A Marriage of Convenience

by Jewel Daniel

  Wow. He may not be the nicest person, but he sure is fine. She admired his hard abs, his well-defined chest as he exited the truck, his ebony body glistening in the August sun. If she were to construct her perfect man, she would probably give him Kwabena's body-at least the butt, chest and abs-hell, she might just add the face too.

  Suddenly he made a beeline for her. Tamara felt the heat rise in her face as she tried desperately not to stare. Despite her mistrust and anger toward him, she just couldn't help admiring him. But then, weren't the good-looking ones the most deceptive?

  Kwabena looked directly at her as he asked for the house keys, and she immediately looked away. She tossed them to him rudely. What is this woman's problem? Since he'd met her, he had never seen her smile. She was always angry. He would make sure to keep his dis tance from her. All he really had to do was have his mail come here and keep a few joint bills and a joint bank account. Beyond that, he would give her all the space she needed. This was, after all, just a temporary setback. These things happened all the time, and he just needed to adjust to the change. But as soon as this was over, he was moving his things out, and would probably find himself a good wife. One who fit his tastes and not his mother's. Arranged marriages were not uncommon back home, even in big cities like Accra. That thought put a smile on his lips as he returned to the still full truck. All this effort and they hadn't made a dent in the unloading. It was going to be one long day and an even longer year.

  As Tamara retreated to the air-conditioned comfort of her den, she heard a vehicle pull up. She peered through the curtains to see a minivan filled with several men and two women stop in front of the house. Several people got out and greeted Kwabena with friendly laughter and hugs. They chatted casually in a mixture of deeply accented English and what Tamara assumed was Ghanaian. One of the men removed a large cooler of drinks from the minivan. All the men worked together and resumed moving the furniture into the basement. The women could be heard arranging things downstairs. They all seemed to be enjoying themselves, chatting and laughing loudly.

  In less than an hour, the truck was empty and Tamara could hear furniture being moved around downstairs. Two men removed a steaming silver pot from the minivan. As the men disappeared into the basement, a roar of excitement and laughter erupted. It was like a giant party. The smell of the spicy stew wafted upstairs, reminding Tamara that it was time for lunch.

  She scanned the refrigerator and pulled out some leftover macaroni and cheese. She heated it in the microwave and sat at the breakfast nook to eat. The laughter from downstairs reminded her just how lonely she was. Yes, she had Jordan and Becky, and her cousins and aunt, but it was not the same as having a group of friends.

  She remembered the last time she had fun like that. It had been the day of her wedding, exactly one year and three weeks ago. And it did not end in laughter. Tamara brushed the thought from her mind, rinsed her plate and headed upstairs. There she shut the door hoping to keep out the sound of laughter.

  Tamara was watching her favorite sitcom when she heard a light rap on the door. The noise downstairs had subsided, and one by one she'd heard the vehicles pull out of the driveway.

  She got up and opened the door. Kwabena stood a full foot over her. He had recently showered and smelled of Irish Spring soap and aftershave. She could see his closely cropped hair was still damp. He now wore a pair of cotton shorts and a green tank top that showed his well-developed biceps.

  Kwabena looked intently at her. "This is for you," he said, handing her an envelope.

  She turned it over in her hands before opening it. In it was a personal check made out to her. "What's this for?" she asked, confused.

  "Your payment for the green card."

  She looked at the amount on the check. "It's short."

  "You get half now and the rest when I receive the permanent card," he responded.

  She looked at the check again and nodded.

  At that moment Tamara wanted to wrap her arms around him and give him a big hug. If he only knew how much she needed that money right now. Thank goodness she now could meet her mortgage and her car payments. She could pay her bills again.

  Tamara raised her eyes to see him still standing staring down at her.

  "Is there something else you wanted?" she asked.

  He smiled and shook his head. "That was all. Good night."

  He turned and walked down the hallway.

  "Kwabena," Tamara called to his retreating back.

  He stopped and turned around.

  "Thank you," she said softly, smiling.

  Kwabena returned her smile. "You have a very pretty smile," he said. "Please call me Ben."

  "Thank you, Ben," she responded before slipping back into the bedroom suite. Maybe this isn't such a bad idea, after all.

  In the two weeks since Kwabena had moved into her home Tamara had seen him only once. He was indeed a busy person. He left for work before she arose in the morning and returned at odd times. She was also learning he was a very social person. He had installed a phone line in the basement to prove his residency in her home. Since then his phone rang incessantly. At least six times in the last two weeks he'd had groups of friends over. There was always laughter and delicious smells of food wafting up from the basement.

  Today Kwabena was the last thing on Tamara's mind. Today was her big interview. The job description fit her profile very well. The pay was not as high as she'd made with her old firm, but it was sufficient. There was only one problem: it was in Delaware, a two-hour commute.

  She got up early and walked into the kitchen in her pajamas. Her uncombed hair stood out in every direction. Her eyes could barely make out the things in the kitchen as her contacts were still soaking in the bathroom and she'd left her glasses on the nightstand. It was the first time she'd been up this early since Kwabena had moved in, and she needed some strong coffee. By rote, she headed straight to the cupboard and removed the tin of coffee. She took it over to the machine and was surprised to see a fresh pot of coffee brewing. Kwabena must have made it. She was certain he would not mind her taking a cup.

  She got out her favorite coffee mug, with the UCLA insignia. Like the pajamas she wore, it was old and worn. The lip was chipped and there were brown stains on the inside, but she didn't mind. She poured the coffee and drenched it with cream and sugar. As she sipped the coffee she made a face. It was a very bold flavor, bordering on harsh, despite the cream and sugar.

  "Ethiopian dark roast," Kwabena said, coming behind her and reaching over her for a coffee mug. "Good to see you decided to join me for coffee."

  Tamara jumped, startled, spilling the coffee on her pajamas and scorching her lips. Slowly she turned around to face him, feeling guilty for taking his coffee without permission.

  Kwabena stared intently at her. Under his gaze Tamara turned beet red, uncomfortable to say the least. The discomfort gave way to anger. "What are you staring at?" she demanded defensively. "Never seen a fat woman in pajamas before?"

  "Not one revealing that much," he said without missing a beat.

  Tamara looked down self-consciously at her wellworn pajamas. The threadbare material over her left breast was worn to transparency and her nipple was playing peek-a-boo behind it. Moreover, a few buttons had become undone, revealing a lot more skin than she'd intended.

  Tamara immediately folded her hands over her wet pajamas in an effort to cover herself. She was embarrassed to the point of anger. "You... you... you lecher," she hissed and tried her best to hide her nakedness from his prying eyes.

  "I don't think that word applies to married couples," he said with a twinkle in his eyes.

  "Ugh," she groaned, gritting her teeth. "Is that how you get your kicks? Voyeurism?"

  "Maybe you should try covering yourself. Or are you trying to seduce me?" he asked, taken aback at the vehemence in her voice.

  With a thud, Tamara thumped the coffee mug on the counter, blew off and stormed upstairs. "I changed my mind about having coffee
with you! I don't dine with Peeping Toms."

  Kwabena shook his head and smiled. That woman needs help.

  Sometime later as he ate breakfast, he saw her enter the den in a navy blue business suit. He was tempted to ask her where she was going, but thought better of it when he saw the expression on her face. She gave him a hard, cold scowl and disappeared through the garage door.

  The company headquarters reminded her of a college campus. Redbrick buildings framed a large grassy courtyard with benches surrounding a fountain. People could be seen sipping coffee in the warm September sun, some tapping away at laptops. It was an environment where she would love to work.

  As she entered the building she was greeted by a friendly secretary who ushered her into an overdecorated office.

  "Hello, Miss Fontaine. I'm Fiona DesChamps. How was your commute?" the interviewer asked lightly.

  "Oh, it was fine, thank you." Tamara shook Ms. DesChamps's hand.

  Tamara was relieved. Not only was the interviewer African-American, she was also overweight. That meant chances of discrimination because of her weight or her race were dramatically reduced.

  They chatted for a few minutes. Then Ms. DesChamps outlined the interview process. After interviewing with her, Tamara was required to take a computer proficiency test, after which she would be interviewed by Ms. DesChamps's boss. She would then be interviewed by a junior partner in the firm.

  "Why the test?" Tamara asked before being escorted to the examination room.

  "We get so many applicants claiming to be computer experts, and then when we hire them we discover that they are not even computer literate. A few months ago we decided to test each interviewee individually."

  The test was like child's play for Tamara. She didn't even have to draw on her knowledge as an information technologist to do the silly test. She left the interview with Ms. DesChamps and the test feeling optimistic about this job prospect. As Ms DesChamps ushered her into her boss's office, Tamara was even more pleased to discover that her boss was a black man, a UCLA alumnus.

  The interview was quite light and simple. They discussed the job, her work experience, why she wanted to work there, and then they reminisced about UCLA and the culture of that school.

  Just before the interview ended, a secretary interrupted and gave him an envelope with her test scores. He raised his eyebrows as he read the paper. "Ms. Fon tame, congratulations. You've scored higher on this test than most of our prospective employees."

  "Thanks," she responded, feeling confident that she would get the job.

  As he ushered her across the grassy courtyard to the executive building for her third interview he said, "I'm very impressed with your experience, your eloquence, and I think you would fit in well with the rest of the information technologists in this firm. I will make sure I communicate this to Mr. Orson. Ultimately, he is the one who will make the final decision."

  "Thank you, Mr. Carter," Tamara said, shaking his hand as she entered the door with the big T L. Orson III, Executive Officer engraved in brass.

  Tamara strode confidently into the office, shaking Mr. Orson's large hands. Unlike the other two interviewers, he was a middle-aged white man with thinning hair and a bad comb-over.

  He smiled warmly and welcomed her to the firm. He asked her about her future plans, where she saw herself in ten years, the standard interview questions. Then he said to her, "You have very impressive experience, even without a degree. Your test scores were among the highest we've had in a long time, and you come highly recommended by Egbert Nurenburgh, who I must add is a good friend of mine. You had to be very good to gain such a glowing recommendation from him, both in a letter and when I spoke to him on the phone a few weeks ago."

  Tamara smiled. "Thank you." She was relieved. Finally she was going to get a job offer. Finally.

  He continued, "However, you've been out of work for almost a year now, so let me not waste your time. The computer industry is very dynamic. Lots of changes occur within a year. This year especially we've seen new operating systems, new network interfacing mechanisms. A lot has been going on since you left this field of work. So even though your credentials are solid, I'm afraid it's outdated. I'm sorry, we can't hire you."

  Tamara knew she was red all over. This was her last chance, her only hope. "Sir, the underlying programming languages haven't changed that much, and I have formal training in computer programming," She argued, "None of the changes were so drastic that without reading a few books, I cannot adjust. And I have been reading, doing some work and keeping up-to-date on the changes in this field. I am still very qualified for this position."

  "I'm sorry, Ms. Fontaine."

  Tamara felt angry, disappointed and defeated as she left the office. To make matters worse, the drive back home was long, and the traffic was bad. It was already after six when she reached home.

  She removed her shoes and sat on the sofa in the den. This was so unfair. She had no other choice. She would sell the house and move back into the duplex. Right now there was enough equity for her to maybe break even on the mortgage-maybe. This was a bad time to sell. Even if she didn't make much on the house itself, she would make enough from the sale of her furniture to pay down her debt significantly. Without the mortgage, she could live on a small salary, maybe find work in the food-services industry. She would have to have a talk with Kwabena, make some arrangement for them to appear to share a domicile.

  Tamara felt tears stinging her eyes. First she was downsized, and now she was obsolete.

  "Dammit!" she cried out loud. She threw the cushions angrily across the room. "It's not fair!" she screamed. Tears streamed down her eyes as she sobbed. "Why, Lord, why me?"

  These tears were long overdue, and now that the floodgates were open it was hard for her to stop. Her shoulders wracked with sobs as she cried for all the losses in her life. She cried for Jared's deception, she cried for her accumulated debt, she cried for her inability to meet her basic living needs, she cried for the frustration of finding a job, she cried for her loneliness. She just cried, shedding tears that should have been shed a year ago.

  Tamara felt more than saw Kwabena's presence. She tried fruitlessly to pull herself together, but the sobbing would not subside.

  He extended a hand, then drew her in his arms and let her cry on his chest.

  "It will be alright," he comforted, caressing the back of her head. "It will be alright."

  Kwabena had no idea what she was going through, but whatever it was, it was bad. He wished he could do more to make her feel better. He had been in the kitchen preparing dinner when she arrived. After this morning, he was reluctant to have any dealings with her, and therefore kept his distance. That was before he heard the things being tossed about and the sobs. He observed her crying for a while, uncertain what to do. But then his heart reached out to her. He wanted to shield her from whatever was causing her pain.

  He liked the smell of her hair. It was like flowers and wild strawberries, and it filled him with the urge to kiss the top of her head. He liked the feel of her head against his chest and her ample body in his arms. Taking a deep breath, he tried to control himself. He definitely did not want to be accused of lechery orvoyeurism again.

  Slowly Tamara regained control of her sobbing and extricated herself from his embrace. He handed her a napkin to wipe her tears.

  "I'm sorry," she whispered hoarsely. "You shouldn't have seen that. I...I..."

  "It's ok," Kwabena assured her. "We all have our days. Would you like some dinner?"

  She shook her head. "I don't feel like going anywhere right now."

  "It's in the kitchen," he explained.

  She looked up at him with soft eyes. Her expression one of defeat. Their eyes met and held. Kwabena had the strange urge to kiss away her tears and remove the hurt. He wanted once more to see that beautiful smile she flashed him the night after he'd moved in.

  He got up from the couch and helped her up, leading her by the hand into the kitchen. T
he scent of the spicy food suddenly made her mouth water. She was hungry. She hadn't eaten all day.

  Tamara watched as he silently placed two white balls of something on her plate and doused it with meat sauce. He proceeded to the dining room, a place she had never used except for Thanksgiving dinner last year. The food was absolutely delicious.

  "This is delicious. Who prepared it?" she asked, biting into succulent meat.

  "I did."

  "I thought African men couldn't cook," Tamara replied.

  "Where did you get that stereotype?"

  She responded pensively, "I really don't know. It's just one of those things you hear somewhere along the road that becomes fact to you." She was suddenly ashamed she believed so readily.

  "Well, I cook, and so do many of my friends."

  "I thought you made your wives do all that for you."

  He grinned. "You're my wife, and I don't see you cooking for me."

  Her face lit up with a smile. "You know what I mean."

  Kwabena returned her smile, satisfied to have elicited her rare smile. He noticed her eyes were dark brown, two shades darker than he recalled from that morning.

  They ate in silence for a while. "What kind of food is this anyway?"

  "This is plantain foo-foo," he said, pointing to the sticky balls. "And this is stewed goat in peanut sauce." He pointed to the meat.

  "Goat!" Tamara exclaimed. She could feel the bile rising in her throat. "Like the kind in the petting zoo?"

  "Yes, goat, like the kind people kill for meat."

  She wanted to gag. The food was delicious, but this was goat. She stopped eating. "This is like eating a cat or a dog. We're eating Fluffy."

  Kwabena laughed as if he had no care in the world. Tamara decided she liked his laugh. "There are some cultures that do eat cats and dogs. Many other coun tries, the Middle East, the Caribbean, Africa and some parts of Europe, eat goat as a staple meat. They are raised on farms just like your cows and chickens."