Later, as Ifemelu left the meeting, she thought of Dike, wondered which he would go to in college, whether ASA or BSU, and what he would be considered, whether American African or African American. He would have to choose what he was, or rather, what he was would be chosen for him.
IFEMELU THOUGHT the interview at the restaurant where Dorothy worked had gone well. It was for a hostess position, and she wore her nice shirt, smiled warmly, shook hands firmly. The manager, a chortling woman full of a seemingly uncontrollable happiness, told her, “Great! Wonderful to talk to you! You’ll hear from me soon!” And so when, that evening, her phone rang, she snatched it up, hoping it was a job offer.
“Ifem, kedu?” Aunty Uju said.
Aunty Uju called too often to ask if she had found a job. “Aunty, you will be the first person I will call when I do,” Ifemelu had said during the last call, only yesterday, and now Aunty Uju was calling again.
“Fine,” Ifemelu said, and was about to add, “I have not found anything yet,” when Aunty Uju said, “Something happened with Dike.”
“What?” Ifemelu asked.
“Miss Brown told me that she saw him in a closet with a girl. The girl is in third grade. Apparently they were showing each other their private parts.”
There was a pause.
“Is that all?” Ifemelu asked.
“What do you mean, is that all? He is not yet seven years old! What type of thing is this? Is this what I came to America for?”
“We actually read something about this in one of my classes the other day. It’s normal. Children are curious about things like that at an early age, but they don’t really understand it.”
“Normal kwa? It’s not normal at all.”
“Aunty, we were all curious as children.”
“Not at seven years old! Tufiakwa! Where did he learn that from? It is that day care he goes to. Since Alma left and he started going to Miss Brown, he has changed. All those wild children with no home training, he is learning rubbish from them. I’ve decided to move to Massachusetts at the end of this term.”
“Ahn-ahn!”
“I’ll finish my residency there and Dike will go to a better schoo
l and better day care. Bartholomew is moving from Boston to a small town, Warrington, to start his business, so it will be a new beginning for both of us. The elementary school there is very good. And the local doctor is looking for a partner because his practice is growing. I’ve spoken to him and he is interested in my joining him when I finish.”
“You’re leaving New York to go to a village in Massachusetts? Can you just leave residency like that?”
“Of course. My friend Olga, the one from Russia? She is leaving, too, but she will have to repeat a year in her new program. She wants to practice dermatology and most of our patients here are black and she said skin diseases look different on black skin and she knows she will not end up practicing in a black area so she wants to go where the patients will be white. I don’t blame her. It’s true my program is higher ranked, but sometimes job opportunities are better in smaller places. Besides, I don’t want Bartholomew to think I am not serious. I’m not getting any younger. I want to start trying.”
“You’re really going to marry him.”
Aunty Uju said with mock exasperation, “Ifem, I thought we had passed that stage. Once I move, we’ll go to court and get married, so that he can act as Dike’s legal parent.”
Ifemelu heard the beep-beep of an incoming call. “Aunty, let me call you back,” she said, and switched over without waiting for Aunty Uju’s response. It was the restaurant manager.
“I’m sorry, Ngozi,” she said, “But we decided to hire a more qualified person. Good luck!”
Ifemelu put the phone down and thought of her mother, how she often blamed the devil. The devil is a liar. The devil wants to block us. She stared at the phone, and then at the bills on her table, a tight, suffocating pressure rising inside her chest.
CHAPTER 15
The man was short, his body a glut of muscles, his hair thinning and sun-bleached. When he opened the door, he looked her over, mercilessly sizing her up, and then he smiled and said, “Come on in. My office is in the basement.” Her skin prickled, an unease settling over her. There was something venal about his thin-lipped face; he had the air of a man to whom corruption was familiar.
“I’m a pretty busy guy,” he said, gesturing to a chair in his cramped home office that smelled slightly of damp.
“I assumed so from the advertisement,” Ifemelu said. Female personal assistant for busy sports coach in Ardmore, communication and interpersonal skills required. She sat on the chair, perched really, suddenly thinking that, from reading a City Paper ad, she was now alone with a strange man in the basement of a strange house in America. Hands thrust deep in his jeans pockets, he walked back and forth with short quick steps, talking about how much in demand he was as a tennis coach, and Ifemelu thought he might trip on the stacks of sports magazines on the floor. She felt dizzy just watching him. He spoke as quickly as he moved, his expression uncannily alert; his eyes stayed wide and unblinking for too long.
“So here’s the deal. There are two positions, one for office work and the other for help relaxing. The office position has already been filled. She started yesterday, she goes to Bryn Mawr, and she’ll spend the whole week just clearing up my backlog of stuff. I bet I have some unopened checks in there somewhere.” He withdrew a hand to gesture towards his messy desk. “Now what I need is help to relax. If you want the job you have it. I’d pay you a hundred dollars, with the possibility of a raise, and you’d work as needed, no set schedule.”
A hundred dollars a day, almost enough for her monthly rent. She shifted on the chair. “What exactly do you mean by ‘help to relax’?”