mother’s tone of voice. “I want to start over, and I can’t do it here.”
Why not, América wants to ask but knows the effect that will have. “You haven’t given it a chance,” she says. “I want to help you, but you haven’t let me talk to you.” She can’t hide the tears in her voice. “I’m your mother. We should go through this togeth- er.” She tries to go to her daughter, to hug her, but Rosalinda pushes her away as if she were infected.
“This is not your problem, Mami. It’s mine,” she says with a vehemence that stuns América.
“No, mi’ja, no. It’s ours, you’re not alone in this.” Again América tries to embrace her daughter, who steps back. Ros- alinda’s expression is angry, but América doesn’t know what she has done to deserve such fury. “You won’t even let me touch you,” she whimpers, reaching for her once more. But Rosalinda stands firm, a fourteen-year-old child who looks like a woman, who thinks herself a woman because she’s had a man. América drops her arms to her side, hardens her stance, swallows her tears. “You think it’s so easy,” she warns, but Rosalinda doesn’t hear the rest of what she’s about to say. She’s run back to her room and slammed the door shut.
Five Days a Month
F
or as long as La Casa del Francés has been standing, a member of América’s family has been mopping its floors, making its beds, washing its walls. The first owner, the Frenchman whose name is lost to memory, designed the house while still a bachelor, appointing it with the finest details that the time and his wallet could afford. He lived in a rotting wood shack while his casa was raised by the peons inherited with the hacienda from a relative he’d never met. When it was finished, he returned home with the intention of buying furniture and finding a wife, both of which he could now afford due to his shrewd management of the acres of sugarcane planted in long rows stretching in every direction
from the hill where his stone casa stood.
He envisioned his bride floating through the airy rooms, tending flowers in the central courtyard without having to mingle with the dark natives whose work made his fortune possible. He found a wife and filled her head with stories of the mysterious land where they would make their life, the jungle at the edges of the fields, the turquoise ocean at whose foot lay a town he had named himself, Esperanza, town of hope. For their wed-ding trip they toured France and Italy, buying furnishings, linens, delicate china, all shipped to the house he had built as a
monument to his good luck and careful administration in the New World.
Madame brought Marguerite, her sixteen-year-old maid, the fatherless daughter of her mother’s maid. The long journey across the Atlantic was plagued by storms and rough seas even on sunny days. When Madame arrived at her beautiful home, she was pregnant and suffering from fever. After a prolonged delirium in which she thought she was home in Vichy, she died, taking the heir with her, leaving Marguerite stranded in a new land where she couldn’t even speak the language. The Prenchman grieved for many weeks, but soon discovered gentle Marguerite, who shared his sorrow and loneliness. They had a daughter, Dominique, who was never legitimized by her father, who couldn’t bring himself to admit he had fallen for his dead wife’s maid. When he died, the hacienda passed to a Venezuelan who visited the casa in the summers. Marguerite was retired to a cabin at the edge of the property, within walking distance of the house, where she was housekeeper to the new owners. Over the years, La Casa changed hands many times, and each time, one of Mar- guerite’s descendants, a woman with a child and no husband, appeared at the back door claiming to be the housekeeper. No one ever questioned her right to clean its hallways, tend the courtyard, dust its rooms, scrub its tubs, polish its tiles. Don Irving is the latest in a
Why not, América wants to ask but knows the effect that will have. “You haven’t given it a chance,” she says. “I want to help you, but you haven’t let me talk to you.” She can’t hide the tears in her voice. “I’m your mother. We should go through this togeth- er.” She tries to go to her daughter, to hug her, but Rosalinda pushes her away as if she were infected.
“This is not your problem, Mami. It’s mine,” she says with a vehemence that stuns América.
“No, mi’ja, no. It’s ours, you’re not alone in this.” Again América tries to embrace her daughter, who steps back. Ros- alinda’s expression is angry, but América doesn’t know what she has done to deserve such fury. “You won’t even let me touch you,” she whimpers, reaching for her once more. But Rosalinda stands firm, a fourteen-year-old child who looks like a woman, who thinks herself a woman because she’s had a man. América drops her arms to her side, hardens her stance, swallows her tears. “You think it’s so easy,” she warns, but Rosalinda doesn’t hear the rest of what she’s about to say. She’s run back to her room and slammed the door shut.
Five Days a Month
F
or as long as La Casa del Francés has been standing, a member of América’s family has been mopping its floors, making its beds, washing its walls. The first owner, the Frenchman whose name is lost to memory, designed the house while still a bachelor, appointing it with the finest details that the time and his wallet could afford. He lived in a rotting wood shack while his casa was raised by the peons inherited with the hacienda from a relative he’d never met. When it was finished, he returned home with the intention of buying furniture and finding a wife, both of which he could now afford due to his shrewd management of the acres of sugarcane planted in long rows stretching in every direction
from the hill where his stone casa stood.
He envisioned his bride floating through the airy rooms, tending flowers in the central courtyard without having to mingle with the dark natives whose work made his fortune possible. He found a wife and filled her head with stories of the mysterious land where they would make their life, the jungle at the edges of the fields, the turquoise ocean at whose foot lay a town he had named himself, Esperanza, town of hope. For their wed-ding trip they toured France and Italy, buying furnishings, linens, delicate china, all shipped to the house he had built as a
monument to his good luck and careful administration in the New World.
Madame brought Marguerite, her sixteen-year-old maid, the fatherless daughter of her mother’s maid. The long journey across the Atlantic was plagued by storms and rough seas even on sunny days. When Madame arrived at her beautiful home, she was pregnant and suffering from fever. After a prolonged delirium in which she thought she was home in Vichy, she died, taking the heir with her, leaving Marguerite stranded in a new land where she couldn’t even speak the language. The Prenchman grieved for many weeks, but soon discovered gentle Marguerite, who shared his sorrow and loneliness. They had a daughter, Dominique, who was never legitimized by her father, who couldn’t bring himself to admit he had fallen for his dead wife’s maid. When he died, the hacienda passed to a Venezuelan who visited the casa in the summers. Marguerite was retired to a cabin at the edge of the property, within walking distance of the house, where she was housekeeper to the new owners. Over the years, La Casa changed hands many times, and each time, one of Mar- guerite’s descendants, a woman with a child and no husband, appeared at the back door claiming to be the housekeeper. No one ever questioned her right to clean its hallways, tend the courtyard, dust its rooms, scrub its tubs, polish its tiles. Don Irving is the latest in a
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