Carlos and Tammy

A few weeks ago, the subject of marrying a Mexican immigrant so that he could stay in the U.S. came up amongst some girlfriends--don't ask how; it doesn't matter. Many times I've looked at the couples in the grocery store or the bank, the tiny little Latino guy and the tall, fat white woman with stair-step kids trailing them. This particular coupling was more common in Rome than it is here, the large mills and factories a more attractive landing place for workers looking to stick around. And I've wondered: are any of them ever in love?

Our conversation made me think of a little homework assignment I had done on this very subject. We were supposed to copy the structure of a scene from the book we were reading, and since the book was originally written in Spanish, I chose to thematically relate my scene a tiny bit as well. I am no fiction writer, but I found that setting up a scene the way an author does helped me get the flow of a scene better. In the book I imitated, a scene opens with an announcement of what the two main characters, Irene and Franciso, are going to do, then cuts “back to the future”—what Francisco remembers about a past event, which, in the present action of the book, hasn’t happened yet. Then, the scene that should come next chronologically is jumped. As the scene continues, after the part I’m imitating, the characters tell their experience as a story, which the others discuss when they finish telling it. (I didn't get to that part--it was homework, so I rushed!) The whole situation, dialogue, characters, etc., are mine, I just copied structure.

Something wanted to make me keep going with these people, and not only finish the scene, but write a whole story, because the romantic in me wants to believe that some of those odd pairings at the grocery store are Carlos and Tammy. Misunderstood. But happy.

“Well, we could just get married. I imagine there are chapels in Gatlinburg that are open twenty-four hours. It’s the Vegas of the South as far as weddings go.”

Later, Tammy would laugh when she remembered that sudden dawning of realization in Carlos’s eyes. It was something the pop songs all try to translate into salable lyrics, concise bits of nonsense to describe that moment when the lights come on. She had even fewer words for it that night, when they were young and dumb, ready to get out of Rome and less in love than they were just anxious to do something. For him, it was all mixed up and had something to do with a future, with getting his mama and little sisters safe in Los Estados Unidos, come hell or high water. For her, it was about shocking all her relations and getting a fine hunk of brownness in the process. That real love could dawn so suddenly, well, it was crazy to think about now, and not a process she’d recommend for Rosalita or Greer or James. But that’s all it took—her joke did something in them both, just felt right. And without so much as a toothbrush they were headed the 200 miles north to Gatlinburg, Tennessee.

They got back around four in the afternoon on Monday. Carlos had Labor Day off from his job at the mill, but he hadn’t earned any vacation time yet, and with this new situation of theirs, he certainly couldn’t afford to lose it. When they walked into the kitchen, Momma was at the sink rinsing raggedy eggs as she chipped off their shells tiny bits at a time. She always used fresh eggs, against the warnings of the cooking shows, and the egg process was usually like this, ugly and slow. But her potato salad was a staple of holiday meals and church potlucks, loved and attempted by everybody. She gave out her recipe freely, but it never tasted quite the same unless Melba Greer fixed it. That yellow afternoon, chicken sizzled in the bubbling Fry Daddy, and the unmistakable scent of buttermilk biscuits made the kitchen smell like always, like home. Tammy stared at her mother’s round rump, the flour handprint on her black elastic-waist pants that her step-dad Bobby probably put there like an idiot.

The first thing Melba did when she finally turned around and saw them was pour two glasses of sweet tea. She didn’t hate Carlos, and she appreciated his humble respect for her Southern cooking, the way he complimented her biscuits and sweet tea. His first glass had been in her kitchen, and she was sure the one she poured wouldn’t be his last.

Tammy felt for the first time a little bit of what Saturday night’s adventure might mean. This warm kitchen—this kitchen with its memories of milk bubble-blowing contests with J.T.; of learning to make biscuits with Granny Jean; of watching Momma’s back as she fixed and fixed while she and J.T. sat at the table Grandaddy made for Momma’s first wedding, to Daddy; of slumping over math homework—might never again feel as much like home. She’d had a single-wide trailer on Nana’s land in Cartersville for about six months, but it wasn’t home yet, and that dinky kitchen where she made dinner for Carlos and Rio and Mike Sanchez sometimes when they came to visit had no atmosphere, could never be home. Momma would be angry, and she might tell them to stay away. Maybe for good. That afternoon, studying the back of her mother’s curly brown head as she chipped away at the eggs, Tammy felt more love for her than she ever had, and suddenly the weekend’s rebellion seemed a bit childish. But there was Carlos Paez at the kitchen table, sinewy arm crooked, guzzling golden-brown tea. Looking like a man. Like a husband. Like a papa.

“You two look like you been up to no good.” Bobby yawned as he walked into the kitchen, scratching his belly through a white t-shirt.

“We got married Saturday night.” Carlos beamed.

“What the—” Bobby started, jokingly, when a look from Melba told him he’d better not even think about cussing. So he just laughed.

Melba smiled, barely amused. She had noticed something in Tammy’s countenance she didn’t like, and though she thought this elopement most likely a joke, she didn’t want the truth just yet. Bobby would make a scene if it were true. He’d had just enough beer to make him testy.

“Carlos has certainly acquired a sense of humor, hasn’t he?”

“Yes, he has. We really ought to take you on the road, Baby,” Tammy shot him a look.

“A joke? Oh, okay. Tha’s right. Jus’ kidding.”

“Wait a second, Carlos,” said Bobby, looking, maybe for the first time, into his twinkling black eyes. “I’ve never known you to joke, Son…”