America's Dream (35 page)
“Puerto Rican potatoes,” América answers. She’s learned not to tell them too much about what’s in the food she cooks. Mention of anything other than salt makes them refuse to eat.
“I like them,” says Meghan. “The clowns?”
“No, the portican potatoes.” Meghan giggles with delight. “América is so funny.”
“Maybe I be clown in circus,” she says, making a silly face. The children laugh and make faces at each other and at her. “Me too, me too. I’m a clown in the circus,” they sing.
“Okéi,” América says. “No more play. Eat now. You finish everything, I give you surprise.”
She can count on Darío to call sometime between nine and eleven every night, depending on his shift. She’s annoyed with herself that she actually looks forward to his calls. Of all the people she talks to on the phone, he’s the only one who she thinks listens to her without giving her advice or slamming the phone.
“It was different working at La Casa,” she tells him, “I worked fewer hours, for one.”
“Do you have enough privacy?”
“I have my own room and bathroom, but if I get hungry in the middle of the night, I feel funny going downstairs to get some- thing to eat.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. It just feels…like it’s not my house. One time I came out of my room after they’d gone to bed and the minute I stepped into the hall Charlie was out of the bedroom
asking who was out there.” She laughs, “I almost fainted from fright.”
“I bet you scared him too.”
“Probably.” There are silences in their conversations, moments in which she knows he’s wondering what to say next and she’s going over her day to see if anything interesting happened.
“Janey got a hundred on a spelling test.” “She’s intelligent.”
“Johnny is too, but he didn’t have a test this week.”
“Kyle, the little boy I take care of, got his orange belt in karate.” She’s never asked about his late wife, and he’s never asked about Correa. She’s never asked about his drug use, and he’s never mentioned el problema con Rosalinda. It’s as if there’s a
gate into the other’s life that neither wants to open just yet.
e’ll take you out to dinner tonight, so don’t cook,” Karen tells her the next morning on her way out the door. “I’ll be
home around six, and then we’ll go.” “Is Daddy coming too?” asks Kyle.
“Daddy has to work.” Karen avoids looking at Kyle. “It will just be the four of us, okay?”
“We don’t have to,” América says.
“Nonsense, it’s your birthday, and we should celebrate.” They troop out, and América is left alone in the house, embarrassed that she mentioned today was her birthday. Now Karen feels like she should do something for her.
She does her morning chores. The Leverett house, once so for- midable, now feels small compared to the other homes she’s been in. Liana works in a much bigger house; so does Mercedes. They don’t have to cook, though.
Even though she tried, América hasn’t been able to find the extra hours Karen claims she can get if she’s just more efficient. Efficiency, to América, means doing things well in as short a time as possible. And she finds that the more efficient she becomes in one area, such as ironing, the more time she has for things she thinks ought to be done around the house, such as
scraping old dirt from the narrow space between the baseboard molding and the wall-to-wall carpeting.
In the three months she’s been with them, Karen and Charlie have not entertained at home. They’ve had dinners out, and once some friends came over on a Friday night after dinner and they all went downstairs and watched videos in the sports den.
América feels tension between them, even though they try to hide it from her and the children. It’s like a tide, sometimes strong, other times barely perceptible. But it’s always there.
For the past few days, Charlie has been sleeping in the guest room. He comes in late and goes right up to his office and sleeps up there. Once she heard them arguing in their bedroom, but the next morning he hadn’t slept with her and her diaphragm had not been used.
When she washes Charlie’s shirts, América looks for signs of another woman’s lipstick or makeup. But his shirts are as un- marked as always, so América concludes that he’s not sleeping around, or if he is, he’s very good at hiding it. Charlie doesn’t strike her as the type of man who would have mistresses anyway. Men who have a roving eye direct it at everything that moves. She’s never felt like he’s looking at her as anything but another person in his household.
Maybe I’m not his type, she tells herself, wondering if any of the other empleadas have ever been bothered by the men they work for. It’s a subject that comes up in their chats every so often. They all feel vulnerable to the unwanted advances of their em- ployers, but none has ever admitted to anything like that happen- ing to them.
While she’s picking up in Kyle’s room, she hears the phone ring in her room. By the time she gets to it, it has stopped, and she stands near it for a few moments, hoping whoever it was will call again. It could be Paulina or one of the empleadas, to find out if she’ll be at the playground later. When the caller doesn’t try again, she goes back to her work. Several times that morning the same thing happens. But no matter how long she stays in her room to wait for the next call, it doesn’t come until she’s too far away to get to the phone on time. She dials
Paulina’s number, but there’s no answer. She finally gives up, figuring it’s one of the empleadas.
When she picks up Meghan from school, the little girl is holding a creation made with macaroni, ribbons, and glitter stuck to a paper plate.
“For you,” Meghan says.
“Is beautiful, thank you.” On the lower edge of the paper plate, Meghan has pressed her handprints in bright red paint. América touches the scratchy surface with her pinkie, as if making sure it won’t rub off. “I love.”
“I made it all by myself,” Meghan announces, “but Mrs. Morris helped with the ribbons.”
“Is very beautiful,” América repeats, and hugs the child.
After lunch, Meghan’s friend is dropped off. América monitors their play and again is bothered by the insistent telephone. It’s as if the caller can see her coming and hangs up just as she enters the room. When it’s time to pick up Kyle, América drops off Meghan’s friend first, then drives the Leverett kids to the play- ground. Frida and Mercedes are there.
“I called you earlier, but there was no answer,” says Mercedes. “I was wondering who was calling so many times.”
“I only called once,” Mercedes says, insulted at the implication that she has nothing better to do than call América.
“My phone has been ringing like crazy, and the minute I go to answer it, they hang up.”
“I hate it when that happens,” says Frida, “and then I remember that eighteen months ago I didn’t even have a phone.”
Mercedes and América laugh. “Adela found a job,” says Mercedes. “Already?”
“That woman is so lucky,” Mercedes adds. “A couple they share their apartment with is going back to Guatemala, so they recommended her and Ignacio. It’s in Larchmont, near the water and everything.”
“I hope he doesn’t ruin it for her,” mumbles Frida.
“It’s what they’ve been hoping for all along,” says América. “Yes, but he’s used to his freedom,” argues Frida.
“It’s different for the men to work interno,” adds Mercedes. “They live in a house that’s not theirs, and it’s usually the lady of the house that’s telling them what to do. Our men like to wear the pants in the family.”
“In this country you can’t be too proud,” declares Frida, “you have to do what it takes. There’s no place for that kind of mach- ismo.” Mercedes and América both turn to Frida with a startled look. Frida smiles sheepishly. “Mrs. Finn gave me a book. It’s by a Latina, and she talks about what we mujeres should do to get ahead in this country.”
“You sound like a feminist,” Mercedes says coyly. “You’d better watch it.”
“I’m not a feminist, but this book makes sense. I’ll lend it to you, if you like. It’s in Spanish.”
“No thanks, I hate to read,” Mercedes says airily. “I’d better get the kids home.” She walks toward the tire swing, where the twins are being given a ride by Kyle. “Hasta mañana.”
“It’s funny,” América says softly. “What is?”
“What you just said, about machismo and pride.” Frida looks at América as if surprised that anyone was listening. “I never thought about it that way.”
“What way?”
“Latinos invented machismo, and I always thought of it like…only as the way they treat women, possessiveness and jealousy and all that.” She searches for the right words. “But it’s really about pride. I never thought of it that way.” She smiles apologetically, as if Frida knows the answer to a crucial question and she’s just guessing.
“Hmmm,” says Frida, watching a bird alight on a fence post. “Anyway,” says América, “I’d better take the kids home.” She
doesn’t know why she feels embarrassed, as if she has just re- vealed a great secret that will be all over town by tomorrow. Then she realizes why. She’s not used to talking to people about ideas, has never tried to enter a discussion where an important
question with no possible answer is thrown out and you’re sup- posed to come up with possibilities.
Men do that all the time. Correa, Feto, and Tomás sometimes sat under the mango tree in the backyard of La Casa del Francés and discussed politics and newspaper stories. They had an opinion about everything, it seemed, and she looked down on it because most of the time it sounded like three men who didn’t know what they were talking about pretending they did so as not to lose face. Every once in a while, however, they’d get into subjects that were interesting. Like when they discussed the fate of Vieques if the Navy were ever to leave the island. They brought forth arguments based on historical events, and quoted figures and projections and people she’d never heard about to support their arguments. She loved to hear them talk then, when they were serious and passionate about their beliefs, when the discus- sions were more than three peacocks trying to scare one another with false eyes.
They gather the children, who, as usual, don’t want to leave. América wishes she’d asked Frida for the book. She’d like to learn something new, to look at life from a different perspective. I missed so much by not staying in school, she laments. That’s what I kept telling Rosalinda. That’s where she could do things differ- ently from me. I could have made something of myself, learned a profession. But I never thought that far ahead. I never had dreams of being a schoolteacher like Frida, or a nurse like Adela, or a bank teller or telephone operator. Maybe that’s been the problem. I’ve never had any dreams of my own, so Mami and Correa and even Rosalinda walk all over me. They try to, anyway. They have no respect for me. She shakes her head. I’ve had no respect for myself.
The restaurant is a huge diner in the center of Mount Kisco. She’s passed it many times but has never been inside. They’re seated at a booth, Karen next to Kyle and América next to Meghan. The waiters and busboys are all Latinos. They speak to one another in Spanish, then turn around with an obsequious smile and ask the customers for their orders in English. She’s
now become adept at guessing where they’re from by their accent. The woman who waits on them looks and sounds Guatemalan, like Adela.
América doesn’t know what to order. She’s hungry and it’s her birthday, and she’d love to eat a lobster like the one she saw the waitress carry past a minute ago. But she doesn’t want to order the most expensive thing on the menu so that Karen will think she’s taking advantage of her. The menu is large enough that she can hide behind it as she eyes what other diners have in front of them or what the waiters carry past their booth to other tables. The portions are enormous, each one enough for two or three people, she thinks, and perhaps Karen expects her to order one platter and share it with the children. But Karen is talking to the children about what they might like and seems to have already made up her mind as to what she will have.
“Does anything look good to you?” she asks América.
“Oh, yes, everything look good,” she responds enthusiastically so that Karen knows she’s happy with the place.
“What do you think you’d like?”
“I don’t know, is so many things.” She knows there are various chicken dishes, and she saw lasagna and spaghetti and a whole section on burgers. But her English is not good enough to under- stand everything that’s on the menu.
“The prime rib is good here,” Karen says, “if you like that sort of thing.”
Obviously, thinks América, Karen doesn’t. The waiter goes by with shrimps covered with a garlicky sauce. América wonders how much that is and scans the menu for the word
shrimp
, but there are several listed and she doesn’t know which is the one that just went by. They’re all expensive too.
“Maybe you would like some chicken?” asks Karen, and América scans the prices following the word
chicken
. They’re lower than the ones next to shrimp.
“Okéi,” she says, emerging from behind the menu, “chicken.”
The waiter passes with another platter of lobster, this one with shrimps on the side.
“Maybe you’d prefer lobster?” asks Karen, following her gaze. América blushes deeply. “No, no. Chicken okéi.”
“But it’s your birthday, you should have something special,” Karen insists with an encouraging smile.
“Yeah, América,” pipes in Kyle, “ju it lobster,” imitating her accent. They laugh, and Meghan decides she too can imitate América.
“You eat lobster,” she says, not as good a mimic as her brother. “It’s settled, then,” Karen says. “Lobster.” And they all laugh and América is relieved not to have to argue, since that’s what
she wants and they did insist.
“A glass of wine with your dinner?” Karen asks. “Oh, no, thank you, I no drink.”
“Never?”
“No, never,” she says, her face hot.
Once the orders are out of the way, the children chatter about their day in school and at the playground. Karen tries to include her in the conversation, but the children are intent on having their mother’s attention to themselves, and so the meal progresses much as if América were not there, except for the times she reaches over to help Meghan cut up her hamburger, or when Kyle spills his drink and she has to get up and find the waiter and a rag to wipe the table.
