If i stare at things long enough, they disappear by Maximiliano Guzmán

"If I stare at things long enough, they disappear." That’s what Rita, my aunt, says.
And today, after weeks of arguing, after telling her this is madness, my aunt Rita will make the Christ the Redeemer vanish from the hill—a fifteen-meter cement Christ—before the eyes of some neighbors and friends from town.

It’s a big family event. We made sandwiches and my dad is preparing an asado by the roadside.

My aunt convinced the Mayor that her power was real. Nobody believes it’s true. The Mayor asked for some money for the organization, for the “use of public space.” That’s politics.

My aunt gave him part of her savings, and he promised her an interview on the local radio once the Christ disappears. My aunt is thrilled. We, as a family, remain cautious. We don’t want to think about whether so much exposure is healthy. But she’s an adult woman, a little old. And she’s always been someone with strange ideas. I love her. I know she dreamed since childhood of being the center of attention in the community. She wanted to be a folk singer, a model, the queen of the Festival del Cabrito, a local music festival where they choose the prettiest girl in Recreo.

None of that happened.

Her beauty is ordinary, she sings off-key, and she’s not a woman of proportionate hips. She married at eighteen, lost two pregnancies. She studied theater at a community college, and my uncle, her husband, left her for a younger woman in Buenos Aires. When she tried to find a new partner, all the men who had once loved her were dead, drunk, or in jail.

My aunt Rita always believed in second chances. And one day, out of nowhere, she began to “make things disappear” from her house. Small objects, little chains, soda cans, bottles, shoes, animals she fed that ran off with full bellies, phones, watches, a chair.

Disappearances that hid themselves in her backyard, inside a giant municipal trash bin.

When I asked her long ago if she knew that what “no longer exists in this world” was in her backyard, she shook her head, making faces, and with tearful eyes replied: “That’s no longer part of our lives, Alejandra."

                                                                         ***

Aunt Rita loves to nap, between noon and dusk. Her good rest depends on a good nap. And that’s when my friends and I would enter her house (I have her key) and throw away the things she had “made disappear” into the garbage.

My friends respect my aunt. They say that the day they start pretending to do magic, those will be unforgettable days between pills and Alzheimer’s.

I trust that when I grow old, I won’t have those problems. What if it’s hereditary? I asked my mom. She changes the subject when I bring it up. Pretends not to hear me or gets offended. My mom likes to collect ceramic frogs. She collects them in all colors, shapes, and has bought “special frogs” online. She’s traveled to provincial fairs to buy them, and sometimes she’s even presented her collection in public.

Her frogs aren’t for sale. Mom is normal. Even if my friends insist, mom is normal.
If I had to ask my aunt Rita to use her magic… mom’s frogs would be a good choice.

Dad doesn’t give opinions, he’s transparent. He doesn’t care what people say or do or what strange rumors link to the family. He likes to enjoy life. He’s a municipal employee and earns a basic salary that keeps us from going hungry. It bothers mom that dad lives so relaxed. He’s a full-time father, supportive and active. And that’s a conflict I carry in a backpack of bad decisions. My ex-boyfriends don’t resemble him. The guy I’m seeing now only wants to take advantage of my body. There’s no love. We like each other, but we are in a relationship with no future.

Once I asked my aunt if she could make feelings disappear, the bitterness, the anxiety, the uncertainty…

She told me she was learning to do it. There were still flaws because she couldn’t make disappear what she couldn’t see.

“If you see me crying," I said.

“What will disappear are your tears or your eyes or your face. Don’t ask me to do it," she replied.

She was right. Her power wasn’t meant for domestic life. She needed her grand spectacle.

                                                                        ***

It's one of those days that feels particularly uneventful, even though something is happening.

Phone cameras are on, I’m filming the preparations with mine. I want to know what the neighbors here think.

“Rita is so good," a neighbor tells me.

“Rita has hidden talents. Your aunt is a walking surprise," says another, approaching the Asado.

“That old woman is crazy," says a teenager. I laugh inside. My smile is nervous; since childhood I never smiled like others.

Dad invites neighbors and friends to eat choripán, his favorite Argentine sandwich. My aunt talks with mom. I think mom is telling her she’s tired of her. My aunt holds back her words. Mom slaps my aunt.

My aunt grabs mom by the hair.

They’re fighting.

Shit!

My friends step in to separate them.

What am I doing filming?

Aunt on the ground..

Covered in dust, sweating. They scream, try to scratch each other.

One of my friends gets shoved by mom.

“Enough!" I shout.

Dad keeps his kind, evocative profile. He serves meat to the neighbors. Those neighbors who didn’t pay for the food or the show. Damn gossips.

My aunt stands up.

Mom, still on the ground, holds her head. She’s stressed, sad.

My aunt walks to face the Christ the Redeemer from a distance.

She lifts her gaze.

The Mayor is giving away T-shirts with his name on them, not my aunt's name.

My friends come close to me.

“Calm down," they say, touching my shoulders.

"Are you going to film?" asks Susana, my best friend.

I lower my phone camera.

I point out that neighbors are already filming.

I delete the earlier recordings.

My aunt stares at the Christ the Redeemer.

I sigh.

And my stomach growls.

We wait a few minutes.

Dad speaks loudly about the pork ribs he bought on sale at the downtown butcher.

Mom lies on the ground, arms spread wide like a cross. She’s an angel without wings.

And we wait…

Each second is eternal.

Sweat glues our clothes to our skin.

“It disappeared!" my aunt shouts, eyes wide, smiling ear to ear.

We look at the Christ.

It’s still there…

My aunt runs to hug me.

We embrace.

“You see… it disappeared," she tells me, her voice cracked, holding me tight.

And I see it…

Yes…

“It disappeared," I tell her.

Behind us, Dad claps, inviting the neighbors to clap along with him.

Maximiliano Guzmán is an author from Argentina. His work has recently been published in Expat Press, HAD, Don't Submit, and soon in Hobart Pulp.