America's Dream (36 page)
For dessert, Karen orders chocolate cake, and América’s comes with a sparkler on it. They sing happy birthday, and people at other tables join in, which América finds mortifying, because everyone turns around to look at her and she feels foolish when she tries to blow the sparkler out and it stays lit until it wears down.
They return home and she helps get the children ready for bed. When Karen takes them to her room to read them a story, she retreats to her own room, feeling giddy, as if she had accepted the glass of wine after all. The phone is ringing, but when she gets to it, it stops. She stamps her foot in frustration. She undresses and runs a hot bath, then pulls the phone cord as
far as it goes, short of the bathroom door. She can’t relax in the bath, however, expecting the phone to ring, and when it doesn’t, she curses softly, angry with herself when she should be mad at whoever is calling. There’s a knock and a lot of giggling outside her room. She throws on a robe and opens the door.
“We forgot to give you this.” Karen and the children, in their night clothes, hold a large box. They troop in mock ceremoniously, the children giggling, holding the corners of the box as if it con- tains something fragile.
“I helped wrap it,” says Meghan as they set it down on the couch.
“Is so nice, I so surprised,” she blubbers, embarrassed and pleased, not knowing from their expressions if it’s a real present or a joke.
“Open it,” says Karen with an expectant smile. They watch her undo the tight bow and struggle with the many pieces of tape holding the edges of the wrapping paper. The phone rings.
“I’ll get it.” Before América can stop him, Kyle picks up the phone.
“Leverett residence,” he says as he’s been instructed to do. He waits. “There’s no one there,” he says, annoyed, and sets the re- ceiver down.
“Maybe they thought they had the wrong number because it wasn’t América’s voice,” Karen suggests.
“I don’t know,” says América, puzzled that whoever it was should have hung up so rudely.
“Open the present! Open the present!” Meghan chants, and América tears the wrapping off and finds a box, brightly decor- ated with the children’s handprints and “Happy birthday” scrawled in Kyle’s handwriting.
“Open it!” the children squeal, and she does to find another box, not as elaborate, and inside it another box. Kyle and Meghan laugh happily. América laughs with them, although she doesn’t think it’s very funny at all. Karen watches her with a bemused smile.
She opens the fourth box to find a lot of tissue around a sweatshirt decorated with two cats playing with a ball of yarn.
“We know you like cats,” Karen says, looking at the white one on her bed.
“Is very nice,” América says, pulling it out and holding it up to her shoulders.
“There are pants, too,” says Meghan, rummaging through the tissue. “Here they are.”
The jeans that match have kittens on the back pockets. “Is beautiful!” América says with more enthusiasm.
“If it doesn’t fit, we can get another size,” says Karen. “No, it fits,” América says. “Is perfect.”
“Great! Okay, guys, it’s past your bedtime.” Karen seems in a hurry to leave the room.
“Thank you very much.” América kisses the children warmly, walks them to the door. She feels awkward in front of Karen, as if thanking her is not enough and more is expected.
“Happy birthday,” Karen says, and América again thanks her, not knowing what else to say, shamefaced, humbled.
When she’s alone in the room, she tries on the outfit, which fits perfectly. It feels like good fabric, and the tag identifies it as coming from Lord & Taylor, which she knows to be an expensive store. It’s something she knows Karen would never wear, and it touches her to think that she chose it with such care that even the size is right.
“I’m calling because it’s my birthday, and you can’t call me. I thought you might like to congratulate me.”
“Feliz cumpleaños,” Ester allows.
“They took me out for lobster, and they gave me a present.” “That was nice.”
“Have you talked to Rosalinda?”
“She called asking for your number. I told her I didn’t have it, but she didn’t believe me.”
“How do you know?” “She hung up on me.”
“I can’t believe the phone is in one piece with Rosalinda banging it down all the time.”
“Are you going to call her?”
“Maybe.”
“She’s your daughter. You shouldn’t hold grudges.” Ester is very good at giving advice she doesn’t follow.
“I’ll call her. And if she hangs up on me again, that’s the end of it.”
“She sounded upset.” “I’ll call her.”
“All right. Happy birthday, then.”
She’s had a nice day so far, and the thought of calling Rosalinda and getting into another fight is not appealing. Paulina called to wish her a happy birthday and promised they would celebrate this weekend. Then Darío called, and they talked for a half hour. She didn’t tell him it was her birthday, because she didn’t want him to think she expects a present. She turns off all the lights in her room, except for the lamp on the bedside table. She wants to be comfortable when she calls Rosalinda; she wants to be calm. She promises herself she will listen, will not say anything she hasn’t thought over for a few seconds at least. The phone rings.
“Happy bird day 2 ju.” She freezes.
“Happy bird day 2 ju.”
He sings softly, as if there were someone else in the room whom he doesn’t wish to disturb.
“Happy bird day, dir América—”
She hangs up as if the receiver were burning her fingers, covers her face with her hands as if not wanting to face the room with the many windows, the slanted ceilings, the pale green stars above the bed. “Oh, my God. He knows where I am.” She murmurs over and over again. “He knows where I am.”
re you all right?” Karen asks the next morning. “You look like you didn’t sleep well.”
“Is okéi,” she responds. “Time of month.”
“There’s Motrin in the medicine chest if you need it.” “Is okéi, thank you.”
She manages to make breakfast for everyone, to get them off to school and work, to clear the dishes and clean the kitchen and pick up in the den and family room, to make the beds and bring the soiled clothes to the basement. She does her job automatically, with less efficiency, perhaps, than when she’s paying attention. But everything gets done, and after a morning, the house is sparkling and she’s still in a fog.
He knows where I am. It’s like the verse of a song, repeating in her brain over and over again. He knows where I am doesn’t leave room for any other thought, for reason to enter and begin gnawing at fear. He knows where I am punctuates her breathing, her walking, makes her jump when the gardener drives up with his lawn mower and rakes. He knows where I am follows her to school, where she picks up Meghan, to Liana’s house, where the children watch Power Rangers. He knows where I am plays in her brain as the women talk, complain, joke, and tell stories.
She returns home, makes dinner, feeds the children,
although she barely touches her own food. It’s Friday, and both Karen and Charlie come home early because they’re taking the children to a party at a friend’s house. She’ll be alone tonight, and she talks herself into not being afraid. He knows where I am, but he’s in Vieques. He’s not here.
She draws the shades, locks her door. Because she’s home, the Leveretts did not set the alarm when they left, as they would if the house were unattended. But I shouldn’t be afraid. He’s in Vieques, and I’m here. Every time she passes the phone, she ex- pects it to ring. But it’s silent.
Rosalinda picks up as if she too has been waiting for the phone to ring.
“Oh, Mami, hi.” Wary, mistrustful.
“How are you?” She will remain composed, will think before she speaks. Will not let on that she’s nervous, afraid, or worried. “I’m fine. I got your letter. I’m sorry I hung up on you.” An
insincere apology, meant to appease her. “Is everything all right?”
“Yeah.” Uncertain.
“Have you seen your father lately?”
A gasp, short but perceptible. “He was here this week.” “Where is he now?”
“I don’t know.” Defensive.
América takes a deep breath. “Does he know where I am?” “I…don’t think so.” Doubtful, lying. “I mean, I think he knows
you’re not in Puerto Rico.” “Where does he think I am?”
“I guess he thinks you’re in New York.” She’s a poor liar. Her voice shakes, and she speaks too fast.
“Did you tell him that’s where I am?”
“No.” Her voice quivers, on the verge of tears. “Did you?”
She breaks. “He saw the envelope…when you sent a money order and that letter.”
América breathes, long even breaths. She will remain calm. “I didn’t put the address on the envelope.”
América’s Dream / 274
Rosalinda’s voice rises. “It was in the postmark.”
A cry escapes her. América bites her lips so that she will not be taken by surprise again.
“The name of the town was printed right in the postmark.” “Did you…” América falters in her efforts to remain calm, stops
herself, tries again. “Did he find it, or did you show it to him?”
Silence. For a moment it seems to América that Rosalinda has again hung up on her. But she hears her breathing on the other end, quick, sharp breaths.
“I’m sorry, Mami.” Rosalinda whimpers. “I was so mad at you, at your letter. And then he came over and found me crying.” América lets her cry. This time Rosalinda’s tears don’t affect her the same way. She listens to her, doesn’t question her, doesn’t interrupt the sobs. Rosalinda continues, as if her mother’s silence were an inducement. “He wrote down the name of the town, and then he checked the sheets from the guardhouse. He looked for names from the same place.”
“So he has my address, too.”
The resignation in her mother’s voice startles Rosalinda.
“I was so mad at you.” As if that excuses everything. “You shouldn’t have written that letter.” She’s so self-righteous, so unwilling to take responsibility. “You always yell at me and cri- ticize everything I do.” Am I really that bad? Have I been such a terrible mother that she owes me no loyalty? “I tried to call and warn you, but I don’t have your number. You should have given me your number.”
América bites her lips, doesn’t say anything.
“He…ju-ju-just w-w-w-wants…he jjjjust…he just wants to talk to you.” Now she’s angry, frustrated.
“All right, nena, take it easy. If you see him, tell him I’ll talk to him.” She will remain calm at all costs, will not let on that she’s afraid.
“You will?” Rosalinda sounds unnerved, as if she has been found in a game of hide-and-seek.
“Tell him I’ll talk to him.” “I will, Mami.”
“Is he there now?” “No, he went out.” “Okéi, mi’ja.”
“You’re not mad, Mami?” “Don’t worry.”
“I’m sorry, Mami.”
“I’ll call you next week.”
She sets the phone down gently, delicately. She’s exhausted. Her arms feel tense and tight, as if she’s been lifting weights. She sits propped up by pillows, her white stuffed cat on her lap. There’s nothing to do now but wait. Correa will call, she will talk to him. She doesn’t want to think about what will happen after that.
e doesn’t call. She stays up watching television, not really seeing it, show after show in which white Yanquis talk incess- antly to one another and the audience laughs. All the humor seems based on misunderstandings. After the comedies, an in- formation program. They show high-tension electric wires and confirm Ester’s theory that electricity gives you cancer. Then the news, all bad. Sports. Weather. Then more funny shows she
doesn’t laugh at. And he doesn’t call.
When a car drives up, she tenses. The garage door opens, slams down. Interior doors open and shut, Karen and Charlie come up the stairs, shush the children, who are whining from exhaustion. They settle and then everything’s quiet again. After a while, voices, distant moans. Karen and Charlie make love for the first time in a week. And quiet returns, and she still waits for Correa to call. But he doesn’t.
It’s Viernes Social in Puerto Rico, Social Friday. He’s probably out with his friends, drinking and having a good time. Has probably forgotten all about me. Maybe he’s out with his wife. Maybe, as I wait here, he’s entangled in her arms. The thought makes her furious. She turns off the television, prepares for bed, lies down with her eyes open until the stars above have faded. And then it’s morning, and he hasn’t called.
“I’m sorry, Tía. I was planning to come, but I’m needed here.” She hates lying to Paulina, hopes she will accept the excuse and not drag her into explanations that will increase the lie.
“We hoped to celebrate your birthday,” Paulina says regretfully. “Next weekend, maybe.”
“Yes, next weekend.”
“Bueno, we’ll talk during the week.”
She stays in bed, wrapped in the comforter, face down, a pillow under her belly. She has menstrual cramps, which she thinks were brought on by all the tension of waiting for Correa’s call. The birth control pills used to give her short, light periods, with no pain. But she didn’t bring her pills, she wouldn’t need them, she thought, doesn’t want their depressing side effects. Maybe, she considers now, the blue days were the fault not of the pills but of my life.
The family putters down the hall. She’ll wait until they leave, then she’ll go down and make some chamomile tea. Saturday mornings Meghan goes to gymnastics and Kyle goes to karate. If Karen takes them, Charlie will probably be in his office or down in the exercise room, so she will have the house to herself for an hour or so.
The phone rings. She crawls up to reach it. “América?”
“Oh, hi, Darío.” She can’t help sounding disappointed. “Paulina said you’re not coming this weekend?”
“I have to stay here.” That’s not a lie.
“You aren’t mad at me for something, are you?”
“No, why would I be mad? No, how could you think that?” She falters. “I have to stay here to receive a phone call, and I don’t really know when it’s coming, so I thought it was better if I stayed.” Why am I giving him all these explanations?
