When the nurse looked at me she did that tilt of the head like people do, like if I were abandoned. Other nurses started to show up and they looked at me in the same way. Maybe they thought I’d attack them or knock them over or run inside the room no matter what I was told, because they’d heard what had happened. But I didn’t. I stood there and looked at my sister while Tencha walked with them down the hall and asked them questions.
The machines that were next to her beeped louder the longer I stayed, and no matter how much I tried to block them out, I couldn’t. I pressed my palms against the glass and told her how much I love her. How sorry I was. My sister. Just there, sleeping. Not moving. She got blurry from the fog of my breath covering the glass, and I whispered, ¿Y por qué tenías que ser tan tonta? I wrote her name in my mind and imagined the star as I drew it over the glass.
Mom used to say to us, Estrella y Luz, cuánto las quiero.
I pressed my hands harder against the glass and told her it was going to be okay, not because You were going to make it okay but because I was there and You were there and I was really trying to tell You something. Like how much I love You. And if I loved You, wouldn’t that make things better? It didn’t matter if I fell on my knees or threw up my hands and prayed I don’t know how many Hail Marys. Lo siento, Madre María. But it was a matter of Your will. Learn to live with what you lose and that’s what’s meant to be. ¿Verdad? Mom used to say, “Forgive and forget.” I say it to myself over and over when I’m trying to fall asleep at night but it feels like a lie. It turns into a song and then I don’t even know what I’m singing anymore.
Standing there, all of a sudden, I was like a jug of water trying to be taken from one place to another, and little by little, I was spilling. The nurses didn’t even look at me anymore.
EL VALIENTE
Pancho Silva was fat and never showered. He had gray hair on the sides of his head and a little on top that he combed forward. He told Papi when he first met him that he was going to be a movie star. He was in that Pedro Infante movie Los tres huastecos as a double and was working his way up. He and Pedro Infante were tight, like brothers. But after Pedro’s death in a plane crash Pancho’s future as a film star was over. He told Papi the job at the industrial plant was just temporary, and he was planning on getting back into the movies someday. Puro bullshit Papi said. And it’s true. When I met Pancho Silva he didn’t look a thing like Pedro Infante. He is full of shit, I said, and Papi agreed because he winked at me.
Papi met him at the bakery down the block from our house on TC Jester one morning when some black guy walked in with spandex on his head. Pancho was standing in front of Papi, and he turned around and said something under his breath about the spandex. Papi smiled, because he’s polite. Then Pancho started talking to him in Spanish, asking him where he was from, if he had a job. He said he could get him something at the plant he worked at because he was retiring soon and they’d need someone to replace him.
That day, Papi brought home tres leches. Mom said it was too sweet and runny and it didn’t have enough eggs. She said the one her Tía Sofi makes is the best in the world and no other tres leches comes close. You could only have a slice of this one with a cup of coffee or a glass of water to wash it down. Estrella didn’t say anything, but I could tell she liked hers because she kept licking her fork. But none of that mattered. Papi smiled and said to us, “Ya tengo trabajo.”
After his first day at work he said the plant stunk. It was hard to breathe because of the lack of air. He had to punch in at five-thirty in the morning and work until six in the evening, carrying sheets of metal and putting them where they belonged. Then push a button. Sometimes they’d ask him to help in other departments, like welding. They’d show him what to do, and he’d do it. Como un pinche perro, he’d say. He came home with his arms covered in black. Sweaty. Tired. Worn-out. And that’s when I’d get him a beer from the kitchen. I’d cut a lime and squeeze juice over it, because beer is better that way. Then I’d take a sip to make sure it tasted good. Like that, I’d get a little peda también. One beer turned into two, then three, then a six-pack. Then I started seeing a glass half-filled with Don Pedro by the couch. Sometimes at night I’d be going to sleep and hear him singing rancheras in the backyard. If I was still awake, I’d go out there and sing. I’d tell Estrella to come with me, but she’d roll her eyes and say she wasn’t a drunk Mexican like Papi.
“Mija linda,” he’d sing, his arms reaching toward the sky and his hips swaying. He’d hum some ranchera and I’d try to figure out which one it was. Mom would open the back door wearing nothing but an oversized T-shirt and tell us to be quiet before she even asked what we were doing. Papi would hit his chest with both fists, like Tarzan, like if that would make him louder, and say, “¡Aaaaaaaaaayyyyyyy, pero qué chorrito de voz tengo!” I’d laugh, and she would too. We’d laugh so hard it’d take me awhile before I could sing. Then finally, we’d sing. The same song, always, all together, all three of us.
“Paloma negra, paloma negra.”
Until I fell asleep and Papi would carry me to bed.
EL GORRITO
When we’d get ready for church it was like if misa were in some rich person’s house. Mom would spit in her hand and flatten my hair, wipe my face and say, “¡Arréglate ya, niña!”
In our room, Estrella would stand in front of our full-length mirror trying to decide what to wear. She taped photographs from teen magazines all over our walls with the singers from Menudo, Rob Lowe, and Scott Baio. It was like they were watching her as she got ready. She’d hold a curling iron above her head and count to twelve. “Why you curling your hair?” I’d ask. “They're just going to fall when you go outside.” She’d ignore me and mumble something about the color of her eyes and how she wished they were green, like Mom’s. She’d spray Aqua Net like if it were Lysol and put a barrette in her hair. Usually a bow made of ribbon. Sometimes a plastic flower.
All I did was make sure my hair was out of my face.
In Mom’s bathroom I’d sit on the toilet and watch her take out her rollers. She’d paint her eyes with different shades of orange and cover her lips with a tint of red, spray perfume on her neck and under her wrists, then walk into her closet and slip on a dress with the back zipper left open. With her high heels hooked on her finger and her earrings in place and her necklace sitting above her collarbone, she’d turn around and ask, “How do I look?”
“You’re beautiful,” I’d say, and she’d walk out the bedroom door.
I remember the smell of Papi’s cologne as he walked down the hallway, the sound of his black leather boots against the wooden floor. Gray pants. Button-up shirt. I wanted to be the mini version of him. Dressed like twins. But I had to wear a dress.
After Papi and Mom moved to America we didn’t have our family anymore. I remember Abuela Topazio, Mom’s mom, but only a little. She died when we were young. Mom used to show me pictures of her holding me when I was a baby, when she lived in Reynosa before we moved here. Sometimes I’d act like I remembered things to make her feel better. “She used to make us caldo, right? With bits of ground beef? We’d put ketchup and lime juice in it to cover up the taste of animal fat.”
Abuelo died too, when Mom was a teenager. He was coming home from work on the bus and some dog stepped out in the middle of the road while the driver was telling someone to sit down. He swerved into a ditch and the bus tipped over.
Mom was the only girl, the only child, no brother, no sister. Her tíos lived too far south to ever see them.
Tencha is my tía, Papi’s older sister by two years, and we call her Tencha because it’s easier than Hortencia. When we’re together she says to me, “We’re tight, mama. Somos iguales.” She came with Mom and Papi when they left Reynosa, and my Tío Carlos, Papi’s younger brother, stayed in Mexico with his two sons, Memo and Félix, mis primos. We never met Papi’s mom, Abuela Luz, who I’m named after, because she died too.
Now that I write it down it seems everyon
e died, and maybe they’re next to You sitting around a table playing games. The only one left is Buelo Fermín, Papi’s dad. He doesn’t do much but sit in his rocking chair and cough loud. We used to visit him in Reynosa during summer vacation, sometimes Christmas, but all we did was listen to him tell stories about when he was a boy. How he’d spin a rooster by its head only to snap it off and watch it dance until it died.
After coming to Magnolia Park we met our second family after Papi met Pancho. And it was with them we played Lotería every Sunday after church. Maybe that’s why they felt like family. There was Buelita Fe, Pancho’s wife. Then Tía Elsa and Tío Fernando, Tío Jesús and Tía Hilda. They weren’t our real aunts and uncles but we called them tíos because it was easier. Then there was Gastón and Miriam, the youngest like me, then Luisa, four years older than Estrella.
At home, before leaving to see them, we’d be dressed and smelling good and walk to the car to head over to Pancho’s house. I’d walk slowly so I could see them in front of me, Papi, Mom, and Estrella. And when it was sunny, so sunny I had to squint, Mom would wear her movie-star hat with a blue ribbon around it. She’d see me walking behind them, all slow, then snap her fingers. “Luz! Get your butt over here and put your shoes on.”
And I would. I’d crawl into the backseat and put on my shoes and we’d be off to go see the Silvas.
EL COTORRO
You heard about Memo? He blew up his hand with a firecracker. They said his fingers flew off in pieces and it looked like his hand had been eaten by a dog. Tío Carlos called and told Papi, and Papi told me afterward. He said they were at the hospital. “Why didn’t he let go?” I asked. “Your Tío Carlos said it just got stuck in his hand.” “How stuck? What do you mean, stuck?” It didn’t make sense. When we’d go to Reynosa Memo and his friends would always light cuetes. But their firecrackers aren’t like the ones here. Cuetes in Mexico are made of cement and look like pieces of thick chalk. “One of those gray ones?” “Yes, Luz, one of those gray ones.” “Really? I can’t imagine how much that hurt.” “Well, go pray for your cousin.”
Maybe this was Your way of punishing him. For that time when I lost a bet in marbles and was pissed because I was good at canicas, but every time I threw the ball Memo would push me off balance and he’d win. Then he told me to go with him to the back of the store, where they put the chickens. He was older than me, already a man, Tío Carlos said. He wasn’t mean, always included me in games and asked me if I wanted to go somewhere, to some mercado or to the Plaza de San Pedro to throw rocks at pigeons.
It was just the two of us. Everyone else went to el rancho with a friend of my Tío’s and Estrella was with Mom. Papi was somewhere, I don’t remember. Memo took me to the place between the fence and the coop and he grabbed my hand and put it between his legs, like if he was sharing a secret. And what I felt was a baby’s arm. I remember it throbbing in the way a gallina’s wings tremble when you hold it between your hands. “What do you want me to do?” I said.
“Masajéalo,” he said. “Despacito.”
His thing got bigger and harder and he licked his lips. Then we heard the back door of a house slam and he pushed me away and ran back to the house.
The night I found out he blew up his hand, I waited for all the lights to turn off in the house.
“Estrella?” I said.
She was sleeping. I snuck up next to her bed and kneeled on the floor, pushed her shoulder. “Estrella? Wake up.” “What?” “Guess what?” “What?” She made that face like if she were looking at the ugliest thing in the world.
“Memo blew up his hand con un cuete and now he has just one finger left. The rest of them blew off.”
“So?”
And that was it.
LA DAMA
Sometimes I like to write in the morning after I wake up because in a way I feel like I’m dreaming. No one else is awake and my thoughts are the only thing I can hear. There’s a cleaning lady who comes to mop the hallway, and the way I know she’s there is because of the smell of Pine-Sol coming in from under the door. It reminds me of Mom and the way she liked to clean.
And today, look who I turn over from the top of the deck, La Dama.
Every Sunday, without fail, Pancho Silva and Buelita Fe expected us over at their house. We’d arrive and she’d be boiling water for fideos and he’d be wearing his cowboy hat, slumped in his armchair watching luchadores on a black-and-white television. Their house was a block away from the interstate, but with all the branches surrounding the screened-in porch it felt like a tree house.
The first thing I’d do when we got there is run inside and sneak into the shoebox under the cabinet where she kept Lotería tablas. I’d find mine at the bottom without even looking, just feeling with my hand like some blind person searching for a coin. She had sheets of Lotería rolled up like wrapping paper from when she’d go visit her sisters in Mexico. I used to cut the images out and make my own tablas. I’d arrange them the way I liked so that I didn’t have to choose a board that came already packaged. One time I wanted to cut out sixteen images of La Sirena and make a tabla filled with sixteen mermaids. Like that, I’d win whenever she was called. But I figured it’d be boring to play that way, so instead I cut out images of La Araña and glued them to the corners.
We used Sharpies to write our names on the back of our boards. Miriam covered the back of hers with bubble letters and Luisa drew flowers over the “I” in hers. Gastón wrote “Property of Gastón Silva” in the corner with such neat handwriting you could tell he was trying to make it perfect. Some tablas weren’t even glued on cardboard to keep them stiff. They were just sheets of paper and they curled like pencil shavings. Some had people’s names on the back I didn’t recognize. Like Marcella. Who was she? Luisa would sometimes take her tabla during a game and bet three quarters on it, to try her luck. And she’d win! I remember Marcella’s name because her tabla was always the lucky one. Whoever played it would win at least three or four times.
Once everyone arrived at Buelita Fe’s house we’d walk down the block and attend ten o’clock mass at La Iglesia de San Miguel. I never wanted to go because it was held in Spanish. I understood but I never felt like listening. Instead I’d look up at the ceiling at the yellow glass dome that would glow like a lamp. And when I’d forget where I was it’d be time to kneel. Or stand up. Or kneel down again. Say amen. Why do we have to kneel down and stand up so many times? When it was time for communion Mom would walk to the line at the back where the double doors were. I’d want to go with her so I could move my legs but she’d push me down and say, “Uh-uh, mija. You haven’t done your communion yet.” And I’d act all stupid. “What’s that?”
“When you know who Diosito is.”
Like if I didn’t know.
Papi would be dozing off next to me, trying to keep his back straight, and Estrella would be between us, on her knees acting as though she were praying. She hadn’t done her communion either, but she was studying for it. She’d been going to Thursday night classes learning the Act of Contrition.
I’d watch Mom walk down the aisle and her curls would bounce and her dress would move like stirring milk. She’d bow her head and move her lips when she stood in front of Padre Félix, then whisper “Amen,” open her mouth, and take the wafer. She’d excuse herself to the people in our pew and kneel down next to me, acting all serious, without smiling, like if You were keeping an eye on her. I’d look around and see everyone acting serious, so serious that when it was time to sing they kept their voices down, embarrassed they might be off-key.
I’d pull on Mom’s dress but she wouldn’t move. Her elbows would be on the back of the pew in front of her and her forehead would be resting on her knuckles. Her eyes would be closed and her lips would hardly move. Sometimes I wondered if she were praying because of something she’d done to Papi. Or something he’d done to her. Or maybe she felt bad for calling him names or for hitting him with something she grabbed from the kitchen drawer. I wanted to let her k
now that it was okay and that You’d understand. I pulled on her dress but she reached out and pinched me without even looking. I didn’t even know what happened, but I remember my skin burning and thinking how much I hated her. I called her names and stuck out my tongue when she wasn’t looking even though You were right there between us. But I only hated her for as long as I could feel the sting on my arm.
Tencha once told me we should be careful of what we think and do because You see us better than we see ourselves. Sometimes You find a way inside us to show us who we really are. But you have to let him in, she says. You have to open your heart.
After a lot of kneeling and praying misa would end and everyone would walk out the front doors, giving anyone they passed a handshake. Estrella would hold Mom’s hand with her chin up like if we were about to take pictures.
Outside, if it wasn’t raining, people would give thanks to Padre Félix like if he were some movie star. There’d be a crowd waiting to grab his hands, and Papi would give thanks to him too, but then he’d wait on the side and I’d stand next to him, smelling his sleeve, waiting to leave. Sometimes Mom would make me go give thanks. And I would, because I had to.
But then, we’d all walk to Buelita Fe’s, and she’d say the sopita was ready. Pancho would puff up his chest and tell us about the spices he used to rub over the steaks we were going to eat. I’d start to hear the clicks of beer cans going off every few minutes from my tíos sitting by the garage, under the patio, and the voices of my cousins running around the house, chasing each other. And after we were done eating fajitas and frijoles and elote, we’d sit at the long table made of three other tables pushed together. Some of us on stools, some of us in chairs. We’d take out the jar of pinto beans and bottle caps and loose change so we could play Lotería. We’d lay out the tablas and choose the ones we wanted. Some of us with two, some of us with four. We’d play a round and fill a vertical line, then a horizontal, two diagonals making an X. And then the corners. Las Esquinas. And once we were crowded around the table with our necks stretched to see the pile of cards being dealt, La Chalupa, El Pescado, El Cazo, we’d play a round of blackout. And by then the game would’ve gotten faster and louder and it’d be hard to keep up with the images stacking up in the middle of the table. Whoever was dealing would throw them down and sing the riddles and someone would miss a card. They’d scream, “Wait! Slow down, chingao! What was the last one?” But we’d keep going. We’d play until the sun outside didn’t even seem bright anymore, until one of us had everyone else’s money, a bulge of quarters and nickels and dimes kept in a Ziploc bag, where it was kept until the following Sunday, when we’d take out our tablas and bottle caps and loose change, and do it all over again.
Loteria Page 2