Andoy lingered on the porch smoking and drinking. His cigarette was nothing but filter and his beer contained nothing but backwash. Memories of his Filipino mother muddied his mind. Andoy’s pits held sweat, which began to give chills as dusk gave way to night. He wished he had on more than jean shorts, a T-shirt, and ballcap, but his stubbornness prevented him from going back inside. And his anger had stopped him from fetching a coat in the first place.
“Do you want another iced tea?” he heard his wife say to the Mormons inside. “Dinner’ll be served soon.”
Andoy imagined her smiling. Her checking that silverware had been laid. Her spinning on the ball of her foot as she promanaded back into the kitchen. Andoy coughed to remind Tara of his presence and to remind her of his disapproval of those young missionaries once again visiting on a Wednesday evening. He believed that she understood his angst and worries and what he really wanted, at least she could have respected the fact that it was a work night.
Andoy tilted his ear toward the house when he heard a roar of laughter inside.
He craved another beer. He said, “Goddamnit,” because he had left two bottles of his six pack inside. He also didn’t want to smoke his last cigarette because he didn’t want to have to meander by the Mormons to retrieve his hidden pack of American Spirits.
Andoy wasn’t in the mood to be assaulted by the Mormons’ pretty white smiles or their hard-parted blond hair. He was well over their “Yes, sirs” and their trying to involve him in trivial conversations and Bible lessons. He no longer wanted to be reminded of his youth, when his ina too had invited evangelists, crusaders for God, and religion converters into their home. Into her, his mother’s, precious kitchen. So he just loitered in one of his cheap, plastic chairs, under dull yellow-light, shivering off and on like he had for months.
When they first moved into their up-and-coming Eastside neighborhood, Andoy and his new bride spent their Wednesday evenings playing cards and Scrabble and drinking chilled white wine. Tara liked the crispness of it. He disliked wine, but he loved her, so he enjoyed it as best he could. They liked to indulge and be romantic on hump day, then they would spend their evening doing just that, exploring their moles and divots until they fell asleep atop soaked sheets.
On Wednesdays as they cooked dinner together—pancit, kare kare, chicken adobo—they marveled at how lucky they were to have found their little bungalow, especially on the dimes they earned. It was no more than six-hundred square feet with an amazing back deck and a quaint front porch. They dangled Christmas lights all through their yard, and each night, during their first few weeks, seemed star-filled and spectacular.
“Our home is amazing,” Tara said.
“You’re amazing,” Andoy said, gazing into his wife’s hazel eyes, appreciating the reflection of twinkling lights.
Someone had planted palm trees and cacti and bamboo in their yard, so depending on where they stood during the day, they might feel as though they were in Hawaii or Arizona or somewhere exotic like Fiji.
“We never have to go anywhere,” Tara said on a different Wednesday evening when they were sitting in their backyard enjoying the sounds of roosters crowing and the faint rumbles of Norteño that seemed twenty-four seven.
“We should learn to bachata,” she said.
Andoy smiled at his blond bride, placed his hand on her bare thigh, then smooth the fine hairs on her leg that stood up when her gooseflesh showed, which it was prone to as she chilled easily and often.
“I will teach you the Kuratsa instead,” Andoy said.
Tara grinned. “I would love that,” she said. She never questioned his suggestions of the Filipino things he wanted to share with her. She had told him, when they met six years prior, that she wanted to learn everything about his culture. Tara was game to do—and experience—everything, even balute, the boiled, fertilized, developing egg embryo that she tasted and hated. But she enjoyed dinuguan, cooked pork and innards in pig’s blood and vinegar.
“Mahal kita walang iba,” Andoy said. He had taught her some Tagalog early in their relationship trying to impress her.
“And I will love you and no other,” Tara said. “Ikaw ay pangit.”
“No, you’re ugly,” he said, smiling at her favorite Filipino phrase. At their inside joke.
The first time they heard a knock on the door they were Eastsiders for a few years. They had bought bottled Mexican cokes from their neighborhood bodega, had eaten at the local taco shops, and had found their favorite margarita joint. There were no Filipino restaurants in the city. There were rumors of a food truck that served authentic lumpia, but they had yet to find it. As confirmed Eastsiders, they watched bungalows similar to theirs seemingly disappear overnight and transform into city mansions—two three-thousand-square-foot homes on one small lot—throughout their part of town. They were sitting out back talking.
“The Lopezes and Garcias moved out,” Tara said.
“Did they get a good price?” Andoy said.
“They were renters,” Tara sighed. “Their landlord didn’t even tell them he was selling.”
“Goddamnit,” Andoy said, sipping wine, staring at their Eastside horizon.
Then the knock startled them. They weren’t expecting visitors. Andoy looked at Tara, who shrugged. They both, for some reason, crept—hands and knees—to their bedroom window, where they spied the front door without compromise. Andoy kept shushing Tara.
“You’re going to give us away. Stop giggling,” he said.
He too began to giggle. They scurried like elementary kids cramming into the crevices of a playset. Andoy’s adrenaline peaked. Their giggles spilling over.
“Who is it?” she said.
“Thumpers,” he chuckled.
“How do you know?”
“Look at them in their starched shirts and creased pants.”
“Oh my god.” Tara giggled even more. “Their shoes are so shiny.”
They both ducked down when one of the boys turned toward their window. Andoy rolled onto Tara as though he were shielding her from gunfire or the expected shrapnel of a nearby bomb. When the couple looked up at each other, they giggled, then kissed, then made love as the missionaries left pamphlets stating, “Cultivate an attitude of happiness,” and “Walk with faith, rejoicing in the beauties of nature,” and “Happiness is the object and design of our existence.” They were very happy that night.
The next time they heard the knocks they both fell to the floor and army-crawled from the kitchen into the living room. Andoy, always the gentleman, allowed Tara to scoot in front of him. Tara was wearing a sundress and Andoy stole peeks at and took pleasure in seeing his wife’s blue panties.
“You’re so sexy,” he said.
“What’re you talking about?”
“Mahal kita walang iba,” Andoy whispered, then he inched his way up his wife—toe, knee, inner thigh, rib bone, under chin—as the missionaries knocked, waited, knocked, then left paraphernalia stating, “The Savior will let you feel the love He feels.”
One Wednesday Andoy worked late. He called to tell Tara that someone had dropped the ball, that he needed to clean up their mess, that he was going to miss dinner.
“Goddamnit,” he said to Tara on the phone. He was pacing outside the office.
“Don’t worry about it,” she replied.
Then she went silent. Andoy could hear her breathing and shuffling.
“What’s going on?” he said.
There was no answer, but he could still hear her inhales and exhales, though they were muffled. He shot looks up and down the street. He stared into the blue sky.
“Are you okay?” Andoy said in a sharp tone. He began to sweat. He began to pace faster. “Tell me what’s happening.”
He thought about racing to the car, jumping into the driver’s seat, speeding home to ensure that the worst wasn’t happening to his beautiful asawa.
“Shhh,” Tara said. “They’re here.”
She started to giggle.
“Who’s here?” Andoy said, now whispering to match his wife’s tone. He squatted because it felt like the right thing to do. He cupped the phone with his hand. His eyes searched the area around his work, observing the security cameras and fire exits.
“The boys.” Tara scuttled to the bedroom.
“Hide,” Andoy said. He too started to giggle. Sweat slid down his face. “Don’t let them see you.” He started to wave his hands to signal her to lay down as if he were on the other side of the battlefield warning her of enemy movement. He lay prone, joining her in their game. He started to feel aroused. Then he felt disappointed. He wanted to be with his wife. He wanted to be inside his wife. Those missionaries had become the catalyst for their Wednesday night sex.
“I gotta go,” Tara said.
Andoy quoted: “When you are faced with a test of faith, stay within the safety—” but Tara hung up on him, missing his cleverness. Andoy groaned, stared at the pebbles that lay before him, because he had spent one weekend memorizing some quotes—from the pamphlets that, for some reasons, Tara had saved—so that he could impress, make laugh, his beautiful bride. He lay still for a few minutes before slowly making his way to his feet.
Andoy spent that evening in a cloud of wondering: what do I need to do, where did I leave that thing? He wanted to be in their kitchen sipping her favorite red wine; their palates had progressed from fruity and cheap to bold and peppery and mid-range. He wanted to cook sinigang or crispy pata and for Tara to act as his sous chef. He wanted to say “mise en place” and “add a smitchen” and use terms like “poach” and “braise” and “sous vide.” He wanted to take in the smell of musty white rice and soy sauce and grilled onions. He wanted to give Tara all the things that she had told him she loved. He liked when his wife flashed her thin-lipped smile at him as he tried to impress her.
“Ikaw ay pangit,” Tara told him many Wednesday nights, sometimes touching his baby face with the palm of her soft hand.
“I know,” Andoy replied those same times, flashing a smile, teeth gleaming white, his almond eyes slivered. “The ugliest.”
When he arrived home after nine that Wednesday night, he could hear chattering from inside even before he opened the front door.
“What’s all this?” he said after entering the house, setting down his backpack, sliding off his shoes, and placing his keys into the drawer where Tara’s pamphlets lived.
Andoy stared at those folded sheets of paper. He sighed. Then he started when he heard a strange voice.
“Good evening, sir,” a blond boy said. He stood up from the couch, wiped his palms on his black slacks, walked over to Andoy, stuck his hand out, waited for a handshake.
“Hello,” Andoy said, gripping the boy’s hand. “Who’re you?”
“I’m Nick, sir. And he’s Paul.”
Andoy looked at Nick then at Paul, who looked identical to Nick.
“I’ve invited them to dinner,” Tara said.
“Oh. alright,” Andoy said. He held a bushel of flowers in his left hand. He had wanted to surprise her with a gift, to apologize, since he felt bad for missing their Wednesday night excitement. He had hoped they could kindle some flames. He had written in loops and curls, May gusto ako sa iyo, with hopes of soon showing her how much of a crush he really had on her.
One of the boys took the flowers from him. The boy walked into the kitchen as though he’d been there hundreds of times. It appeared as if he were searching for something to place them in.
“Those are beautiful, thank you,” Tara said to the boy.
“You’re welcome, ma’am,” the boy said, flashing a fabulous smile, his blue eyes brilliant.
Andoy felt dazed. He wondered, Did the boy give Tara the note? He thought for a moment that he had entered the wrong house. Then Andoy’s childhood flashed into mind. When he was ten, lingering in the doorway, watching his four-foot-eleven mahogany-colored mother entertain any Bible preacher who knocked on their door—Mormons, Lutherans, Jehovah’s witnesses. “They just friend. I enjoy visit,” his mother had said in her broken English when he asked why she had let them in.
“You don’t enjoy talking to me?” Little Andoy stared at his ina. It had been past his bedtime. His favorite dinner of spam and fried rice had been late.
“That different, nanoy,” she had said, then she walked away humming some hymn he didn’t know. His mother looked happy and glowing.
Little Andoy had sat there, spooning his cold meat and hardened rice back then forth inside his bowl as he wondered what made them more special than him.
Andoy stood still, watching Nick or Paul set the table. The boy in front of him was grinning too.
“How was your evening, sir?” the boy said. “I heard you had to work late. That’s a shame.”
Andoy just glared at Nick or Paul.
“We’re blessed that you made it home for dinner. Your wife started cooking later than usual so that you could have a hot meal.”
“Later than usual?” Andoy said.
“Yes, sir. We normally show up around six-thirty.”
“You listen to us through the door?” Andoy said. He squared his shoulders to the boy. He tightened his jaw.
“No, sir,” the boy said. “We just asked Tara what time dinner normally was, and she told us.”
Andoy looked at the floor, unclenched his fists, wondering what else Tara and the Mormons had said to each other.
That Wednesday, with the missionaries, they ate cheeseburgers and homefries. Tara’s signature American dish. There was a side salad and endless ice tea. Andoy grumbled a few words here and there, but he listened as his wife spoke about her childhood and her experience with Christ. Things he had never heard from her before. Things he had never asked about. She told the Mormons that she had grown up in the Catholic Church and that she hadn’t been to church since she and her husband started dating. Andoy sat distracted, trying to remember when his mother was Catholic: Was it before or after she became a Southern Baptist? Or was it in between researching Mosques and Synagogues?
“I feel embarrassed about that,” Tara said, looking at her half-eaten burger.
The Mormons said “Yes, ma’am” so many times that night that they started to sound like slithering snakes to Andoy. When the next Wednesday arrived, Tara was waiting outside for the boys. She had dressed in a button down shirt and jeans. The Wednesday after, the boys showed up at five. Within three months of their first visit, Nick and Paul no longer knocked when they arrived; they just let themselves in and removed their dress shoes as Tara prepared different American dinners for them all.
After the boys left that chilly Wednesday night, Tara stepped outside to find her shivering husband. There were three bottles of beer on the deck beside his chair. American Spirit butts lay in the grass just off the porch.
“What’cha doing?” Tara said.
“Nothing,” Andoy said.
“Your dinner’s getting cold.”
Andoy’s eyes were affixed on a neighbor’s front window. He had mentioned a while back that the neighbor’s window was wider than Andoy and Tara’s bungalow. Tara had agreed, but that Wednesday Andoy only watched as blue and white light flickered from inside the neighbor’s house.
“I think I’m going to do it,” Tara said.
Andoy looked down at the empty bottle of beer that rested in his lap.
“I know you don’t approve,” Tara said, straightening her back, standing taller.
“I don’t care,” Andoy said.
“You seem like you disagree.”
“You can do whatever you want.”
“Then why are you—”
“I miss our Wednesdays,” Andoy said. “You’re just like her.”
“What’re you talking about?” Tara moved in front of him.
“I miss cooking for you and when you were my—”
“We still can—”
“You’re too busy cooking for the Mormons,” Andoy said. “Giving all my time to them.”
“I knew you didn’t want me to join their church.”
“Did you know my mother was a religious tourist?” Andoy said, still refusing to look his wife in the eye.
“A what?”
Andoy sipped from the empty bottle, hoping for one last drop. He set down the bottle then grabbed his cigarettes from the floor.
“When’d you start smoking?”
“It doesn’t matter.”Andoy chuckled. “Remember when we used to laugh at those boys’ shoes then have sex.”
Tara turned, looked at the flickering lights across the street. Andoy wondered if she felt guilty. If she felt sinful.
“My mother used to be Catholic, too. Then she was Protestant, then Methodist, then Baptist.” Andoy lit his last cigarette, took a long draw. “I don’t remember the order.”
Tara looked at her husband. “You’ve never told me this about your mom.”
Andoy looked at the sky.
“I wish you were as open as Nick and Paul,” Tara said.
Andoy leaned as far back as his chair allowed.
“Any time someone came over,” he said, “she’d make them dinner, listen to what they’d have to say, then she’d join their church.”
“I’m not a tourist,” Tara said.
“I didn’t say you were.”
Andoy took a longer draw on his cigarette, held his breath, then exhaled a cloud that seemed to encompass him and his wife.
Tara turned. She walked to the end of their porch. She shoved her hands into her jean pockets. She kicked at something. Andoy still didn’t look in his wife’s direction. He didn’t check out her butt in her loose-fitting jeans or consider what color her panties might be. He just took in the night’s darkness.
“What’re you going to do when the next group of prophets show up?” Andoy said.
“They’re not prophets.”
“I know what they are.”
“I’m not your mother,” Tara said. She turned, made her way to the front door.
“Not yet,” Andoy said, taking another drag from his cigarette.
“I’m becoming a Mormon,” Tara said, then walked into the house.
Andoy stood, started to follow his wife, but stopped, lingered in the doorway. He said to himself, pangit ako, because he did feel ugly. Andoy watched as his wife’s crisp outline turned into a gray silhouette. He stood there, ten years old again, all alone, listening to his mother cooking and humming and planning for all those missionaries.
