America's Dream by Esmeralda Santiago Page A

looks at her out of the corner of her eye, guiltily, as if what América is saying carries some hidden meaning that Correa shouldn’t catch. “The second time he came to tell me she wouldn’t press charges. I guess that must have been part of the deal to let Taino go.” She looks at him defiantly, but he simply returns her look, sips his beer, his eyes on hers, then drops his gaze to her bosom, to the deep crevice between her breasts. In spite of herself, she blushes.
    Rosalinda cracks her door open. “Mami,” she calls from the other side, her voice breaking in the same way as when she has hurt herself, or when she’s afraid of thunder, or when she’s con- fused. América runs to her daughter’s door but doesn’t open it, stands in front of it, waiting for Rosalinda to let her in.
    When she’s inside, Rosalinda shuts it, then throws herself in her mother’s arms, presses her body against América as if trying to fuse into her.
    “1’m sorry, Mami, I’m so sorry,” Rosalinda cries into her mother’s bosom, and América holds her close, crying into her hair that it’s all right, it’s okay, everything will be all right. They rock against each other, against the door, their tears mingling as if from one pair of eyes, one body.
    Rosalinda holds on to América as if afraid her mother will leave her in the darkened room decorated with posters of half-naked singers and actors, their hair disheveled, their eyes wild. One male star offers himself, hips thrust forward aggressively, his thumbs pulling the waistband of his pants so low it doesn’t take much imagination to imagine what comes next. The women dis- play their breasts and buttocks in barely there tops and shorts crisscrossed with gold and silver chains.

    América sighs deeply. “Ay, Rosalinda, what were you think- ing?”
    The child tenses in her arms, withdraws from her bosom as swiftly as she had thrown herself into it. She turns her back on América and plops on the bed, buries her face in the pillow.
    “Leave me alone!”
    “But nena, I’m trying to understand.”
    “You don’t understand anything! Leave me alone.” “Rosalinda, don’t yell at me like that. I’m your mother.” “You don’t care about me. You’re just worried about what
    people will say.”
    “I don’t give a shit about other people. I’m trying to talk to you.”
    “Well, there’s nothing to talk about. I don’t want to talk about it. Now will you leave me alone, please?”
    “No, I won’t leave you alone! You can’t run away with your boyfriend and expect me to forget about it. You owe me an ex- planation.”
    “I don’t owe you anything!”
    She can’t stop her hand once it begins its arc toward her daughter’s face, once it slaps her full in the mouth, the sound flat against her daughter’s echoing scream. After the first slap, Ros- alinda covers her face, climbs onto her bed, cowers in the corner as América climbs up after her, punches her against the corner where the wall and bed meet.
    Ester comes running, followed by Correa, who separates them, holds América’s hands down against her belly, drags, almost carries her out of the room, into her own bedroom, where he pushes her onto her bed, then backs out, closing the door behind him, leaving her there in darkness, facedown, sobbing with rage, beating her fists against the pillows, the mattress, the stuffed cat propped against the headboard. She scissors her legs as if swim- ming toward a distant shore. When she raises her head, there is nothing but blackness ahead. Her hands still smart from the blows to her daughter’s face. She laces them behind her head and presses her face into the mattress, suffo-

    cates herself in her own hot breath. She’s ashamed for herself, ashamed for Rosalinda, ashamed for all of them.

    She lies in bed for a long time; she might have even fallen asleep, she’s not sure. The room is stifling. The television is on in the living room, the house smells like fried