Read Online Loteria by Mario Alberto Zambrano - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mario Alberto Zambrano
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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.
EL DIABLITO
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.
EL CAMARÓN
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
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.
EL DIABLITO
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.
EL CAMARÓN
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
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