America's Dream (37 page)

“A phone call from whom? Never mind, it’s none of my busi- ness.”

“I’ll be there next weekend, okéi?” Now she sounds like Karen Leverett appeasing one of the children.

“All right. I guess I’d better get off the phone.”

“Oh?”

“In case your caller is trying to get through.” “Oh, yes, right, okéi.”

He hasn’t believed her. He thinks she’s made up this excuse to avoid seeing him. Ay, Dios mío. She turns over on her belly again. I have the worst luck with men.

She comes downstairs after she’s heard two cars drive away and the house sounds quiet. The kitchen is a mess of dirty cups and bowls, dishes on the counter, on the table, in the sink. In the toaster oven two pieces of toast are so crispy they crumble when she removes them. She’s tempted to clean the mess but remembers there’s a woman who comes on weekends, and she thinks it’s the woman’s job to clean up, not hers.

Someone is fumbling with the front-door lock. She freezes in place, listening, trying to decide whether to run upstairs to her room or to check and see who it can be. The door opens before she has time to decide.

“Hey, hi!” Charlie jogs in, his shorts and T-shirt soaked with sweat. “Beautiful day, isn’t it,” he asks, not expecting an answer. He opens a bottle of water and swills it down in a few gulps, his right hand on his hip, his eyes closed as if he can’t drink and see at the same time. “Ah! That’s great!” He throws the bottle into the recycling bin. “So,” he says, and leans his hands on the counter, facing her across it as if about to interrogate her. “How are things going?”

“Okéi,” she says with a dim smile. “How do you like Bedford?”

“Is very nice.”

“Well, we’re glad to have you here,” he says, pushing away from the counter. “See you later.” He disappears down the stairs. She shakes her head. I wonder what he would have said if I told him how things are really going. My mother is an alcoholic, she mouths silently, and my fourteen-year-old daughter sleeps around and wants to be a chorus girl when she grows up. But that’s not all, Mr. Leverett. My marido, who is not my husband, is a jealous, possessive woman beater whom I ran away from to

come work for you. He now knows where to find me because my daughter, the vedette, who hates me, showed him an envelope with a postmark. And he’s so resourceful that he found your ad- dress, Mr. Leverett, in those stupid sheets the tourism office keeps to help you tourists feel safe on the beach in Vieques. And now, Mr. Leverett, I’m afraid to leave your house because I’m waiting for my marido, who is not my husband, to call and insult me on the phone so that I can know, at least, that he’s in Puerto Rico and not in your neighborhood looking for me. And how are things going for you?

She takes her tea and toast up to her room, closes the door, and sits on the couch. She’s fuming. This is what he wants. Even from Puerto Rico he’s controlling me, keeping me locked in my room waiting for him.

She sips the tea, munches toast, takes her time because there’s nothing else she can do. She sits, stares out the window at the dark green leaves of a tree in the front yard. There are no butter- flies here, it occurs to her. Back home, if I looked out a window, I’d always see butterflies. But I haven’t seen a single butterfly since I arrived. Maybe it’s too cold for them. Everything dies here in the winter—birds, butterflies…The phone rings.

“América.” He whispers her name, the way he does when he’s making love to her.

“Correa.” And she names him under her breath, as if to do so out loud would conjure him.

“You taught me a lesson, baby.” There’s a smile in his voice. “Rosalinda said you wanted to talk.” She will be strong, she

will not cry, will not let on that she’s afraid.

“We’re talking, aren’t we? We’re talking, baby. We should have talked long ago.”

She will ignore his patronizing tone, will pretend they’re having a normal conversation. “How are you?”

“I’m fine, fine. Real fine! And you?”

“I thought you would call me last night. I told Rosalinda to tell you to call me.” The resentment bubbles through in spite of her efforts to squelch it.

“I was busy last night, baby. But I’m here now. I miss you

like crazy, you know you’re my woman.” He’s playing with her. She can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic or not.

“Are you in Fajardo, or in Vieques?” “Do you miss me? Do you?”

He wasn’t being sarcastic. “Yes, I miss you.” She is.

“You shouldn’t have run away from me like that, América. It made me crazy. But you taught me a lesson. I promise to change, baby. I’m getting a divorce, and you and me will get married. In a church and everything. I miss you so much, baby, you’re the only one for me. You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes.” She will play along with him, anything to keep him talking like this, like a lover. To keep him from swearing at her and calling her ugly names and making threats. Anything to keep him from getting angry, from finding ways, at this great distance, to hurt her.

“Forgive me. I swear I’ll never raise my hand to you, I make you a solemn promise on my mother’s grave, I swear it.”

“All right.”

“I’ll fix up the house, and we’ll live there. In my house, not Ester’s house. I’ll fix up a room for Rosalinda too. She wants us to be a family again. She’s such a sensitive girl. This whole thing has been real hard on her. I’m not blaming you. I blame myself too. I just love you so much, América, I can’t stand the thought of ever losing you. Do you understand that, baby? Do you hear what I’m saying to you?”

“Yes.”

“You won’t have to work anymore, either. I want you home being my wife, and taking care of our daughter, and maybe, have a couple of more kids. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, baby? We’ll try for a boy this time.”

“All right.”

“Yes, baby, all right. You’re talking to a new man, baby. A new man. You’ve taught me a lesson I’ll never forget. I miss you baby. Do you miss me? Do you?”

“Yes.” Is he deaf? Doesn’t he hear the flatness in her voice, the automatic responses? She’s telling him what he wants to hear. She’s playing with him.

“We’re going to be happy, you just wait. We’ll grow old togeth- er, you and me. We’ll be the best looking viejitos in Vieques, okay, baby? Okay?”

“Okéi.”

“All right. I’ll call the airlines, and I’ll get you a ticket for tomor- row. You pack your bags, baby, and I’ll come get you at the airport in San Juan. And tomorrow, you’ll see a new man waiting for you.”

The image of Correa waiting for her at the other end of a flight wakes her from the semitrance in which she has been listening to him. “Tomorrow…Correa, tomorrow is too soon.”

“What do you mean, too soon?” The beginning of a snarl, the beginning of anger.

“I mean, well, I have my period…and it wouldn’t…”

He chuckles, a low, patronizing chuckle. “I see what you mean, yeah. But we won’t do anything, even though it’s been months. I can control myself until—”

“I’d like to be…nice and fresh for you…and, I’d like to buy some presents for Rosalinda, and for Estrella who has been so good…” She hates herself, the tone of her voice, the girlish sound meant to seduce, the innuendoes. But it works.

“You’re right, baby, you’re right. I’m being selfish. It’s just that I want you here so much.”

“The people I work for have young children. I should give them time to find someone.”

“You tell them in a couple of days you’re gone. You’re going home to your man. You tell them that.” As if a couple of days were a huge concession. “I’ll call the airlines and get your ticket. You don’t worry about a thing.”

“A week, Correa. Can I come home next Monday?” To herself she sounds as if she were begging. “They need time to find someone.”

He hesitates. “A week?” She holds her breath, then relaxes when he relents. “All right, one week. I’ll call later to let you know about your flight. You wait for me to call.”

“Okéi.”

“I love you, baby.”

She waits for him to hang up, sets the receiver down gently, and sits staring out the window. There are no butterflies here. They all die.

Between the money she brought with her from Puerto Rico and what she has saved after sending Ester and Rosalinda money every week she’s worked, she has $397.22 to her name. She can’t get very far on $397.22.

“Hi, Frida. Do you have a minute?”

“Sure, Mrs. Finn took the kids to the movies. I’ve been ironing all day. I hate to iron.”

“I was wondering if your sister or daughter might know of a situation.”

“For you? Hold on.” She can hear Frida set the iron down, pull out a chair, and get ready for a nice long chat. “I thought you liked the Leveretts.”

“I need to move, but not around here.” “What’s the matter? You sound upset.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.” She wipes her nose on the back of her hand. “I have a problem, and I need to find another place to live.”

América envisions Frida leaning into the phone, waiting for details. She doesn’t give any.

“Bueno,” Frida says, unwilling to seem like a busybody by asking more than América is ready to tell. “I can call to see.”

“I’d appreciate it.” “Sure.”

“Thank you, Frida.” “Sure, no problem.”

It’s taken all her energy to make that one call, to admit to someone that she needs help. América imagines that by the time she walks across the room, Frida will have called Mercedes, who will call Liana, who will call Adela, until they all know she’s looking for another job. They will speculate about the reason and cite conversations that might hint at why she’s leaving the Leveretts after a few months. They will wonder whether the Leveretts will

now need someone else and whether they might get more money from them than their current employers pay them. But they won’t commit to the Leveretts until they know why she’s leaving.

As for me, I have one week to figure things out. One week to disappear to God knows where. And once I do, I will not tell anyone. Not Mami. Not Rosalinda. Not even Tía Paulina. None of them. I’ll go someplace where no one knows me. A place with no Puerto Ricans, so that there’s no chance I’ll see anyone I know. I might even change my name. But I’m not going back. Not for him. Not for her. Not for anybody.

She’s hungry but doesn’t want to use the Leverett kitchen. It was such a mess when she came down earlier, and now the kids are home, and so are Karen and Charlie. She doesn’t feel like talking to them, to pretend everything’s fine. She will drive to Mount Kisco for Chinese food. She could use some fresh air.

“América is here,” Meghan announces when she comes down. The family is at the table, having an early dinner or late lunch, she doesn’t know which.

“I go out. Is okéi I take Volvo?” “Yes, of course,” says Charlie. “Can I come?”

“No, you guys stay with us. This is América’s day off, and she has things to do, okay?” Karen tries to look stern, but it’s not in her nature. She smiles too much.

A large woman comes out of the bathroom. She has long, straight hair caught in a ponytail, with girlish bangs over blue eyes. Only she’s not a girl, nor is she a mature woman. Her un- lined face is fleshy, high-cheekboned, with the kind of pretty features people usually remark on followed by “too bad she’s so heavy.”

“This is Johanna,” Karen says, not getting up from the table. “Johanna, this is América.”

“Hi,” Johanna says, friendly, open.

“Hello.” She’d like to seem happier to meet her, but she’s not.

This is the woman who baby-sits the children on weekends,

who leaves the kitchen a mess, who doesn’t straighten the rooms all weekend long, so that when América comes back she spends the better part of her morning putting toys away and picking up clothes from every corner of the kids’ rooms. “Nice to meet you,” she lies.

Johanna sits between Kyle and Meghan, like part of the family. América takes the keys to the Volvo from the drawer. “I see you later.”

“Adiós, América,” the children sing. “Have a good time,” Charlie calls out.

She’ll have to tell them she’s leaving. Next week she’ll walk out of this house, away from these people, and never see them again. She’ll tell Karen when they’re alone. She doesn’t look for- ward to the questions, the hurt looks, the knowledge that Karen will feel betrayed. She should tell her tonight, give her time to find someone else. Maybe Johanna can fill in.

She’s about to climb into the car when Karen runs out. “Uh, América, before you leave.”

“Yes?”

“I was wondering if you could work next weekend.” She stuffs her hands in her back pockets, which makes her look young and vulnerable. “Charlie and I would like to go away for the weekend, just the two of us.” She blushes.

“Johanna can’t?”

Karen seems surprised that América doesn’t jump at the chance. “We’d rather you stay. It would be less disruptive for the chil- dren.”

“I don’t know.” How to tell her next weekend she might not even be here?

“Of course, we’d pay you extra.” As if she were doing her a favor.

América feels the heat rise to her face. If she were to say any- thing now, it would not be polite. So she nods. “Okéi.” Quiet, humble, no problem.

“Oh! Great! Well,”—Karen backs away, hands still in pock- ets—“we can talk about it when you come back, okay?” She vanishes into the house.

América sits at the wheel for a minute before starting the car. This is the second time that Karen Leverett has wanted to change América’s schedule for her convenience. She thinks I have no life other than the one that solves her problems. It’s not enough that I work fifteen hours a day, that I’m bringing up her children, that I pick up after them and cook for them and maintain their home so that it’s clean and comfortable when they get back from work. I’m also expected to suspend my life, to be available on my days off to make it easier for her to have her life. As if her life were more important than mine.

Is it? she asks herself. Is Karen Leverett’s life, with its important job, its meetings and early-morning phone calls, its ton of papers strewn all over the den, more important than mine? She’s afraid to answer the question.

I should never have come here. I was stupid to think this could work. Of course Correa would find me. And the longer it took him, the worse for me.