Authors: Mario Alberto Zambrano
Loteria (7 page)
T
here was one day people from church were supposed to come over for lunch. Mom had been cutting tomatoes and browning meat, making rice. I thought we were going to skip breakfast because of the small plates filled with diced onions and cilantro. “When are they coming?” I asked. She shrugged and said, “They’ll come when they come.” But she said it like if there was something she wasn’t telling me.
“Is something wrong?” I asked.
“No, I’m fine!” she said.
“Then why are you wearing those shoes?” I said. “You wear those only when you dress up.”
“We’re having company. Okay? Is that all right with you?”
But company never came. The diced onions dried up and the meat got cold. We sat on the couch like if we were waiting for the dentist. When we got hungry we had Frosted Flakes even though there was food on the table, and then around three we had tacos while Mom started to clean. She kept walking in front of the television, picking up the junk mail lying around, while the three of us just sat there, not helping. She asked Papi to mow the lawn but he said he’d do it later.
“Mom?” I said.
“What?”
“Te quiero.”
She walked to the kitchen and kept cleaning, putting things away acting like she didn’t hear me, then grabbed her purse and said she’d forgotten to do a few rooms at Dr. Roberto’s house. She might as well do them, she said. Then she was gone. Papi stood up and watched her from the window get in her car and leave. He stood with his hands on his hips.
“She didn’t change her shoes?” I said.
“What?”
“Her boots. She’s didn’t change her boots.”
And he acted like he didn’t hear me.
J
ulia says the same thing every time, about Papi and the family and needing to know more so they can help him. In a few days the district attorney will make a decision, so if there’s anything I want to tell them I should tell them now. “Luz? Do you feel like talking?”
I walked away from her and came to my desk and flipped the top card to see what
dicho
I’d make up next.
Write it down, mama.
Échale ganas
.
Yesterday, a black dress was on the door when I woke up.
I hadn’t fallen asleep until three because I stayed up writing. Usually by ten in the morning I’m either in the common room watching game shows or flipping through a book. Sometimes I watch Mexican films on Univision. Mom would’ve probably wanted me to read Spanish books, but I’ve never liked them. When I’ve tried to read one I get to the bottom of a page and don’t even know what I’m reading.
Tencha said the funeral would be at La Iglesia de San Miguel, and afterward we’d go to the cemetery near Pasadena Mall. They’re taking Estrella back to Mexico to bury her there, and so going to the cemetery is just pretend. She had to call Buelo Fermín in Reynosa because she didn’t have enough money, and he told her that there was a spot for Estrella in Mexico, planned a long time ago. There’s a spot for me too.
I didn’t like the dress she brought me. It had white lace with a thick glossy belt and was long enough to reach my feet. I left it on the bed and went to the bathroom and showered for a long time, so long it was the longest I’ve ever been in there. I pushed the shower head away from me and lathered myself with Ivory soap while steam fogged the mirror. I rubbed between my toes and under my armpits, everywhere I never usually clean, because I wanted to be clean. I had black jeans and a black shirt that had a touring schedule for a Selena concert on the back. But the front was solid black.
“Uh-uh, mama,” Tencha said when I opened the door. She was sitting on one of the chairs against the wall in the hallway, with a black shawl over her head. “You’re not going dressed like that.”
I motioned toward the front door.
“Mama!
¡Por favor!
You’re not going like that.” She opened her hands like if she wanted me to take off my clothes and give them to her.
I waited for her to stand up.
On the way out Larry said good-bye and reminded us that I had to be back before seven. He was sorry, but it was the rules. I didn’t see Julia anywhere. I thought she’d walk us to the car and act like some caregiver or something. But I didn’t see her. It was Saturday.
They let Tencha take me in her car, even though there was an officer following us the whole time. I stared out the window and wanted to ask if we could go somewhere else, to Astroworld or the Galleria. I didn’t want to see anyone that would make me feel like if I were carrying bricks in my pockets.
It didn’t hit me until we were in Magnolia Park, near our old house, that I’d see the Silvas. That they probably knew everything that happened. I thought of Buelita Fe and felt sick. When we passed a McDonald’s I pointed to it and tried to get Tencha to stop. But she said no. We couldn’t be late. She didn’t know what had gotten into me.
The parking lot was half-f when we got there. On the way inside I stepped into a puddle because I was staring at a house across the street, at a black Doberman sleeping near the front steps.
Tencha grabbed me by the hand and pulled me toward the entrance. There was hardly anyone inside except for the Silvas and a few neighbors I recognized. At the altar, behind Padre Félix, was the coffin, closed with white roses over it. I wanted to sit behind everyone, but Tencha kept walking, pulling me forward. We passed the pews and I kept my head down. As soon as we sat in the first row I heard those words,
“En el nombre del Padre, del Hijo, del Espíritu Santo, Amen.”
Then everyone stood up.
The last time I’d been there I was sitting in our usual spot, on the left side about ten pews back. I turned my head, because I wanted to see if we were still there: Mom, Papi, Estrella, and me. But Buelita Fe was there, staring at me and grabbing her elbows like if she were hugging herself.
The whole time I felt like if she were next to me. Because she could’ve been. So what if she was, kneeling and praying the way she used to when Mom would get up and take communion. I wanted to hear her voice. But all I could hear was Padre Félix and the organ in the corner behind him.
Maybe she had nothing to say to me.
I stayed close to Tencha after communion because I didn’t want to talk to anyone. They’d want to know how I was doing or tell me how sorry they were. They’d tell me that things happen. Accidents happen. Or maybe they wouldn’t say anything at all.
When we were outside, Tía Hilda tried to get me to look at her, but I kept my head down and looked at my shoes, my black Adidas with the word SAMBA on them. Buelita Fe was the only one that didn’t push me. She grabbed my hand and patted it, then wiped my face like if it was dirty, and now it was clean. When I smelled her dishwashing soap on her hands, it was like my insides started folding and I started crying, keeping my mouth shut so they wouldn’t hear me.
In the car on our way back to the center I wanted to tell Tencha I was sorry for not wearing the dress she bought me. I was sorry I didn’t want to go to the cemetery or the reception. But all I wanted was to go see Papi. She kept driving and looking forward like if there was nothing else to do but go back to the center.
Then I said something, something stupid that came to my mind. It was the first time I opened my mouth since it happened. The first time I said anything.
“Why don’t we go back to Mexico?”
She paused for a moment, looking at me then back at the road. I guess she needed a moment to realize that I’d spoken. She tried not to make a big deal about it. Like if she knew all along it would come. “I love you.
Lo sabes, ¿verdad?
”
“Yeah,” I said.
“But why would you say that?”
“Because.” I looked at her and wiped my face.
“You want to go to school in Mexico and leave your Papi? Is that what you want? I love you
.
You know that, right? But you don’t want to go back to Mexico,” she said. “It’s better for you here.”
I looked down at my lap with my palms over my thighs. “It doesn’t mean I don’t love her,” I said.
“I know, mama,” she said. “I know.”
T
here was a singing competition on
Siempre en Domingo
for kids. We were sitting around the television at Buelita Fe’s one weekend, rooting for the ones we thought should win. Some of them came out wearing dresses like holiday decorations. They shimmied their shoulders and couldn’t sing to save their lives, but because they were show-offs they got a lot of applause. One little boy came out dressed as a mariachi and sang a Tony Aguilar song, singing as strong as a rooster with a voice that got everyone’s attention. Buelita Fe said she’d seen an interview with him earlier that day, and his name was Federico. He was from a town in the middle of nowhere and was real poor. This was his big chance. His mother and father asked the church for money so he could get to
Siempre en Domingo
for the competition. In the interview he said, “This is for my mother and father, because we don’t have any money. We only have one bed. If I win, I’ll work hard because I want us to move out of our small house. I want to buy my father a truck so he doesn’t have to take the bus anymore. And maybe on weekends, we can go to the beach.” Buelita Fe was crying by the time she finished telling us.
I looked at Papi and asked, “Why is she crying?”
“Because,” he said. “She cries at everything.”
“But what’s so sad about that? He’s good, he’s probably going to win.”
“He wants to buy his father a truck. And he wants to go to the beach.”
“That’s why she’s crying?”
“Yeah, that’s why.”
I listened to that boy sing. He stood with his arms down next to him and looked out to the audience with his eyes full of everything his mom and dad had taught him. When he was almost done, singing his last note, making a face like if he were trying to lift a car, I felt something light up inside of me. Not because he was poor or because he wanted to go to the beach but because his voice was so strong it pressed in the middle of my chest. When the song finished, Buelita Fe dried her cheeks with a bunched-up tissue she’d been holding the entire competition.
M
om was the last one to close the door, looking over her shoulder, as if to remind me, “That’s what you get for being
una chiflada
.”
I didn’t want to play with Estrella’s friends anyway. It was her birthday party. She turned twelve and all the presents were for her.
I was on my third cheeseburger when I saw the man walk in. He had a gym bag over his shoulder with red Bozo shoes on. He walked straight to the bathroom in the back of the restaurant, and ten minutes later he came out as Ronald McDonald with white makeup on and a red afro. When he passed me, he winked and said, “Our secret, right?”
I could see the stubble under his white makeup and he smelled like bacon. He thought I was playing along, but really, I didn’t care. He leaned over and asked who the birthday girl was. I looked outside. Estrella and her friend Angélica were swinging on a chained tire. Other kids were running around, screaming, “You’re it! You’re it!” Mom and her friends were sitting in their hips, looking at the highway. A girl with thick glasses sitting at the end of the monkey bars reminded me of La Chilindrina from
El chavo del ocho
, except she didn’t have any freckles. She lived on Market, in a red house that didn’t look like the others. Estrella didn’t hang out with her and neither did I. I don’t know how she was invited. Mom probably told her, because she wanted us to be friends with her.
Chilindrina was looking at us. I took a bite from my cheeseburger and pointed at her. With my mouth full I said, “The girl with the glasses.”
Ronald McDonald stepped out onto the playground and spread his arms open like an airplane. He had a paper crown around his elbow, gold with ruby stickers on it. Estrella ran toward him but he walked past her and straight to Chilindrina. He took the crown from his arm and placed it over her head and must’ve said Happy Birthday, or something. He grabbed her with both arms and lifted her off the wooden deck. Mom walked toward him, shaking her hand, while Estrella grabbed the crown and put it on. Then they turned, and he pointed at me.
I ran to the handicapped bathroom and locked the door and waited for an hour before I came out. By then I figured the coast was clear. When I walked out Ronald McDonald was sitting in a booth with his wig on the table. And when I walked past him I stuck out my tongue. “Our secret, right?” I said.
Nothing outside had changed. Everyone was still playing the same games as before.
On the table where I was sitting was the bent, deformed crown that was supposed to be for the birthday girl. I put it on and went outside and climbed the wooden deck, sat down next to Chilindrina and asked her if she’d ever seen
El chavo del ocho.