America's Dream (18 page)

She spots her suitcase and must push through the throng of people to get to it. “Excuse? Is mine. Excuse plis?” People make way for her, then close in her wake. The man in the flowered shirt gets to her bag before she does, helps her lift it off before the conveyor takes it away again.

“Oomph! It’s heavy!” he says as he sets it down next to her. “Thank you.” She smiles shyly, and he helps her drag it away

from the crowd. “Is okéi. I take now.” He makes her nervous. “Crazy here tonight!” he says, and she nods as if she under-

stands what he’s said.

“Did you come off the Puerto Rico flight?” he asks.

América scans the crowd looking for Mrs. Leverett, tugs on her suitcase as if she were going somewhere.

“Did you?” the man insists. A faint trace of alcohol wafts its way to her.

“Sorry. I no speak inglis.”

He seems appeased but makes no move to go. “No one’s here to meet you?”

“I sorry.” She repeats, tugging on her suitcase, her heart racing. “Over here, América!” Mrs. Leverett waves from across the

room.

“¡Gracias a Dios!” With effort, América picks up her suitcase. “Thank you,” she mumbles in the man’s direction, as she drags it toward Mrs. Leverett. He bows, a gesture she finds offensive, because it seems to mock her.

“Oh, I’m so sorry you had to wait!” Mrs. Leverett embraces her quickly, steps back, looks her up and down critically. “You look so nice!” América feels how overdressed she is, even at night, even in New York. Mrs. Leverett hands her a coat and hat. “Here, you’re going to need these. It’s bitter out there.” She spots América high-heel shoes with rhinestones. “Those will get ruined. I didn’t bring boots.”

The coat is bulky, too big for her, and the hat, wool with multi- colored stripes, will squish her hair if she puts it on. She stuffs it in a pocket. Mrs. Leverett chatters about the cold, the traffic, something about dinner. “I’m parked across the way. Is this all your luggage?” She tries to help América with it.

“Is okei. I take.” América lifts it as if it weighed nothing.

The automatic doors open, and América is paralyzed by a gust of cold air. “¡Ay, Santo Dios!” she exclaims out loud. The suitcase drops on its side next to her, and Mrs. Leverett picks it up.

“Let me help you with this.”

“No, no, Mrs. Leverett. Is okéi. I do.” But Mrs. Leverett, taller and skinnier than América, is strong. She hefts the suitcase and walks rapidly away. América is mortified. She has come across the ocean to be this woman’s helper, and the first thing that happens is she can’t even carry her own luggage. What must Mrs. Leverett think!

Her high heels are treacherous on the slippery pavement. Fat snowflakes pelt her face, melt on contact. Her hair, curled and sprayed into shape, is damp. She pulls the hat out of her pocket and sets it lightly on top of her head. But it needs the tension of her skull to stay on, so she has to pull it down, squishing her curls.

“We’re right up here,” Mrs. Leverett says, leading América across a road congested with cars, buses, vans, limousines.

América can’t walk as fast as Mrs. Leverett. Her feet are wet from the slush, her legs, covered only with panty hose, are numb, especially her knees, which feel as if they need to be oiled. The bones of her hands feel brittle, and she stuffs them into the deep pockets of the coat, hunches her shoulders as if protecting her chest from a blow. She’s never thought of snow as anything but what tourists avoid by coming to Vieques. But here she is, in the middle of a snowstorm, in a place most of the people she’s ever met try to get away from. What have I done, she asks herself, not quite believing that she’s come this far, and already she’s having second thoughts.

Mrs. Leverett lifts the rear door of a bright red Explorer, struggles a bit with the suitcase but, with América’s help, manages to stuff it inside. She dashes around to the driver’s side, motions to América to climb in, the door is open, and starts the car. She sits in front of the wheel rubbing her hands together, blowing air on them.

“Let’s give it a chance to warm up.”

América tries to fasten her seat belt, but her fingers are so stiff she can’t do it. Mrs. Leverett reaches over and smartly clasps it for her, as if she were a child.

“Thank you,” América says, and notices that whatever she says is visible in spurts of foggy air. Mrs. Leverett chatters as if América can understand her. Home. Traffic. Storm. Children. Charlie. América nods from time to time, catching most of what she says, hoping that what she’s missing will eventually be re- peated or is not important.

There is a long line of cars ahead of them. They inch their way out of the airport into a congested highway banked with three- and four-story buildings. Snow falls steadily, as if the whole city will be buried in frozen water. She wonders if there are floods when it all melts. Ay, Dios mío, she asks herself again, what have I done? What am I doing here?

As they go over a bridge, traffic eases.

“There’s New York,” Mrs. Leverett points to her left. Sharp-

edged buildings are silhouetted against a dense sky, and dim lights like still fireflies blink a message through the falling snow.

“Beautiful!”

The tall buildings seem to be grouped in one part of the city, to her left, while to the right most of the structures are lower, the lights less bright. The bridge they’re on is graceful, but América, aware of being on a slippery surface high over a black river, can’t enjoy its beauty. She sighs in relief when they are on solid ground again, albeit lined up before a tollbooth that seems very far away from where they’re stopped.

Mrs. Leverett curses under her breath, but América pretends not to hear. She feels bad that Mrs. Leverett is out in this danger- ous weather on her account, but she doesn’t think it would do any good to apologize, since it’s not her fault. Somehow, she still feels guilty.

Mrs. Leverett turns on the radio, scans until she finds a Latin station. “There we go!” A blast of trumpets followed by a sweet tenor voice singing about lost love makes América smile, and Mrs. Leverett grins, as if this were a special gift only for América. “How far you live from Bronx?” América asks, and Mrs.

Leverett turns down the radio to answer.

“About an hour by train. Do you know people there?” “My aunt and cousins.”

“Oh, that’s nice,” she says, seemingly disappointed at the news. “I don’t see them since many years,” América tells her.

“Is it your father’s sister, or your mother’s?” “My mother.”

“Is she still alive?”

América’s heart thumps as if the thought of Ester dying has never occurred to her. “Yes. I live with her.”

“Oh, right, Irving told me. You have a daughter too, don’t you?”

“She live with her father aunt.” Please don’t ask any more questions. Please stop.

“She must be very young. How old are you?” “I thirty in May.”

“Oh, nice. We’ll sing you happy birthday.”

She smiles. Her birthdays have gone unsung by everyone but Correa, who every year takes her out for a lobster dinner followed by dancing at PeeWee’s Pub. He always presents her with something special—a gold chain, a dress, a bed when the old one got too lumpy. She wonders what he was planning to give her for her next birthday. A thud of fear bumps inside her chest. Oh, God, I wonder if he knows yet.

“…your daughter?” “My daughter?” “How old is she?”

“Oh, she…” It’s never been embarrassing to say Rosalinda’s age, but now she feels so absurdly young to have a teenage daughter. “She fourteen.”

“Wow!” is all Mrs. Leverett can muster. “Fourteen!” As if it were a marker of sorts, a surprise that anyone ever gets to be that age. She takes her eyes off the road for a moment, looks at América as if she were a new specimen of human. She catches herself staring and concentrates on her driving again.

“I made mistake,” América apologizes, her whole body burning with shame. “Fifteen too young have babies.”

“Yes, that is young.” Mrs. Leverett says, and for the rest of the trip they’re silent in the dark car, surrounded by more darkness, the windshield wipers tapping a rhythm to the falling snow, out of tune with the salsa music on the radio.

She’s going to fire me, América worries. She thought I was more responsible, and now she knows how stupid I can be. She hunkers down inside the coat, no longer against the cold but trying to hide within its confines. I should have told her when we talked on the phone. I should have said something then. Now she has a bad opinion of me, and who knows what her husband will think! Ay, bendito, what’s to become of me if she fires me?

It feels like a journey into darkness; each route they take has fewer streetlights until they’re on a curvy road with no lights at all. Leafless trees reach out from either side, their roots protruding into the edges of the asphalt sculptured around them as if

not to disturb a natural order. The car swerves to the left, to the right, to the left again under Mrs. Leverett’s confident hand, as if now that they’re getting closer to home, she’s no longer worried about the slippery conditions. “Almost there,” she says, with a sidelong glance at América, whose hands grip the armrest. “Here we go.” She pulls into a driveway that lights up as she approaches, a garage door that opens by itself into a neatly organized room with shelves along the walls. On the far end a door opens, and Mr. Leverett and the children stand on the threshold. Meghan and Kyle are in their pajamas. Mr. Leverett comes down to shake her hand, but the children stay at the door, hopping up and down, waving their hands.

“Hi, América!” “Welcome, América!” “It’s snowing!” squeals Meghan as if she has just noticed.

“Go on in. I’ll get your things.” Mr. Leverett retrieves her suit- case while Mrs. Leverett leads her into the kitchen.

“Here she is, guys!” Mrs. Leverett says to the children. “Hello, baby,” América scoops up Meghan in one arm and with

the other hugs Kyle to her side. The children seem startled at her ardor but settle into it as onto a comfortable cushion. “What beautiful house!” América exclaims, and Mr. and Mrs. Leverett beam with pleasure.

“Do you want to see my room?” asks Meghan, and Kyle pipes up that she should see his room too.

“Now, guys,” Mr. Leverett interrupts, “América must be tired from her trip, so why don’t we let her rest now and show her around tomorrow?”

“Is okéi, I no tired,” she tells them, and Mr. Leverett looks an- noyed. She sets Meghan down. “But is better tomorrow when not dark,” she amends. Mr. Leverett nods in her direction.

“Let’s show América her room, okay?” Mrs. Leverett leads the way up a narrow staircase to the second floor. The children troop after them, pointing out the direction of their rooms as they come up. In the hall they turn left down another hall, to a wide door painted white with a brass handle and a lock.

Mrs. Leverett opens the door, turns on a light. The room is over the garage, with low slanted ceilings and dormer windows

on two sides. A double bed with a comforter and many pillows is set against the far wall, opposite a sitting area with a couch in front of a television set, a small round table with two chairs and shelves against the wall. The whole room is carpeted, painted pale blue and white, with matching drapes.

“Is beautiful!” América exclaims, and Mrs. Leverett relaxes, a proud look on her face.

“This is the key to your room,” she says, taking a leather key purse from the dresser by the door. “The rest are for the house and cars. We’ll go over them tomorrow.”

Mr. Leverett comes in with her suitcase. “How do you like it?” he asks with a grin.

“Is very nice!” She doesn’t have to pretend enthusiasm. The room is the nicest she’s ever lived in, bigger than her living room.

“You turn on the TV with this control.” Kyle demonstrates. “This door leads to your closet,” Mrs. Leverett continues.

América’s head is spinning. Still wearing Mrs. Leverett’s heavy coat, she enters the lit walk-in closet with racks on either side and shelves at the far end. The inside of the door is mirrored.

“…and over here is your bathroom.”

An enclosed tub, matching sink and toilet, a small rug on the tile floor. Another huge mirror. Kyle and Meghan follow her into every room, chase each other around her.

“Children, stop that!” Mrs. Leverett says, her back to them, and they stop in their tracks, wait a few seconds, then continue. “All right, kids,” Mr. Leverett says firmly, “let’s let América

get settled. You’ll see her in the morning.”

The children look uncertainly at their father, then decide to follow him.

“Good night, América,” they repeat dutifully after their mother. “If you’re hungry or thirsty—” Mrs. Leverett suggests.

“I okéi, thank you,” América reassures her. “Good night.”

They leave, the children chasing each other down the hall, their father yelling at them not to run.

She’s relieved when they’re gone. She wants to explore the room without them watching her reactions. She doesn’t want to seem like a jíbara who has never seen walk-in closets and mirrored doors. She doesn’t want them to see her kick her high heels off and dig her frozen toes into the warm carpeting or throw herself on her back on the soft comforter, her head against the fluffy pillows. There’s a knock on the door.

América sits up, straightens the bed. “Yes?”

Mrs. Leverett opens the door and stands on the threshold. “I forgot to show you the thermostat.” She leans in, fiddles with a dial by the door. “If you’re cold, turn the heat up here. Rest well!” She disappears.

América stands by the dial. She’s not sure what Mrs. Leverett did, or why, but a soft cackle comes from the baseboard. She touches it and it feels warm. “Oh, okéi,” she says to herself. She takes off the coat and opens the closet door, which makes a light go on inside. She drapes the coat over a hanger, then can’t decide which side of the closet to hang it in, decides to do it on the right as she goes out. Her suitcase is in the middle of the floor, where Mr. Leverett left it. She tips it over and opens it.

The first thing she pulls out is her white stuffed cat with the blue eyes. She snuggles him against the pillows. There is a tele- phone on the bedside table, with a dial tone. A clock radio by the bed. She fiddles with the dial but can’t get a station. It’s only nine o’clock, but it feels later. Days later. She takes her clothes out of her bag, hangs everything up in the closet, where they take up very little space. She’s glad she brought her cosmetics and toi- letries because on the way to the house she didn’t see any stores. Not since they left the city and Mrs. Leverett pointed to a sign that said,
WESTCHESTER COUNTY
,
NEW YORK
. Maybe the stores close during a snowstorm, but then there would have been signs or something. She can’t imagine having to drive to the city to buy groceries. She takes off her makeup, brushes out her hair, changes into her nightgown. The towels in the bathroom are thick and soft.