A Marriage of Convenience

by Jewel Daniel

  This must be about the interview, Tamara thought with some relief. It couldn't have come at a better time. The five thousand dollars had helped her through the last month and a half. A three-week job at a small library getting their database online helped her the rest of the way. It was a job that Jordan had passed her way and she was indeed grateful for that. But now she was broke again and not sure where next month's mortgage would come from.

  She looked at the wall calendar and noticed the date. It was August 2, the anniversary of her wedding that never was. Quickly she shook her head to get rid of the thought and dialed Kwabena's number. She had all the information in her office.

  Since filing the papers for his permanent resident card, Tamara had had no interaction with Kwabena. Admittedly, from the limited interaction of those few days, she found him to be a reasonable person, but his ever-present friend Edebe got on her last nerve. That was enough to squash any desire for more contact with her "husband."

  The phone rang for a long while before a woman with a heavily accented, sexy, throaty voice answered. Tamara nervously asked for Kwabena.

  Even though she expected his voice, the deepness of it still startled her some. It took a few moments to gather her thoughts and get out the information she needed to communicate.

  "What does the letter say?" he asked.

  "I...I don't know. I didn't open it. It's got your name on it."

  She heard him sigh. "It has both our names on it. Please, open it."

  As she read the multipage mail, he gave out a shout of joy. "We've got a date!" Somehow reading aloud, she'd missed the gist of the letter. But the interview was in the next two weeks and a whole lot of paperwork had to be gathered for that time.

  As Tamara hung up, she breathed a sigh of relief. She'd pulled it off. She took part in a green-card marriage and so far her folks were none the wiser. She couldn't wait for the next two weeks and the other five thousand dollars. Her bills waited.

  "What the hell is a conditional green card anyway?" Tamara shouted the minute they left the INS office. Her face and neck were red with anger. She felt she had been tricked.

  The interview was no interview. It involved Kwabena getting all kinds of medical tests, including HIV, tuberculin tests, chest X-rays and getting fingerprinted. On the day of the interview, the INS agent perused his immunization record as if he was going to bring a plague to the United States. They didn't ask any questions. They just wanted to know that they had the proper documentation. After going over the marriage certificate with a fine-tooth comb, the interviewer stamped his Ghanaian passport and said, "We're giving you a conditional alien registration number. We will schedule a follow-up interview within a year or two, where you will have to present proof that this marriage is legitimate. That can be in the form of joint tax returns, joint accounts, shared primary residence, et cetera." She stamped several papers mechanically, shook their hands and said, "Welcome to the United States of America." Then the interview was over.

  Kwabena looked at Tamara and answered calmly, "It means we have to remain married for another year or two, and we have to share an address."

  Tamara strained to look up at him. She felt angry and foolish and wanted to communicate that in no uncertain terms, but from her position so far below him she felt weak and ineffective. She wished he were seated at this moment. "Who said I wanted to live with you?"

  "Too late for that," he responded calmly, trying hard to control his own rising anger. He was disappointed. With the laws enacted after 9/11, this delay would set him back a lot more than he'd anticipated. There was little he could do about it now, so he just had to adjust his expectations and his attitude. Kwabena looked down at his watch. It was already after one in the afternoon and he hadn't had lunch as yet. "Why don't you let me buy you lunch and we can discuss it then."

  "I don't want to have lunch or anything else to do with you. And I am not moving in with you or adding your name to my bank accounts," she responded heatedly.

  "Then I guess I'll have to move in with you," he responded, anger seething beneath the surface.

  "This was not part of our agreement! I thought you understood the process." Tamara accused; even though she knew she should have investigated further before agreeing to the process.

  Kwabena looked at her and tried hard to maintain his cool. "Miss Fontaine," he said slowly and carefully as if speaking to a child, "Immigration and Naturalization Services is not a department to argue with-in our circumstances. We just have to deal with it as it comes."

  "I want my money," she demanded.

  "When I get my green card, that's when you get your money," he stated firmly.

  Tamara walked away in a huff, jumped into her Lexus and turned on the ignition.

  "Where are you going?" Kwabena asked through the open window.

  "Home!" she shouted bitterly and pulled out of the parking lot hastily.

  Quickly Kwabena jumped into his six-year-old Honda Civic and pulled out after her. He had already invested five thousand dollars of his hard-earned money in this business deal, and they were going to have to see it through.

  He should have questioned Jordan more about this woman. All he'd told him was that she was a bit down on her luck, had never been married and needed the money. He didn't tell him that Tamara Fontaine was a lunatic. He could barely keep up with her as she tore down streets and onto the highway like a madwoman. No wonder they'd gotten into that accident.

  Kwabena was having a hard time keeping up with her. He barely noticed when she left the main road and turned into a gated community. For a minute he drove around the elegant complex, trying to figure out where she disappeared to. Then he saw it-her gold Lexus pulling onto a narrow road with new houses still under construction. The speed limit was twenty-five miles per hour. The maniac was doing fifty.

  She turned left onto a narrow road with large, expensive-looking houses separated from one another and the street by large backyards and expansive front lawns. Suddenly she turned into a driveway.

  Kwabena followed behind and hesitantly turned into the driveway. Maybe she was visiting friends. By the time he parked, she had already gone into the house, slamming the door behind her. He sat in his vehicle for a few minutes contemplating his next move.

  He took a sip of day-old bottled water from the cup holder. The water was too warm to quench his thirst. Wiping sweat from his brow, he exited his vehicle and walked up the short path to the semicircular porch with its faux balcony. He stood before the burgundy door, flanked by multipaneled glass. He took a deep breath before using the brass knocker on the door to alert her of his presence.

  Tamara paced the den. Her anger had dissipated but was replaced by worry. What had she gotten into? How would she keep this from her mother or the ever-prying eyes of her aunt or cousins? But even more importantly, how was she going to pay her next month's mortgage? She needed the five thousand dollars now, not a year or two from now.

  She heard the rap on the door. She was expecting it and had left the door unlocked, yet the sound still startled her. She walked to the door and opened it without saying a word, then stepped back into the foyer, expecting him to follow her. When he didn't, she turned back to him and said, "Since you're gonna be living here, feel free to look around." With that she walked through the den and disappeared into the sunroom.

  Kwabena looked around the two-story foyer with its large cathedral window and crystal chandelier. The place was beautiful. The decor was simple and elegant. The honey oak hardwood floor in the foyer was bare. The only furniture in this room was a marble-topped semicircular console and an antique mirror. Slowly he stepped up the single stair into the den. Again it was beautifully decorated, with a deep leather sectional with ottoman in cream and glass-topped coffee table. On one end of this large rectangular room was a woodburning fireplace with slate hearth flanked by two unadorned floor-length windows.

  Kwabena looked around and wondered how this woman was paying for all of this. The house had to be wo
rth a pretty penny. According to Jordan, she didn't work. The only answer that came to his mind was drug dealing or prostitution.

  "Miss Fontaine," he called, not knowing where she had disappeared. When he didn't get an answer, he wandered into what looked like a formal living room. It was decorated with a light green floral Victorian sofa, loveseat and settee with cherrywood coffee and center tables. On one end was a double-sided fireplace with white marble hearth. Two archways surrounding the fireplace led to the formal dining room. The hearth on this side of the double-sided fireplace was gray stone, which gave the room a warm country feel. He looked at the elegant dark oak dining table surrounded by eight high-backed, cushioned chairs. Long-stemmed crystal glasses hung from the top of a wine cabinet. He walked over to it to look at her collection of wines, but was surprised to find only apple and grape ciders. Lots of expensive-looking china graced the china cabinet.

  If this woman is dealing, she is big time, Kwabena thought. A butler's pantry gave way to a spacious gourmet kitchen that easily could have been profiled by Home and Garden. From the unscratched pots and pans hanging and the unscratched granite surface of the countertops and the large rectangular island, he could tell that not much cooking occurred here. A lone coffee cup sat in the sink yet to be washed, and a bag of halfeaten chocolate-chip cookies lay open on the countertop. Curiously he opened the honey oak door of the pantry, and a bag of potato chips fell onto the cream and tan ceramic floor. He bent to retrieve it, and the contents fell onto the floor.

  "Shoot! Now she'll think I'm prying." He returned the bag of chips to the bare pantry and looked around for a broom or dustpan but came up empty.

  "Miss Fontaine," Kwabena called again, wandering into the library with its floor-to-ceiling shelves of books and video games, large cherry desk and leather swivel chair. There were lots of computer books and romance novels. She appeared to be an avid reader. Not quite the profile of a drug dealer or a prostitute. Maybe a kept woman?

  He stepped back into the foyer and opened a door on the right. It was a powder room with pedestal sink, antique framed mirror and expensive-looking bath rugs and accessories. Quickly he closed the door. He tried the door adjacent to it, but found himself staring into an empty two-car garage.

  "Miss Fontaine," he called again a little louder. He reentered the den, still wondering where she was. Kwabena took a short flight of four stairs off the den and found himself in the sunroom encased by tinted glass. As he looked out of the sunroom to the stone patio and swimming pool, he reevaluated the cost of the house. This place had to cost a small fortune.

  Tamara sat on the arm of a white wicker sofa decorated with a bright floral cushion. She sipped slowly on a Coke while biting into Hostess Twinkies, staring out of the glass panels. He observed her from the doorway for a few seconds before announcing his presence. The fiery dragon was looking a lot less fierce from that position. She just looked worried, afraid and... vulnerable? Looking at her like that, he immediately ruled out drug dealing as a source of income.

  "I think I made a bit of a mess in the kitchen. Where can I find a broom?" he asked.

  Tamara jumped and immediately turned red. Quickly she regained her composure.

  "Upstairs," she answered and led the way through the den and up the elegant staircase to the master suite.

  Kwabena followed her silently. The air between them was tense. He looked at her expansive behind and round figure as she led him up the stairs. Ok, not a prostitute, he thought, as she did not try to seduce him or make a deal with her body. Plus, there was something about her that just did not look overtly sexual. Maybe it was the expression in her eyes when he saw her in the sunroom. There was a kind of innocence about her that made her seem sheltered and unexposed, characteristics that did not go well with that profession.

  A kept woman. She has to be a kept woman, Kwabena concluded when he saw the master suite. The suite was built for romance. The sitting area, with its plush carpet, was decorated with a modern red sofa and white ottoman that sat in front of the gas fireplace. French doors from the sitting room opened to a small private balcony. The bedroom itself seemed to be built for two. A beautifully adorned king-size bed on a slightly raised platform was the anchor of the room. The brass and cherry head- and footboard, dresser and nightstands screamed romance.

  She looked into a closet large enough to serve as a child's bedroom. Not finding the broom there, she entered the master bathroom with Kwabena in tow. If there was any doubt in his mind, now he was certain... Tamara Fontaine was a kept woman, and whoever her man was, he was rolling in dough, or at least had been at one time.

  He looked around the spacious cream and gold bathroom. On one side was a marble shower stall. On the opposite end of the room was a sauna. Wow, he thought to himself, quite extravagant. The double vanity was marble topped with gold faucets. The crowning glory of the bath was the raised Jacuzzi amid a bank of bay windows. Three marble stairs on each side of the hot tub permitted entrance to it. It was a beautiful bathroom built for romance-the never ending honeymoon. He guessed the man supporting this effort was married. Maybe the relationship went bad, which was why she was broke now.

  She found the broom leaning against a linen closet. She opened the honey oak doors of the vanity and removed a dustpan and brush and led the way out of the master suite.

  "You're not sleeping in there with me," she an nounced coldly as they left the master suite. She opened another bedroom. In it was a bunk bed adorned with princess and BRATZ bedcovers.

  She has kids?

  As if reading his mind Tamara said, "My cousins."

  She showed him three other guest rooms and a bathroom. "There's an airbed you can use if you like. You're welcome to sleep in any one of those rooms. The farther from mine the better."

  There was no way he wanted to be that close to her. Not with that temper of hers. Plus, he needed his privacy. He had his own life.

  "Do you have a basement?" he asked.

  She nodded and led the way down two flights of stairs to the basement.

  Perfect, he thought when he saw it. There was a bedroom and bathroom and an L-shaped recreation room that could serve as a sitting room. The laundry and utility rooms were separate. There was even an exercise room filled with empty boxes but no exercise equipment. The basement was unfurnished and had its own front and back exit. It could easily be turned into a twobedroom apartment. That way he could move his furniture there. The only thing it lacked was a kitchen.

  "I'll stay in the basement," he said after seeing the place.

  "Whatever floats your boat," she responded noncommittally as he left through the basement entrance, got into his car and drove off.

  The sound of the doorbell ringing awoke her with a start. Tamara rolled over, looked at the blurred numbers on the bedside clock: 6:08. She moaned, rolled over and pulled the covers over her head. Maybe she'd been dreaming.

  A few minutes later the doorbell rang again. This time the ringer was persistent. Tamara walked to the window and peered through the blinds. To her amazement a U-Haul truck was sitting in the driveway. Before she could question what was happening she saw Edebe's big ancient Chevy.

  "Ugh," she groaned and proceeded to the bathroom. "The nerve of these people coming here this early in the morning, waking me up from my good sleep!"

  She was going to make them wait. Slowly she dragged herself to the bathroom, brushed her teeth and her hair and put in her contacts. Then she took her dear time wiggling into jean capris and a bright yellow T-shirt. Before she was finished dressing, the old car was honking persistently.

  "Oh boy," she sighed. This she didn't need-illmannered people waking her at six A.M. and making a big commotion for all the neighbors to see. She ran down the stairs two at a time and threw back the front door, intending to unleash her fury on the untrained coot. Instead she came face to face with a smiling Kwabena, his knuckles poised to rap on the door.

  "Good morning," he said brightly in a thicker than usual Ghanaian ac
cent.

  Tamara hesitated a moment too long. She expected to see Edebe at the door with his dour demeanor. Instead it was Kwabena.

  When she finally spoke she asked, "What are you doing at my house this early?"

  He smiled. "I'm moving in with my wife. Thought you'd roll out the welcome mat."

  She couldn't miss the sarcasm in his tone. Tamara did not answer. She rolled her eyes, then looked at the midsize truck parked in the driveway.

  "Aren't you gonna open the door to the basement?" he asked.

  "When I said you could move in, I didn't expect a truck with all your junk."

  "And I didn't expect to be offered an airbed for a year. Or will we be sharing that king-size bed? It's big enough for two."

  The words she wanted to use right now were not fit for strangers to hear. How dare he come here so early in the morning and then be fresh with her? She ignored his comment.

  "Why so early? I was sleeping."

  "It's supposed to be really hot today," he said, walking past her and heading toward the basement. "We thought we'd beat the heat."

  Too late for that, Tamara thought. At six it was already hot and humid. Today was destined to be a scorcher.

  A few hours later, she watched in anger from the front porch as both men moved back and forth, sweatsoaked shirts sticking to their backs, lugging heavy furniture into her once unoccupied basement. The truck had been parked with one wheel on her grass, crushing the thriving azaleas lining her driveway. She had shouted at them about the truck, but they had chosen to ignore her. Now all she could do was stand and watch as they turned her life upside down.

  A sweat-drenched Kwabena joined Edebe in the truck. Edebe did not even have the manners to acknowledge her presence. She detested that sour imbecile. Kwabena emerged from the truck shirtless. His lean, taut muscles rippled.