Tommy. You like how his name tastes in your mouth. You might try moaning with it tonight, but softly or you’ll wake your mother. You smack your lips together. Tommy.
At the assembly he’d said, “Please, just call me Tommy.” The school principal introduced him as Mr. Thomas James, the visiting scholar testing his “Learning English Easy” program on the first graders. Thomas James, the American—the kano, with stress on the “o”, as the other locals refer to him. They don’t need to know his name to talk about him, he’s the only white person in your baryo. Light brown hair, pointy nose, eyes grey like the clouds that herald a typhoon—you have a feeling he could be quite the troublemaker. You like imagining the havoc he could wreak on your quiet life. At five foot ten, he’s taller than the star basketball player in the district. You smile thinking of the towering kano with two first names. Like if you were to call yourself Agnes Sonia, instead of Agnes Santos. You’ve always liked how Sonia sounds. When you were little, you had once asked your mother if you could change your name. Of course she said no.
You now feel somewhat hostile towards the heroines of your favourite Barbara Cartland and Julie Garwood novels; what legitimate distress did these damsels know even before reaching their 20s? You yourself are 34 and you live with your mother, which is expected from every respectable unmarried daughter. Your father ran off with another woman many years ago. You haven’t seen him since, but your mother always conjures him up whenever life displeases her—which is most of the time. Your relatives have stopped asking you when you plan to marry, which is a relief but is also a little disheartening. One day, you’ll show them.
Tommy is 28. But he could pass for older. You watch Tommy, see how easy-going he is with everyone in school. He jokes with the principal, makes her laugh—a little too loudly. The sight of him dismounting from his rented motorcycle upon arriving at the school grounds makes your insides tremble. You wish you taught first-grade. Then you could work closer with Tommy. But in truth you prefer your sixth-graders, except they’re not in that experimental English program, are they? They do a lot of singing, the other teachers told you. You figure it’s supposed to help condition the tongue for the onslaught of English words with their sharp vowels, the same traitorous vowels that suddenly twist without warning. People here think it’s a great idea because they all love to sing. Maybe so but you ought to warn Tommy to watch out for how the children pick up the words. You have in mind how the locals render Ed Sheeran’s Thinking Out Loud: “So baby now, take me into your eleven arms…” (Loving! Loving arms! But no matter how many times you correct them, it has become an impossible task to untangle those tentacle arms from that song). You observe the small children follow Tommy around during recess singing Old McDonald’s “eeya-eeya-yow” and making the sounds that none of the farm animals in the baryo actually make. During lunch, Tommy is always surrounded by a gaggle of first-grade teachers who have claimed ownership and give ominous glares at other level teachers who try to approach.
But earlier today, you passed Tommy in the hallway, and your brown eyes locked with his grey ones. He smiled. You smiled. Maybe a little too widely. But you just knew: it would be the start of something wonderful.
***
He insists on walking you home. Your eyes flutter wildly, you are very pleased with his suggestion. You can’t wait to introduce him to your mother.
“Tommy, this is my mother, Mrs. Alicia Santos.”
You see the surprise on your mother’s face that you’ve brought the white man home. Your mother is caught off-guard and becomes polite, not at all like with the others before.
“So you’re Thomas.” But she pronounces his name without the “h” and accentuates the “a” at the end. You are embarrassed though you dare not correct her with other people present; in fact, you generally dare not correct her at all.
“Please, Mrs. Santos, just call me Tommy.” He refers to her in the exact deferential manner that she would have required. You are relieved that your mother nods in approval at Tommy being what she would call culturally adaptive.
“So you are teaching English at the school. Are the children giving you a hard time?”
“Not in the slightest. The children are perfectly behaved. They’re very funny too, and learn fast.” You beam a smile at Tommy to show your full support. You want to give him a thumbs up but decide this will probably look excessive.
“I used to be a teacher at the school too. You know at Agnes’ age, I was already assistant principal.” Of course your mother mentions this. She always finds a way to offer this irrelevant information.
“Then I can see where Agnes gets her skills from. She’s very good with her kids.” Tommy touches your shoulder lightly; the movement is not lost on your mother.
“And how long will you be staying on at the school, Thomas.” Your mother has never taken to using nicknames and considers the practice an affront to a parent’s original design.
“The program I teach is for three months. That’s the agreement made with the principal. But I’m thinking of asking for an extension…” He glances at you, his voice sounds tentative and your mother catches it. No, no, wait. You shake your head from side to side. That’s not going to be good enough for your mother. Better to leave now and take Tommy with you, away from your mother’s eyes and questions. You don’t have to look up to see your mother gloating. Tommy’s going to end up like all the others.
Like Bernard, the seaman. “A girl at every port. Don’t you know that, Agnes? He’ll impregnate you and then leave you. He probably has a child at every port too.” You listened to your mother then. The same happened with Victor, the clerk at the mayor’s office. “His eyes are shifty. Hiding something. Your father was the same. You just wait, this one will leave you too.” Then came Danny, the pig farmer. You don’t even want to remember what she said. After a while, there was no one to bring home to meet your mother. You look longingly after your co-teachers who are met by their husbands or boyfriends after school. They always stroll away holding hands. You wonder about the exquisite ordinariness of talking about your day with someone who is really interested. You dream of the warmth of another’s hand taking your own. You now make excuses for not attending weddings of friends and colleagues. If you sum up all the excuses you’ve made, it would seem a miracle that your mother continues to be alive. You snicker at this, at the pleasure of such fragments of subversiveness. However, you must remember not to go overboard next time or your mother might actually hear about it.
Well, Tommy just has to do better.
Maybe a minor adjustment but it should still start with your mother’s look that says she didn’t think you had it in you to be able to bring the kano home. Tommy starts again.
“It’s great to finally meet you Alice.” You are surprised that your mother seems delighted at the Americanization of her given Christian name—a smile slips from her control. “I’ve been waiting to tell you what a wonderful daughter you have here. She’s also an amazing and inspiring teacher.”
“Well, I was a teacher too in that school. You should know that at Agnes’ age, I was already assistant principal.”
You look at Tommy but he just nods politely, unimpressed. You see that your mother feels slighted by the absence of an ingratiating reaction to her crowning achievement. The smile disappears. Her eyes narrow. “And how long will you be staying on in our little baryo?”
“Well, Alice, the program is for three months. But I didn’t expect to meet the woman of my dreams all the way out here. So after that, I plan to marry your lovely daughter and take her back with me to the States where she’ll have a marvelous life, have my many children and, maybe, we’ll even visit you every few years.”
Your mother recoils at the thought of you moving away—though it would serve her right for not treating you better.
“Ay Thomas, you move too fast. I don’t think my daughter has had the chance to know you well enough. Besides, I don’t think my daughter will like living in your country.”
“Oh I’m sure she will. There she can eat ice cream whenever she wants.”
Ice cream. You giggle. Ice cream anytime would be nice. Your mother would certainly not approve of this impulsive ice cream gorging. Rots the teeth, spoils the child, warps the soul. You still remember when you were little and your father bought you ice cream on a sugary cone from the roving sorbetero who pushed his cart up and down the church plaza every Sunday, ringing the little bell. Cheese—with real cheese bits—and chocolate. Your father even let you choose the combination. Your mother had a fit when she saw you and swiped the cone from your hand to throw it at the pavement, then proceeded to have an argument with your father in front of the entire baryo coming out from Sunday mass. You still remember her bony finger poking the air at your cowering father. You lowered your head to avoid seeing all the heads turning at your direction. You brushed your tears away with the back of your hand, sat on the curb to wait it out and watched the ice cream melt on the hot concrete, the cheese bits becoming fully exposed in the pool of yellow and brown mush.
You should have had your ice cream, in fact, you should have it whenever it suits you. You’d lick it up, down, sideways, upside-down even. You’d let it drip all over you. Who cares about the clothes? Besides it’s Friday today, tomorrow is wash day.
Definitely, this still won’t do.
He should start strong with: “Mommy Alice, finally we meet!” And encloses her in a bear hug. “My lovely Agnes has told me so much about you. Only the good parts.” He winks at your mother. You almost laugh. Your mother is not amused as she wriggles herself away from him, puts up both hands with palms facing Tommy to fend off further attempts at coming closer.
“Excuse me. My name is Alicia. And you don’t call me ‘mommy’, you are not my son. Mr. James, what exactly are your intentions for my daughter?” Clearly annoyed, your mother has changed gear.
But this time, Tommy is ready for her
“Mommy, Mommy,” he says, while putting his arm around your shoulders, “You have absolutely nothing to worry about. I am head-over-heels in love with Agnes. I don’t think I can go on without her by my side. We should be married in a few months. And, if you behave, you can even come to the wedding. But if you’re referring to my intentions at this moment, my immediate and pressing plan is to carry her off to a secluded place and pleasure her with my manhood.”
And while your mother’s mouth is still agape, Tommy tosses you over his shoulder, gently sits you on his motorcycle and together you ride off into the majestic tropical sunset.
***
You chuckle more loudly than you intended but catch yourself. You blush and look around. You check if anybody saw you laughing alone. Nobody. It’s dusk, almost time for dinner. You quicken your steps as you round the corner that takes you to the street where you live. You stop just as you reach the dirt path that leads to home. The lights in the house have been turned on. You take a deep breath. You remind yourself that you made eye contact today. This is progress. Maybe one day you’ll work up the courage to talk to Mr. Thomas James: “Hello, Tommy. How are you doing today?” But the thought of a longer conversation in English makes you anxious.
You glance at your open palm. You close it slowly. You almost see his hand clasping yours, your fingers intertwining with his, the pili nut shade of your skin in sharp contrast with his paleness. You almost hear him asking how your day went, and you marvel at the fluidity, the flawlessness of your response. You square your shoulders. But then you glance up and see your mother’s silhouette through the window. You give a long sigh, take the path home, walking as slowly as you can.
*****
Charisse J. Tubianosa was born in Manila, Philippines. Some time ago, she started an MA in creative writing at the University of the Philippines, but ended up getting degrees in economics instead. She currently resides in Barcelona, Spain and has circled back to writing short fiction. Her stories tackle themes related to identity, race, otherness and the immigrant experience. She’s currently working on a collection of stories centred on what it means to be a woman in her country and beyond its borders. She has a story published with Spanglishvoces.
