“What?”
“That’s what it says. See? ‘Al otro lado del río—’”
“Yeah, but what does that mean?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know.” Flipping over another card, she read, “The hand. La mano del criminal.” For a minute, neither of us said anything.
“Is that it?”
“No,” she whispered, and drew the last card.
La calvera. The skull.
Swiftly, Elena swept the cards away. “It doesn’t mean anything, Daniel. They’re not real fortune cards anyway.” She retied the ribbon around the deck and handed them to me. “Here. You take them.”
I shook my head. “I don’t want ‘em.”
“I think you should have them. Something of Jovita’s.”
“Nah.” I held up my hands, but still she held them out.
“We share everything,” she said. “Don’t we?”
So I took them. I looked at them many times—so many times I probably have all the cards memorized now, with all their little riddles. La sirena. La sandía. El camarón.
But I couldn’t help but feel sad. I could already feel her starting to slip away. I was the only one who knew her favorite thing was a little piece of rose quartz as round and perfect as a marble that she carried around in her pocket. She was the only one who knew I had once stolen a library book, Animalia, because I loved the pictures. We used to sit together and look at it, trying to spot everything that started with D, everything that started with E. But when Grandma Tata gave her the box of magic things, she added her piece of rose quartz in with the other stones. And as the weeks went by, she had less and less time for me. She spent more time with Grandma Tata, or with Grandma Nimfa, learning to cook and garden and mix up herbs. And of course, she had her homework. Elena was always a good student—much better than me.
And then one day, Aunt Tere decided to take Elena to work with her. Aunt Tere was a secretary during the day, but made extra money at night cleaning offices. The man who ran the cleaning crews agreed to let her bring Elena along and would pay her under the table.
* * * * *
That March, I turned nine. And we found out my dad was coming home.
After two years, he would just be there, like nothing had happened. His hair freshly combed, his shirt pressed, his cowboy boots spit-shined. This time, he had a new tattoo on his left arm: La Anima Sola, beautiful even in her chains, brown-haired, bare-armed and white, surrounded by fire.
* * * * *
Weeks went by and he stayed clean. He got a job driving a forklift at a warehouse over on the Kansas side somewhere. “Increible,” Grandma Tata says. “As soon as he hits the streets, that man lands a good job, a car, and anything else he puts his mind to. He’s got the devil’s own luck.”
And all the while, the police cruised the neighborhood, watching.
* * * * *
I wasn’t surprised when I came home one afternoon and found him passed out on the couch in his underwear.
* * * * *
By summer, he’d sold the TV, our bikes, even Alex’s weed whacker. When my mom got her tax refund, he wanted her to sign the check over to him. She said no. So he beat her so bad, I thought he was going to kill her.
So the night that he woke me up and told me I was going to work with him, I said okay.
* * * * *
We walked over to a house on Jefferson where nobody was home. We went around the side of the house. He boosted me up so I could climb in through the window. I was so skinny, it was easy—easy for him to lift me, easy for me to shimmy through.
When I got inside, of course, it was dark. The house was nice and cool, air conditioned. I felt my way around until my eyes adjusted, then I found the back door so I could let him in.
We didn’t turn on any lights. While he went into the bedroom, I went to the kitchen. I found a package of Chips Ahoy cookies in the cabinet. Sitting on the countertop, I swung my legs and ate my way through most of the pack while my dad went through their drawers and closets. I don’t know how long we were there-- maybe half an hour, maybe a little longer, when a flash of light illuminated the living room.
Headlights. The people who lived there were home.
“Danny!” my father bellowed. “Danny, get out!”
I jumped up and started to run towards the back door, but the driveway curved around the side of the house—they’d see us, for sure. So I turned back towards the window where we’d come in. At least, I thought it was the window where we’d come in.
I ran headlong into the glass, smashing it. It cut me all up. But the worst of it was when the broken pane above fell down on me.
* * * * *
And then—what can I tell you about what came next? I can scarcely remember. I must’ve passed out between the house on Jefferson and here.
All I know now is, I’m lying here in the dark, on a dusty floor. The air is very stuffy and stale.
On the other side of the wall, I can hear my parents fighting. My father doesn’t want to take me to the hospital, even though I’m all cut open. My mother is screaming at him. The police could be here any minute and what are they going to tell them? I hear the rustling of clothes—my father changing his shirt to hide the blood.
My hands are very wet and sticky and I’m afraid to move them. I think I’m holding my guts in—a thought so scary my body goes stiff when I think it, and it hurts so much that I can’t even cry, and all I can do is draw in these shallow little breaths, and it’s like the world gets a little darker every time my heart beats.
I shut my eyes tight and try not to think about it, try not to think about my parents fighting, about the police who are coming. I try not to think of Alex and Christian and Veronica, who must be in their beds, listening to them fight. Wondering where I am.
I try to think of good things. Grandma Nimfa’s garden and tortillas. Midnight Mass. Riding my bike. Setting off M-80s in the park. Pictures in a book. Elena.
As I lay there in the dark, I hear the policemen knock on the door downstairs, and I realize suddenly that I am no longer hot. It’s gotten very cold.
I open my eyes. Standing next to me is La Tutayegua, but this time, her dress—it looks brand new! The cloth is velvety and dark, with a lacy white collar, the little flowers fresh and red as strawberries. And her head isn’t black, but chestnut, the mane rich and glossy. She is looking down at me with soft brown eyes, no taller than Elena.
Suddenly, I don’t hurt anymore, not at all, and I stand up. I realize we are the same height—when were Elena and I ever the same height?
Behind her, the wall opens up and I see a beautiful clear river. On the opposite shore is a sandy bank, and a bird swoops low overhead that I know must be a heron. I know good things are waiting for me there. I have but to take her hand and step through the wall.
And I know that the police won’t find this hidden room—they didn’t in Great-Great Grandma Jovita’s time. They won’t in my father’s time.
But when my parents slide back the panel, they won’t find me there either.
All they will find is a little bit of blood, and in the middle of the floor, three lotería cards: Death, the Lady, and the Heart.
About the Author
Lauren Scharhag is the author of Imperial-13, The Ice Dragon and The Winter Prince, and (with Coyote Kishpaugh) The Order of the Four Sons series.
Her work has appeared most recently in The SNReview, The Daily Novel, Infectus, and Glass: A Journal of Poetry. She is the recipient of the Gerard Manley Hopkins Award for poetry and a fellowship from Rockhurst University for fiction. She lives in Kansas City, MO with her husband and three cats.
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For short stories, essays, reviews and other writings, check out her blog at:
https://laurensch
arhag.blogspot.com/.
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