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including Mamá’s. She hated sweeping their little corpses out
of her kitchen and off her porch, but she especially hated how
they followed her everywhere like a dark little cloud.
That same summer, Mamá stopped being a housewife. After
admitting to herself that Papá wasn’t going to send any more
money, she’d done the responsible thing and gone out and found
her very first job.
As for us, we tried staying indoors and playing Loteria like
Mamá instructed. It was difficult, however, because to play Loteria
we needed a caller, un cantor, and Papá had always been ours. A
good cantor can recite the traditional riddles for all fifty-four
cards in the Loteria by heart as he reveals each card to the players.
Riddles like “El caso que te hago es poco” were all right, but to
keep things interesting Papá had always altered the riddles and
personalized them to fit our family. We’d squirm and giggle with
joy and excitement every time a new riddle featured one of us.
One day, however, right before he left, Papá made up a particu-
larly ominous riddle.
“La Sirena,” he called, holding up the card for The Mermaid.
“La mujer who wants to take your Papá away! No! We won’t let
her!”
My parents were like any other parents; they bickered and
made up all the time. But that day the riddle upset Mamá so
much that the fight it stirred up between them soured the game
for Papá. From then on, we played Loteria as a family with less
and less frequency. So it was no surprise that after he left, we lost
