a baby’s carriage. Ifi redirected her eyes. He must have known then, she realized. She had, after all, spent the past few months in his family’s care as they waited for her papers to be processed. In alarm, she suspected now that her private moments had ended long ago.

  He concluded, “If I see your face this time, I promise I will pepper you. You will never see the light of day. You understand?” Ifi heard the phone slam into the receiver.

  At just that moment, Job stood in the doorway, sweating. Before she could say a word, he stammered, “That was a telemarketer trying to sell me nonsense. You must be forceful with them.”

  “Oh.” But she was not concerned about the phone call. Without lifting her gaze from the carriage, she asked, “You knew?”

  His gaze followed hers. He said nothing.

  In the months she had spent with his family in Port Harcourt, almost daily, she had vomited. Still, she continued to collect Kotex, to carefully wrap them in tissue and deposit them in the rubbish bin. She had hoped, in some small way, to pretend that it wasn’t true, so she could go forward with her plans. Having this child would only get in the way. “You knew.”

  He laughed. “Of course. You are my wife.”

  “Jenny spoke to you.”

  “Florence.”

  Ifi took a step toward the carriage. She rolled it forward, then back. Lush, green tendrils spiraled from the stems of one of the plants, reaching for the one window where light poured in through its gaps. In awe, Ifi wondered, Is it true that a man can grow something with such care? She decided that perhaps it would be okay. She would be a nurse, and they would open their clinic. Only it wouldn’t happen overnight. She would raise this baby in America with this man, her husband. She had nothing to fear. As a doctor, he could make her dreams real. She would be his nurse, and one day they would return to Nigeria, to Aunty, to her cousins, and open the clinic.

  “Come now,” he said. “Put your box here.” He leaned one suitcase against the wall alongside some of the newspapers and stacked the second suitcase atop it. Unpacking was finished.

  He did not lead her around the apartment, showing her the ins and outs: how to light the gas stove; how to turn the showerhead to one angle if she wanted a steady, uninterrupted stream; how to set the mousetraps and plug the holes in the walls; how to arrange the pots in such a way that on rainy days the incessant drips from the leaky roof would not keep her awake. These Ifi learned on her own.

  She was wearing the yellow dress from their honeymoon night, but it was all wrong. He had stretched it out with his broad back and hairy belly when he’d put it on and done the strip tease that night.

  Or she didn’t have the body for it and never had.

  Job didn’t say anything at first, but Ifi realized almost immediately that he didn’t approve. When he was younger, he might’ve said something right away. But he was older now, nearly forty. And anyway, there wasn’t time. Dinner would have begun already. He put off his explanation about the merits of time, something he would share with her later. Instead, he said, “Wear it like this.”

  After all, it was not the dress. He hadn’t even noticed the dress. It was the fur coat. Job stood before her. Like a mother with her child, he carefully fitted each button into place and finished by jerking the furry collar so that it sat upright around her neck. Ifi lifted her jaw, threw out her chin. Already she felt taller, composed, like a woman of consequence, a big woman.

  Just before starting the car and pulling away, he decided that she would have to hear the speech after all. “You people come to America and still believe you are living in the village. Time is money in America.”

  Reservations were hard to come by at Divine Davinci’s. A low brick building trimmed with a striped green awning was surrounded by an empty patio space, its newly shoveled walkways gleaming. Gladys and Emeka were already waiting outside with four girls in a row like goats with their kids. Her first glance at Gladys, wearing a printed ichafu headscarf and regally positioned alongside Emeka, her pregnant belly held before her like a bouquet of flowers, made Ifi realize why Job disapproved of her. Gladys was wearing a fur coat, but not just any coat. It was exactly the coat that Ifi was wearing, and the collar was pulled to her jaw.

  “Mommy,” one of the girls said, “she has one like yours.”

  When Gladys didn’t reply, the girl tried again. This time Gladys gave her a firm jab to the side, but not without a small smirk that settled into the corners of her mouth.

  “Ah-ah, you have gone for a second trip to Nigeria this year,” Emeka said by way of greeting. “Are you still living in the bush, my friend? Time is money in America.”

  “I’m delivering a precious box,” Job said, looking at Ifi, then Emeka. “I had to drive carefully.” He both embraced Ifi and thrust her forward, to be devoured by the hungry eyes of the four girls. They varied in age from toddler to teenager. Job had told her the two oldest were away at university. The girls wore dresses under wool peacoats. All of them were adorned in braids and silk ribbons. Only the youngest wore thick cotton tights, covered with clinging balls of lint from the fabric of their coats.

  Maybe if she had said something about their lateness, like Emeka, Ifi might have felt differently about Gladys, but Gladys only said, “Welcome.” Then she hugged Ifi far from her body, with the warmth that one would give a venomous snake. It was then that Ifi realized the single difference in the two coats: Gladys’s coat was real; Ifi’s was not.

  Inside the restaurant candles glowed, revealing the silhouettes of masticating jaws, forkfuls of linguini, and wine glasses wet with the imprint of lips. A line awaited them, mostly older white couples, women in pearls and blue wigs, men in jackets and ties. As they made their way into the vestibule and stood at the end of the long line, their party began, one by one, to remove their coats and jackets, dusting off the fine layer of snow. Only Gladys and Ifi remained with theirs on.

  Their voices joined the shrill chatter of the room. “Now, my friend, you are almost a man.” Emeka sent another glance Ifi’s way.

  She smiled.

  “Almost, you say?” Job grinned. “We are expecting our first son.”

  “Son. You are so certain, eh?” Despite his smile, there was a hard edge to Emeka’s voice. He turned to Ifi and his smile broadened. “Well then, congratulations are in order. Dinner is on me.”

  “No.” Job cut his eyes at him. “Not today. I will pay.”

  “Thank you,” Ifi said quickly to Emeka. Again, she thought of the months she had spent with Job’s family. They had known that she no longer bled every month. They had known the subtle changes in her body because they had been looking for them. In a flash, Ifi saw her dreams begin to blur.

  To Job, Emeka said, “Well now, perhaps your son will grow up to be a doctor, like his father.” Then suddenly, there was a private exchange between Emeka and Gladys. Had Ifi not been staring at the lining of Gladys’s coat she might have missed it, that small, discreet exchange of glances, just a whisper.

  “Yes, Job, tell me,” Emeka said. “My wife has had a pain in her side during the entire pregnancy. She complains every morning when she rises. What can it be?”

  Job stopped then. With a serious expression on his face, he made his way to Gladys. Ifi watched with pride as her doctor husband produced a stethoscope from his deep coat pocket, but she was still troubled by that secret exchange between husband and wife.

  “Don’t mind him,” Gladys said. “It’s nothing.”

  “No, she is only being modest,” Ifi said. Whether or not anything was wrong with Gladys, the fact was that Job was the only one among them who could do anything about it. She was not about to allow Gladys to spoil that.

  Emeka agreed. “Gladys, allow him.”

  “Not here,” she hissed.

  “No, no. The obstetrician we see is a joke. I do not trust that wom
an, any woman doctor for that matter.” He beckoned to Job. “We have time. Look at this line. We are not going anywhere fast. And no one is paying attention.” Then he pointed to her side, smooth and elongated under the coat.

  Job unbuttoned the coat, and Ifi watched in delight as Gladys shrank back in embarrassment. While he tapped along her side, she repeated, “I am fine.” Finally, he raised the stethoscope to her chest and listened to her heartbeat. After a moment, he pulled away.

  “You have a heart murmur?”

  “No.”

  “You have a heart murmur.” It was no longer a question.

  “How do you know?”

  “It’s there, in your heart, a sound like a slow hammer.”

  “Is that the cause of her pain?” Emeka asked.

  “Of course.”

  “Whatever can we do about it?”

  “Acid-o-mana-phin.”

  “Acetaminophen?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tylenol, you mean?”

  “No, acidomanaphin.”

  “Of course.”

  “Yes, twice a day. Twice a day with a glass of orange juice each time. Or you can crush it into your fufu.” He paused. “Less time on your feet. Allow your husband to chase the children.”

  “Will do.” Emeka nodded dutifully. “What would we do without you, my friend? Heh? Free medical treatment in a country where nothing is free.” He laughed, a jolly sound. Then Gladys joined in, and suddenly each of their daughters was joining in and laughing. Before long, the only one who was not laughing was Ifi. Even Job was laughing. There was a joke there, but perhaps she was too new to America to understand it. Slowly, uncertainly, Ifi joined their laughter.

  “Now we eat,” Job said, swinging forward in the line.

  Gladys hung back. “My, you are moving fast.” Instead of looking at Ifi, she turned up the jaw of her smallest and wiped away at a runny nose. There was a triangle of saliva on the front of the girl’s dress. “If you spoiled the picture, I will beat you, oh,” she said to her.

  The girl shook a fierce no.

  Emeka explained, “We have just come from our family photo.”

  “You have no plans for yourself?” Gladys asked Ifi.

  “Eh?” But Ifi knew exactly what she meant. Indeed, her words brought up the very fear that had been on Ifi’s mind since that morning months earlier, when it first occurred to her that she had stopped menstruating.

  “Now that you have started, they will come.” Gladys’s eyes fell on each daughter. “One after the other.”

  Ifi said nothing. It wasn’t true. Job had promised. After all, in spite of his wealth and success, he had chosen to return to Nigeria to find her. She stubbornly shook off the image of the shabby apartment, reminding herself that as a man, he surely had no taste for the finer things. He was practical. Her life would require a series of small adjustments, but they would all pay off in good time. She would follow through on every one of her dreams. She would be a nurse, and, just like Job had promised, they would build a clinic together at home.

  “Never mind, oh. You have time. I am finishing my second master’s degree. If you work hard, Jesus will deliver.”

  Again Ifi felt a hardness in her gut. She did not like this woman.

  Emeka drew back to stand by Ifi. Following the line, the rest of the group moved in a swift procession. Job led the way. Eventually, just two couples remained ahead of them.

  “Job tells me this is your first American meal.”

  “Is this not Italian?” Ifi asked. She glanced at the inscription above the podium: Authentic Tuscan Cuisine.

  “Ifi, my dear,” Emeka said, “when you have lived in America long enough, you will know that Americans have nothing and everything all at once.”

  Ifi couldn’t help but think of her coat, heavy with its false weight. She felt ridiculous, like a small, hairy beast. Right then, she decided to slip out of it. When she did, Emeka smiled and sent her a knowing glance. She pretended not to notice.

  “I am telling you, there are two choices one must make when ordering at this restaurant. Every fool who makes the mistake of ordering the wrong dish reveals something of himself.”

  “Oh?” Ifi asked.

  “For example,” he continued, “those who order lobster and crab are fools.”

  “Why?” Ifi asked.

  “We are in the middle of the country, and there is no ocean. You are eating the remains of a dog and its feces.”

  “Tell me now, you are joking,” Ifi said. Could this be the humor Job had warned her about?

  “I am quite serious.” Job was ahead with Gladys and the girls. Emeka bellowed to him, “What will you order tonight, my friend?”

  Job thought it over, fingered through the menu plastered on the wall, and finally reached a conclusion. “Lobster.”

  “Yes, a wise choice,” Emeka said. “You have chosen the most expensive item on the menu.”

  “Only the best,” Job called back.

  First Ifi laughed, but in an instant she was shamed by the look of delight on Emeka’s face. “What of this?” She pointed indiscriminately to the menu: spaghetti.

  “No, no. You can prepare spaghetti in a can. You’ll enjoy the lobster. I eat it every time we come to this restaurant.”

  Ifi walked ahead and leaned into Job. Just loudly enough so he alone could hear, she said, “You will not eat dog feces.”

  Job gave her a quizzical look. Gladys interrupted just as Ifi was about to speak again. “Come now,” she said calmly. “Let us go.” She leaned heavily to one side, the girls heaped around her like wilted flowers.

  “Why?” Emeka asked. “What of the reservation?”

  Gladys did not bother to respond. Instead she led the way toward the door, and the trail of girls followed behind her, their litany of whines a chorus.

  Job sent Ifi an irritated glance. They must have been late. She thought of the snow and the fur coat. They had missed their reservation because of her.

  “Wait now,” Job said. “Allow me to talk to the woman.” He moved to the front of the line, and Ifi released a deep breath.

  “Excuse me, missus. What is the problem?” he asked.

  With a thick coat of red lipstick and glossy curls bunched in a ponytail at her nape, the woman before them was young enough to be Job’s daughter. “You missed your reservation. We’ve already seated someone in your place. I’m sorry, sir.”

  “Our car stopped us on the way.” He glanced back at Emeka, then Gladys.

  “It’s company policy to cancel reservations after fifteen minutes,” she said.

  “I know this,” Job said, “but it is my wife’s first day in this country, and I would like her to enjoy a meal at the finest restaurant in America.” He beamed.

  People waited behind Job in line, and the girl’s gaze drifted past him. It was as if he hadn’t spoken. Ifi remembered the small boy on their honeymoon night, the way he had cowered before them. She thought of the ringing tone of the barman as he threw Job into a thunderous hug and ordered their drinks on the house. This girl, with her bold lipstick and silly earrings. This child spoke to her doctor husband as if he were nothing. Ifi shuddered.

  The hostess’s tone didn’t change. “Everyone in line has a reservation. We can’t change the rules just to accommodate you.”

  Ifi hesitated behind Job. Perhaps she should say something, interject on his behalf. After all, she reminded herself, this was her fault.

  Just as she was about to speak, Job turned to Ifi and smiled in a calm, placating way. “Call your manager. I would like to speak to him,” he said to the hostess. As the girl turned to go, Job nodded confidently. “Ask to speak to the manager and he will give you what you want. That is the first rule of America.”

  Moments later, the hostess returned with the manager. She wore a buttoned-up black suit and tie, and her face was set in a deep frown.

  Emeka stepped forward, dusting his hands together in front of him. He thrust a jovial palm on Job’s should
er. “That is not necessary. My friend has wasted time curling his hair and applying his lipstick, and because of this we are late. We will eat at another restaurant.”

  Job frowned. “We cannot eat at another restaurant at this time.” It was nearly nine.

  By now the smallest of the girls was squirming at Gladys’s side. “Mommy, I have to pee,” she said.

  “Why didn’t you come in and save our seats?” Job whispered.

  Emeka’s voice was intentionally loud. “Come now, you are not going to insult yourself in front of your wife by saying we should have eaten before you came.”

  Ifi shrank at the sound of “wife” from Emeka’s mouth. She thought again of Job’s cautionary words about Emeka’s humor, and she decided that Emeka was not funny at all.

  Before Job could respond, Gladys turned a tired eye to Emeka. “We will go to the house, and I will prepare our dinner.”

  A look of horror clouded Job’s face. “No, no. That’s not necessary. We will find another restaurant.”

  For the first time, Gladys looked squarely at Ifi. “Your wife has not eaten. And it’s late. Let us go.”

  In desperation, Job turned to Ifi. His look sent a chill down her spine. He couldn’t argue with Gladys’s expression, but Ifi, as a woman, could. All she could think of was the lobster of dog. And the venomous woman before her. And her coat, which was draped around her broad backside like a cape, while Ifi’s hung limply on her arm. Suddenly it became clear to her that, like the coats, Gladys’s home would not have mousetraps, holes in the walls, and splatters of paint. Instead of the real thing, Ifi’s was a poor man’s imitation. But she refused to submit herself to scorn. She would do anything not to go to Gladys’s home. “We will do this another night,” Ifi said.

  “Nonsense, you’ll not inconvenience us. I will expect the same from you when you have the means.”