America's Dream (23 page)

“Good, come next week then. The family is here every Sunday, and you can see your cousins.”

“That sounds nice.” “Poldo can come get you.”

“I think there’s a train from here.”

“It would be so nice to see you, mi’ja. It’s been years.” “Sí, Tía.”

“Let me have your number so we can call you. We’re sitting down to dinner—”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t worry, nena, how would you know? Here, I’ve got a pen. No, that one doesn’t work. Hang on.” América hears her

rummaging around, then asking if anyone has a pen. Then she asks if there’s paper somewhere, and several voices answer, and there’s a rustle and then Paulina is on the phone again, but the pen doesn’t work and she has to find another, and people are laughing in the background.

On her end, América feels left out. Paulina, three years older than Ester, has been married to the same man for more than thirty years. In her letters and conversations during infrequent visits to Vieques, Paulina boasts about her family. Their Christmas cards are always a picture of Paulina and Leopoldo surrounded by their children. Even as adults, Carmen, Orlando, and Elena have posed for the picture, as if not doing so will jinx the image of family spirit. On her wall of memories, Ester has a progression of her sister’s life, from wedding picture to pictures of Paulina and Leopoldo holding Carmen, and three years later, Orlando, Carmen smiling at the baby, and six years after that, Paulina holding Elena, with Orlando and Carmen on either side of her smiling angelically while Leopoldo stands behind her looking as proud as the only rooster in the hen yard. In recent years the family Christmas card has also included a picture of Orlando’s wife, Teresa, and their daughter, Eden.

When Paulina finally gets back on the phone with a working pen and a clean piece of paper, América gives her the number, then hangs up with many apologies for having disturbed their family gathering.

She would have liked to have been invited for tomorrow, Monday. She can’t bear the thought of another day in Mount Kisco being watched by women holding on to their men.

But even if they had invited her, she would not have dared drive the Leveretts’ car to the Bronx. In the week she has been in Westchester, she has heard the Bronx mentioned three times. The first time was when she asked Karen how far it was from her house, and Karen seemed to make a face, but it was dark in the car and maybe América was reading more into it than was there. Then, a couple of days later, she was watching the news as she prepared for bed and they showed a group of skyscrapers in the Bronx that the reporter said had become the home for several

thousand Russian families. She was surprised at this, since the only people she ever knew who came from the Bronx were Puerto Rican. None of the guests at La Casa del Francés were ever from the Bronx. But many of her neighbors’ relatives, like her aunt, lived in the Bronx, and so she had always come to think of it as an island for Puerto Ricans. The idea of Russians living in the Bronx adds a new dimension, like when she learned that Rubén Blades was Panamanian.

Last night the news from the Bronx was not so good. Someone tried to carjack an off-duty policeman. Both the carjacker, who was shot, and the policeman, who shot him, had Spanish last names. But the carjacker didn’t look Puerto Rican, nor did he look like the Spanish people she saw today in Mount Kisco. She won- ders where people who live in the Bronx come from, other than Puerto Rico and Russia.

“Oh, it’s like a United Nations here,” Paulina tells her later when she calls América back. “We live in an Italian neighborhood, and a few blocks down it’s mostly Jewish. The Puerto Rican neighborhood is farther down, but we moved from there years ago.”

“Are you very far from where I am?”

“Poldo said you’re about an hour away. Mi’ja, you’re in the middle of nowhere!”

“It’s pretty here, though. I like it. It’s quiet.”

“It’s like Vieques, then. You probably wouldn’t like the Bronx because it’s too lively.” She catches herself. “That’s not to say that the people here are rowdy. We live in a very nice neighborhood of hardworking people.”

“If I come next weekend—”

“There are no ifs, mi’ja. You must come.”

América smiles. “When I come next weekend, could you take me shopping for warm clothes?”

“Sí, of course. But why spend money? We have coats and sweaters you can have. You know my girls. They must have the latest, so they give what they no longer wear to me. Not that I can fit into them anymore. I’m almost fifty years old, you know.”

“You always sent us such nice things.”

“Well, I always say there’s no sense hanging on to things you no longer need.”

“Mami never throws anything out. She still has the dress she wore to your wedding.”

“Ay, mi’ja, my sister has always done that. Always squirreling things away. Your grandmother, may she rest in peace, was constantly after her to throw away empty bottles and pencil stubs and things like that. But Ester was always a collector. She even saved your ombligo from when you were born.” Paulina laughs, a clear girlish sound that brings a smile to América’s lips.

“I know, and Rosalinda’s.” On her after, Ester keeps two small covered jars with her and Rosalinda’s umbilical stubs floating in a foul yellow liquid. “I don’t know why she does that.”

“Who knows why people do things. It must be God’s way of making us all interesting to each other. Imagine how boring life would be if we were all alike.”

Actually, América thinks as she’s getting ready for bed, it would be very nice if we were all alike, if we all had the same things and looked the same and didn’t have to worry about whether that neighbour is more good-looking or that one has a nicer car. Rev- erend Nuñez sermonized on this topic, but she can’t quite remem- ber his conclusion. Something about we’re all the same in God’s eyes and the Day of Judgement. She punches her pillows down before turning off the bedside lamp. That’s the problem with re- ligion. You can’t get a straight answer until you die, by which time the question doesn’t matter.

Asopao

onday morning América waits until Karen’s Explorer turns onto the dirt road before she comes out of her room. The kitchen is as messy as the morning she first saw it, with dishes all over the place, an open box of cereal flakes on the counter, bowls, spoons, and cups left where they were last used. América clears the table, washes the dishes, makes herself coffee and toast. Karen told her that on Mondays a baby-sitter picks up Meghan and Kyle from school and watches them until Karen comes home. Although Karen didn’t say anything, América thinks she shouldn’t be there when the baby-sitter arrives with Meghan. In any case, if she stays in the house much longer, she’s going to start cleaning, like she did in the kitchen even though this is

supposed to be her day off.

She decides to take the car and explore a bit more. It would be a good idea, América thinks, to drive to the children’s school, to make sure she can find her way there on her own. But this is only an excuse. The truth is, América loves to drive.

She loves being in control of a machine as complicated as a car. She loves the purring sound of the engine, the wind whishing through the open window. She loves how she only has a second to look at things before they disappear behind her.

She negotiates the narrow curvy roads with ease. She learned

to drive on roads as narrow, as curvy, as crowded on either side with vegetation. She stops several times to look at the fenced meadows where horses munch placidly on tufts of grass. Behind massive gates, she can sometimes glimpse mansions. She’s grateful for the houses close to the road, the ones not hidden be- hind tall hedges or fences. She stops the car and admires them from across the street, imagining herself inside.

In Vieques, the Yanquis’ houses are all concrete and glass, ex- posed to the sun and winds of the island. Here the houses are tucked amid bushes and trees, with drapes to keep intruding eyes from seeing into the family’s secrets. She wonders about the people who own these homes, whether their wealth is something they take for granted or whether they get down on their knees to thank God for their good fortune, as Reverend Nuñez suggests to his congregation. In the week she has been with the Leveretts, God hasn’t come up once, and América asks herself if rich people need him as much as poor people do.

She drives into Mount Kisco again but this time doesn’t get out of the car. Past the statues of Christopher Columbus and the un- happy Indian, she finds herself in a busy strip of businesses. On this road, she remembers, is the supermarket where she is to do the shopping, although she’s sure Karen approached it from a different direction. Beyond it is a huge department store called Caldor. She drives into the parking lots, peeks into the windows but doesn’t get out, saving the discovery of what’s inside for an- other time.

“It’s a new job,” Karen tells her Monday night. “So the hours will be a little crazy for a while.” She sits on the couch in América’s room, looks around to see if she has made any changes.

“No worry, I take care everything.”

Karen hands her a sheet of paper. América studies the colored blocks with the children’s names and the place and phone number of where they’re supposed to be at various times.

“This is the schedule for Meghan this week. Tomorrow she has a play date with Lauren Rippley.”

América looks up. “Excuse?”

“Meghan.” Karen enunciates slowly, her eyes intent on América’s.

“Yes, Meghan. She has…I no understand.” Her entire body burns with embarrassment.

“Oh.” Karen smiles. “A play date. That means she’s going over to her friend’s house to play.”

“Ah, yes. How you call? Plé det?”

“Play date,” Karen enunciates again. “Play date.”

América nods. Plé det, she repeats under her breath. Plé det. “The Rippleys’ housekeeper will pick them both up at school

and bring Meghan back around three.” She hands América Kyle’s schedule.

“Then they have their swimming lesson. Do you remember how to get to the health club?”

“Yes.” On her drive yesterday, América made sure she could get to all the places Karen expects her to know about, like the children’s school, the health club, the supermarket, the karate and gymnastics studios where the kids take classes.

“I’ll be home around 7:00
P.M.
” Karen looks down at another sheet of paper with phone numbers for her and Charlie, the chil- dren’s doctors, the pharmacy, the two sets of grandparents in Florida, a close neighbor. “I taped one of these by the kitchen phone, but I thought you’d like to have one by your phone.”

América puts it on her bedside table without looking at it. “And this,” Karen says, handling her a booklet, “is a school

directory, where you can find the names and numbers for the children’s friends. I’ve highlighted Kyle’s friends in yellow and Meghan’s friends in orange.”

“You so organized,” América says admiringly. “If I weren’t, life around here would be chaotic.”

Maybe that was my problem in Vieques, América considers, I wasn’t organized enough.

“It would probably be best if you fed the children early, around five-thirty, so they don’t have to wait for us.”

“Okéi.”

“And you know how to reach me, in case of an emergency.”

“I have all your numbers.”

“Kyle knows how to dial nine-one-one.” “Excuse?”

“You know, the emergency number…”

“Oh, okéi.” Karen is so thorough, América can’t think of any- thing to ask that she hasn’t already mentioned.

As she walks out of the room, Karen looks at the thermostat on the wall. “You like it warm in here.”

“Is cold outside.”

Karen smiles. “Good night, then,” and closes the door behind her.

The thermostat is set to the highest temperature possible, four notches over the gold number 80. She’s not turned it down since she arrived. It is the only room in the house that’s warm enough, and América now wonders if Karen Leverett is criticizing her for having the temperature up so high. After all, they’re paying for it. She turns it down a couple of notches, then gets ready for bed, putting on an extra pair of socks in case she gets cold overnight.

The Rippleys’ baby-sitter is a bouncy young girl with long blond hair and eyes so clear they appear colorless. She jogs to the front door with Meghan on her hip. América has been waiting for them, worried that she’ll be late to pick up Kyle if they don’t come in the next five minutes.

“Hi,” the baby-sitter chirps, passing Meghan to América. “She had a snack. We made Rice Krispie treats.”

“Oh,” América responds.

“Okay, bye.” The baby-sitter bounces down the front steps and jogs to the waiting car, where an equally pale little girl waves languidly.

“What you say?” América encourages Meghan.

“Thank you,” she calls out as the baby-sitter pulls out of the driveway.

“You have good time?” América asks, and Meghan nods. “Okéi, we get Kyle now for to swim.” She locks the front door behind her and walks around the house holding Meghan by the hand.

“I have to pee,” the little girl says as they reach the car. “Now?” América asks, with a hint of exasperation. Meghan

nods, and América picks her up and runs her to the house. “We no have time,” she says as she opens the door. “You make peepee fast.” She runs Meghan to the hall bathroom, helps her pull off her jacket so that she can get to the overalls underneath. She un- hooks the overalls, is about to pull down Meghan’s panties when the little girl screeches.

“I do it myself!”

“Okéi, okéi.” América backs off, stands at the open door waiting for her. Meghan sits down.

“Close the door.”

“Okéi.” América closes the door, stands outside listening to make sure Meghan flushes. These American kids are so independ- ent! She remembers wiping Rosalinda’s bottom until she was four. “Hurry, we late,” she calls.

“I’m done.” Meghan comes out of the bathroom struggling with her overalls.

“I help,” América offers, but Meghan turns from her and manages to hook one side. “Here your jacket,” América says, but Meghan is still fiddling with the second fastener. “Plis, Meghan, we have to go.” She hates herself for pleading with a three-year- old. She waits a few seconds, but Meghan is unable to hook the fastener.