Mario Alberto Zambrano - Loteria

When they used to fight I’d grab a knife from the kitchen counter and stab the tree in the backyard. Estrella would go to Angélica’s. Sometimes she would even go to Tencha’s, and minutes later, there’d be a knock on the door. Mom would go to the bedroom and Papi would answer. “¿Qué quieres?” No hello. No nothing. Just, “What do you want?”

“Wanted to visit,” Tencha’d say, and get inside and have coffee and talk about Buelito Fermín in Reynosa. He was feeling better since he started his new medication. But Papi never seemed to care and sometimes he’d even say it was time for that viejo to rest in peace. I’d walk around the house and look into Mom’s bedroom from the windows, but her blinds were usually pulled down. Sometimes she’d come out with a towel wrapped around her head, and wearing a bathrobe. Her body red from a hot shower and smelling like Flex shampoo. But if something was sore, she’d stay in her bedroom until Tencha left. Then Papi would leave too, taking the bottle with him.

Two days later Mom would make almond cookies and walk to Tencha’s. She’d talk about everything but the bruises, and sometimes I’d go with her and sit there, not saying anything, waiting for her to say something. But it was like a topic that wasn’t supposed to be talked about, and that’s how I learned not to say anything. Tencha would look at me and caress my cheek, like if by touching it she’d protect it from getting hurt.

After Mom was gone, there was no reason to keep stabbing the tree, but the marks stayed. I’d pass the tree and see the skin get darker. I’d feel the splinters and the grooves like if they were wounds.

One time Estrella called Papi un hijo de puta the way Mom used to do and he slapped her so hard he split her lip with one of his rings. She called him an asshole because he wouldn’t tell us where Mom was or what had happened, and she believed he knew.

She said he was lying.

The truck is a piece a shit,” Papi said. He’d bought it from someone he worked with. I liked it because it had a handle for the window to go up and down instead of a button. So the window was going up and down, up and down, and Rocío Durcal was on the radio, a cassette we listened to all the time of a live performance in Acapulco. It was Sunday, early morning, and while most people were heading to mass we were going to buy a tree. Just the two of us. It was going to be the first Christmas without Mom. It had been awhile since she’d disappeared and it seemed okay to talk about her.

“Papi.”

“¿Qué?”

“Where do you think she went?”

He looked out the window, cranked the volume up, and pushed down on the accelerator. We were the only ones on the highway. Nothing but billboards of whiskey and Denny’s. Rocío was singing a duet with Juan Gabriel. I rolled the window up and crossed my arms and waited.

“She went to Mexico and she’s coming back when she’s ready. That’s what I think,” I said, as loud as I could, as loud as Rocío was singing. But he didn’t say anything.

I looked out the window even though I wanted to tell him what he needed to hear. That he was a drunk, and he’d turn into someone else because he didn’t like her working for Dr. Roberto. The way she used to get dressed before going to work for him. And it wasn’t his fault. It was Don Pedro. When he’d drink, Estrella and I would go to our rooms or go to Tencha’s because we didn’t know who he’d turn into. He needed to snap out of it. Like in that movie when the actress slaps the guy’s face and says, “Snap out of it!” That’s what I wanted to say to him and that’s what I wanted to do.

“Papi?” He looked straight ahead and then at me.

“Snap out of it!” I said.

He veered off the highway onto the feeder, and nothing but tall pines were around us. Gray clouds and an empty road. He stopped at a red light and it turned green but he didn’t move. There were no cars in front or behind us. His eyes were full of water like after a yawn and he opened his arms and motioned to give him a hug. I unbuckled the seatbelt and leaned over and he squeezed me so hard I didn’t know what to do with all the strength he used, holding me like that.

I reminded him that we were at a traffic light and we had to keep going. The light had turned green. We drove on and didn’t say anything until we got to the nursery. But by then already the air felt easier.

There were rows of trees right where we parked. The tree we both wanted was right in front of us. I joked that we could get cheeseburgers a lot faster if we got this one, and without answering, Papi went to the man and bought it.

We got back in the truck and rewound the cassette tape to the beginning and sang loud, most of the time off-key because neither of us have a voice like Rocío. We sang every song until it came to “Amor eterno,” the song Juan Gabriel wrote about when his mom died. We couldn’t go past the first line. Papi looked down at the side-view mirror, at the pine branches sticking out from behind the truck, and every time Rocío raised her voice, singing and screaming at the same time, it felt like if the front seats were flooding with water.

They were out when they came to get Papi. I remember the officers holding me down outside even though I wasn’t struggling. I could see the stars at the top of the sky and hear Papi yelling as they pushed him inside the car. And the sirens were loud, though far. Estrella was being rushed to the hospital and everyone around me kept saying, “Stop moving! Stop moving!”

Was I moving?

Papi was in the kitchen when the officers knocked on the door. I was in the bathroom. We were frying chicken for dinner and later when it’d burn I wouldn’t know if the smell was the burning or something else. They asked Papi if he was José Antonio Castillo, and after he said yes, they asked about Mom, Cristina María Castillo. Before they could finish saying her name, Papi raised his voice and said she’d run off already a year now. They wanted him to go down to the station for questioning and that’s when I heard the door close. I thought that was the end of it, that they’d leave us alone. But they banged on the door and said, “Mr. Castillo, open the door!” They yelled. “Open the door!” He’d been drinking, and I knew from the sound of the banging that it’d set something off inside of him. The door opened, and the yelling got louder. They must’ve noticed he’d been drinking because of the way he stumbled. They tried to handcuff him, saying things like he was under arrest for assaulting an officer and for the suspected murder of Cristina María Castillo. When I heard those words, I peeked from the hallway and looked for her because I knew it was Estrella who’d gone and told them. She’d run away two days before and Papi kept telling me she’d be back. “She’ll be back, mija . Don’t worry. You’ll see.” The front door was left open and down the sidewalk was another officer standing behind her with his hands on her shoulders, like if she were standing in front of school and it was her first day.