The Brick People

by Alejandro Morales

  “Arturo, show me your reading book.”

  The child placed the book in front of his mother.

  “What are you reading?” Nana asked.

  “Here.” Arturo pointed to the first page of a second grade reader. He smiled with pride.

  Suddenly Nana felt a rush of energy move to her heart and eyes. She caught, blinked the tears away and embraced her second-born. She realized for the first time the level at which he was reading. She felt herself the failure; she was to blame. She had allowed him to fall into this deep pit of darkness.

  “Now, how can we get you out of this deep black well?” Nana whispered in a breath. “Arturo, read.”

  He looked into the page and began to read slowly. “Dick and Jane, nar ... ran up the hill. Spot nar aterf them,” he said haltingly.

  “Faster, hijo.”

  He did not want to understand what Nana said.

  “Dick acht sot nur, said Jane. Run, nur psot, said Dick.” Arturo read faster.

  Nana heard sounds which did not represent the words on the page. Arturo read nonsense. A fear, a panic for her son began to overcome her. She would not permit this to happen; she would not lose control for his sake. She smiled and looked into his eyes.

  “Arturo, I want you to write this.” Nana pointed to the last sentence he had read. She waited while he copied the words.

  “Arturo, don’t you see the words? Look carefully at the letters.”

  “Yes, Mama.” Arturo’s eyes filled with tears that fell on the words he had written.

  “Write this one.” Nana pointed to brown and Arturo wrote nword.

  She placed her finger under boy and Arturo wrote yob.

  “Look at the letters.”

  “I see them, Mama. I see them!” Arturo cried and hid his face from his mother.

  He turned away, feeling that he had repeatedly disappointed her. Now everyone, his teachers, friends, his father, and even his mother had told him to see the words, to pay close attention to the letters, to concentrate on the signs. Arturo did exactly what he was told. He saw the words and he wrote what he saw as well as read what he saw. But he was always wrong and he did not understand why. At times he considered himself the most stupid person in the world. He understood the concepts, numbers, letters, words and sentences communicated to him, but he could not intelligibly express the signs, meanings, or relationships to other people. Arturo could feel with his mind what he saw, but he could not describe what he felt in an understandable manner. It was if a playful transparent mirror had been placed between his brain and the world. What he perceived was decoded differently from what others saw.

  As he grew older, more frustrated and battered psychologically by the constant negative belittling feedback from his teachers, counselors, friends and the ever-present worried glance of his parents, he began a process of falling into himself, into a deep resentment and bitterness for those who criticized him. He fell into an intellectual hatred, for he considered himself far more intelligent than his detractors. Some time after the examination, Arturo made an effort to explain the idea of purity to his mother: “The colored ink breaks off the paper its purity.”

  Arturo believed that putting ink on paper invaded the nothing, the pure color of the paper. He believed that words should be warehoused in a form other than paper and books. Words to him manifested themselves into pictures and images, and these entities that he saw should be expanded and not locked in words, in sentences, on pages, in books. Ink violates a space; words imprison themselves in themselves and red wine ruined the nothing of his shirt sleeve and he was angered that it had stopped raining.

  The smell of burnt wood permeated the air. As Alberto made the turn onto Southworth, the smell was explained.

  “What the hell happened?” Alberto said softly to himself as he slowed the car to a stop in front of Arturo’s grandparents’ house. Mike opened the door and placed one foot in the mud and stood to look at the devastated street.

  “Looks like they dropped the bomb, Arturo!”

  Arturo stared at the roof of what used to be his house. It seemed that the walls had collapsed and the fire had engulfed all the material objects inside, but had not burnt the roof. The crown, the head of the house, was whole. He thought of his mother.

  The debris among nine or so piles of charcoal smoldered as he walked around to the back yard. An outhouse was the only human-built wooden object left standing on his side of the street. Water dripped from the fountain his father had built. Arturo observed the car disappear onto Vail. Only the rumbling sound of the engine persisted for a moment longer, and then there was silence, interrupted by an occasional crackle of a burning dream that lay decomposing on a bed of ashes.

  Arturo believed his father saw him as a failure, and he would work for the rest of his life, if necessary, to eradicate this image. He turned to find the person whom he loved, respected and feared, and as he moved toward him Arturo realized that he had been holding his right stained sleeve. He laughed a half-cry and separated his arms. ... And I wanted water ... Arturo looked into his father’s eyes under the bill of a grey English sports cap. Amidst disaster, the boy with the infinite configurations of the world found his father and felt himself for the first time in his life as a man equal to him.

  “Papa!”

  Octavio, as if he had held his breath for some time, exhaled a cry that was toned not with anger but with anguish, a desire for help: “Arturo!”

  Father and son stood together. Nothing of the past mattered, only this place, condition, disaster, moment in which they walked over the still hot ashes. Arturo would assist his father who accepted his son’s help with pride.

  “Where are we going?”

  “To your Uncle Asuncion’s house. We are all there.”

  “Will they give us another house?” Arturo asked, half knowing the answer.

  “It will be difficult. They have blackballed me, son. They don’t want me in Simons.”

  They walked toward Vail Street, neither man realizing how much one supported the other. Octavio continued to explain his condemnation by the Simons Brickyard administration.

  “I left the brickyard, and after I supported the union I don’t think that Mr. Simons will give me a house.”

  “Papa, what now? What are we going to do?”

  Upon hearing the questions, Octavio recognized the great improvement in communication that Arturo had made. Part of the world was destroyed by fire, and in that part Octavio discovered that his son could communicate intelligibly. Confidence swelled in an instant of happiness for his son’s accomplishment. The litany of denials and insults for trying to buy a home in Montebello rushed to his brain. For his family and for Arturo, who walked proudly next to him, Octavio made a decision he had thought about for over a year that would affect Nana and the family.

  “What are we going to do?” Octavio repeated. He rested before guiding his son across Vail Street to the Vail Airport side, where Lindbergh had once landed. “Well, we are going to buy property and build our own home. Our own home!” Octavio shouted into the dark morning.

  “And I’ll help, Papa.” Arturo joined his father’s enthusiasm.

  For Arturo there would be no more fear now. He felt comfortable walking with his father and shared the excitement of helping with the plans for their new house. ... Nuestra casa ... Finally a light from his Uncle Asuncion’s kitchen broke the joyful reverie. Octavio knew that Nana waited. She met them at the door. Arturo embraced her and did not try to restrain the tears caused by love and the idea of the new house. ... For her, all for her, he thought as he let her go. Nana smiled and turned toward the living room.

  “Go to sleep next to Javier,” Nana whispered.

  Before going to his brother’s side, Arturo reconfirmed his promise to Octavio: “I’ll help you, Papa.”

  Moments later, Nana and Octavio stood alone feeling the psychological wounds the fire had opened. Suddenly they embraced and cried softly. With Nana’s heart pounding against his, Octa
vio, relieved that his family was alive and safe, began to sense a sharp urgency, a desperation that would affect his health and would not cease until he drove the last nail for the completion of a house or his coffin.

  Chapter 21

  Nana dragged a piece of tarpaper that had collapsed on her beautiful yellow wood-burning stove. “Oh, look at the stove!” she cried, disappointed and heartbroken.

  All day the family worked sifting through the carcass of the house. Every room had been gutted and every article of furniture and clothing was ruined by the fire or smoke. Not much was salvageable. Physically and emotionally, the family was devastated. That morning Nana had arrived first and for about an hour stared at what remained of her house.

  When Micaela came, Nana was able to break the spell that the charred and burnt wood placed on her. She didn’t know where to start. Micaela suggested the kitchen. At nine-thirty Octavio started clearing what used to be the living room area. Nana had told him to try to sleep, but Octavio could not. He claimed he was never more full of energy. Soon after, Arturo and Javier parked the car and began working in the bedrooms. At about noon, Flor, with the baby bundled up in her arms, brought lunch. She went to the center of the ashes, put the shopping bag down, adjusted Gregorio on her shoulder, and for an instant saw her family in a ridiculous light trying to save what was not there amongst the ashes.

  “Mama, Papa, it’s time to eat,” Flor called.

  Everyone stopped and looked at Flor standing with Gregorio who peered out from the blankets and searched for his mother. From where Flor waited, the family appeared framed in grey and black ash. Nana cleaned the ruined stove. Octavio pulled at a small coffee table, Micaela piled damaged clothes near the water pump, and Arturo and Javier emptied the contents of charred drawers from the bedrooms. All except Flor and Gregorio were squatting or kneeling. When they heard her voice, the family rose. Each member, almost simultaneously, dropped whatever object he held and went to the center of what yesterday was home. Gregorio toured in the arms of his brothers and sisters and finally was content with Nana. Flor distributed sandwiches, burritos, soft drinks and beer for Octavio. As they ate, the sky grew clearer and the sun shone through the thinning clouds. They sat in the middle of the ashes and talked.

  “Mama, I don’t think we can use those clothes. They smell terrible!” Micaela said to her mother.

  “We’re not taking our clothes,” Arturo added.

  Nana did not say a word. She ate in silence. Suddenly she sobbed, breathed deeply, cried and hugged her baby. “Forgive me, son! I don’t want to upset you with this accident that you don’t understand.”

  “Papa, what are we going to do?” Javier asked the necessary question.

  “Look for a house,” Octavio reassured the family. “But for now,” he continued, “we must leave all this. It’s ruined. The refrigerator and bicycle were the only things saved. We’ll take those, nothing else.”

  The warm sun lighted the Revueltas’ as they rose from what for twenty-five years had been their safe zone. Together they walked away. They thought of the change that would come in the new home. Octavio, Nana, Micaela, Arturo, Javier, and Flor had confidence in themselves, and each in his own mysterious way was confident that the family would survive. Nana held the baby against her heart. She sat with Micaela in the back seat of Arturo’s immaculate car. Octavio quietly sat in front with his oldest son. They drove off and left Javier and Flor to ride the bicycle back to Uncle Asuncion’s, where the family would stay until Octavio found a permanent home. None of the other families who had lost their homes were faced with the urgency of shelter as Octavio’s was. Within three days of the fire, all the victims were housed in permanent or temporary Simons Company dwellings.

  Damian and Milagros were one of the first couples to receive temporary housing. After four days with Uncle Asuncion, Octavio moved Nana and the children to Damian and Milagros’ house. Octavio hoped that after his father and mother were given a permanent home, he would be allowed to stay in the house he presently shared with them. Octavio and Nana understood that only luck would let them stay. Octavio’s future in Simons was all but over; he, Nana and the children were living there on borrowed time. The administration had warned him, black-balled him, and identified him as a union supporter and as a man not willing to cooperate. Octavio and Nana stalled for enough time to locate an acceptable home. They had searched in different places in the surrounding communities, but the response was always the same: “We don’t sell to Mexicans!”

  Octavio and Nana inquired about the terms of purchase of several homes east of Whittier Boulevard, in Montebello. As soon as they entered the open house or met the salesman they were simply ignored or told directly, “We don’t want Mexicans here.”

  There was no place near the center of Montebello or east of Washington Boulevard, what some people considered north Montebello, where Mexicans could purchase or rent a house or apartment. Perhaps Octavio’s aggressive stare from in between heavy eyebrows bothered the salesmen. Perhaps Octavio was too Mexican to be allowed in the Anglo areas of Montebello. Octavio and Nana tried to buy in Anglo Montebello because some of their relatives and acquaintances had bought houses in the forbidden white garden. Octavio asked rhetorically why they were accepted into the gringo neighborhoods. These Mexicans were gringophiles who thought like, acted like, and wanted to be gringos. They didn’t question the cost of their gringophilia. They didn’t care. They would live in gringo Montebello regardless of the consequences. The few families that moved to the northern section were lighter complexioned than the Mexicans who resided in Simons.

  As for Octavio and Nana, words and glares of rejection fell on them continuously. The Anglo world did not reject his labor or the blood of his relatives or neighbors. For work or war, the Anglo world needed him, but it refused to allow him to live among its citizens. Mexicans had to be pushed away and kept at the periphery of Anglo-American society, of Montebello society. Although bitter, Octavio never mentioned his sentiments to his wife, his sons, or his daughters. Instead, his attitude was manifested in a quietness, a coldness toward his family. Nana sensed the hatred even in the tranquility of night when he slept, or in the excitement of his desire for her, and although their bodies met sweetly, a great distance pulsated between their minds. Octavio disliked gringos. They denied him shelter that he deserved, had earned, and could afford for his family. He felt less a man, a father, a husband; less in the eyes of his wife, children and friends. Octavio did not possess the power to overcome the gringo adversaries.

  Damian and Milagros sent most of their belongings to their new company home on Rivera Road in front of the railroad tracks near the general store. For two weeks they had shared their old house with Octavio, Nana and family. The fire had not kept Octavio from work. He did not miss one day, nor did Damian, who continued his job as a kiln firer. One afternoon after Octavio said goodbye to his father and mother and left for work, Nana helped Milagros pack the few articles of clothing which remained. Arturo and Javier took several boxes and furniture to their grandfather’s new house. One by one, Nana and her children embraced grandfather and grandmother, who moved less than a mile away.

  “Nana, if you need anything, let me know,” Milagros called from the small front porch of the house.

  Nana, concerned with her children, was left alone again in the night, in that borrowed Simons Company house. Ever since the fire she had felt vulnerable and afraid. How perishable those material objects accumulated over the years had been. Her dreams of the future had melted into the ashes of what was once her home. Nana worried where her family would live. She hated the fact that Octavio had been blackballed by the Simons foremen. At times hate was the only reaction that rose in her heart. She blamed Octavio for causing this strange and mortal anxiety and for bringing her to this condition of homelessness. Yet Octavio was obviously suffering as much as she was. Although he ate well, Nana noticed that in proportion to the food he consumed, he slimmed down.

  “Octavio, com
o estás perdiendo peso.” Nana served a late breakfast especially for him.

  Octavio would seldom answer. As days passed he became sullen. His eyes seemed to look far away beyond the objects and the people of the present. When he communicated, he spoke softly and stared through the person he addressed. He refused to recognize the condition of the house in which the family slept and cooked their meals on the floor. The Revueltas family lived like insects of the dirt. There was little furniture and clothing and only a few blankets. Never in his life had he dreamed that he and his family would suffer this fate. A bitterness palpitated in his heart and throbbed in his mind, but he blamed only himself. He condemned himself for bringing his wife and children to living like cockroaches of the earth.

  Nana’s sister Paquita and her three daughters came to see the family and to invite Flor to stay with them for a few days. Flor begged her mother to let her go and Nana agreed. When Paquita left, she gave Nana one hundred dollars to help buy clothes. A few days later, Flor returned home with new clothes that her aunt and cousins had enjoyed buying for her.

  “It is the least I can do, sister,” Paquita said as she opened the door to the family’s 1940 Ford pick-up truck. The three girls sat in the back and waved goodbye as the sound of the motor thinned away.

  Gradually the Revueltas family accumulated the basic material objects needed for them to function once more in society. Every day each member of the family returned to the temporary shelter with the hope that their father had found a permanent home. On his free time, Octavio searched for a house. Arturo or a friend drove Octavio through the surrounding neighborhoods and cities chasing down friendly tips, addresses in the newspaper, and for-rent and for-sale signs. Octavio wanted a home near his work and near Simons. However, the homes that were available to him were not what he wanted for his wife and children. He preferred a home in north Montebello, but the owners would not sell to a Mexican like Octavio. Discouragement and anger consumed his life. When he returned from a day’s search he prepared silently for work. Octavio changed clothes, ate quietly, put on his work hat and looked at Nana. ... I will go out tomorrow to search again ... She understood, and not a word was spoken between them.