The Brick People

by Alejandro Morales

  “It’s very expensive,” another man commented from the back.

  Maximiliano nodded at Octavio, Federico and Jose who stood nearby guarding him, constantly watching him as if something were about to happen.

  “That’s what electricity is doing for Simons. More business and more money for the rich,” a third man shouted from the back.

  “You’ll see, our women will want to buy all the electrical apparatuses they offer them. Now we have a swarm of vendors selling electrical junk to make it easier for the women. No sir, electricity is a gringo plague that will infect us and make us sick. They will make us like thousands of stupefied moths attracted to and trapped by this pretty light until we burn. Just look at how you are swarmed around that electrical idiot box,” the third man continued near the door.

  “Hey friend, stop your bitching and leave. We want to hear the news reports,” Linacero Guerra, one of the three toughest men in Simons, threatened.

  The third man waved Linacero off and walked out into the afternoon of the third of July. Linacero reached up and turned the volume louder. He patted Maximiliano on the shoulder, assuring everyone in the store that no one would interrupt Maximiliano from listening to Acacio Newman Delgado’s new radio.

  The Spanish voice that shouted from the electric box began to report a litany of terrible events around the world and in the United States. The electric voice yelled about Adolf Hitler and the Nazis in Germany, Mussolini’s Fascist party, Emperor Hirohito, Mexican deportation, the repeal of prohibition which brought on cheers and applause from the listeners, Franklin Delano Roosevelt’s New Deal, and the end of the Depression; but what most affected Maximiliano was the voice’s description of the burning of mountains of books written by anti-Nazi and Jewish authors in Germany. Maximiliano felt tired after the battering of information. On the way home a burning sensation snaked through his veins and burst into his mind at the image of millions of books consumed by fire. He was blinded momentarily. He closed his eyes once, but suddenly thought that if he closed them again he would lose his brothers forever. He decided that no matter what the cost, he would keep his eyes open for eternity.

  Milagros and Damian waited together on the porch for Maximiliano, who embraced them both. For a long time the three held on to each other, not wanting to let go, afraid of separating. Octavio and Federico pulled them apart. Milagros sobbed. She could not contain her fear any longer, A dark bruise had encircled each of Maximiliano’s eyes. Federico and Jose, not knowing what to do, turned to Octavio who calmly smiled and took Maximiliano toward the room in the back.

  “I want you to rest. In a few hours all the family and your friends will come by to say hello. You want to be strong to receive them and to drink a few shots with your buddies.” Octavio opened the door and watched Maximiliano enter.

  “Octavio, you know I can’t sleep. I have to keep my eyes open forever. I will never shut them, brother.” Maximiliano leaned against the door. “Wait until after I’m gone before you call the ambulance. Please, brother. I ask this of you because I love you very much.”

  Octavio’s face contorted with sorrow and anger.

  Abundant food and drink kept the relatives and friends in pleasant conversation. Aunts, uncles, cousins, and the heads of families had brought food, and the comadres and compadres had made sure that Damian had plenty to drink for the adults and the children. Summertime in Simons brought freedom for the children more than any other season of the year. The hot weather invited them to run barefoot through the agricultural fields that surrounded the brickyard. Exploration was the children’s favorite game. Fields of corn and sugarcane made hide-and-seek a challenging activity. Children’s screams and laughter filled the summer afternoon at the Revueltas home. To celebrate life was the order of the day.

  Maximiliano was strengthened by the overflowing honest love that fell on his head, neck, shoulders, arms and hands. The love given him was his responsibility and he would respond by not feeling ill. A forever smile and a handshake thanked all who had come to celebrate his return. He maneuvered to the couch in the living room. Maximiliano constantly wiped his eyes. Now the rings had become wider and blacker. Reddish-blue blotches appeared on his neck and hands. His lips grew purple and his smile fainter. The men would bring him a drink and he would lift up a glass showing that he had one, two, three and the hundreds of other drinks his relatives and friends wanted to have with him.

  The food diminished and by six-thirty it was gone. Although Damian and Milagros had prepared plenty, the people had eaten all of it and now began to leave quietly. Some went to thank Maximiliano for the wonderful party and encouraged him not to give up. Others, seeing Maximiliano’s condition deteriorating by the minute, thanked Damian and Milagros. They looked over to Maximiliano as they said goodbye to the Revueltas. In their eyes and tone of voice they communicated pity and irony. They did not believe in what they said, and to cleanse their hands of creating false expectations, they left Damian and Milagros with “Está en las manos de Dios.” At seven in the evening the house had been abandoned to the family.

  The warm silence of the comfortable summer afternoon, periodically interrupted by the explosion of cherry bombs and firecrackers, provided Maximiliano with the belief and the desire that the moment would never cease. He sat snuggled in the couch, safe for eternity. He would never move; here forever he wanted to remain in this space and in this time, never moving forward nor backward, never changing. His eyes were set deep and the rings had become bruises. The explosions of the night multiplied. With each detonation of the outside world, Maximiliano perished cell by cell. He would never give up. Maximiliano rested, his head back, his mouth open, every fourth breath gasping for air.

  At eight o’clock his breathing was consistently heavy. He was cool, but drenched in perspiration. Octavio and Federico carried their brother into their parents’ room. Maximiliano vehemently pointed to the kitchen door to the outside. He wanted air, wind, the open space of the garden to help him breathe, help him find oxygen. Octavio and Federico held him up and walked him around the garden. Nana came up to dry his brow. His legs weakened. He could stand only with the help of his brothers. Octavio moved him toward the outside bedroom. Maximiliano grew weaker. He could no longer hold his head up. Milagros cried at the foot of the bed. Damian held fast against a corner. Octavio watched Nana wipe Maximiliano’s face, neck and arms. Outside, Federico, Jose, Rogaciana and Felicitas listened to the thousands of explosions that invaded the warm night.

  Octavio remembered Maximiliano’s request not to call the ambulance until he was well on his way to death. Rest and peace lay on Maximiliano’s countenance while outside the innocent laughter of excited children ran away down the street. His breathing was shallow and erratic. Milagros had administered medicine that was to have strengthened Maximiliano enough to be returned to the hospital. But the chemicals did not take effect. Maximiliano seemed not to suffer pain. Octavio ordered Jose to call the ambulance. By the time the ambulance arrived, Maximiliano’s breathing had practically ceased and became difficult to ascertain. Several times the ambulance attendants, while preparing Maximiliano for the trip to Los Angeles General Hospital, asked if Maximiliano were dead. Milagros considered these questions cruel and insensitive to the mourning family. Milagros went to her son’s side. Nana stepped back to allow Milagros to hold her son and see what only she could see in his eyes. She smiled an ancient smile and he responded likewise.

  “Mama!” Maximiliano called out with a strong fresh voice.

  “What do you want, son?” Milagros fought back from the deepest part of her soul not to cry out with him in her arms. With his head against her bosom, he reached the distance from which no living being has ever communicated.

  Damian pushed himself against the wall. Tears overran his strength and his face became wet, his nose filled with salty anger. He would not wail with anger at losing his beautiful son. Damian climbed into the ambulance. He would accompany his son to the hospital. Octavio observed the at
tendant close the door slowly. Damian sat straight, hand on lap and eyes fixed on Maximiliano’s blue face. Octavio, Federico, Jose and Ignacio Sandoval followed.

  That afternoon Octavio had accepted the inevitable death of his brother. He was grateful to Maximiliano for telling how he wanted to die, where he wanted to spend his last moments. Octavio glanced at Jose driving and crying silently. The image of his father sitting helplessly next to his dying son kept reappearing, jumping at him, symbolizing an unknown explanation. The siren and the red and yellow spinning and flashing lights broke the world up and lessened the sorrow, the pain and the anger. Octavio walked into the hospital with a roll of hundred dollar bills. At ten in the evening, he paid a fifty-dollar deposit required by the hospital. Octavio, Federico, Jose and Ignacio joined Damian in the emergency room and waited. At eleven-thirty a doctor approached the family and explained that Maximiliano’s condition was terminal. He would die at any time.

  “There’s nothing we can do now. I’m sorry. You can go in now.” The doctor rapidly moved away.

  Maximiliano’s brothers, father and uncle talked to him and held his hand. They were not sure if he could hear them, but if he could, they wanted to show him that he was not alone. As Octavio spoke there walked into the brick-walled room a boy whose face he had almost forgotten, a boy who had died in 1918. Julio smiled at his brothers, walked around the bed and whispered into Maximiliano’s blue ear. Octavio squinted, rubbed and closed his eyes to rest them for an instant. Julio was gone. Maximiliano’s body lay empty of energy. Jose sobbed openly. The other four stood silently, feeling the weight of Maximiliano’s death in their minds, hearts and throats. Julio had entered the room at 1:02 and left with Maximiliano at 1:03 in the morning of July 5, 1933.

  At six in the morning Federico followed the Moritz Funeral hearse. Octavio and Ignacio waited for Maximiliano’s body to be readied, while Damian, Federico and Jose drove home to prepare the family and to organize the wake. Milagros, dressed in a new black dress, greeted her family and did not ask for explanations as to why Octavio and Ignacio had not returned. She had already made a special place in the living room and with the help of Tati, Nana, Rogaciana, Felicitas and neighbors had begun to prepare food for the mourners who would visit her son, Maximiliano Revueltas.

  At midday Maximiliano lay in state in his home. Maximiliano had returned home and again would receive family, friends and neighbors. Most of Simons town came to pay their respects. Among the early arrivals were William Melone, Jacobo Ramos and Gonzalo Pedroza who weakly embraced the bereaved parents. They left immediately after they visited the family. At this time there was no need to test the tensions between Octavio and the foremen.

  A priest from Saint Benedict Catholic Church in Montebello recited the rosary once and immediately left. Two women alternated leading the mourners in praying the rosary. While the town women accompanied and prayed for Maximiliano’s soul, the men drank and reminisced about Maximiliano’s good times. By eleven, the people began to leave the house. By twelve, Damian and Milagros had retired.

  “Octavio, I’m going to rest,” Nana said.

  “I want to be with him a little longer,” Octavio replied and kissed Nana good night.

  Octavio found himself alone with his brother’s cold body. On one of the small end tables he contemplated a photograph of the four Revueltas brothers taken eight years past. He picked up the photo and felt proud of his brothers Federico, Maximiliano and Jose. The four were dressed in their best clothes. The photo was Milagros’ favorite of her boys. Octavio’s eyes found the couch, the same place where Maximiliano had sat the night before, thinking of forever. Octavio brought the photo closer to his eyes. Maximiliano, with his hands on Federico’s shoulders, seemed powerful standing behind him. Jose smiled like a child. Octavio, straight and serious, brought Jose closer with his left arm. Federico leaned to his left and showed a devilish smile. Octavio’s and Maximiliano’s lips were like the Mona Lisa—emotionless. What had been the occasion that had brought them together so happily? In that photo and forever, the Revueltas brothers touched, connected by flesh, blood, mind and a special vision. Octavio fell asleep on the couch in front of Maximiliano’s coffin. His hands covered the photograph which lay on his chest.

  The early sunlight warmed his eyelids. Through them the darkness of the night had gone. Octavio opened his eyes and lay perfectly still. His sight searched to the left and to the right. A strange house, he thought, and the light brightened the space of his living ... This is the day in which I bury my brother ... He felt the photograph on his chest. It was he who had the financial responsibility of burying Maximiliano; he who had to pay the medical cost; he who had to pay for the funeral; he who had to pay for the drink and food for the wake and funeral; he who had taken Maximiliano to several doctors and he who could not guarantee Maximiliano’s health; he who saw Julio walk into Maximiliano’s hospital room; he whom father and mother had confidence in to make the correct decisions. It was always. “ ... Whatever Octavio says ... Maybe Octavio will give you some. See if Octavio gives you permission. ... Octavio has money ... ” At that moment, Octavio sensed the family’s weight on his chest. It was difficult to arise, but Octavio knew that he had to. He loved them and that was enough. Milagros, Damian, Ignacio, and Tati waited for him to awaken.

  “Octavio, come with me. Nana has made a delicious breakfast.” Tati led her compadre to his house. The rest of the family listened for the Moritz hearse that would transport Maximiliano’s remains to Mount Carmel for a High Mass.

  The church was filled. Friends stood against the walls in the aisle and outside in the gardens . Cars were packed into the dusty church lot, all along Church Street and on both sides of Rivera Road. People liked Maximiliano. He became a kind of hero, an intelligent, dignified man who made just decisions and lived his life with intensity. He was a beautifully brave man, they said repeatedly.

  The long serpent of cars cruised down Whittier Boulevard and turned into El Calvario Cemetery where, after a prayer and a blessing, the casket was lowered into the ground. One by one Maximiliano’s family and friends gently tossed a flower on his casket. Doña Marcelina Trujillo Benidorm, from amongst the mourners, began to sing:

  De colores, de colores se visten

  los campos en la primavera,

  de colores, de colores son los

  pajaritos que vienen de afuera,

  de colores, de colores es el arco

  iris que vemos lucir,

  y por eso los grandes amores

  de muchos colores me gustan a mí

  y por eso los grandes amores

  de muchos colores me gustan a mí.

  Octavio was surprised that most of the people began to accompany the woman. He noticed that Milagros, Damian, Nana and the priest were singing along. The song was beautiful, happy, and Maximiliano would have approved. Octavio picked up Arturo and went to Nana who held Javier in her arms. Micaela hugged her mother. The five of them moved away from the crowd.

  Chapter 16

  With the death of Maximiliano the world began to fall apart. Acacio Newman Delgado’s stationary radio—he never moved it because he did not want to upset the radio’s entrañas—screamed assassination after assassination, atrocity after atrocity, blood bath after blood bath: the Ku Klux Klan marched on Washington, Asians slaughtered Asians, the Spanish Civil War erupted, Franklin Delano Roosevelt was reelected President of the United States by a landslide, Chiang Kai-Shek declared war on Japan, Trotsky was exiled to Mexico. With more houses acquiring electricity, the voices multiplied. More radios appeared in living rooms, kitchens, or bedrooms. As hearing space grew smaller, the voices were often pitted against one another. Gonzalo Pedroza had to threaten the people that if the sound of the radio was not lowered he would have to take the apparatus away. Nonetheless, the voices continued to scream throughout Simons.

  The world never heard of the little local tragedies that occurred. Radio reporters never screamed about Jesus Romo racing his pickup truck down V
ail, speeding over the bridge, flipping over and killing his six-year-old twin daughters. Neighbors crowded into Jesus Romo’s small wooden company house during the wake to see the two beautiful innocents and to observe how the young reckless father responded to the tragedy. The night progressed, cramming people into the living room where Jesus Romo twisted, tore, beat his body. At times he would scream and struggle to run away or he would smash into the crowd begging to be beaten, hanged, killed to end his sorrow and remorse. Just beyond the kitchen, enshrined in a large casket, lay the twin girls. The rosary, a humming, never ceased. Suddenly a loud roar surged from the center of the living room and the world caved into itself. The weight of the people in the center of the room facing the casket caused the wooden floor to break in half. The praying bereaved fell through to a deep hole in the ground which apparently had been dug up during the construction of the house but of whose existence no one was aware. The floor split in two, the center caving into the unknown and the outside areas rising, causing those people who were standing near the walls to slide into and on top of their fellow neighbors. A panic danced before two angelic twins dressed in beautiful white gowns.

  “¡Jesús, María y José!” a woman screamed as she went down.

  “God punishes us!” several mourners announced.

  “Because we are sinners!” a high shrill yelled repeatedly, hanging on to the edge of the floor.

  “Jesus Christ, forgive us!” A fat man fell into the dark hole.

  “Don’t touch me, you scoundrel!” a middle-aged woman cried out.

  “Bury me, punish me with the bodies of sinners, Jesus!” Jesus Romo begged at the bottom of the wet pit.

  The screaming continued while people crawled out of the hole and from under the house. Most were wet and covered with mud as they emerged cursing Walter Simons and his plant stooges. Brown insects crawled on the victims and on the ground. A woman had broken an arm and agonized in pain. An old man with a hunched back came out walking on his feet and hands looking for a cavalry to bury the twins. Other men emerged coughing up red dust collected in their lungs through decades of working in Simons Brickyard. Men and women, as they slid rapidly into the pit, cursed Walter for permitting the world to sink into the abyss of Golgotha.