Illustration by Abigail Dring
“Two please,” I say.
The vendor looks me over and waves his skinny arm towards the colorful ticket display behind the counter, lifting his chin in my direction. The gesture reminds me of my ex—Jairo’s father.
“Which ones?”
I take a step forward to look over the array as he impatiently taps his long fingers on the counter.
“How much money?” His dark beady eyes catch mine.
“Fifteen,” I try to sound confident, “I mean, seventeen, please.”
As I shuffle through my purse for my lottery money, I come across the coins I was saving to buy gum for my son.
“Okay. A ten, a five, and a two—”
“Yes,” I cut him off.
I notice his lips twitch a little. He seems amused. He walks over to the tickets and picks four off the rack. I wait for my lottery tickets, looking at my feet where the city slush is melting through the seams of my fake leather boots. I look at the checkered blue and grey plastic floor tile. I notice the cat hair piled in corners and stuck to the carpet in front of the register. I hear him inhale as I distract myself by studying the packaging on a cereal box. I notice how it is precariously balanced on the shelving above the lottery display.
He leans in close and hovers over the counter.
“Know what darling,” he says, “today’s your lucky day.”
He makes a show of handing me my three tickets, placing them one by one into my open palm. He then slowly—like a want to be hypnotist—waves a fourth in front of my face. I can smell stale tobacco and leftover pizza on his breath as he leans in even closer. He tries his best to catch my eye as he hands me his gift—a ten-dollar lottery ticket.
“I want you to know you can get special treatment here, beautiful.”
His boney fingers envelope mine during the exchange. His smile, eager, as I struggle to pull my hand from his clammy hold. His breath rattles in his throat the way my father’s breath used to drag its way from his lungs before the heart attack. He releases me a moment later when a group of giddy teenagers barge in, setting the doorbell off.
I step outside where the last colors of the day are slowly fading to blue. There’s a dog tied to the post office railing that just pooped. A little girl glides by on a scooter as a younger boy chases after her. I cross Broadway and walk an avenue down towards the Hudson. My breath quickens as I relish in the excitement of holding four pristine lottery tickets. Once I reach a safe distance from the bodega I start scratching the back of one with the edge of my worn subway card. I take my time scratching and unveiling the ticket. I like to be neat about the process. If I’m lucky I can win seventy-seven thousand dollars.
I keep my discarded lottery tickets in an old bible that used to belong to my grandmother, Perla. She was from a small dusty town in Sonora, Mexico. She was a horrible woman and ugly too, with a beak for a nose. She beat her children and reserved special malice for my father. So, repurposing her bible for what she would have considered “sinful indulgence” felt just.
I finish scratching all four of my lottery tickets and don’t win anything. Chinga su! I usually win a few dollars, recovering a quarter of the ticket costs at the very least. Fuck, I’m stupid. I wasn’t even able to snag leftovers from work today. I want to cry, as I often do, but it’s gotten worse these days. My eyes are blurry as I hop onto the raised curb. I take my time getting to the subway stop, letting my mind disappear into the cold with the white cloud from my breath as I walk. I try to remember what we have left in the fridge at home. Not enough for dinner. I consider calling my neighbor Rafael to see if Jairo can stay at his place for the night. At least dinner would be assured. Tomorrow I could get gum and bring some food back from the restaurant. There were always leftovers to take home from Claudette’s on Fridays.
A big store with nice yellow lighting and a lot of shoppers catches my attention as I walk. I stop to admire the inviting atmosphere and a thought comes to me, or maybe it’s more of a feeling…a desire really. I enter the store and it’s uncomfortably warm inside. I unzip my heavy coat and fix my blouse as I look around the spacious market. It’s crowded with happy, rich, West Village kids and overflowing with fancy organic products. I grab a basket and browse the aisles. At first, I am not quite sure what I am looking for or what it is exactly I am doing in the store. It’s not like I could afford to buy anything.
I start to fill my basket with all the things I would buy if I could afford to. The act fills me with jealousy but is also soothing to me. At first it is just therapeutic—everything I want, everything I can’t have, I can fill my basket with; the act is free of cost, and free of negative repercussions. Then I am in the cosmetics aisle and take the million-dollar face cream that must be made of truffles or laced with fucking gold and slide it into my purse.
No one saw me. It was too easy. I would never steal. Sure, I’ve been a rule bender, but not a criminal. I’m a mom! I consider putting the cream back on the shelf where it belongs, but what if I am caught putting it back? No, I can’t put it back, and I can’t stop with just a face cream. The urge takes over me—like the need to smoke when you walk past a cloud of nicotine. Even though this is my first time stealing, the draw already feels like an addiction.
I try to be discrete and deliberate with what I grab, but my purse is large, and I manage to fit a pack of thick-cut bacon, sugar, pancake mix, and a wine bottle before making my way to the dessert aisle hoping to find some cookies for Jairo. I take a quick look around and drop three chocolate bars into my purse. A tall blonde woman, probably a model, looks my way from the far end of the aisle and stares. Did she see me grab the chocolate? Afraid my face might betray me; I grab the item nearest to me —a bag of flour—and pretend to read the ingredients on the back. Pinche Pendeja! There’s only one ingredient in flour!
Certain that I’ve made a fool of myself; I act quickly, dropping the flour into my basket. But of course, the paper snags something sharp as it lands and it rips open, covering me in a cloud of fine white dust. Mierda. I panic and swivel around to see the model’s reaction, but the woman has left, and a store employee is walking towards me. She must have told on me. I want to run, but my limbs are unresponsive. I try to take a deep breath to calm my nerves, but I inhale flour and start coughing like an old smoker.
The employee who approaches me is tall with a slanted neck, dull eyes and thin lips. Not that intimidating.
“Are you alright Ma’am?”
I can’t stop coughing. He takes a step closer and stands for a moment, looking as though he is considering whether or not to slap a palm across my back like one does to burp a child.
“Can I get you water?” He asks, finally.
I nod, trying to get him away from me.
“I’ll be right back,” he says as he walks away from me.
I leave my basket on the floor and speed walk away. I’m wheezing as I approach the registers by the exit. I slow my pace as I pass them trying my best not to draw attention to myself. I adjust my purse, slowly, without looking around me. Then in an attempt to appear all the more nonchalant, I stop short of the exit, right in everyone’s way to put my coat back on. I take a step towards the doors but stop short when I spot it. A rack by the register right under the magazines with all the gum in the world on display as if to taunt me.
How long do I have till the dull-eyed employee finds my basket on the floor? Would he think I left to find the bathroom, or would he know I was bad news? I move towards the gum. There’s no one in line for the register. The woman at the checkout is distracted bagging the last of an old man’s items. I reach towards the gum, but suddenly feel someone’s eyes on me, and change course at the last second. I grab a magazine instead and leaf through it. Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie have divorced for a fourth time. I take a few quick glances around while I read. No one seems to be looking at me. I hold the magazine lower to cover my hand, grab a packet of gum, and quickly slip it into my coat pocket. No one seems to notice. I grab another and do the same. I am getting away with it.
I finish flipping through the stupid magazine, replace it on the rack and walk away. Slowly at first — not wanting to break cover — I exit the store and force myself to stay composed, to keep walking, slowly, one foot and then the other. My adrenaline tries to trick me, it urges me to break into a run, to escape what I have done. But no alarm goes off. No employee follows me out. My pace quickens as I make my way down the block towards the subway station. I steal a look back over my shoulder. No one. I cross the street. No police cars speed towards me. I walk another three blocks, spotting the subway station, and bolt.
Euphoria washes over me as my train lurches forward. I find a seat amongst the crowd and remove one of the chocolate bars from my purse. I eat the whole thing in a series of quick small bites. My stomach is busy doing cartwheels and my anxiety won’t let me taste a thing, but the chocolate is magnificent. I bask in a strange mix of shame and pride. I have gifts for my son.
I make it to my stop in East Harlem and jog the four blocks to my apartment complex, my purse weighing heavy on my shoulder. I run up the stairs instead of taking the elevator. I am covered in sweat and smell the way only fear can make you stink when I reach Rafael’s floor. I knock timidly at the door, I’m over an hour late to pick up my son. I should have called Rafael to warn him I would be so late.
“Coming!” His deep voice echoes.
His steps are heavy, landing on his heels in the way that’s always bothered me. His walk sounds like a child throwing a temper tantrum — all thud, no grace. I hear the locks clicking and take a deep breath to steady my nerves.
Rafael appears in the bright hallway and holds the door wide open for me.
“Come on in, we’re playing games.” He doesn’t mention my timing. Behind his bulky figure, I can see Jairo and Rafa’s son, Calvin, laying on the gray apartment carpet with dominoes and pick-up sticks littered about. Even though the lights are always too bright with a strange fluorescent hue Rafael’s place is warm and cozy. It feels much bigger than mine, even though both our apartments share the same floor plans.
“Did you eat at work? I have pasta cooking for the boys.” He pushes his body tight against the wall to allow room for me to enter the narrow hallway—his protruding gut the only obstacle I have to maneuver around.
“Nope,” I keep my answer short.
“My mama is here!” I hear Jairo excitedly telling Calvin.
He races down the hall to greet me. I wrap him in my arms and squeeze until I can feel his tiny chest tighten beyond breath.
“Did you bring me gum?”
“You bet.”
“Really?” He narrows his eyes, “What flavor?”
“It’s a surprise, but you have to wait until after dinner.”
“You don’t have any,” he rolls his eyes at me. “Rafa said I can stay for dinner,” he asserts.
“Don’t you know how terrible Rafa’s cooking is?” I ruffle his dark hair, “Plus, I’m your Mama. You still have to ask me for permission.” He bats my hand away.
“Please, please, please, stay.” Rafael mockingly begs, and I can’t help but wonder if he is being sweet for my sake or Jairo’s.
I watch my son return to the carpet and tackle Calvin – sending their impressive domino array scattering under the kitchen table and living room couch.
“You sure? I have food at home…”
“You know that’s never a question.” Rafael dismisses, making his way behind the counter that separates the kitchen from the living space .
“There’s a kids movie on Disney in ten, I thought maybe we could watch while we eat and hopefully be finished before bedtime?” Rafael says as he busies himself with chopping garlic.
“Sounds great” I say, waiting for him to look away before placing the expensive wine bottle on the counter.
He takes forever with the garlic. I clink my long acrylic nails on the glass and wait patiently for him to notice. He looks up and smiles. He’s actually handsome when he’s happy. A little thick in the middle but his square jaw and sharp nose balanced the softness of his torso. He catches my eye and I see his cheeks redden a little.
“Are we celebrating something special?” He asks, his voice almost shy.
Fuck. I had forgotten all about my job interview after work!
He starts mixing his uncooked minced garlic into the hardening mass of pasta. “Don’t be evasive. Get out with the big news.”
“You know you’re supposed to cook that, right?” I cluck my tongue at the pot.
“Too late, pasta’s ready!” Rafael announces, dismissing my comment. “Want to grab the bottle and two plates?” He asks as he makes his way to the couch with wine glasses and pasta plates for the boys.
“You kiddos ready for the movie?”
“Yes! Yes! Yes!” Jairo jumps up and down with excitement.
“Whoa there, watch the food little man,” Rafa admonishes in his usual sweet manner.
Jairo nudges his friend, “Come watch the movie, Calvin.”
“No. I don’t like that movie,” Calvin doesn’t look up from his dominoes.
“How can you say that buddy? You don’t even know what movie is playing!” Rafael shakes his head with a chuckle.
“I don’t care, I want to play with the dominoes,” Calvin insists.
“Me too! I don’t like the movie,” Jairo takes the pasta plates and sits back down on the carpet with Calvin.
“Okay. Okay,” Rafael raises his hands above his head, palms spread out in defeat, “Camilla and I will leave you boys to it then.”
“Kitchen?” He inclines his head in my direction, grabbing the food plates and extricating himself from the couch. I shake my head at Jairo before following.
“So, tell me about your interview,” Rafael asks, continuing where we left off.
“Yea, I didn’t end up going,” I admit.
I can’t keep secrets from Rafael for long, I might as well do away with the more innocent part of my day now and hope it covers the guilt I’m exuding.
“What, why? Did something happen?” He looks genuinely concerned for me. It takes my breath away.
“No, no, nothing bad—”
“Camilla, you know you can tell me anything right?”
“Right.”
“Okay. You don’t have to share. I just hope you know I’m here for you.”
Why does he have to be so thoughtful? I really am a piece of shit.
“…You’re a big part of my life Cami…”
“Rafa. Please.”
“Okay. Okay. Sorry, I know.”
I focus on my wine glass, on my hand as it reaches for it, and my throat as it welcomes the liquid. I don’t deserve him in my life.
“So, you’re not going to tell me what happened?” He is unrelenting.
“I—” I bite my lip.
I want to confess, but Rafael is such a good person. I don’t want my fucked-up ways to threaten our friendship. Jairo needs Rafael and Calvin in his life. Rafael is the one person we can’t lose. The one person I keep composed around and mask the ugly parts of myself for.
“The pasta’s nice.” I can feel the guilt and shame growing in the pit of my stomach.
“Thanks, it’s the oil, lots of oil. My special trick.”
In the background, a fight breaks out between Jairo and Calvin. Something about a domino going missing and Calvin accusing Jairo of stealing it.
“Should we intercept?” Rafael asks, his thick brow furrowing.
“Give them some credit,” I smile at Rafa shaking my head. It always amuses me how unused to conflict he is. “I think they can figure it out between the two of them.”
Calvin gets increasingly desperate, yelling, “Give me back the domino, Jay.”
He calls Jairo, Jay, because that’s what they call him at school where the teachers can’t pronounce his name.
“Maybe it got lost?” Jairo suggests.
“Give it back!”
Rafa and I look over our shoulders just in time to see Calvin lunge at Jairo.
“Hey!” Rafa jumps up and steps between them, “That’s not how you speak to your friend, Calvin.”
“But he stole it from me,” Calvin glares at Jairo.
“That’s not true,” Jairo assures Rafa and looks at me for backup.
“Amor, did you take Calvin’s domino?” My voice is an embarrassed whisper.
“No. He’s lying,” Jairo’s face turns defiant.
I stare at my son. It scares me how much he looks like his father when he’s mad. I can’t stop staring. I grimace at his angry eyes and am repulsed by his guilty posture, his already muscular arms crossed tight against his chest, the little downcast face, the dark hair almost standing on edge. Jairo’s eyes start to tear up and I have to force myself to look more sympathetic.
“It’s okay, amor,” I reach my arms out towards him, “Calvin’s just upset. It’s not your fault, okay?”
“But dad! He stole it, I saw him.” Calvin stops crying and looks straight at Jairo, who hides his face behind my torso.
“Calvin, son, you need to calm down, okay? Even if Jairo has your domino, do you really want to lose your best friend over just one domino?”
“How about we all look for the domino?” I interject. “Hijo” I nudge Jairo out from behind me, “Will you help us look for Calvin’s missing domino?”
He shakes his head and clasps onto me tighter. And then I feel something cool and smooth press up against my bare skin as Jairo tries to bury it under my shirt. I grab him at the elbow. He escapes my grasp and looks up at me with dark angry eyes. I grab hold of his little arm again and yank him towards me. I try to get him to open his fists, but he refuses. Exasperated, I dig my long nails into his fingers until he gives up. His hand is empty. Did I imagine it? Or has he discreetly dropped the domino somehow? He won’t look at me.
“Fine,” I let go.
Jairo stumbles and trips on the domino pieces, landing bum first on the carpet. His eyes flood with tears and he quickly hides his face by grabbing a pillow off the couch and clasping it around his head. I am furious. I get to my knees and pretend to search under the couch. Calvin watches me, his face tired, and stained with tears. Rafa, made more uncomfortable by my chastising of Jairo, mumbles something unintelligible and kneels down beside me. His hand goes to my shoulder. I brush it off.
“Camila, please, it’s fine. Really.”
There’s a bunch of art supplies and piles of paper hidden under the ugly couch. I move them around. I discreetly grab a domino piece off the floor and hold it out to Calvin.
“Here. Happy now?” I ask.
“That’s not the piece I was looking for!” Calvin stamps his feet. How had I not realized Calvin was so spoiled?
“Okay kiddo. I think it’s time for bed,” Rafael tries.
“No. I want my domino!” Calvin insists.
“I think we should leave,” I tell my feet.
I grab Jairo’s arm and pull him to his feet, but he won’t stand and crumples back onto the carpet.
“Thanks for dinner, Rafa,” I say, my words wheezing with my breath as I pick Jairo up in my arms.
He keeps the pillow clasped tight to his face. He is so big now.
“I’ll bring the pillow back tomorrow,” I say as I stumble my way into the hallway with Jairo’s heavy body in my arms.
At six, he is already half my height and probably weighs more than half my weight. He will soon outgrow me. I start to cry. I shift my weight from foot to foot and hum a song my dad used to sing to me as I wait for the elevator doors to open. This could be the last time I carry him like a child. I am sweating by the time I make it down the hallway to my apartment, and almost drop him as I fumble for the keys in my purse full of stolen goods.
I awkwardly maneuver through the door and down the narrow hallway of our apartment. Jairo’s dirty shoes drag along the wall as I stumble towards his room. I try to lay him gently on his bed, but my arms are too tired, and I plop him down with a thud. He clenches Rafa’s couch pillow tighter, pulling it up to hide his face. I kiss his hands and remove his shoes as he lays motionless with clenched fists.
“Perdoname Hijo, I shouldn’t have…Te mereses major,” I tell Jairo he deserves better.
I lay next to him and wrap him up in my arms. He doesn’t move, only grasps the pillow tighter. I look up at our dusty ceiling and wonder about our life together. I wonder if it only makes it worse to admit your wrongs and show your children your faults. Guilt grows past my stomach into my organs, past my organs up my throat. I wonder if maybe it’s better to just pretend you are right and never let them know that they are missing out on a better life. Suddenly I remember my gifts and jump up to look for my purse. I find it on the floor by the kitchen counter. I pour the contents out on the couch. I grab the gum and a milk chocolate bar, wishing I had had the time to grab chocolate chip cookies because they’re Jairo’s favorite. I return to his room and nudge him gently.
“Amor?”
He doesn’t move.
“I brought you presents…the gum you wanted, and something else, a little surprise for you.” He won’t remove the pillow from his face. I lay my peace offering on his pillow and leave. I walk out through our shared bathroom, into the kitchen and out onto our tiny porch, my eyes blurry with repressed tears. I search my dusty ash tray for leftovers. Had my son picked up on my criminal tendencies before I was even aware of them? I uncover three stinky half smoked cigarettes. Or had my fucked-up mind seen something in Jairo that wasn’t there and blamed him for my own shitty conscience? I lay the butts neatly on the table and smoke them one by one, until the blood has drained from my head.