Sarah and Philippe sat together in the interview room. It felt claustrophobic, plain and cramped with barely enough room for them to sit. They’d been there for almost an hour, and Sarah was growing concerned. She glanced around the room again—cinder block walls painted a faded yellow, an equally faded brown linoleum floor, a dull gray tiled ceiling to complete the ensemble. They were seated on one side of a rectangular wooden table, which displayed the gouges and marks of the thousands of people who came before them. On the other side of the table was another chair, and behind the chair, the door.

Sarah checked the time on her phone and groaned.

“Is it supposed to take this long?” She asked, in French. Her husband glanced up from his phone and gave her a crooked grin.

“I appreciate your attempt, but you need to work on your pronunciation,” he said, in English. Then he tucked his phone into his back pocket and leaned against the table. “It looked like there were a lot of people waiting when we came in. I don’t think the wait is anything to worry about.”

Sarah knew there was no reason for her to be worried. They were an authentic couple, and they could prove it. They’d been together for years, married for almost three of them. They were expecting a child, for goodness’s sake! There was nothing fake about their relationship. But Sarah still didn’t like the idea of prying their relationship open like an oyster, to expose its soft and slimy innards to the perusal of a stranger.

“I just want this to be over with, I’m tired of waiting. I want to know that you’ll always be here.” 

Philippe reached out and rubbed her arm. “It will be fine, mon amour. Just a few simple questions and then I’ll have my green card approved and we can go home.”

Sarah squeezed his hand, and they went back to waiting. Philippe reached back into his pocket for his phone and Sarah returned to examining the ceiling tiles.

A few minutes later, the interviewer arrived. At first glance, Sarah thought he looked a bit like Santa Claus – tall and round, with a fluffy white beard that failed to hide cherry-red cheeks and a beaming smile. Instead of red he wore another kind of livery, the kind that Sarah thought of as the basic civil servant uniform: khaki slacks and a short-sleeved white button-up paired with skinny black tie. His blue eyes twinkled behind half-moon glasses, and he nodded at both of them before getting comfortable in the chair on the other side of the table.

“How are you today?” His accent was vaguely Southern, a lilting drawl that reminded Sarah a little bit of Benoit Blanc, a thought that amused her thoroughly. She felt herself relaxing in his presence.

“We’re fine, thank you,” Philippe said. 

“Fine,” Sarah agreed, then added, “Glad to finally see you.”

It was an attempt at humor, but as soon as the words were out of her mouth, Sarah cringed. She didn’t want to offend him, to let him think they were annoyed to be kept waiting. But his smile didn’t waver, and he just nodded as he laid down the folder he was holding and flipped it open.

“I am sorry about the wait,” he said. “Lot of people want to immigrate to our great country, lot of people, and we need to be careful about checking them all. Unfortunately that does mean the lines can be long.” He chuckled, and Sarah and Philippe joined him, but when he interlaced his fingers and laid his hands over the open folder, unsmiling, Sarah knew it was time to get down to business.

“Welcome to your adjustment of status interview, also known as your green card interview. My name is Richard Morris, and I’ve been working in the immigration department for almost forty years. I’ve given a lot of these interviews in my time. I just want you to know that you’re in good hands.” Richard Morris paused, clearly waiting for some kind of reaction.

“Thank you, Mister Morris,” Sarah replied after an awkward moment of silence.

“Sir, if you please.”

Sarah thought Richard Morris was too big for his breeches, but she saw no harm in humoring him. “Sir,” she echoed, and he nodded, satisfied.

“You’re welcome, Sarah. Now, this interview is a crucial step in the process of obtaining permanent residency in the United States. During this interview, I will be asking you a series of questions to verify the information you provided on your application in order to assess your eligibility for a green card. These questions can be very probing and extensive. Do you understand?”

Sarah and Philippe both nodded, but Richard Morris stayed silent and looked at them both expectantly. Sarah glanced at Philippe, who stared at the interviewer in confusion.

“Um,” Sarah said, venturing a guess as to what he was waiting for. “Yes, sir.”

“Yes, sir,” Philippe echoed, and Richard Morris smiled again. 

“You’re welcome. All right now, let’s see, let’s see.” He looked over the first document in the folder, then leaned back and pointed at Philippe. “Philip Boochard.” He pronounced the name like he was referencing ghostly greens on Halloween. “I assume that’s you?”

Philippe leaned forward. “Philippe, actually. French pronunciation. And my last name is hyphenated, pronounced Gauthier-Bouchard.” 

“French, okay.” Richard Morris scratched a note on the document and looked up at Sarah. “And who is this lovely young lady?”

“Sarah Blake,” Philippe answered. “Sarah is my wife. She’s a citizen of the United States.”

“An American wife! A green card marriage, is it? Ha!” 

Richard Morris laughed as though he’d told a great joke, but Sarah didn’t understand what was so funny, and she fumbled nervously for a response. “I mean, we fell in love and wanted to get married, we didn’t just get married for–”

“Please, Sarah,” Richard interrupted her, holding a hand up with its palm towards her. “I’m just making small talk, injecting a little humor into the interview. No need to be so defensive.” His deep voice was sour with disappointment.

Sarah bit her tongue, and dug into the manners she learned in childhood. “Yes, sir.”

Richard Morris, apparently pleased with this response, beamed at her. She hated how her automatic response was to preen at his approval. Then he got back to work.

“Now, before I start asking questions, I need you both to take an oath. Do you know that you have to take an oath of disclosure?”

This fact had come up during the internet research they’d done in the weeks leading up to today. “Yes, sir,” Sarah and Philippe intoned together, like a couple of obedient children.

“So let’s do that. Please raise your right hand and say, ‘I do swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.’” 

Philippe raised his hand as instructed, and began, “I do swear to tell the–”

Richard Morris flipped his palm up like a conductor urging their orchestra into a crescendo. “Speak up, boy!”

Philippe started again, more loudly, only for Richard Morris to silence him with a disgruntled slap on the table. “No need to shout! Sit up straight, and say the words like you mean them.”

The third time Philippe sat up straight and made it through unscathed, and Sarah was somehow saved from the same humiliation when it was her turn to recite the oath.

With the oath out of the way, Richard Morris regarded them both. “The truth, now. I only want the truth. And please remember that Mister Boochard’s future depends on this interview.” Philippe’s jaw clenched, but Sarah was glad that he didn’t try again to correct Richard Morris’s ongoing butchering of his name. The interview was just beginning but Sarah was getting the distinct impression that this interviewer didn’t take well to being crossed.

“Now, Sarah,” he said. “Let’s start with an easy question. How is the weather today?”

The weather? What did the weather have to do with Philippe’s green card? She shrugged. “It’s fine.”

Richard Morris harumphed. Sarah had never actually seen somebody do it, but somehow this man did. “Fine? It’s been raining for three days straight, and you think it’s fine? Does your umbrella think it’s fine?”

“I’m sorry, sir,” she replied automatically, upset at his disappointment for reasons she didn’t wish to explore. “The weather’s crummy.” 

Richard Morris squinted at her. “But maybe… maybe she likes the rain. How about that? Were you lying before, or are you lying now?”

As it happened, Sarah enjoyed the rain – the rhythm of the drops battering the roof and sidewalks, beads of water tracing down the window, how it makes the whole world smell fresh and new. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat and thought about the best way to excuse her white lie. “Sir, I do like–”

Richard Morris interrupted her with a booming laugh. “Oh, Sarah, I’m just pulling your leg. Testing you, if you will. I always do that just to loosen things up a bit. From now on, however, we’re going to be serious, and you both are going to be honest.” 

Like good little children.

Sarah forced her face into a grimace and nodded along.

“Honesty! Let’s be honest. That’s all I ask. Now, Mister Boochard, where were you born and when did you come to the United States?”

“I was born and grew up in Drummondville, Quebec. It’s a small city not far from Montreal. And I came to the United States seven years ago, to take a Ph. D. at the university.”

“Ah, Quebec! So you’re that kind of French!” Richard Morris chuckled, and Philippe laughed along with him, although Sarah could tell that he wasn’t sure what was supposed to be amusing. Just keep smiling. They just needed to get through this interview. If Richard Morris wanted to tell borderline-insulting jokes, they could handle it. 

After their laughter finally died, Richard Morris asked his next question. “Did you finish your Ph. D?”

“I did. Two years ago.”

“And what was the focus of your study?”

Philippe lit up. This was a good question for him; he loved to talk about his scholarship. “I undertook a comparative reading of Beowulf and–”

“That’s enough, thank you.” Richard Morris said it like he was excusing an annoying child, and Philippe visibly deflated. Sarah bristled on his behalf. But there was no time to focus on it because Richard Morris had another question ready to go. “What is your current address, and how long have you lived there?”

Philippe, recovering from whiplash, took a breath. “We live at 1445 Elm Street in Springfield. We bought the house just about eighteen months ago.”

“Condo? House?”

“House,” Philippe answered. “Twin, actually. We live on the right side.”

Richard Morris frowned into the paperwork. “Eighteen months, you said? And you’ve been married…?”

“Three years.” Philippe looked over at Sarah, and she did her best to look back at him with love and not like her stomach was tying itself in knots. “Best three years of my life.”

“That’s always good to hear. I love a juicy love story.” Richard Morris set down his pen. “Since we’re on the topic, why don’t you tell me a bit about your relationship? How did you meet?”

Philippe reached under the table for Sarah’s hand, gave it a squeeze, and her cheeks heated in a blush. “We met at a party,” he answered. “My friend’s house party. His roommate invited Sarah, and that’s where we met.”

They’d met tapping the keg, had sex in the bathroom three hours later and then Philippe had taken Sarah home in the early hours of the next morning; they hadn’t been apart since. A classic Millennial love story, although that was more information than civil servant Richard Morris would ever need.

Richard Morris winked at Sarah, chuckling. “You’re all red, young lady. I’m sure it was quite the memorable first meeting.” Sarah cursed her pale cheeks, that her blush had not escaped his scrutiny.

Philippe squeezed Sarah’s hand more tightly and they shared a glance, but neither of them replied. What was there to say?

“Slut.”

Sarah’s blood turned cold, a combination of fear and humiliation. It sounded like Richard Morris had said “slut.” He couldn’t possibly have said that, could he? That wouldn’t be appropriate. Sarah itched to say something, to ask if she’d misheard, but the cold knots in her belly warned her not to.

Philippe was braver than her, or perhaps just foolhardy. He licked his lips and quietly asked, “Excuse me?”

Richard Morris glanced up at him from his documents, blue eyes suddenly cold. “What?”

“Sir.” Philippe curled into himself, but his voice was louder this time, “It sounded like you said–”

“Nothing, Mister Boochard, just making a note to myself.” He paused for a moment, daring Philippe to say anything more, but Philippe closed his mouth and shook his head. “All right, then, back to the matter of the interview. So you dated for…?” He peered at Philippe over his odd little half-moon glasses.

Philippe took another stabling breath before answering. “Two… two years. I proposed after two years, and a year later we were married.”

“I love proposals!” Richard Morris was all smiles again, that damn smile and those damn twinkling blue eyes. “Tell me about the proposal.”

“We were at Disney World with Sarah’s family. I proposed over dinner at Cinderella’s Castle.” Despite her ongoing discomfort, Sarah softened at the memory. It might have been cheesy, but it was also perfect.

“Did you have sex there? Missionary or doggy style?”

“Excuse me?” The question horrified Sarah to the core, and the words flew out of her mouth before she knew they were in there. But Richard Morris was already laughing before they hit the air.

“I’m just kidding, of course! Oh my dear, you should have seen your face.” He chuckled for a few more seconds, even wiped a tear out of the corner of his eye, while Sarah and Philippe sat in shocked silence, gripping their hands together under the table more tightly than ever. “I do have a sense of humor.”

“Quite a sense of humor,” Philippe replied. He looked dazed, like he wasn’t sure how he should or could respond. Sarah felt exactly the same way. With every question the interview room felt smaller, more confined. She was desperate to leave. They could do it – stand up and leave. Richard Morris couldn’t stop them. They wouldn’t even have to run, although Sarah was itching to dash around the table and down the hall and the stairs and out on the sidewalk and she could keep running all the way home.

But.

Philippe needed a green card to stay in the country. They couldn’t leave. They had to sit here and answer Richard Moore’s invasive questions and smile at his jokes. It didn’t matter if he was offensive; they were only words, after all. It wouldn’t take much longer. They could take it.

“I’m glad you appreciate it, Mister Boochard. From the look on her face I’m not sure your missus is a fan, but we’ll give her time. Now, back to your house. Good house for a family?” He turned to Sarah, that bright smile focused solely on her. It made her feel like a bug trapped under a magnifying glass on a sunny and cloudless day. “I couldn’t help but notice…” he trailed off and gestured to Sarah’s pregnant belly, tucked against the edge of the table.

“Oh. Yes.” Philippe continued, as Sarah attempted to cover herself with her free arm. The way Richard Morris ogled her made her feel icky, like he was trying to imagine how she looked with her clothes off, or how her muscles joined together under her skin. “Three bedrooms, two baths. Little yard.”

“Fine for a family,” Sarah mumbled, willing Richard Morris to look away from her. But he didn’t. Instead he aimed his next question at her.

“Healthy pregnancy? Everything going well?”

Sarah bit her tongue, finding herself unable to form words, and after a moment Philippe answered for her. “Six months along! Baby’s doing well.” He sounded cheerful, but Sarah could tell he was nervous. Normally taciturn, Philippe got chatty when he was nervous. “A girl, we think. Well, hope, we don’t know for sure. We’ll be happy either way. Um.”

Philippe glanced at his wife and, apparently realizing he’d said enough, he fell into silence. But Richard Morris didn’t seem to notice.

“Good, good. We want healthy American families, don’t we. Tasty.”

Sarah’s blood ran cold again, her teeth clenched tight, but she wasn’t going to respond. She was not. She would laugh and wait for the next question. She willed Philippe to do the same thing.

But Philippe had other ideas.

“Excuse me?” Philippe leaned forward, his voice shaking. “What did you say?”

“Nothing.” Richard Morris grinned, showing his teeth. “Just clearing my throat.”

But Philippe pressed on. “No, I’m pretty sure you said ‘tasty.’” He pronounced every word with great care.

Richard Morris’s grin flipped into a displeased frown. “Why on earth would I say ‘tasty’ when we’re talking about your unborn child?”

Sarah gripped Philippe’s hand harder, willing him to shut up and let it go, but he would not be waylaid. “I don’t know, sir, maybe you like to eat unborn children?”

Richard Morris’s cheeks deepened from pink cherry to angry red, and his eyes glinted like steel. Slowly, he pushed the chair back, scraping the legs across the linoleum, then he stood—he really was quite tall—and flipped the folder closed. 

“I can deny your application,” he said, in a slow cold voice that trickled like ice down Sarah’s spine. “You have offended me greatly. You’ve challenged my authority. But today is my granddaughter’s birthday, so I’m feeling generous. So instead of denying your application and kicking you out right now – which is what I want to do, what I should do – I am going to go find a few colleagues and we will have a little pow wow to decide what on earth we are going to do with you.”

He stared at them, his icy silence filling the room until Sarah feared she would stop breathing.

“Thank you, sir,” she said, finally remembering her manners.

At that Richard Morris left, closing the door carefully behind him, which was somehow more terrifying than it would have been had he slammed it shut. 

“Philippe!” Sarah cried after they’d been alone for a minute and she was sure Richard Morris wasn’t going to come back. The relief at not having to hold herself back flooded her system, and her eyes were immediately flooded with tears. “Please! Do you want a green card? Just answer the fucking questions! If he wants to say crazy shit just let him say it!”

“That was inappropriate!” He fumed, crossing his arms so she couldn’t hold his hand. “Imagine implying that I might want to eat my baby and thinking that’s a legitimate thing to say. On top of all the…” he waved his hands, “the sex questions. Mon amour, he called you a slut! Is that even legal?”

“He can ask whatever he wants. That’s literally his job.” Sarah wrapped her arms protectively around her bump. “I don’t like to think about … god, that,” she couldn’t even bring herself to say it. “But Philippe… if you want to stay in the country, with me, with us, you need to stay calm and answer the fucking questions.”

Philippe would never admit she was right. He didn’t have anything else to say, and neither did she. They sat together, fuming in silence, and waited for the verdict.

They didn’t have long to wait. Only a few minutes later, a middle-aged woman who reminded Sarah of Jamie Lee Curtis on a bad day entered the room and slid into the chair previously occupied by Richard Morris. She smiled at them apologetically.

“My name is Karen Smith, and I’ll be finishing up your interview this afternoon. I am sorry, Mister…” she glanced down at the paperwork “Boochard. My colleague Richard can be a bit old fashioned, and his sense of humor certainly isn’t for everyone.”

Sarah watched Philippe wrestle with himself about whether to correct her pronunciation, or to issue any further complaints about Richard Morris, and was relieved when he decided not to. 

“That’s all right, Missus Smith,” Philippe replied with a bow of his head. “Thank you for taking over the interview.”

“It’s fine. It happens.” She took a minute to glance through the first few documents in the folder, and then looked back up with a glowing smile. “So, how is the pregnancy going?”

Philippe replied slowly. “It’s… going well. We’re six months along and everything is progressing right as it should be. The due date is just before Thanksgiving.”

“A Thanksgiving baby!” Karen Smith exclaimed, delighted. “Just in time for the biggest meal of the year!” 

Her laugh was pleasant, and Sarah gave herself permission to relax as she laughed along with the other two. It was a nice moment, and Sarah was looking forward to getting the rest of the interview done and over with. Maybe they would even have time for a late lunch at that nice cafe down by the river.

But there were still more questions. Sarah sat up straight and prepared herself for the next one.

Karen Smith winked at her. “Thanksgiving talk is actually a good segue into my next question – the most important one. Your new baby, so tender and sweet: do you think it will go better with a red wine, or a white?”