America's Dream by Esmeralda Santiago

him unless he speaks to her in English. “Ay, pero ay no spik,” the singer tells his wife, who responds, “Geev eet tú mí, beyhee.”
    Correa is a good dancer, loose-limbed and creative. He holds her firmly enough so she knows who’s leading, but not so tight that she has no room to turn. He looks at her while they dance, which she finds incredibly romantic, as if they were the only two people in the place. A half smile on his lips, he guides her between other couples, from one end of the dance floor to the other, his hips marking the rhythm against hers, separating only slightly as he folds her in and out of his arms in complex turns. The heat of his body against hers is exciting, and her eyes glisten with happiness and desire. She feels eyes on them, the envious glances of women whose partners are neither as good-looking nor as agile as Correa, the

    veiled admiration of men who glance at her sinuous hips forming a figure-eight against his. She returns her gaze to his eyes, shad- owed in the dim light.
    “Who were you looking at?” he whispers in her ear, and even though the music is deafening, she hears him.
    “No one,” she replies, tensing in spite of herself.
    She feels the distance between them grow, even though he hasn’t let go of her, even though they dance as if the exchange hadn’t taken place.
    Correa has slapped her in public if he thinks she’s flirting, so she narrows her gaze to him, to the Brut-scented space he occu- pies. It is a small space, even though he’s a big man.
    They stay at La Copa de Oro for a few numbers, then walk across the street, to the live band at PeeWee’s Pub. He orders rum and Cokes for himself, plain iced Cokes for her, because he doesn’t like her to drink liquor.
    The place is so crowded that it’s difficult to dance, so they listen to the band for a while, then return to the boardwalk. His step is heavier than it was at the beginning of the evening, when his head was unclouded by rum. But the sea air seems to restore him. He jokes with passersby, greets his friends’ women with exagger- ated courtesy and respect, as if to demonstrate how a woman should be treated. América hangs back as he glad-hands everyone like a politician on election day. She’s a gray and sober shadow at his side. The joy and freedom she felt at the start of the evening has dimmed with his scrutiny of everyone she talks to, looks at, or comments upon. She avoids eye contact with men, even those she knows well, like Feto and Tomás, who are also out on the boardwalk.
    “I’m tired,” she tells him in a quiet moment. “Let’s go home.” “It’s not even midnight yet,” he says, looking at his watch. He pulls her closer, kisses her hair. “What’s the matter, aren’t you
    having fun?”
    She pulls away from him. “I have to work tomorrow.” “Don’t worry,” he says, “I won’t keep you up all night.” He
    slaps her rear smartly.

    As they turn a corner to check out the action at Eddy’s, they meet Odilio Pagán on his way out. Correa pulls América closer, a move not lost on Pagán, who veils his dislike of Correa behind a cordial greeting.
    “How is Rosalinda doing?” he asks, looking at América. “Everyone’s fine,” answers Correa before América opens her
    mouth.
    “Good,” responds Pagán with a terse smile.
    They part in opposite directions, wishing one another a good evening, but as soon as Pagán turns the corner, Correa makes América face him.
    “I don’t want him coming around the house when I’m not there,” he warns.
    “It’s not like he comes around all the time,” she responds, sul- lenly, forgetting for an instant that Correa doesn’t like her to talk back. She feels the slap before she sees his hand, has barely enough time to realize she’s let down her guard before another slap crosses her face from the opposite direction.
    “Don’t you talk back to me,” he snarls. “You listen. I don’t want that maricón coming around the house