America's Dream by Esmeralda Santiago

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