America's Dream (6 page)
“How’re you doing,” he says.
“Okéi,” she answers, rinsing out her pail at the low sink in the supply room.
“Any word from your daughter?”
It all sounds like one long word she’s never heard: eniwoid- fromerdora. “Excuse?”
“Yerdora. Eniwoidfromeryet?”
“I’m sorry,” she responds, burning with embarrassment. “I no understand.”
“Never mind.” Don Irving pours steaming water over the teabag at the bottom of the large mug he always carries with him, from which he sips all day long. He ambles back into the house. América has worked for Don Irving since he bought the decay- ing plantation house and converted it into a hotel. She and Ester were the first maids to work at the place, and she’s picked up some English listening to him and his guests. He has never learned Spanish and speaks as if it didn’t matter, as if it were the person he’s talking to who has to make sense of what he’s saying. When she first began working for him, América lost much sleep over the conversations they had, which consisted of him talking non- stop and her bobbing her head up and down or interjecting “okéi”
every now and then so as not to seem stupid.
Ester, who has much less patience than América, would answer him in Spanish, and they talked to each other in their own lan- guages, América not sure if either knew what the other was say- ing. They became lovers, and for a while Ester lived with him in the casita he built for himself at the back of the property, in a glade surrounded by a pabona hedge. But she left him after a couple of months, claiming she’d lived without men for so long, she couldn’t live with them anymore. They still get together from time to time, always in his casita because Ester won’t share her own bed with anyone.
Because Ester and Don Irving are lovers América has a more familiar relationship with him than the other employees do. He’s come to their house for dinner, has even had a few conversations with Correa about the way he treats América. It didn’t change Correa much, but América has always been grateful to him for trying.
The other employees resent the fact that Don Irving favors América and overlooks Ester’s failings as a maid. She works at the hotel two days a week, and the other five, América does the work of two, scrubbing the bathrooms Ester didn’t, dusting the corners she overlooked, placing extra toilet paper in the bath- rooms so that there will be enough over the two days Ester takes care of them and forgets to check.
She finishes all the rooms, humming a bolero or a salsa tune, seemingly lighthearted. The tourists at La Casa del Francés who bother to notice her are greeted with a bright smile and sly chocolate eyes that seem to dance beneath thick black lashes.
“Everyone on this island is so friendly,” they say to one another, then forget her the minute they step into the bright tropical sun, the afternoon buzzing with hummingbirds sucking life out of the hearts of flowers.
ne week passes. Someone steals Correa’s radio from the guardhouse at Sun Bay Beach. It rains, and the lined forms with the tourists’ names and addresses written in Correa’s block
letters soften in the moisture, then curl in the sun.
When her turn comes, Ester refuses to go to work because of what people might say about Rosalinda, and she spends her days in the garden, a can of beer at her side. She cooks dinner, then slumps on her easy chair watching television and sipping beer. América works both of their shifts at La Casa.
On the eighth day, Correa calls her at work and says he’s found the kids.
“Don’t worry, I’ve taken care of everything,” he says. A Mexic- an corrido is playing full blast in the background.
“Is she pregnant?” América asks.
“I don’t think so,” he says, as if it occurred to him to ask. “Can I talk to her?”
“She’s not here,” Correa answers. “She’s with my aunt.” “Why?”
“I have to do some things while I’m here. I’ll bring her back this weekend.” América knows the “things” he has to do probably involve his wife and three kids in Fajardo.
“Where’s the boy?”
“His father took him to New York. We all thought it was better this way.”
“Así son las cosas,” she sighs. “What was that?”
“Nothing. When will you be here?” “1 told you. This weekend.”
“All right. Tell Rosalinda I love her.”
He hangs up, and she’s not sure if he’s heard her last instruc- tions.
The weekend comes and goes with no sign of Correa or Ros- alinda. Officer Odilio Pagán stops by to tell América that Roy and Yamila Saavedra will not press charges of assault against her.
“Am I supposed to be grateful?”
“You know very well they could have made it ugly for you. The whole neighborhood saw you jump on her and bang her head against the rejas.”
“Did they also hear what she called me? ¿Y que me mentó la madre?”
“You were both angry—”
“That’s no reason to be cursing people out. I went there to talk to her mother to mother.”
“That’s not what I heard.”
They talk on her porch. From inside the house, lugubrious or- gan music announces the beginning of Ester’s favorite show, a drama about a woman (blond) who is blinded by her rival (bru- nette) to eliminate her from competition for the affections of a rich and handsome landowner.
A neighbor goes by with a heavy bag of groceries in each hand. She stops halfway down the block, puts the bags down, takes a deep breath, rubs her hands against her hips, adjusts the grip on the shopping bags, and continues down the street, her sandals clapping against her heels.
“I’d better get going,” Odilio Pagán suggests. América is not in the mood to talk. He crosses to his patrol car, seeks her eyes for a despedida, but she’s lost somewhere else, he doesn’t know where. He drives off down the street, flashing his lights at nothing in particular.
Across the street from América’s house, the faithful enter the Iglesia Asambleas de Dios. Shrill electronic feedback announces the beginning of services. The familiar voice of Reverend Nuñez reverberates through the neighborhood. “Probando. Uno, dos, tres. ¿Se oye?” A chorus of yeses is heard through the microphone into the street. “Bienvenidos, hermanas y hermanos,” Reverend Nuñez begins, and in a few minutes his melodic nasal voice is heard detailing God’s goodness and Jesus’ sacrifice.
América sits on her porch and listens. She’s been attending his services from her front porch for four years now, rocking back and forth on the chair Correa gave her six Christmases ago. “Re- galo de Santa Clós,” he said, a proud smile on his face, his large even teeth shining as if he were a toothpaste commercial.
“I don’t need any more furniture in the house,” América told him, so he put it out on the porch, where it has remained, the shiny finish peeling off in spots where rain and sun in equal measure have soaked it. When the congregation begins to sing, América hums along to the familiar hymns, rocking back and forth, her bare feet touching and leaving the cold cement floor in rhythm to the promise of everlasting happiness.
On Tuesday Rosalinda steps from Correa’s jeep as if she were about to tread on quicksand instead of hard cement. América waits for her inside, not wanting to make a scene one way or the other, aware that neighbors are peeking to see what happens when Rosalinda is returned home. Correa tells her to wait for him while he gets her pack from the backseat. She stands with her back to the house, arms wrapped around the stuffed blue pelican Taino gave her. She seems taller to América, her hips more rounded, her back broader. She’s wearing her hair away from her face in a French braid studded with white and yellow beads. From the back she looks womanly, but when she turns around and follows Correa up the walk to the porch steps, her face is that of a little girl in spite of all the makeup, the bright red lips, the lined eyes cast down as if she were embarrassed or afraid or both. América steps back to let them by. Behind her, Ester rushes forward, her arms toward Rosalinda.
“Don’t ask me anything!” Rosalinda says, and she runs into
her room, slamming the door against them. Ester follows her, knocks softly.
“Let me in, nena. I want to hug you,” she calls. There is no sound from Rosalinda’s room.
“Well,” says Correa, dropping Rosalinda’s backpack at América’s feet, “here we are.” He goes to the refrigerator for a beer.
“Mami, leave her alone.” América tugs Ester away from the shut door.
“She shouldn’t act like that. We didn’t do anything to her.” Ester returns to the door and shakes the knob. “Come on out, Rosalinda.” There’s a thud as something strikes the inside of the door. Ester backs away.
“Mami, why don’t you make us supper,” América suggests, pulling Ester away from the door again, trying to maintain her composure, to control the rage that’s threatening to erupt, to make her break the door down, to take her daughter by the hair and shake some respect into her.
Ester reluctantly moves to the kitchen. “She shouldn’t be like that. You’re letting her get away with it.”
“Leave her alone, Mami,” América says loud enough for Ros- alinda to hear on her side of the door. She steps closer and yells into the crack between door and jamb. “Rosalinda, we’re going to leave you alone, but we have to talk about this later.” There’s no response. “Did you hear me?” No sound.
“She didn’t want to come back here,” Correa says, pouring his beer into a frosted glass. “I had to convince her.”
“Did she think Taino would take her with him to New York?” América responds, moving to the table, pulling a chair out, set- tling into it as if a great weight were pushing her down, down, down past the seat, into the ground, below it.
“She didn’t want to be here,” he says, looking at her as if she should know the reason. His green eyes are his best feature. Al- mond-shaped, hooded just enough to make a woman wonder what he’s thinking. “I told her she had to come back and discuss the situation with you.”
She wonders what he’s really saying. Something tells her “the situation” is not the same for him as it is for her. Correa sits
on the sofa facing her, leans against the corner, his legs open as if to display what’s between them. She turns her gaze away.
“How come Odilio Pagán’s been here twice in one week?” he asks casually, as if the answer didn’t matter.
Her chest tightens. “The first time he came to tell me Yamila Valentín Saavedra reported me to the police.” She feels his eyes on her, looking for a twitch, any movement that might betray a lie. She watches Ester in the kitchen, who looks at her out of the corner of her eye, guiltily, as if what América is saying carries some hidden meaning that Correa shouldn’t catch. “The second time he came to tell me she wouldn’t press charges. I guess that must have been part of the deal to let Taino go.” She looks at him defiantly, but he simply returns her look, sips his beer, his eyes on hers, then drops his gaze to her bosom, to the deep crevice between her breasts. In spite of herself, she blushes.
Rosalinda cracks her door open. “Mami,” she calls from the other side, her voice breaking in the same way as when she has hurt herself, or when she’s afraid of thunder, or when she’s con- fused. América runs to her daughter’s door but doesn’t open it, stands in front of it, waiting for Rosalinda to let her in.
When she’s inside, Rosalinda shuts it, then throws herself in her mother’s arms, presses her body against América as if trying to fuse into her.
“1’m sorry, Mami, I’m so sorry,” Rosalinda cries into her mother’s bosom, and América holds her close, crying into her hair that it’s all right, it’s okay, everything will be all right. They rock against each other, against the door, their tears mingling as if from one pair of eyes, one body.
Rosalinda holds on to América as if afraid her mother will leave her in the darkened room decorated with posters of half-naked singers and actors, their hair disheveled, their eyes wild. One male star offers himself, hips thrust forward aggressively, his thumbs pulling the waistband of his pants so low it doesn’t take much imagination to imagine what comes next. The women dis- play their breasts and buttocks in barely there tops and shorts crisscrossed with gold and silver chains.
América sighs deeply. “Ay, Rosalinda, what were you think- ing?”
The child tenses in her arms, withdraws from her bosom as swiftly as she had thrown herself into it. She turns her back on América and plops on the bed, buries her face in the pillow.
“Leave me alone!”
“But nena, I’m trying to understand.”
“You don’t understand anything! Leave me alone.” “Rosalinda, don’t yell at me like that. I’m your mother.” “You don’t care about me. You’re just worried about what
people will say.”
“I don’t give a shit about other people. I’m trying to talk to you.”
“Well, there’s nothing to talk about. I don’t want to talk about it. Now will you leave me alone, please?”
“No, I won’t leave you alone! You can’t run away with your boyfriend and expect me to forget about it. You owe me an ex- planation.”
“I don’t owe you anything!”
She can’t stop her hand once it begins its arc toward her daughter’s face, once it slaps her full in the mouth, the sound flat against her daughter’s echoing scream. After the first slap, Ros- alinda covers her face, climbs onto her bed, cowers in the corner as América climbs up after her, punches her against the corner where the wall and bed meet.
Ester comes running, followed by Correa, who separates them, holds América’s hands down against her belly, drags, almost carries her out of the room, into her own bedroom, where he pushes her onto her bed, then backs out, closing the door behind him, leaving her there in darkness, facedown, sobbing with rage, beating her fists against the pillows, the mattress, the stuffed cat propped against the headboard. She scissors her legs as if swim- ming toward a distant shore. When she raises her head, there is nothing but blackness ahead. Her hands still smart from the blows to her daughter’s face. She laces them behind her head and presses her face into the mattress, suffo-
cates herself in her own hot breath. She’s ashamed for herself, ashamed for Rosalinda, ashamed for all of them.
