anymore.”
She nods silently, holding her face in her hands as if to create a barrier between it and his fingers.
“Are you all right?” he asks, pulling her hands away, kissing them, kissing the red and painful cheeks. “You know I love you, don’t you?” he mutters, holding her close. “Don’t you?” he insists. She doesn’t respond. He draws her to the shadows beyond Eddy’s, where the couples coming in and out of the bar can’t see them. “I wanted this to he a nice night for you, América. I didn’t want to fight.” He sounds truly contrite, even though he hasn’t asked her to forgive him. She feels herself softening. “Sometimes,” he says, “I forget myself. But that’s because I love you so much.” It’s the same as always, not quite an apology, but an excuse. “And I know you love me, don’t you, baby?” he asks, but she doesn’t respond. “Don’t you?” he insists, and she has to nod, because she’s afraid of what he will do if she doesn’t. He kisses her on the lips, rubs himself against her, guides her hands to the bulge between his legs. “See what you
do to me?” he asks, and she nods. “Come on,” he whispers hoarsely, “let’s go home.”
She lets him guide her, his arm tight around her waist. Every so often he stops her in the dark shadows of a breadfruit or mango tree to kiss and fondle her. And she lets him, and tries to remem- ber when her responses to his caresses were not defensive but a demonstration of the love she knows she once felt.
The next day, when América returns from work, Rosalinda is secluded in her room. América wonders what she does in there for hours at a time. Certainly not homework. Rosalinda has never been that dedicated a student.
Ester has gone to spend the night with Don Irving. Without the constant drone of the television, the only sounds are the hens clucking in the backyard and the steady hum of the refrigerator.
Rosalinda’s door opens. América looks up from the hem she’s been stitching.
“Mami, I’d like to talk to you.” Rosalinda stands before her mother, hands clasped behind her back, as childlike and vulner- able as América would like to believe she is. “I don’t want to fight with you anymore,” she says softly, so that América’s heart fills. “Okéi.” she sets down her sewing basket, is about to push up
and embrace her daughter.
“I want to live in Fajardo with Tía Estrella and Prima Fefa.”
That again, América thinks, but she bites her lips so that she won’t say it. She settles back on the couch. “Why?” she asks and immediately knows it’s the wrong question because her daugh- ter’s face hardens.
“It’s not that I don’t love you,” Rosalinda concedes, as if she’s rehearsed it. “It’s just that, I don’t feel right in school. Everyone’s calling me names and stuff—”
“Everyone who?”
Rosalinda winces. “Kids…in school.” She hedges, looking down.
“Just ignore them,” América says. She resumes her hemming, tries to brush from her mind an image of herself at fourteen, pregnant, hiding behind a tree until two schoolmates went past.
“I knew you’d say that,” Rosalinda whines, and América looks up. “I can’t ignore them, Mami. They write me nasty notes, and they turn their hacks on me when I try to talk to them.”
“All of them, or just the uppity ones?” “What difference does it make who it is?”
“Would you please lower your voice?” América asks, even- toned, trying to maintain her own composure. Rosalinda starts back to her room but thinks better of it and slumps on a chair.
“I wish you could understand,” she sniffles.
“I’d like to,” América says, “but it’s hard for me to understand how leaving your home and family is necessary. Running away from your problems doesn’t make them go away,” she concludes as if ending the discussion.
“I’m not ‘running away from my problems,’” Rosalinda says, mimicking her
She nods silently, holding her face in her hands as if to create a barrier between it and his fingers.
“Are you all right?” he asks, pulling her hands away, kissing them, kissing the red and painful cheeks. “You know I love you, don’t you?” he mutters, holding her close. “Don’t you?” he insists. She doesn’t respond. He draws her to the shadows beyond Eddy’s, where the couples coming in and out of the bar can’t see them. “I wanted this to he a nice night for you, América. I didn’t want to fight.” He sounds truly contrite, even though he hasn’t asked her to forgive him. She feels herself softening. “Sometimes,” he says, “I forget myself. But that’s because I love you so much.” It’s the same as always, not quite an apology, but an excuse. “And I know you love me, don’t you, baby?” he asks, but she doesn’t respond. “Don’t you?” he insists, and she has to nod, because she’s afraid of what he will do if she doesn’t. He kisses her on the lips, rubs himself against her, guides her hands to the bulge between his legs. “See what you
do to me?” he asks, and she nods. “Come on,” he whispers hoarsely, “let’s go home.”
She lets him guide her, his arm tight around her waist. Every so often he stops her in the dark shadows of a breadfruit or mango tree to kiss and fondle her. And she lets him, and tries to remem- ber when her responses to his caresses were not defensive but a demonstration of the love she knows she once felt.
The next day, when América returns from work, Rosalinda is secluded in her room. América wonders what she does in there for hours at a time. Certainly not homework. Rosalinda has never been that dedicated a student.
Ester has gone to spend the night with Don Irving. Without the constant drone of the television, the only sounds are the hens clucking in the backyard and the steady hum of the refrigerator.
Rosalinda’s door opens. América looks up from the hem she’s been stitching.
“Mami, I’d like to talk to you.” Rosalinda stands before her mother, hands clasped behind her back, as childlike and vulner- able as América would like to believe she is. “I don’t want to fight with you anymore,” she says softly, so that América’s heart fills. “Okéi.” she sets down her sewing basket, is about to push up
and embrace her daughter.
“I want to live in Fajardo with Tía Estrella and Prima Fefa.”
That again, América thinks, but she bites her lips so that she won’t say it. She settles back on the couch. “Why?” she asks and immediately knows it’s the wrong question because her daugh- ter’s face hardens.
“It’s not that I don’t love you,” Rosalinda concedes, as if she’s rehearsed it. “It’s just that, I don’t feel right in school. Everyone’s calling me names and stuff—”
“Everyone who?”
Rosalinda winces. “Kids…in school.” She hedges, looking down.
“Just ignore them,” América says. She resumes her hemming, tries to brush from her mind an image of herself at fourteen, pregnant, hiding behind a tree until two schoolmates went past.
“I knew you’d say that,” Rosalinda whines, and América looks up. “I can’t ignore them, Mami. They write me nasty notes, and they turn their hacks on me when I try to talk to them.”
“All of them, or just the uppity ones?” “What difference does it make who it is?”
“Would you please lower your voice?” América asks, even- toned, trying to maintain her own composure. Rosalinda starts back to her room but thinks better of it and slumps on a chair.
“I wish you could understand,” she sniffles.
“I’d like to,” América says, “but it’s hard for me to understand how leaving your home and family is necessary. Running away from your problems doesn’t make them go away,” she concludes as if ending the discussion.
“I’m not ‘running away from my problems,’” Rosalinda says, mimicking her
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