America's Dream (17 page)
Do I have to cook? Do I have to iron? Do I get paid when you go on vacation with your kids? The list grows as the days pass. She finds herself adding other things to the list, what to bring, what to leave home. Whose addresses to take, whose phone numbers. Who she knows in New York other than her Aunt Paulina and her cousins. The paper, folded and carried under her left breast, yellows with sweat, the writing feathers until it looks out of focus, the creases begin to tear at the edges. How much money I have saved. How much I will leave for Mami to pay the electricity and water bills. Rosalinda’s address
and Tía Estrella’s phone number. Rosalinda’s dress and shoe size for sending her presents. Ester’s dress and shoe size. Their birth- days. The list grows, and pretty soon she has to write in the margins, around the edges, in between items already listed, as if she had forgotten them the first time.
Correa comes three times in one week, and she hides the paper under the mattress, on her side of the bed, deep inside, where there is no possibility that an edge will show, that he will discover she has been hiding something from him. He slaps her around because there are only three of the kind of beer he likes, less than what he drinks in one night. He has sex with her, quick, bitter- scented sex that sends her to shower while he sleeps.
He doesn’t come on Tuesday. América calls Karen Leverett collect. “I will come,” she says after she’s asked as many questions as she feels comfortable asking, and Mrs. Leverett sounds so happy, she’s sure she’s made the right decision. She strikes off the questions she asked, and adds more things to the list. Mrs. Leverett will send her a ticket. She’s to leave two weeks from Sunday. She’ll tell Don Irving tomorrow. Ester will work her shift at La Casa, in case things don’t work out and América needs to come back. Her stomach churns at the thought. Correa will kill her for betraying him. No matter what happens, she can’t come back.
Ester will carry América’s packed suitcase to Don Irving’s casita behind the pabona hedge, and everyone will think she’s moving in with him again. Early in the morning Don Irving will drive América to the airport, and for the first time, América will get on a plane. She’ll fly to Fajardo first, visit Rosalinda before she goes to the international airport in San Juan. If Correa comes on Sat- urday night, it will complicate matters, but, she thinks, she can still get away. He’s used to her leaving early on the mornings she works. He won’t realize she’s gone for at least a day. And by then she’ll be in New York. In a new life. Starting over.
ía Estrella and Prima Fefa live in a concrete house in an urb- anización shadowed by an enormous hotel. “It’s the biggest hotel on the island,” Tía Estrella says. “People come from all over
to stay there.”
She’s nearly blind, her eyes caged behind thick dark lenses that don’t seem to help much. Her hair is gray, worn in a careless knot at the nape of the neck. She’s stooped like an old woman, but América thinks she’s only about ten years older than Ester.
“I was so surprised when you called this morning! I’m glad you came.” She leads América, dragging her heavy suitcase, into the neat house barred with wrought-iron rejas painted yellow. “Fefa and Rosalinda are at church, but they’ll be back soon.”
América leaves the suitcase by the front door, against the wall. Tía Estrella stumbles over her own furniture, pushes the air in front of her on her way to the kitchen. Several times América has to lead her in a different direction from where she’s heading, but Tía Estrella seems to need to make these mistakes, like a baby learning to walk.
“It’s terrible, you know, my eyesight. The doctors are worried that I’ll be blind soon, but I can see a bit more now than a few months ago. I’m healing, you know.” América can’t imagine what it must have been like, if this is an improvement. She’s
reminded of children playing pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey, heading with conviction in the exact opposite direction from where they need to go.
“Sit down, sit down.” Tía Estrella motions toward the refriger- ator. “I’ll make us some coffee.” She heads for the bathroom door. “I’ll make it,” América offers. “You sit down and tell me how
Rosalinda is doing.”
“Ay, thank you, it’s tricky, you know. I’m still not used to it. Going blind, that is.” She takes off her glasses and wipes them on the hem of her skirt. Her eyes are larger than América remem- bers, gray, filmed at the corners with a substance that looks like gelled fog. “Rosalinda is doing well. You would be proud of her. Off to school every morning, bien paradita, and comes home right after.” She puts her glasses on again. “She’s been such a help, you know. With my problem and Fefa the way she is.” Tía Estrella’s only child is deaf from birth. “She’s become quite good at reading Fefa, wait till you see her.”
At Tía Estrella’s, coffee is brewed the old-fashioned way, through a flannel filter black with use, well seasoned. América finds things easily because Tía Estrella’s kitchen is all shelves, everything displayed where one can see it. No cabinet doors to open and close.
América sets down the cups of steaming coffee and sits near Tía Estrella. “Rosalinda needed a change,” she tells her, “and I appreciate all you’ve done for her.”
“Ay, nena, don’t worry about it! She’s delightful. Such a bright child.”
América sips her coffee and wonders if trusting, blind Tía Es- trella has mistaken someone else for her surly teenage daughter.
“And how is Fefa?” América asks.
Estrella waves her hand as if to dismiss the question. “Same as always.”
From where she sits, América can see the front door, and when it opens, Rosalinda steps in, smiling at someone behind her, holding the door open with great care so that the person can step through. It is Prima Fefa, who is as gray and stooped
125 / Esmeralda Santiago
and wrinkled as her mother. How did these two women grow so old in just fourteen years?
Rosalinda notices the new suitcase against the wall before she realizes who it belongs to. Her eyes open in amazement when she sees América.
“Mami!” She runs to her mother, hugs her with a warmth América hasn’t felt from her in months.
She embraces her daughter, breast to breast. Rosalinda is the first to let go. Prima Fefa hurls herself at América, kisses her wetly on the cheek. She gesticulates, tugs her hair, makes an hourglass shape with her hands, kisses her fingertips. Rosalinda interprets. “She says you look great, Mami, but that she remembers you
with darker hair.”
“Miss Clairol,” América enunciates clearly toward Fefa, and Fefa laughs, a distant guttural sound, like a stifled cough.
“Why don’t you show your Mami your room?” Tía Estrella suggests, and Rosalinda panics for a second but then leads her mother to the back of the house.
The room is neat, one wall adorned with Rosalinda’s old posters, a little ragged from the trip across the strait. It is the same room Correa and América stayed in, Estrella’s sewing room, lined with shelves stacked with bolts of cloth, threads, and supplies. The fabrics are old, with patterns no longer in style. A section of shelving is now laden with Rosalinda’s belongings.
“What are you doing here?” The question begins innocently but by the last syllable becomes an accusation as Rosalinda’s face darkens with suspicion.
“I wanted to see you. Remember, I told you I might come sometime?”
“But you didn’t say anything when you called last week.”
“I decided last night.” She tries to ignore Rosalinda’s fixed look, her effort to read something in América’s appearance that is not being said.
“You dyed your hair blond.”
“Miss Clairol,” América says in the same tone as when Fefa asked, but Rosalinda doesn’t laugh. “I needed a change.”
“Why the suitcase?”
América sits on the edge of Rosalinda’s bed. Pulls her dress over her knees, as if trying to press out the wrinkles. “I’m going away for a while.”
“Where?” A whiny near scream. América thinks she hears fear in it.
“To the United States.”
Rosalinda’s mouth flies open, but no sound comes out. She seems to have been struck by an invisible solid object, her eyes startled, her whole body rigid.
“Your father doesn’t know.” América has to tell her everything she can now, while Rosalinda can’t talk, won’t argue. “He mustn’t know. I can’t take his abuse anymore. If I stay, he’ll kill me.” She looks at her lap again, pulls the dress further down over her knees, stretches the hem until it’s taut.
“Mami! Don’t say such a thing.” Rosalinda throws herself at her mother, hugs her as if protecting her from a blow.
América lifts Rosalinda’s face, seeks her eyes, struggles to maintain her voice even, unafraid. “Do you understand? It’s im- portant that he doesn’t know where I am, Rosalinda.”
“I won’t tell him, Mami. I know how he is.”
“I’ll send you money. I’ll call as soon as I can. But I won’t give you my address or phone number.”
“What if something happens? What if I need to get in touch with you?”
“Don’t scare me, Rosalinda. I need you to be a good girl and take care of yourself.” She kisses the top of her head. “I’ll send for you if you want to live…” she lifts Rosalinda’s face up again, searches her eyes, “if you want to live with me again.”
Rosalinda hugs her closer. “I don’t want you to think I stopped loving you, Mami.” So sweet, so sweet and tender, like a child again, her little girl.
“I know, baby.” They hold each other, without tears, creating heat in the space between their bodies, the breach that separates them. A distance wide enough to hold either one of them or, if each moved halfway, to hold them together. América is the first to let go.
’ve never been anywhere, América thinks, but here I am, on an airplane over the ocean on my way to a foreign country where they speak a language I barely comprehend. She adjusts the bouncy pillow the flight attendant gave her, pulls the short
blanket up to her chin. I wonder if he knows.
Each hour since she left Vieques has been punctuated by that question. Did someone see Don Irving take her to the airport? She rode in the hotel van, surrounded by tourists, her eyes alert for Correa’s Jeep on the road or parked in the airport lot. Don Irving waited with her until she boarded the small plane. People looked at her curiously. But she maintained a serious expression, discouraged conversation, sat with her hands on her lap wonder- ing how such a little plane could fly so steadily over the water. Inside, she was wound tight, rigid with fear.
I have only one chance to run away from Correa. If he catches me, I’ll never have another. He’ll kill me. Or if he doesn’t, he’ll beat me until I can’t walk, then watch me ever more carefully, until every breath I take will be his.
She’s safe in the big airplane taking her to New York. There is no one she knows here. Tourists and Puerto Ricans. Old people wearing bright colors. Families with screeching children. A wo- man dressed in black, praying a rosary. In the aisles in front
of her, businessmen work busily at portable computers, a woman sets her hair in curlers, another paints her fingernails. Several people read. A young man wearing a baseball cap snores quietly. His head bounces up from his chest, wakes him up. He looks around, disoriented, goes back to sleep.
América closes her eyes. She aches, as if, sitting down for the longest time she ever remembers sitting, she’s suddenly aware of how tired she is. She hasn’t slept well since the day she decided to leave Vieques. She spent the nights Correa didn’t come sorting her things, deciding what to take and what to leave behind. She has all her pictures of Rosalinda, from infancy to last year’s school picture. Three pairs of jeans and T-shirts. Two dresses, three skirts, three tops. Her sneakers. Two pairs of shoes, one with heels, the other flats. Two pairs of sandals. New bedroom slippers. Five nightgowns, bras, and panties. A sweatshirt with a dancing Minnie Mouse. She’s wearing her prettiest dress, turquoise with sequins along the collar and long sleeves. Blue shoes with rhinestones on the heels. And over her shoulders, and gray sweater with silver threads woven in the fabric. She felt a little foolish dressed like that at six o’clock in the morning, but she’ll be arriving in New York in the evening, and she didn’t know if she’d have a chance to change. Now she wishes she’d packed her dress in a separate bag. It’s wrinkled from all the traveling. She could have changed in the airplane bathroom.
The woman setting her hair across the aisle is an experienced traveler. She got on the plane wearing shorts, a T-shirt, and san- dals. Over the past couple of hours, she has done her nails, applied makeup, and changed into a leopard-spot jumpsuit with long sleeves and cuffed legs. From the bag in front of her, she’s also pulled out a pair of short boots and brown socks. All that’s left before they land is to take down her rollers, comb and spray her hair.
Next time I travel, I’ll know better, América thinks. She looks out the window at the sky above, the clouds below. There won’t be a next time, not as long as Correa lives. She wraps the blanket tighter around herself. I wonder if he knows.
A blast of cold air greets her as she leaves the plane and fol-
lows her down the long tunnel to the terminal. Ther’s no one to meet her. People hug and kiss, hold hands as they walk away from the plane. Many more people wait in discreet areas presided over by uniformed attendants behind a counter. A public address system blares incomprehensible directions. Maybe I was supposed to come another day. But the ticket says today.
América follows the travelers to the baggage claim. So many people, dressed in heavy overcoats and boots, hats pulled over their foreheads, gloves stuck in their pockets. She’s trembling with cold, her pretty dress with its sequined collar and sleeves is too thin for late February. There is more confusion where the luggage is handled. People jostling to be in front of the snakelike conveyor rattling in sinuous curves from one end of the room to the other. The automatic exit doors open and shut, and each time, cold air sets América’s teeth chattering. A Yanqui wearing sweatpants and a flowered shirt smiles at her. She looks away, hoping to spot Mrs. Leverett. People bang into her with their bags, tell her to excuse them as if it didn’t matter whether she does or not.
