America's Dream (8 page)
“I just made you some breakfast,” she calls from the kitchen when Rosalinda comes out.
“I’m not hungry.”
América puts a plate of scrambled eggs and ham on the table, a cup of steaming cafe con leche, toast. “Come and eat something. You didn’t have dinner last night.” But Rosalinda has gone into her room and locked the door. América knocks gently. “Nena, your eggs will get cold.”
Rosalinda opens the door but doesn’t come out. “I said I’m not hungry. I don’t want anything right now.”
“I already made it.”
Rosalinda peers suspiciously past her mother at the table set with a place mat, her breakfast served on the good vajilla. América follows her look. “I was washing everything out,” she chuckles, “and thought, might as well use it.”
Rosalinda steps around her to the table, sits, picks at the food. When did she get this sullen? América doesn’t remember this look on her daughter’s face, this world-weary, nothing-can-please- me air. It must be new. Or maybe it’s that she’s not wearing makeup, and her features even out, so that every expression plays across her face, without the distraction of highlights or shadows.
“I thought we might talk a bit…”
Rosalinda slams her fork on the table, gets up, but América, faster than she is, blocks her path.
“I don’t want to talk about it! I told you that.”
América holds her by the shoulders, squeezes them so that Rosalinda won’t shake loose. “It’s not going away because you don’t want to talk about it. I have some things to say, and you have to listen.”
Tears stream down Rosalinda’s face. “I don’t have to listen, I don’t.” She covers her ears, closes her eyes as if that would make América disappear. She squirms, trying to release América’s grip. “I’ll let you go if you sit down and talk to me.” She doesn’t want to sound angry, is in fact trying hard to stay calm, controlled, to not lose her temper the way she did last night. She relaxes her grip on Rosalinda’s shoulder, and the girl pulls herself away, slumps on the chair in front of her half-eaten eggs and toast. She
hides her face in her hands and sobs.
América’s chest tenses, as if a strap were tied around her ribs, tightening with each breath. Tears sting her eyes, but she blinks them back. Gingerly, as if she might break, she touches Ros- alinda’s shoulder, and the child pulls it away but then relents, lets América caress her shoulders, her hair. Lets her embrace her, at first grudgingly, but then gratefully, as if it were this she’d been seeking all along. América helps Rosalinda stand up, leads her to the couch, where they sit next to each other, Rosalinda’s face pressed against her mother’s chest. América lets her cry, lets her own tears fall quietly, as if not to contaminate Rosalinda’s misery.
“I don’t know why you’re all making such a big deal about it,” Rosalinda whimpers to her mother. “I’m not the first one around here to run away at fourteen.”
“You’re being disrespectful,” América warns. “But it’s true, Mami,” she says.
América takes a deep breath, trying to control the rage that boils inside her, threatens to spill out and burn both of them. “It’s true, but that doesn’t mean it’s right.”
Rosalinda considers this for a moment, looking at the shiny, polished furniture her father has bought, at the figurines Ester collects.
“1’aino and I love each other.” “Are you pregnant?”
Rosalinda shifts her gaze.
“Because if you’re pregnant,” América continues, “we should do something about it.”
Rosalinda’s eyes widen, stare at América as if she’s lost her mind. “Do you mean…” She buries her face in her hands. “Oh, my God, Mami, how can you even think such a thing!”
América is not sure if Rosalinda means a pregnancy or an abortion. She blushes. If she were pregnant, she’d never consider an abortion, but then, she has been smart enough to use contra- ception for the past thirteen years.
“Did he…protect you?”
Rosalinda stands up. “I can’t talk to you!” she screams, and runs into her room, slamming the door.
“Rosalinda, this is important!” She hears the plop on the bed, the screaming sobs. She bangs on the door. “Do you think it’ll go away? I have news for you. It doesn’t!”
Rosalinda screams even louder, bangs on her bed. “Leave me alone. I want you to leave me alone.”
“Well, it’s not going to happen. As long as I’m your mother, I’m a part of your life. So get used to it.”
Rosalinda opens the door just enough for América to see her face distorted into an angry grimace. “No, 1 don’t have to get used to it. Papi said he’d take me away from here if I want to go. I hate you. I can’t stand to be around you anymore.”
América freezes. Rosalinda’s door slams again. Correa has never threatened to take her daughter away. Through all the years of arguments, the beatings, the jealousies, the you can’t do this and you can’t do that, he’s never once threatened to take Ros- alinda away from her.
She clears Rosalinda’s abandoned breakfast. Correa has three children in Fajardo with a woman he married because her father threatened him with a gun if he didn’t. He supports them with his meager pay and with whatever extra money he earns doing odd jobs for the mansion owners. He’s never contributed much toward Rosalinda’s support, except for the gifts he gives her on special occasions, trinkets and clothes he picks out when he visits Puerto Rico. He gives Rosalinda spending money every so
often, but that’s it. América has paid for everything else, for her school uniforms and everyday clothes, her schoolbooks, the birthday presents for her friends, the Christmas presents for her teachers. She has paid the doctors when Rosalinda was sick, the dentist when she had a tooth out, the surgeon when she got ap- pendicitis. Correa claims Rosalinda is his favorite child, the first child he ever fathered, the fruit of his and América’s love. He puts it just like that, “the fruit of our love.” But he’s never taken responsibility for her upbringing, has left the parenting up to América because “She’s a girl and you’re a girl, and girls need their mothers.” What business does he now have offering to take her away?
He must see a chance to be a hero, América thinks. Now that Rosalinda is so rebellious, Correa must see it as his opportunity to gain stature in his daughter’s eyes. That must be it. Big macho father, saving his little girl from her mean mother. Son of a bitch! She slams the plate from the beautiful vajilla on the tile floor. It shatters into a million bits, too many to be put together again with Krazy Glue.
y the time Ester comes home from work, there is nothing left to clean. Even the porch steps have been scrubbed and pol- ished, the spiders routed from their corners along the eaves. A potful of bone soup with plantain dumplings simmers on the
stove.
“I missed my novela,” Ester whines when she comes in, as if missing one episode of her favorite afternoon soap opera made a difference.
She grabs a beer on her way to change clothes. Doesn’t even notice América’s somber expression. When she comes out in a pair of shorts and T-shirt with no bra, she plops in front of the television and surfs channels until she finds the one she wants. América, sitting on Correa’s couch, doesn’t move from her place until a woman appears on the screen, her mascaraed eyes dripping with tears that a mustached man is kissing away with great ten- derness. Ester sighs. América gets up and leaves the room, sits on the porch rocking back and forth, waiting for Correa.
He brings a loaf of fresh bread and his dirty clothes stuffed inside a duffel bag. He tries to kiss her when he comes in, but she ducks, takes his clothes, and goes to the kitchen to serve supper. As soon as she sees him, Ester turns off the television
and burrows into her room, acknowledging his role as master of the house, even though the house belongs to her. Correa stretches out on his couch, flips to his channel, and waits for América to call him to the table.
“Aren’t we eating together?” he asks when she sets only one place.
“Rosalinda hasn’t been out of her room since this morning,” she answers.
His face darkens. “Set the table for all of us,” he snarls in her direction as he strides to his daughter’s door and bangs on it. “Rosalinda, come out of there and have supper with us.”
“I’m not hungry!”
“I don’t care if you’re hungry or not. Come out and sit with your mother and me.”
A lot of shuffling and sniffling. “I’ll be right there.”
Correa looks at América triumphantly. She gives him a dirty look, sets the table, calls Ester. “Are you eating with us, Mami?”
“No, I’ll eat later.”
Rosalinda has made up her red and swollen eyes, has blushed her cheeks, has brushed her hair into a loose ponytail. Correa stares at her with a severe expression as she scuffs her way to the table, taking her sweet time about it. Correa points to the place next to him, so that she’s sitting between him and América, trapped against the glass-fronted cupboard.
América serves the soup in the tureen from the vajilla, and Correa looks at her quizzically. She ladles soup into their bowls, giving him the bone with the most meat.
“Where’s the bread?”
“It’s warming in the oven.”
Rosalinda stares into her soup. América sets the crusty bread in the middle of the table. Correa rips up a chunk, passes it to América, then another to Rosalinda, who ignores it. “Take it!” he growls, and she does, setting it on her plate. He puts a piece in his mouth and watches his daughter as he chews, as if considering what to do or say next. She doesn’t budge. Her eyes cast on the pattern the noodles make at the bottom of her bowl, Rosalinda is as imperturbable as a cemí. Correa studies her for a
minute, tries to meet América’s eyes, shakes his head. América avoids his gaze, sips her soup delicately. The only sound is Cor- rea’s chewing, his restless body making the chair creak and groan with every twitch. He takes a few spoonfuls of soup, looks at the two females in front of him, one as still as a stone, the other avoiding his gaze at all costs. He slams his hand down, pushes his chair sprawling behind him.
“Maldito sea,” he bellows, “a man can get indigestion eating with you two!” América freezes, Rosalinda looks up fearfully but doesn’t move. Correa studies them for a moment, considering their alarmed expressions. He shakes his head as if refusing to listen to some internal voice, then strides out of the house, climbs into his Jeep, and is gone.
América and Rosalinda exchange a look of relief. The girl picks up her spoon, fills it with the steaming broth, and blows on it quietly, as if she were whispering a secret only the spoon can hear. América resumes her eating. Ester shuffles in chuck-ling, a bowl and spoon in her hand.
“You really know how to push his buttons,” she laughs in between spoonfuls. “It’s remarkable how well you both do that.” América and Rosalinda look at each other. For the first time in days, América sees the tiniest smile flicker across her daughter’s
face.
The next morning, when América comes out to make breakfast, Rosalinda is in her school uniform, sitting at the table, reading a thick history book as if she were posing for a picture.
“I already made the coffee,” she says.
América goes to wash up. She hates it when Ester or Rosalinda or Correa disrupt her morning routine. She likes to make the coffee. Ester makes it too strong and Rosalinda too weak. She likes having the house to herself while she dresses, sips her coffee, and eats her toast as she does her hair and applies makeup. It is her quiet time, and it throws her off when her day begins with conversation or a variation from her morning dance between bedroom, kitchen, and bathroom.
“I should probably send a note for your teachers,” she offers on her way back.
Rosalinda winces. “I think the whole island knows why I was gone.”
“Let me know if they need one.”
She goes into her room to dress. It’s a good sign that Rosalinda is going back to school without being told. América was not looking forward to another battle with her today. But her stomach churns and her face flushes when she imagines Rosalinda facing her schoolmates, some of them wearing her clothes and jewelry. Some of them will avoid her, will whisper behind their hands at the girls next to them, all the while looking slyly in Rosalinda’s direction. They will make comments about Taino, will ask about him in front of her, will drop his name in conversation when she can hear it. The teachers will try to be kind, will pretend nothing has happened because, when a girl runs away with her boyfriend, it’s a family matter, not the school’s. Rosalinda will be estranged from everyone she knows, will be a subject for gossip, will be teased, ostracized. América imagines her standing alone in the school yard, surrounded by a horde of snickering teenage girls, boys making lewd gestures, teachers looking the other way. América’s whole body shakes. She comes out of her room, nervously wrapping a scrunchy around her ponytail.
“Do you want me to come to school with you?” América asks, her voice quivering. Rosalinda stares at her as if she were crazy.
“No!”
“But nena—”
“They will laugh at me if I show up with my mother.”
They will laugh at them both. América remembers how her friends avoided her after she came back with Correa, how women pulled their daughters’ hands, looked in the other direction if they saw her coming, her belly a symbol of all that could go wrong with their daughters. A fourteen-year-old girl who should be in her school uniform, pregnant! She heard them talk about her and Ester. They called Ester a descuidada because she couldn’t prevent her daughter from running away with a man.
They said all the women in her family were loose. That there had never been, in their memory, a husband in that family of hers, only babies, girls bringing up girls, never any boys, never any men. She heard all this after her metida de pata. It’s only after you make a mistake that people point to its inevitability.
“You’re being very brave,” she says to Rosalinda, and she looks up from her book.
“What?”
“Going back to school. Going on with your life. It takes a lot of courage to do that.”
“What choice do I have?”
