America's Dream (13 page)

She misses two days of work. The black eye looks particularly nasty, and it’s hard to comb her hair because of the hard lump behind her ear. Ester complains about having to work four days in a row but goes anyway.

On Saturday América gets up early, feels well enough to send Ester back to bed when she comes out of her room coughing and wheezing. She walks to La Casa, dreading the day ahead.

The other employees notice her bruises, can guess who gave them to her. She avoids them, doesn’t even eat lunch so that she will not have to sit with them and face their scrutiny, the pity in Nilda’s eyes, the triumph in Tomas’s and Feto’s.

She reddens with shame when Don Irving sees her black eye and glides his gaze away, as if he too were embarrassed. A few guests notice the black-and-blue bruise, and she imagines some of them must be wondering how she got it, but no one asks, and if they did, she would lie.

Humming to herself, she tidies the small and large messes left behind by strangers whose life she can only guess about, who don’t think of her unless they run out of toilet paper or if there aren’t enough towels in the room.

On Sunday Correa appears carrying a box of Fannie Farmer chocolates and a cordless telephone. After every beating, he

shows up a few days later with a gift in place of an apology. The size and expense of the gift is usually in proportion to the severity of the beating. Electronics typically mean he knows he’s really hurt her, but chocolates always mean she deserved it.

América turns her face when he tries to kiss her as if their last meeting had been nothing to think about or remember. He expects her to be cold the first time after a beating. But if she’s too distant, he accuses her of provoking him into another fit of anger, some- thing he insists he wants to avoid.

“I bought this for you at the PX,” he says, as he does each time he brings her a gift. Correa is not a soldier, a veteran, or an em- ployee of the U.S. Armed Forces. But somehow, Correa can shop at the Navy PX. She imagines him there, walking up and down the aisles, evaluating each item. A coffee brewer for a split lip. A toaster oven for a black eye. A rocking chair for a broken rib that kept her out of work for a week.

“We don’t have telephone service,” América mutters, as she puts the box on a shelf in the kitchen.

“You should have it connected,” he says, taking a beer out of the refrigerator, “in case Rosalinda needs anything.”

She looks at him archly. He returns the look with a frown, a warning that whatever she was about to say she should keep to herself, or else. América is glad Ester is at Don Irving’s today. If she were here, she’d be grunting sarcastically in the background, directing scornful looks at her. As it is, she’s disgusted with her- self.

Have I lost all self-respect, she asks herself as she silently pre- pares his dinner. She wonders, as she rinses the rice, what would happen if she put rat poison in it. Would it change the flavor? She looks under the sink but finds no poison there. There’s bleach. But bleach has a distinctive odor that she doesn’t think will dis- appear if cooked. Besides, she suspects, he’d have to eat a lot of Clorox-laced rice for it to have any effect. She wonders if any of Ester’s herbs and spices are poisonous. But she imagines if they were, Ester would have used them on Correa by now. How many times, she asks herself as she slices a plantain, would I have to stab him before he bleeds to death? She shakes her head,

imagining the bloody mess and how hard it would be to clean up. Maybe I can hire a hit man to shoot him, like that woman in the United States who was having an affair with her minister. She laughs at herself for thinking such a thing could be arranged in Vieques, where everyone knows everyone else. She serves dinner. Maybe while he’s sleeping I can bash his head in with a bat. Or I can set the bed on fire. I can set the whole room on fire, and he would suffocate in that windowless room he built for me. The thought of Correa gasping for air, his body in flames, sends shivers up and down her spine. He eats the food she’s prepared with undisguised relish, commenting every now and then on how fluffy the rice is, how well spiced the beans, how crispy the fried plantains. But América doesn’t hear him. I could push him off the Esperanza dock, she thinks. I could lace his coffee with sleeping pills. I could fix the brakes on his jeep.

No Balls

América, canayhafawoidwidyu?” She wishes Don Irving would take the cigar out of his mouth when speaking. It

would make it easier to understand what he’s saying. “Excuse?”

“Kemir.”

“Yes?” “Kenyubeibisitunayt?” “Excuse?”

He takes the cigar out, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “María is sick. A guest needs a baby-sitter.”

“Ah, sí, baby-sit!” “Kenyuduit?” “This night?”

Exasperated. “Yes, tonight.” “Okéi.”

“Six-thirty.”

“Okéi.”

“All right.” Don Irving trudges away, chewing on his cigar.

From time to time, guests at La Casa require the services of a baby-sitter while they have a night out. María, Feto’s oldest daughter, is usually called in, because she speaks English and her sweet disposition is reassuring to the parents. But every so often

América will baby-sit if María is not available. She gets paid by the hour and often a tip as well. While almost her entire salary is spent on necessities, her baby-sitting money she spends on herself, on a beauty-parlor permanent or cosmetics.

After work, she goes home to change and eat dinner. She puts a box of crayons and a coloring book in a straw bag. She also packs scissors with blunt tips, a few pieces of construction paper, glue, thread, and scraps of fabric from her sewing. Most of the Américanitos she’s baby-sat are not used to nights without tele- vision. None of the rooms at La Casa have a TV, and it takes the children a few days to adjust. Even though the parents are warned, and most of them bring toys for their kids, América likes to come prepared, just in case.

“Hi! I’m Karen Leverett,” says the young woman who opens the door when she knocks. “And this is Meghan.”

América smiles at the three-year-old girl in Mrs. Leverett’s arms, who hides her face in her mother’s neck. A young man is tying a little boy’s shoelace.

“This is Kyle,” says Mrs. Leverett, her free hand tousling the seven-year-old boy’s hair, “and my husband, Charlie.”

América bends over to shake Kyle’s hand. “Hello.”

“Hi.” He smiles, returning the gesture. Mr. Leverett nods in her direction.

“Meghan, say hello to América, okay?” Mrs. Leverett pries the little girl’s face up. “Here she is. Say hello.”

“Hello,” Meghan says, then buries her face in her mother’s neck again. Mrs. Leverett sends her husband an exasperated look. “Okay, Meghan,” says her father, trying to free her from her mother’s arms. “We’re going out, and this nice lady will stay with you.” The girl wraps her arms and legs tighter around her

mother. “No!”

Mr. Leverett looks at América apologetically. “She’s a little shy.” He goes to the night table and stuffs his wallet, eyeglasses, and keys into his pants pockets. “Karen, we’ll lose our reserva-

tion if we don’t leave soon.” The tone is not lost on América. Mr. Leverett is not a patient man.

“I have crayons,” América offers. She strokes the child’s hair. “We color.” Meghan doesn’t budge. Mrs. Leverett’s pretty dress is getting wrinkled from Meghan’s grip.

“Come on, Meghan, don’t be such a baby,” Kyle says, tugging at his sister’s leg.

América takes Kyle by the hand. “Okéi, Kyle, you and me, we color.”

She takes the boy’s hand and leads him to the table on the other side of the room.

“Meghan, Mommy and Daddy have to go now, and you and Kyle will play with América, okay? Isn’t that a pretty name, América?”

“América is where we live,” she mumbles into Mrs. Leverett’s neck.

Mrs. Leverett blushes. “No silly, that’s America, our country!

She is América. It’s a proper name here.”

“I know a boy named Jesus,” Kyle says, as he rummages through América’s straw bag, “just like at church.”

“You’re intelligent boy.” América strokes his head. Kyle beams. From the corner of her eye she notices that Meghan is watching to see what Kyle takes out of her bag. She positions herself so that the girl can’t see and has to pull away from her mother’s shoulder.

“Look at what América brought,” Mrs. Leverett says. “Would you like to see?” Meghan shakes her head but cranes her neck trying to look past América.

“Karen, Irving said it takes ten minutes to get there.” Mr. Leverett is at the door, his hand on the handle, his right shoe tapping a flat rhythm on the tiles.

“All right, Meghan, you go with América now, okay? Daddy is in a hurry.”

“I don’t want you to go!” Meghan wraps her legs and arms around her mother again, tighter, and sobs disconsolately.

América comes to her, massages her back gently. “Come on,

baby, come with América.” When she hears a child crying like this, it makes América want to cry, and her voice takes on a querulous tone that Meghan finds intriguing. “1 take good care you. Come with me.” Mrs. Leverett pushes a struggling Meghan toward América, who disentangles her from her mother and holds her tight. Meghan screams, fights América, shoves her trying to get to her mother. But Mr. Leverett has grabbed his wife’s elbow and ushered her out.

“You kids behave, now,” he calls as he closes the door.

América’s throat feels tight. She feels both for the child crying in her arms and for the mother who didn’t kiss her good-bye. She saw Mrs. Leverett’s expression as Meghan was wrested from her. It was a mixture of relief and fear, as though she’s glad América intervened but doesn’t really want to go with her husband. Meghan’s tears have affected Kyle, who leans against América, sniffling, as if his courage was only good in front of his father and mother and disintegrates when they’re gone. She holds both children close and comforts them, sings to them “La Malaguena,” which is not a lullaby, but she figures they don’t speak Spanish, so the sense of the words doesn’t matter.

When the children have quieted, she guides them to the table. “We make pictures,” she tells them. The children look at each other as if they don’t understand, so América takes a crayon and draws a stick man with wavy hair. She puts a blank piece of paper in front of each, spills the crayons in the middle of the table. “Now you,” she says. They are as pleased with themselves as she is when they figure out what she wants them to do. “Okéi,” she tells them, “you good kids.”

When the Leveretts return, the children are tucked in bed, fast asleep. On each of the Leveretts’ pillows there is a drawing.

“Oh, this is beautiful!” Mrs. Leverett exclaims, picking up her drawing.

Mr. Leverett studies his drawing as if seeking meaning in the doodles his son has scrawled across the paper. “Very nice,” he concludes, then places it on the bedside table.

“You have good time?” América asks, enunciating every word. “It was lovely,” Mrs. Leverett answers.

“The food was great,” Mr. Leverett agrees. He takes some fol- ded bills from his shirt pocket and hands them to her. “Thank you very much.”

“Thank you.” She picks up her bag and prepares to leave. “See you tomorrow,” Mrs. Leverett says, and América thinks

she’s asking her to baby-sit again, but then realizes she means just what she’s saying.

“Good night,” she wishes them on her way out.

When she comes downstairs, Correa is waiting for her by the back door.

“Ay, Dios santo, you almost gave me a heart attack!”

“Need a lift?” He smiles like a matinee idol. He smells like af- tershave and rum.

“How long have you been here?”

He guides her in the dark toward his jeep. “I was at the Bohio,” pointing to La Casa’s outdoor bar under a mango tree. “Ester said you were baby-sitting. Was it for the couple who just came in?”

“Yes.” She climbs into the passenger seat, her whole body tensing against the inevitable interrogation.

“Who are they?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Leverett, from New York.” “Hmm. He should have given you a ride home.”

“He offered, but I told him I was all right.” She’s glad it’s dark and he can’t see her blushing at the lie.

“He should have insisted.”

“He did. But I insisted too.” Once a guest at La Casa drove her home after baby-sitting, and Correa beat her up for getting into a car with a stranger.

“You should have called me to come pick you up then.”

She winds herself tighter within herself, hardening into a ball, tensing every muscle from the inside out. “Thank you for coming to get me.” She steadies her voice as calm as his, with no hint of a challenge, no tears, no fear.

“Hmm,” he responds as he pulls up in front of her house.

She goes in, and he follows her, carrying a case of beer from the backseat. Ester is already asleep but has left a light on over the stove. América gets ready for bed, puts on a pretty nightgown, loosens her hair. If she can distract him from his jealous thoughts, he might not beat her tonight. But she can’t be too aggressive, or he will beat her up for acting like a slut.

She comes out of the bedroom as he puts beer in the refrigerator and stands by the sink, sipping water as if she had a great thirst. In the window glass over the sink she can see him look at her as he’s about to grab a beer. Her nightgown is sheer, a baby-doll that ends just below her hips. His reflexes are a little slow. He stands in front of the open refrigerator door, watching her, she watching his reflection, his face a study of indecision. She hums a bolero softly, leans over the sink to rinse out the glass, and as she does, pushes her buttocks ever so slightly in his direction. He smiles, rubs the back of his hand across his lips, and closes the refrigerator door.

“Boonus dees, América.”

“Buenos dias, Kyle.” A couple of days later, Mr. Leverett and the children are by the pool when América goes by with a load of sheets for the wash. “You remember very good,” she tells Kyle.

To his father he says, “I can also say boonus tardus, that means good afternoon.”

“Excellent!” Mr. Leverett beams at his son, smiles at América. “You’ve been teaching them Spanish?”