Read Online America's Dream by Esmeralda Santiago - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Esmeralda Santiago
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this her wall of memories. The rest of the room is lined with shelves laden with figurines. In a corner, an ancient table holds the altar to Saint Lazarus, her patron saint, a votive candle at his feet, its phantasmal light flickering yellow red yellow.
The drawers are full of clothes Ester hasn’t worn in years. Blouses and skirts that have gone out of style. Cotton brassieres that no longer fit. Dresses with the ruffles and flounces of a wo- man not afraid to flirt. In the bottom drawer, the green nylon uniform is folded on top of the dress Ester wore as the maid of honor at her sister’s wedding a month before she ran away from home. América pulls the uniform out, presses at the wrinkles with her palms, and lays it at the foot of the bed, then goes to make breakfast.
“Just coffee,” Ester says in between coughs as she goes by, “too early to eat.”
América pours Ester a cup of coffee with heated milk and sugar. With the first sip, Ester’s cough dissipates, and after the third or fourth gulp, it’s almost completely gone. “My medicine,” Ester calls her first cup of coffee. She moans and groans with every step, sighs loud enough for América to hear, takes her time undoing her curlers, combing out her hair, painting in her eye- brows and a black line around her eyes. In the kitchen América registers the muted protests but pretends she doesn’t hear them. She puts her slices of bread in the toaster and leans against the counter sipping her black coffee, her thoughts racing ahead to the hour when Rosalinda wakes up. She’s not sure what she will say to her. At least, she’ll remind her she has to go to school.
Ester emerges from her room a different woman. Hair combed and sprayed, face made up, one could even call her beautiful, life’s creases an adornment that highlight deep-set eyes, a fleshy mouth, a high brow. The uniform fits tight across
her hips and buttocks, the apron tied around a waist smaller than América’s. “You look great,” América says.
Ester smiles, twirls in front of her. “Not bad for an old lady.” “Forty-five is not old, Mami.”
“I was old when I was born,” she responds.
América can’t help herself. “If you’d take better care of your- self—”
“Stop with the sermon. I’m going.”
She leaves the house but stops on the sidewalk in front to light a cigarette, her cough returning briefly after the first puff. She punches her chest to loosen the phlegm, spits into the gut-ter, and walks on, trailed by a curl of smoke.
Correa shambles out of the bedroom scratching his head. While he’s taking a shower and shaving, América cooks up eggs and toast, fresh coffee. As she’s serving, he comes up behind her, wraps his arms around her waist, kisses her hair.
“Deja eso,” she mumbles, ducking out of his grasp.
He grabs her arm, pulls her, kisses her wetly on the lips. “You missed me, didn’t you?” he whispers into her face. She turns away, steps out of his embrace.
“Your breakfast is getting cold.” She carries the plate to the table, where she has already set up a mat, fork, knife, spoon. He watches her walk, smiles to himself, follows her. She brings him coffee, toast with butter. When she’s close again, he grabs the waistband of her jeans.
“Stop that!” She tries to loosen his grip.
“Sit with me,” he says, pulling her down on his lap. “You can’t eat with me sitting here.”
“On the chair, then. Don’t run away like you always do.”
He lets her go, keeps his hand in her waistband until she sits next to him. She pulls the chair back so that she can’t see his face, just the back of his neck, the fraying collar of his shirt, the dark crevice between his skull and ear. I hate you, she drills into his brain. He has big hands, wide and solid. He pushes the scrambled eggs onto the fork with a piece of toast, turns his head to look at her.
“Cat got your tongue?” he asks.
She tsks, shifts her gaze to the window. He burps
The drawers are full of clothes Ester hasn’t worn in years. Blouses and skirts that have gone out of style. Cotton brassieres that no longer fit. Dresses with the ruffles and flounces of a wo- man not afraid to flirt. In the bottom drawer, the green nylon uniform is folded on top of the dress Ester wore as the maid of honor at her sister’s wedding a month before she ran away from home. América pulls the uniform out, presses at the wrinkles with her palms, and lays it at the foot of the bed, then goes to make breakfast.
“Just coffee,” Ester says in between coughs as she goes by, “too early to eat.”
América pours Ester a cup of coffee with heated milk and sugar. With the first sip, Ester’s cough dissipates, and after the third or fourth gulp, it’s almost completely gone. “My medicine,” Ester calls her first cup of coffee. She moans and groans with every step, sighs loud enough for América to hear, takes her time undoing her curlers, combing out her hair, painting in her eye- brows and a black line around her eyes. In the kitchen América registers the muted protests but pretends she doesn’t hear them. She puts her slices of bread in the toaster and leans against the counter sipping her black coffee, her thoughts racing ahead to the hour when Rosalinda wakes up. She’s not sure what she will say to her. At least, she’ll remind her she has to go to school.
Ester emerges from her room a different woman. Hair combed and sprayed, face made up, one could even call her beautiful, life’s creases an adornment that highlight deep-set eyes, a fleshy mouth, a high brow. The uniform fits tight across
her hips and buttocks, the apron tied around a waist smaller than América’s. “You look great,” América says.
Ester smiles, twirls in front of her. “Not bad for an old lady.” “Forty-five is not old, Mami.”
“I was old when I was born,” she responds.
América can’t help herself. “If you’d take better care of your- self—”
“Stop with the sermon. I’m going.”
She leaves the house but stops on the sidewalk in front to light a cigarette, her cough returning briefly after the first puff. She punches her chest to loosen the phlegm, spits into the gut-ter, and walks on, trailed by a curl of smoke.
Correa shambles out of the bedroom scratching his head. While he’s taking a shower and shaving, América cooks up eggs and toast, fresh coffee. As she’s serving, he comes up behind her, wraps his arms around her waist, kisses her hair.
“Deja eso,” she mumbles, ducking out of his grasp.
He grabs her arm, pulls her, kisses her wetly on the lips. “You missed me, didn’t you?” he whispers into her face. She turns away, steps out of his embrace.
“Your breakfast is getting cold.” She carries the plate to the table, where she has already set up a mat, fork, knife, spoon. He watches her walk, smiles to himself, follows her. She brings him coffee, toast with butter. When she’s close again, he grabs the waistband of her jeans.
“Stop that!” She tries to loosen his grip.
“Sit with me,” he says, pulling her down on his lap. “You can’t eat with me sitting here.”
“On the chair, then. Don’t run away like you always do.”
He lets her go, keeps his hand in her waistband until she sits next to him. She pulls the chair back so that she can’t see his face, just the back of his neck, the fraying collar of his shirt, the dark crevice between his skull and ear. I hate you, she drills into his brain. He has big hands, wide and solid. He pushes the scrambled eggs onto the fork with a piece of toast, turns his head to look at her.
“Cat got your tongue?” he asks.
She tsks, shifts her gaze to the window. He burps
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