Read Online Loteria by Mario Alberto Zambrano - Free Book Online

he was in the garage, I couldn’t get the ladder and climb to the roof. Because if he saw me he wouldn’t let me. But from there I would’ve been able to see what he was doing, even though I already knew.

EL ALACRÁN

    M om would put on a face when other people were around, like when we’d go to the Silvas or to the supermarket. People would think she was sweet and kind, running errands in the neighborhood with her two daughters. They’d say, “The taller one looks like you,” then look at me and not say a word.
    We’d go to Kmart and Estrella would get something she wanted, either another pair of colored pencils for the books she liked to draw in or a new pair of pink stockings she might one day use for her Quinceañera . I asked for a skateboard once but I didn’t get it, even after I asked nicely. We got in the car and Mom turned around and said I was being a pain in the ass. She had a lot of errands to run and if I kept pestering her I was going to make her blow up. She grabbed the steering wheel like if we were about to crash and said, “You want me to blow up?” Sometimes she’d turn around and pinch me, and all that sweetness people thought she was turned into something picoso . Papi used to call her una pinche loca because when she lost it, she really lost it. And if he called her una pinche loca she’d call him un hijo de puta . And that would start the fighting.
    Papi hated the word puta because of that time with Memo, the way he probably saw my hand on his dick even though I’d never touched it because his pants were on the whole time. Papi’d see my face when he’d hear the word puta or putita , and I think Mom knew that. She’d say it on purpose because it would remind him of me. Then he’d remember how he broke my hand even though it was an accident.
    After Mom called him un hijo de puta they’d call each other all the bad things they could think of. He’d grab her wrists and press her down, probably telling himself that she’d shut up if he could only keep her down. And when I’d see him on top of her like that, I could see it in his eyes, the way he looked at her. He didn’t want to hit her. He just wanted her to stop fighting. But she’d call him names and hit him across the head and when he couldn’t take it anymore he’d use the back of his hand. She’d yell with tears over her cheeks. “¡Eres un hijo de puta! ¿Me oyes?”
    In the kitchen the next day, she’d be at the stove making eggs, not wanting to turn around. Then finally she’d turn around and we’d see Band-Aids on the sides of her eyes. Estrella would try to help her with the dishes, but she’d brush her away like if she were some fly.
    Whenever they’d fight we’d go to our room because it was safer there. Sometimes watching them would make us feel like throwing up. I can’t remember the first time it happened but I remember when he knocked over the table and we ran to our room like cockroaches when a light is turned on.
    We locked the door and held each other like if we were waiting for an earthquake, afraid the ceiling might cave-in. A chair would slam against the wall and we’d flinch. Glasses would break. The walls would tremble. They’d scream so loud it felt like wolves were tearing up the house, saying words that didn’t even make sense anymore, and the sounds that did come out of their mouths were like dogs.
    We’d stand in our room staring at each other until it ended. Because that was the game, to see who could last the longest listening to the furniture being thrown without running away. But there’d be a note in Mom’s voice that would mark her breaking point, when she couldn’t take it anymore, and the way we could tell was by the sounds being pushed out of her body. Because when he’d kick her in the stomach or hit her across the face they were different kinds of sounds. And when those sounds would alternate, Estrella would lose.
    “Let’s go,” she’d say. Her mouth would tighten and