Mario Alberto Zambrano - Loteria

I was in the living room with Papi, watching, but not really watching, the news. We weren’t talking to each other. I can’t remember why, but I think it was because we had gone hunting the day before and my wrist was sore from pulling the trigger. When I complained about my wrist and fingers he always thought I was throwing it in his face, because of the accident. But I wasn’t throwing it in his face. It was true, sometimes it was hard to move my fingers, especially my thumb, because it felt stuck.

From nowhere a smell came inside the house, a horrible smell, like something had died. Papi and I turned our heads and looked out the window because it was coming from there.

Estrella and Mom came into the living room with their faces all twisted.

Papi said a pinche perro must’ve died. He got up and walked to the window.

“It’s true. It smells like something died,” I said.

All four of us went to the windowsill, shoulder to shoulder, and looked out, like if the bad smell was riding a horse and we wanted to see it pass. Like if we wanted to point to it and say, “Look! ¡Allí esta! ” Then it would make sense. Because it’d be something we could see.

But then, ¡Bofos! It was gone.

Our heads were out the window and all we could smell was the ordinary air. We looked like dogs ourselves with our noses out, sniffing and trying to find that horrible stink. It was the weirdest thing.

Papi sat back down and grabbed the remote. Mom and Estrella went back to the kitchen and Estrella continued planning her Quinceañera . It was four years away, but already she was planning on becoming a young lady.

There 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.

Julia 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-full 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.”