The Brick People

by Alejandro Morales

  On the still-smoldering street, a man stood by Nana as she contemplated Milagros’ face, a profile of pure simple endurance. Damian brought Micaela, Flor and Gregorio to their mother. Nana, devastated by what she witnessed, wept as she saw the people no longer running, rushing. The panic subsided, and people stood and watched the light of the flames reflected off their faces. No need to hurry any longer. The fire had won.

  Nana sat on a kitchen chair with Gregorio on her lap and watched the house burn and shadows interrupt the flames. Flor embraced her mother and the baby and understood that everything was gone. Micaela touched her mother’s shoulder and somehow worried about her upcoming confirmation in church. Although in a state of shock, from the deepest and strongest part of Nana’s heart came words for those around her at that moment—a simple statement pronounced unwaveringly.

  “We’ll start anew.”

  Uncommon for this time of year, two giant kilns burned behind them. Their fire and illumination climbed like a creature into the night sky.

  At the time of the fire, Javier walked past the checkstands and waved goodbye to the manager and the women checking out the last customers of the evening. The door closed slowly. The bus driver read a magazine while he waited at the southwest corner of Montebello and Whittier Boulevard. Crawford’s Market was on the northwest corner. From this point Javier, dark-faced, smiling, bright-eyed, sprinted to the front of the bus. He was proud of his speed, both in running and in working. The manager told him that he was the fastest and most careful box boy they had. The junior high school coaches considered him the fastest sprinter on the ninth grade track team. A hard worker, outstanding athlete and excellent student, Javier represented the exemplary good Mexican boy. He possessed such extraordinary mathematical abilities that the algebra and science teachers allowed him to advance at his own pace. Once Mr. Irons, the truant officer, walked through the checkstand where Javier bagged for the manager.

  “This boy here is not like those pachuco gangsters from Simons. I know those boys well. I arrest about half a dozen of them every day. Truancy, believe you me, is the least of their offenses,” Mr. Irons said, reaching for his wallet. “I know Mexicans. This boy here can be saved.”

  Through the long, rectangular, heavy glass windows of the bus door, the Anglo-American driver observed Javier with his books and white apron in hand. The driver put the magazine down and threw the switch. Javier withdrew from his pocket a nickel which he dropped into the coin box. He moved to a spot at the back of the empty bus. In five minutes the driver would guide the transportation machine through its zig-zaggy twenty-minute route to almost the end of the line in south Montebello.

  To the Anglo population, Simons was the end of the line, at the extreme southeastern border, on the other side and out of town. Javier knew of many colonias, but none were like Simons. Most of these barrios were situated on the other side of some physical marker: a railroad track, a bridge, a river, a highway. Simons was not only on the other side, but it was also constructed in a hole, “El Hoyo,” dug by its own residents. Walter Simons had chosen the site because nobody wanted that parcel of undesirable land, but he had recognized the excellent red clay earth needed for brick. The land, located in an isolated area, was perfect to keep low-wage Mexican labor in cheap dilapidated housing close to the work site and protected from the prejudicial attitudes of the City of Montebello. Most of the barrios were not planned, but were outgrowths of labor camps, while others were merely accidental occurrences of nature and demographics. One such area was Barrio Cantaranas, the singing frogs.

  In 1931, an Anglo-American populated area was invaded by millions of giant frogs that emerged from the San Gabriel River and covered every space inside and out of the homes. The frogs were everywhere. A plague had surely struck. The people fought the frogs with chemicals, fire and sticks, but failed to scare away the ugly beasts. The frogs kept coming, and for every one killed, two or three appeared. The residents struggled for days to end the plague. Finally the homeowners decided to bring in help, the cheapest they could find, and so hundreds of Mexicans were brought early in the morning to battle the frogs. The people toiled throughout the day. By nightfall, both Anglos and Mexicans were exhausted. The Anglos could only hope that the frogs would leave by morning. When darkness finally overcame the last ray of the sun and as the moon rose, there was heard a humming followed by singing. As the chorus grew louder the Anglos became frightened, for they could not understand any of the lyrics. The frogs sang in Spanish. The Anglo residents gathered their families and ordered the Mexicans to lead them out of the amphibious net. The Anglos abandoned the area to the Mexicans who began to serenade the frogs with a few tunes of their own, and by daybreak the horrible frogs had disappeared. Some returned to the river, but thousands more followed the running Anglo-American homeowners. The Mexicans remained, inherited the abandoned land and homes, and renamed the area Barrio Cantaranas.

  Javier smiled as he looked at the dissected frog in his science text. The engine started and the driver pulled away from the curb. The driver’s attentive eyes moved in the long rearview mirror and stared into the night on the advancing street. In contrast to the Cantaranas story that everyone knew, Javier thought of Simons as a colonia with an important history, with a logical explanation for its existence, a premeditated, organized colonia. ... Mr. Simons made it happen. Everything is his. The store, pool hall, post office, movie show, bachelors’ cabins, Vail School, the library, the church, the water tower, the electricity, the clinic, the trains, the machines, the lots. The houses, unpainted and battered by the weather, the walls of scrap lumber, barely standing together, all the same; two, maybe three bedrooms, a kitchen and small living room, no bath, no toilet. Some have been there for thirty, forty years, but they’re clean on the inside and the outside, pretty garden, lots of plants, it’s not too bad, it’s not too good. It was planned by Mr. Simons and the City ...

  Simons was built at just the correct distance from Montebello to discourage the Mexicans from going into town. It was logical to have a separate school, church and other conveniences. The Simons Mexicans were to live, work, play, worship and trade apart, at a safe distance from Montebello. When Simons was established it was never proposed that the company town be a part of Montebello, or for that matter any city. It was understood that the Mexicans were to remain apart in every way.

  The bus turned right on Carmelita Street and headed west to Greenwood where it would make a left turn into the agricultural fields. The Japanese used to own or rent practically all the farm areas. Javier and Arturo had worked picking peppers, cauliflower, melons, tomatoes. They liked the Japanese. However, there were no Japanese left in the area; after Pearl Harbor they were herded into trucks and taken away to concentration camps.

  The bus stopped in front of Greenwood Elementary. A large woman with two shopping bags leaned against the driver’s seat as she secured a nickel for the coin box. She put the change purse in her bag and with the two shopping bags in hand turned toward the back of the bus. She stopped suddenly, startled to see Javier in the back seat smiling at her and her heavy red and green Pendelton jacket buttoned to the neck. Her black pants just covered the tops of her heavy brown boots. She situated her bags on the window side and as she sat a word formed clearly and silently on her lips: Pachuco. Javier looked to the side. ... The riots, sell me to the Atchison, Topeka and the Santa Fe Railroad for fifty-eight and one-half cents per hour. They’re not going to forget and we’re not either, lady ...

  The bus drove faster. In a few minutes he would arrive at his stop. Javier’s right eye, then his left, caught a glow in the sky above Simons. The bus driver and woman seemed to be hypnotized by the soft roar of the motor, the floating of the bus over the consistent waves in the road and the growing light to the south. The brightness was more intense than usual. Perhaps they’re burning more kilns tonight ...

  As Javier walked to the front of the bus, he stooped over to see the eerie half-globe of yellow illumination broken
up by the bus windows into squares near where he lived. The door opened. Javier looked at the woman. She had a yellow moustache and long hairs around the mouth. Her lips, puckered with hate now, silently formed two words: Mexican Pachuco. Javier stepped into the darkness of Date Street. He noticed that the drizzle had stopped and the sky was clearing. The yellow-orange glow now had an odor of oil, tar smoke. He took one step toward home. Simons is burning. As his steps turned into a fast run, he saw the progress of physical matter, the scientific advances, the blinding flash over Hiroshima. He ran faster, perspiration running down from his temples. He saw the flashing lights of the fire trucks stationed on the bluff. He felt the heat of the nuclear age, which produced in him a sensation, a feeling which he believed resided in the heart of every man, woman and child. It was the fear that something altogether unearthly and beyond the range of human experience, understanding and control had occurred and was happening now. His clothes were soaked when he got to the edge. He looked down to where he lived. ... Oh, no ... His eyes swelled. He knew. Javier realized it was not the end of the world, but he felt that he witnessed a kind of minute preview of the end of all things in the world of his childhood.

  While Javier stared at the fire, his older brother Arturo was being driven home from the Palladium. During the hour drive, Arturo rubbed and scrubbed at the five spots on his white shirt sleeve. He turned several times to look at the stains, the red wine drops, which seemed to bother him intensely. Alberto shook his head in disbelief at his cousin’s annoyance. ... Está loco el Arturo ... He drove on through the wet clearing night. Next to Alberto, Mike listened to Johnny Magnus’ rhythm-and-blues sounds blaring in the 1944 Ford. Mike sat against the right front door from where he could see Alberto drive and Arturo rub his shirt sleeve.

  Because of the mishap, the spilled wine, they had left early, a little after one in the morning. Arturo had reacted strangely to the stains on the shirt and to the man who had spilled the wine. He had grabbed his arm and contemplated the red whiteness as if he had been wounded with shotgun pellets. After a while he yelled at the man to get him some water. The gentleman declared that certainly he would; he was expecting much worse but decided to go along with the absurd request. He never returned. The restrooms had long lines, the bar was impossible to get near enough to yell at the bartender, and the kitchen was closed. The only two water fountains were out of order and there was not one glass of water on the tables.

  “I got to get some water ... Let’s go, Alberto!” Arturo held his arm high, demonstrating to everyone the tragedy of his sleeve. The red spots threatened to ruin the harmony of color, material and creation that he alone understood. Urgently, he moved to leave. His face filled with hatred and potential power of explosive violence. Arturo screamed at the crowd to open a path.

  “The son-of-a-bitch never water came back with!” he yelled in his scrambled way.

  Women moved away, men stepped aside, others clenched their hands. Hundreds of eyes followed Arturo rush his wine-stained shirt to the now appearing stars of the night.

  “The guy got shotgunned!” someone shouted.

  A deep, fast-moving murmur competed with the music. Alberto and Mike caught up with him at the door. They turned to see faces of anger, sadness and terror. They made a dash for the car into the sudden silence of the night.

  “Raining it isn’t!” Arturo held his sleeve up above his head, enraged, and screamed at the sky.

  Mike opened the door. “Get in. Your mother will wash it.”

  Arturo shook his head as he maneuvered into the back seat and began to rub the stains. He would refuse to allow his mother to wash the new shirt. He would take it to the cleaners, although, in his eyes the shirt was ruined. As they drove, the street lights illuminated a series of film frames housing the sleeve. The red stains did a dance for Arturo. They moved, formed patterns, created innovative designs, suggested new perfections. His artistic paradigms multiplied into countless more abstractions. The process was simple, but he could never verbally communicate his knowledge, his aesthetic conceptions. These remained forever locked in his mind. The people who dealt with Arturo on an intellectual plane were confused and perplexed by his perception of the world.

  Alberto downshifted to make a right turn off Washington onto Vail. A strange smell infiltrated the car.

  Mike took a whiff with his big hair-filled nostrils. “Smells like rubber.”

  “Hope it’s not the brakes.” Alberto lowered the window.

  “Not tonight. It’s coming from the outside.” Mike stared through the windshield.

  “Tar or tar paper burning.” Arturo’s vision and mind caught the glow from the lights at Vail School.

  Ever since Arturo was five years old, people had noticed his extreme neatness and cleanliness. When he was only seven, he organized the corner of Micaela’s and Flor’s bedroom where he and Javier kept their clothes chest. Arturo’s two drawers were locked to insure that every object, article of clothing and toy be kept in its place. As he grew older, he accepted responsibility willingly and manifested great satisfaction in helping his mother and father. By the time he was twelve he was in charge of the garden and he swept and maintained the yard. He kept the fences, grounds and walls of the house immaculate. He never feared work but welcomed it as a privilege. On his arrival home from school, he would ask his mother what was for dinner, grab some fruit, check his corner of the house and sit and stare into the pages of his books. After an hour he would go out to the garden where he would spend the rest of the afternoon and early evening rearranging, sweeping, watering and cleaning. His friends would come to invite him out, but he would usually refuse them, preferring to stay by himself.

  In his teenage years Arturo acquired even more friends. Both his peers and older people were attracted to him. His handsomeness, cleanliness and unique understanding of the world brought forth admiration. Octavio and Nana were often complimented about their oldest son. However, they realized something was wrong with him. They could never resolve the puzzle.

  “Arturo works hard, Octavio. We don’t have to insist,” Nana said.

  “Yes, but he doesn’t learn anything,” Octavio replied, annoyed.

  “Perhaps it’s us.” Nana sat at the edge of the bed and removed her slippers.

  “That can’t be it if the others are learning. At least read, write, add, subtract. The basics. He should learn the basics. Even I who never went to school know the basics. I don’t understand him, Nana. I don’t understand!” Octavio slipped under the covers.

  Arturo rapidly fell back in his academic achievement in the second grade. The teacher sent a letter to his mother explaining that Arturo needed special attention, that he was not learning the letters and numbers and purposely wrote backwards after he was shown the correct way. This learning situation became worse in the third, fourth and fifth grades. Arturo continued to fall behind and gradually lost interest in what the school provided. What he wrote was misspelled; letters and sometimes whole words were written backwards or upside down. He could not read and had a hard time pronouncing words and forming sentences. He said things jumbled. By the fifth grade, he could neither spell nor write his own name. In November, Nana was called for a conference with the teacher, Miss Singer.

  “Mrs. Revueltas, your boy is unmotivated, has a short attention span and lacks the ability to concentrate. He cannot read, add or subtract. His penmanship is poor. He doesn’t seem to recognize letters. I believe that Arturo is retarded, possibly brain damaged. Did he ever have a serious illness when he was younger? Did he ever fall or injure his head? In junior high school Arturo might attend a special education program where he will learn a simple trade until his sixteenth birthday when he can leave school to work and help you.” Miss Singer smiled and patted Nana’s hand. “Thank you for coming.”

  Nana did not move. She sat confused and perplexed by what she had heard. “But Arturo is a smart boy,” she said as she watched Miss Singer walk to a table and return with a stack of papers.

/>   “Here! Look at your son’s work. There are first graders doing better work. They need our attention, Mrs. Revueltas, more than your son. Wouldn’t you agree? Look at Arturo’s work. It’s terrible! This is not the work of an intelligent boy, but the work of a retarded child! I have been teaching for twenty-five years. I know! Mrs. Revueltas, you must understand; we’ll do what we can. We’ll try to keep him entertained here. Once he’s in junior high, the program might help him.” Miss Singer stood up.

  “Arturo trabaja mucho. He works hard!” Nana was not convinced and remained seated.

  “Of course he does, Mrs. Revueltas. He’s also neat and clean. You should be proud of that. His obsession with cleanliness and neatness makes him do his work over and over again. He takes too much time to do a simple assignment. I’m sorry to say this, but that’s a sure symptom of a retarded person.” Miss Singer walked to her desk, sat down and began to work.

  Nana returned home late that warm spring afternoon in early May. She often took long walks to defray her tiredness, the monotony of housework, the anger toward Octavio; to see other men and women living; to take deep breaths and smell the world beyond her house; to rest; to attain, even for an instant, peace and tranquility. Today Nana had spiritually walked and talked with her son, but the questions she asked he could not answer.

  “What’s wrong with Arturo?” Nana asked herself, bewildered.

  She opened the front gate and noticed that Arturo had watered her favorite plants, beautiful lavender hortensias. He too loved to nurture flowers by the doorsteps. She found him sitting in a corner staring into his book. Nana loved her son and knew he was intelligent.

  “Arturo, bring your books. Let’s sit in the garden. It’s a nice afternoon.”

  Arturo smiled, picked up the books and went out through the kitchen to the table and benches his grandfather had made for the family. The afternoon became a warm light over the table. He waited for his mother. Nana sat at his right. He touched her hand with his left and noticed her natural perfume. How sweet it was to him. Finally she spoke.