America's Dream (21 page)

“You eat good breakfast,” América tells them, “you grow big.” Her statements sound to them like commandments. Unlike their mother, she doesn’t punctuate every instruction with “okay?” She doesn’t expect them to agree with her, she expects them to obey. If they argue, she tells them she doesn’t understand what they’re saying and repeats her instructions, and they have to do as she says because otherwise, she gets a look on her face like the morning she cut up the banana as if each slice were a warning. “Cold breakfast not good,” she tells them, and the next morning, when Karen comes down to the family room, the chil- dren are eating a fragrant bowlful of hot oatmeal with honey and drinking a cup of sweetened warm milk, through which América

has swirled a stick of cinnamon to give it some taste.

“Oh, that smells yummy,” Karen says, and América places a bowlful next to her mug of coffee.

“Is good for you,” she says, and Karen Leverett eats it as if she’s never had it before.

As she closes the back door on them the fifth day, América sighs with satisfaction. She’s learning their ways and is beginning to change them.

Everything in the Leverett household is done by machine. Some of them she’s used in the houses tucked into the high hills of Vieques that she cleaned, others she’s seen advertised in the cir- culars folded into the Sunday paper. But the Leveretts seem to have more than their share. There are three machines for getting a cup of coffee. One to grind the beans, and depending on whether she wants cappuccino or regular coffee, two to make it. There are machines for baking bread, making pasta, steaming rice, pressing and browning sandwiches, chopping vegetables, juicing fruit, slicing potatoes. There are two regular ovens, plus a toaster oven and a microwave, an enormous refrigerator in the

kitchen, a smaller one in the sports den, a freezer. There are ma- chines for washing and drying dishes and clothes. Machines for sweeping rugs, waxing floors, vacuuming furniture. Machines for brushing teeth, curling hair, shaving legs, rowing, walking, climbing stairs. A pants-pressing machine, a sewing machine, a machine that spits out steam for dewrinkling garments. Charlie has a machine to shine his shoes, and Karen has one that steams her face. There are three computers in the house, a telephone system with intercom and preprogrammed numbers for the children’s schools, Karen’s and Charlie’s office, beepers, and car- phone numbers. And there are other machines whose uses she can’t identify.

“They must pay a fortune in electric bills each month,” she tells Ester when she calls her on Sunday morning. “At least as much a month as we pay in a year.”

“All that electricity floating around causes cancer.” “Where did you hear such a thing?”

“There was a special on it—”

“Mami, not everything you see on television is true.”

“Why would they lie about a thing like that?” When challenged, Ester’s voice takes on the petulant whine of an exasperated child. “They interviewed people who got brain cancer from living under electric wires. And a doctor said it could happen.”

“Well, I’m not going to worry about it.”

“It’s probably only certain types of electricity.” “There’s only one type—”

“Why do you always contradict me?”

“I called to tell you I’m all right and not to worry about me, and we end up fighting.”

“I’m not fighting. I was trying to tell you something for your own good.”

“Thank you, then.” She fluffs up the pillows on her bed, curls into a more comfortable position. Neither has mentioned the name that hangs in the silence between speech. The silences that grow the longer they’re on the phone, as each avoids saying the name, avoids being the first to bring him into the conversation.

“Did you talk to Rosalinda?” Ester asks.

“No, I’m calling her next. Did you?” “She was surprised to see you.”

“I had a nice talk with her before I left. She might come live here…once I get settled.” She will not ask about him, will not admit to herself that she has thought about him, has wondered how he has taken her absence.

“Everyone’s talking about how you left,” Ester says tentatively, as if probing for a reaction before continuing.

“How I left?”

“Not saying good-bye to anyone…”

“I said good-bye to the people that mattered.” “They’re talking about you.”

“Who?”

“They’re saying that you ran away with one of the guests—” “Mami, that’s not funny.”

“Correa came over to La Casa and threatened Irving.” Her words now come in a breathless rush, as if she’s been holding on to them for a long time and can’t wait to get them out of her sys- tem. “I’ve moved in with him for a while.”

“With whom?”

“With Irving, until Correa cools off. I’m here today because you said you’d call. Pagán thought it would be best.”

“Pagán? Mami, what is this? Is the whole island involved?” “You don’t know what it’s like here.”

“I’ve only been gone a week! I know what it’s like there, that’s why I’m here.”

“He went crazy. Someone told him you were at the airport, and he was banging on my door before I had my first cup of cof- fee.”

“Oh, my God, Mami. Did he hurt you?”

“I was ready, nena, don’t worry.” Her voice changes to a jovial gurgle. “I grabbed my machete…” Laughter rumbles out of her in rolling fits that make her cough. América imagines her, with her pink curlers and rumpled nightdress, waving the rusty ma- chete she uses to weed her garden at an out-of-control Correa. She winces. “I said to him…” she’s laughing, coughing, laughing, unable to get the words out. In spite of herself, a smile creeps onto América face.

“Get it out, Mami, what did you do?”

“I took that machete, I waved it around…Ay, Dios mío, you should have been there! I said to him, ‘Remember Lorena!’” She laughs, coughs, thumps her chest to soothe the cough.

América guffaws. “Oh, my God, you didn’t!”

“I did. I told him I’d cut his dick off if he came near me!”

She hasn’t laughed this hard in years. Ester, too, is enjoying herself. But América stops, her hands press the receiver so hard she might crush it. “You’re lucky he didn’t yell back, ‘Remember O.J.’”

But Ester doesn’t hear her solemn tone, the sudden change in her daughter’s voice. “I think he finally realized someone in this house is crazier than he is.” She’s laughing at her cleverness, her courage. How long must she have fantasized about confronting Correa this way?

“Has he been around since?”

Ester stops, breathes in spurts that might make anyone else light-headed. “Ay, it was so funny. I’ve never seen a man so scared.”

“Has he, Mami? Have you seen him since?”

Ester is serious again but will not cut the story short. “He ran off with his tail between his legs and flew over to Fajardo, must have just missed you at his aunt’s. He came back the next day, so drunk he could hardly stand up. That’s when he went to La Casa. Irving had him arrested.”

A dull ache begins to pound at her temples. “He’s in jail?” “Nah! Spent a night there. Feto said he was back at work yes-

terday.”

“That’s not the end of it. He must be planning something.” “He doesn’t know where you are. No one here does, not even

me.”

“Don Irving knows. Ay, this is so embarrassing.”

“He said to tell you not to worry. You just take care of yourself.”

In spite of herself, she begins to sob. “Everyone’s being so nice to me…”

“When are you sending money?” “What?”

“The reason people go to New York is so they can send money home.”

América smiles through her tears. “I’ll send you a money order as soon as I get paid.”

“And don’t forget to call Paulina.”

“Okéi, Mami. I’ll call her today.” The silence that follows feels like a hug. “I’ll call you next week.”

“I’ll be here.” “Thank you, Mami.” “Bye, then.”

She sets the receiver down reluctantly and lays back against the pillows. Correa is not dealt with so easily. Especially if he suspects she’s run off with a man. How could such a rumor get started? She didn’t talk to anyone on the van to the airport or on the plane itself. How could anyone, knowing Correa’s temper and behavior, be so cruel as to suggest she was traveling accom- panied by a man? It makes no sense. But it doesn’t matter. For all she knows, the rumors were started by Correa himself, his jealousy, his possessiveness not allowing him to accept the fact that she would ever leave him simply because she wants to. It’s not over. She knows him well enough to fear that he will strike back at her somehow, either through Ester or through Rosalinda. There’s no doubt in her mind that Correa will not ignore the public humiliation she has caused him. He’s biding his time until he can hurt her as much as she has hurt him.

The phone at Tía Estrella’s is picked up on the first ring. “Rosalinda, it’s me.”

“Ay, Mami, he was here! He’s looking for you.”

“Calm down, mi’ja, he doesn’t know where I am. Are you all right?”

“He was so mad. I’ve never seen him like that, Mami. He said horrible things, and he yelled at Tía Estrella. He called you names. And he said he’d kill you both, Mami, are you with another man?” Rosalinda is hysterical. Words come out of her in

a torrent, punctuated by sobs. América swallows hard against the tightness in her throat.

“Now, listen to me, Rosalinda, listen. Are you listening, mi’ja?” “I’ve never seen him so angry. He slapped me…” There’s an intake of breath, as if the words had slipped out against her will.

“He didn’t mean to, I was in the way—”

“Don’t defend him, Rosalinda. There’s no excuse—”

“He loves you so much, Mami, he can’t stand to lose you.”

Where are these words coming from? Has she, América, ever said anything that would give Rosalinda the impression that the beatings have anything to do with love? Has she herself believed this?

“Rosalinda, he doesn’t love me.” Why does her voice catch, her lips tremble? “He doesn’t love me.”

“He says he’ll never let you go. He says no other man can have you.”

América closes her eyes, as if the darkness it creates were sharper than the windowed room with slanted ceilings in which she lies surrounded by pillows. “Rosalinda, get a hold of yourself. You must listen to me.” The child stops whimpering, but her sniffles punctuate América’s words. “I’m not with another man. Don’t believe those rumors. I don’t know where they started, or why, but they’re not true. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Mami.”

She bites her lips, switches the phone from one hand to the other. “The way your father has treated me…it has nothing to do with love. It’s hard to explain, but you mustn’t think that’s the way men show their love.” Her chest tightens, makes it hard to breathe. All of a sudden she’s cold, her fingers are stiff and her teeth chatter like castanets. “Or that the fact that I let him beat me means that’s how women show theirs.” What does it mean? What does it mean? What does it mean? She’s so cold she has to pull the covers over herself, speaks to her daughter from the darkness under the comforter.

Rosalinda sniffles, mumbles into the receiver. “Uhumm.” But she hasn’t heard any of it. “He’ll change, Mami. If you come

back. He says he loves you so much…he wants us to be a family again.”

“Rosalinda, we’ve never been a family.” In the darkness every word sounds like a confession.

“What do you mean, we’re not a family? He hasn’t always lived with us, but…but…but…”

América’s voice is low, confidential, as if the words were for- bidden. “He has a family in Fajardo, Rosalinda, you know that. A wife and kids.”

“How come they’re a family and we’re not? Is it because he’s married to the other woman? He had to marry her. He doesn’t love her like he loves you, you know that.”

“Ay, Rosalinda. You’re hurting me.” “He’s not a bad man, Mami.”

“No, mi’ja, he’s not a bad man. He’s just…He’s not a bad man.” Rosalinda is breathless, calling up every argument she can think of. “He was crying. He sat down on Tía Estrella’s couch

and he cried. He’s never done that, Mami.”

He was probably drunk, América wants to respond, but then she feels bad for not giving him the benefit of the doubt. He’s not a good enough actor to fake tears in front of women who idolize him, and he does get mushy sometimes. At the end of
Terminator II
, when the robot man dropped into the vat of boiling metal, Correa sniffled and had to wipe away a tear. When the lights went on in the theater, he pretended to have dropped something under the seat until he regained his composure.

“Your father is…sentimental,” América suggests. “Maybe he’s realizing how badly he has treated me all these years.”

“He does, Mami, and he swears if you come back, he’ll change.” There’s hope in her voice.

“Did he say to tell me that?”

“No, Mami.” There’s a lie in her denial.

“I’m not coming back.” There’s an intake of breath at the other end, followed by another fit of weeping. América can’t understand how, all of a sudden, Rosalinda wants her back in her life after trying so hard to get away from her.

“It’s because of me, isn’t it? Because of what I did?”

It’s stifling hot under the covers. “This is not about you, Ros- alinda, it’s about my life.”

“But if me and Taino hadn’t—”

“What you and Taino did was wrong…” A wail, and for a moment América expects the phone to be slammed down. But Rosalinda hangs on, moans into the phone as if she were being tortured. Each sob is like a rope tying América into knots, each word, each breath out of her daughter’s mouth winding her tighter and tighter, suffocating her.

“I made a mistake, Mami, can’t you understand that? It was a mistake!” She screams into the phone, so that América has to pull it away, hold it in front of her as if expecting a screeching, moaning, sobbing Rosalinda to fly out of it. After a few seconds Rosalinda does hang up, and América is left staring at a silent receiver.

She’s curled up on her bed, knees against her belly, watching the telephone as if it will come alive. It hums a dial tone. It’s something, I suppose, that Rosalinda admits her mistake with Taino. She hasn’t done that before.

América turns over, stretches her legs, wondering at which point of the conversation with her daughter she curled up into herself, so that her right side fell asleep.