Loteria (9 page)
Authors: Mario Alberto Zambrano
L
ate one night there was a phone call and Papi told us to get dressed and get in the truck. He drove to the hospital near Majestic Harbor and kept saying that Pancho Silva was on the third floor. When the elevators opened, I saw a row of seats at the end of the hallway lit from above with green fluorescent lights. Everyone was there, sitting next to each other with their heads down. Buelita Fe was holding a handkerchief in her hands, twisting it around her fingers, and Gastón stood between Tía Elsa’s knees eating a pear like if he were at a picnic. I peeked into the room where Pancho was lying down and saw Tía Hilda holding his hand. It was quiet and no one said a word. I pulled on Mom’s sleeve and mouthed, “What’s wrong?” She tapped her chest three times. Like if that was supposed to tell me.
“¿El corazón?”
I asked, and she nodded. Luisa made trips back and forth to the vending machines on the first floor, but she never came back with anything.
After awhile, Tía Hilda called everyone into the room. We walked inside looking at the floor, and stood in a semicircle around the bed holding hands. Mom stood behind me and Papi stood behind Estrella. We looked at Pancho and held hands as Tía Hilda said a prayer. His eyes were closed and his head was tilted back like if there were something crawling up his neck.
I don’t remember what happened after that because all I can remember is wanting to go home.
After he died I was with Estrella a lot of the time. Neither of us knew what to do or how to act. It was like we both had a secret but we didn’t know how to keep it. She’d look through a Sears catalog when we were at home, or cut out pictures from teen magazines while I spent time building a house of cards. Sometimes when I’d build one three stories high, I could hear her go quiet. “Careful, careful,” she’d say, as I put another card on top of the house. But always when she looked, it’d fall.
One day I was sitting on the couch watching television. She walked inside from the garage door and, like all the times she came home, I expected her to walk to our room and shut herself in. But she put her backpack down and walked around the couch and sat down next to me. I wasn’t sure what she wanted, but she put her arms around me and hugged me for a long time. And we just sat there, like a statue of two girls trying to do the right thing.
T
encha’s toes are purple and she has veins the color of green lizards crawling up her legs. Her feet would ache and swell after a day of walking in the market on Alexander Street getting ingredients for tamales. She’d point to the Vaseline in her cabinet and tell me it was because of her sickness, the diabetes. She needed circulation.
Once, she was on the couch in front of the television watching a
telenovela
and I was rubbing her feet. She dozed off, and I got pissed because I couldn’t stop rubbing until she told me to stop. It took a lot of rubbing to get the blood going, she said. So I pressed hard with my thumbs.
In the desk drawer by the telephone she kept needles for injections.
Insulina
, she called it. I went and grabbed one, smaller than a safety pin, and took off the plastic wrapping then held it between my fingers. Tencha’s hands were over her stomach and her head was tilted to the side. For a second I thought I should leave her alone. She looked peaceful and hadn’t even noticed I wasn’t rubbing her anymore.
But the needle was in my hand, so I poked her in the foot.
“¿Qué haces?”
she yelled, looking scary and scared at the same time. Her fingers were spread open trying to reach for her foot. I started laughing because she couldn’t reach, and I hadn’t poked her that hard, just enough for the needle to stick in, like a splinter.
“¡Luz! ¿Qué chingao?”
I took it out and ran out of the house and climbed the pecan tree that was in the backyard. She came out screaming for what felt like an hour, telling me it hurt. And would I like it if she poked me when I was sleeping? She told me how insensitive I was to take advantage of
una enferma
that couldn’t even work today. She had all these tamale orders she had to finish, but she couldn’t stand for very long, which meant she couldn’t push down with the weight the
masa
needed in order to be done right. If I didn’t respect my elders,
Diosito
would punish me! “You better pray hard,” she said, asking what was wrong with me. What happened? What’s gotten into you? She yelled until she tired herself out, then walked inside. I heard her change the channels on the television before I climbed down and found her sleeping again, snoring with her mouth half-open and her socks and slippers over her feet. She went back to where she was, in some dream, some other place, and I sat across from her as I heard her say, “Insensitive,” over and over again. How can you be so insensitive, mama? You’re not like that. What’s gotten into you? That’s not who you are. What’s wrong with you? Talk to me, what’s going on?
As I watched her sleep all those questions made me feel as if I’d melt right there all over the floor. What’s wrong? What’s gotten into you? Talk to me, mama.
P
api would get behind Mom when she was cooking and sway from side to side. She’d throw his hands off, and because she wasn’t easy he would push her forward and the skillet would clatter.
Then she’d get mad and be gone. Out the door and in her car. Off somewhere.
She used to say, forgive and forget, but I don’t think she believed it, because how can you forget about the things you feel?
Papi’s
cabezón
.
Muy cabezón
. He’ll break you in half, and I have a dislocated wrist to prove it. When someone notices my wrist, with the bone sticking out and the lump on top, I tell them, “My dad broke it because I jerked off my
primo
.” Like that, they know how
cabezón
he is. You’d think I hate him. But it doesn’t matter; it doesn’t mean I don’t love him.
One time Estrella talked back to him and he slapped her so hard she was knocked out for two minutes. When she woke up she ran to her friend Angélica’s house down the street with her face all sloppy. And maybe it was too hard, maybe it was too much. But once she was out of the house Papi did to himself what he did to me, like Pedro Infante in
Nosotros los pobres
. I watched him in the kitchen from the hallway and Don Pedro was on the table. I knew he needed some of it so he’d have the guts. I wanted to tell him he didn’t have to do it. The movie was just a movie and it wasn’t real. But I kept quiet and watched the whole thing, flinching every time he hit his hand against the wall. Once he was done, I went to the freezer and took out a bag of frozen shrimp so he could ice his hand. It was all purple and swollen. I grabbed a kitchen towel and rinsed it with warm water and cleaned the blood from his hand and from the wall. He didn’t say or do anything but keep his head down, embarrassed. “
Cabezón
,” I said. “
Eres muy cabezón
, Papi.”
That night I figured he fought us not because he didn’t love us but because he believed in right and wrong. There were right things and wrong things. And when you did a wrong thing, you got a
chingaso
. It wasn’t any different when it came to Mom. It wasn’t any different when it came to him.
I
t was a morning after Papi had beaten her. He was still asleep in his bedroom and so was Estrella, in ours. I should’ve been asleep too, but I’d had some dream that woke me up. I opened my eyes and the sunlight was on my face. I went to the kitchen for some water and there was a loaf of bread on the table with a jar of peanut butter next to it. There wasn’t any coffee. I grabbed a glass and filled it with water when I noticed the garage door open from the kitchen window. I could see Mom’s skinny legs as she was putting something into a suitcase, or some bag.
I thought it’d be nice to go outside and surprise her, sing something.
Estas son las mañanitas
. . . sing a serenade even though it wasn’t her birthday. But it was early, so early I saw the sunlight over the kitchen floor. I looked at the clock in the living room. 6:43 a.m. How do I remember? 6:43. I made a pot of coffee because I wanted to go out with a fresh cup, hot, the way she liked. If she were organizing the garage, I’d help her. If she didn’t want to talk, I’d be there to make sure she was okay.
I folded a kitchen towel four times and grabbed the coffee cup. It was too hot, and hot enough. I filled it to the top and walked out the door, then three steps down and over to where she was, her back turned to me. She was choosing things from the boxes she opened, and I was about to sing when I saw her putting a photo album in a duffel bag filled with jeans and underwear.
“What are you doing?”
She turned quickly and I noticed the left side of her mouth was swollen. I’d seen parts of her like that before, but I never knew where they’d be. Not until she turned around. I held out the cup and forgot about the box, or suitcase, or duffel bag, and saw only her face. “You want some ice?”
When she realized I was staring at her it was like something changed. She pushed the duffel bag, a bag I’d never seen before, against the wall with her legs and started swallowing and wiping her nose with the back of her hand. I couldn’t tell whether she was about to cry or laugh, or both, but she sat there and covered her mouth like if a word was about to come out and she wanted to keep it to herself.
“Where are you going?”
“Nowhere,” she said.
I handed her the cup. Even with the kitchen towel underneath, it was burning my hand. “I made you some coffee.”
“Is there something you need?” she said, then set the cup down on the ground and covered her mouth.
“No,” I said. “Just made you some coffee. But why did you make peanut butter sandwiches?”
“What do you mean?”
“Did you make them for breakfast?”
“Can’t I make peanut butter sandwiches?”
“Mom?”
“What?” She stood up and turned around, lifting the duffel bag to the top shelf against the wall.
“You want some ice?”
She said she was reorganizing things. She pushed a box toward me and said, “Here, open this and see what’s inside.” It was a box filled with clothes from when we were younger.
“What am I looking for?”
“Just clean it! Okay? Can you do that, Luz?”
I shrugged like if I didn’t know.
We didn’t say anything after that. She drank her coffee little by little, in between stacking boxes on shelves, then pulled out two peanut butter sandwiches from the duffel bag she was filling. She gave one to me and I stopped looking for whatever I was supposed to be looking for. Then, right when I needed something to drink to wash down the peanut butter, I heard Papi at the back door.
“¿Que chingao están haciendo?”
And I ran inside.
