The Brick People

by Alejandro Morales

  Nana picked up a twig and began to add flowers and trees to the drawing Octavio had started. “How will you pay for the house?” she asked, placing a hand on Octavio’s right knee.

  “We’ll pay for it. Don’t worry. Look, Sebastian wants three hundred for the lot. The material we’ll pay for on delivery. Labor we’ll pay every two weeks. We can do it,” Octavio said, placing his hand over Nana’s.

  “Then let’s do it!” Nana stood. Octavio still held her hand. They kissed.

  “Will you go with me to see the lots this afternoon?” Octavio asked softly.

  “Yes. The children don’t know about this, do they?”

  “No, no one knows. Why not tell them right now? And my mother too. Maybe the kids will want to go.”

  Octavio could not restrain his enthusiasm and happiness, that at least he would to build his own house. As he walked toward the entrance of his parents’ home, he sensed that the family had stepped in a new direction and that within a year they would not have to depend on company housing. Rumor had it that the Simons Brickyard was in danger of folding. While traveling in Europe with his wife, Walter Robey Simons had choked to death by a plague of brown insects that had inundated his mouth while he was calmly sleeping in his bed in a hotel in Paris. That morning, the workers heard the news unperturbed, for after all Walter Robey Simons had been just another patron.

  Chapter 22

  The family, once told of the building of the house, became active in the planning and gathering of materials. Every member wanted to participate, to contribute labor, thought or money. The Revueltas family manifested the general national spirit of rebuilding a new world after the war. The Mexicans were builders who felt quite comfortable with the new spirit of rebirth. To create a new world from one that had been destroyed was not a new task for them. Their history demonstrated that they had successfully confronted this kind of challenge several times before.

  When Octavio raised the pick over his head, he and his family and the men he contracted had begun to answer the challenge of rebuilding and starting a new life. After Octavio had swung the pick down to split and shatter, the earth he paused to smile at Nana and the children. As the family proudly awaited the next swing, Octavio removed his shirt and started to dig the foundation of their new home.

  Arturo, Javier, Felipe Franco and Benjamin Basurto grabbed shovels and picks and followed the trench formation marked by stakes and heavy white string. Gregorio touched the string and drew a warning from his father; nonetheless, he continued to play with the footings. Flor measured the perimeters and discovered that the future house was designed in a perfect square. She frowned at the shape from the corner where she had begun. Flor preferred the architectural design of the houses in Simons. She objected to the idea of living in a square box. The rectangular houses of Simons had added-on rooms that made the structure an adventure to walk through. She took Gregorio and walked away from the unbeautiful corner.

  Micaela and Nana contemplated the men working. Both women looked closely at one man: Octavio. In that instant the flesh, cartilage and bones of his neck, back and arms appeared skinless and exaggerated. Amazed by the strength and sinuous profile of the male body before her, Micaela thought that someday she would meet and love a man like her father. Octavio stopped, leaned on the pick and rested while Micaela’s reverie melted into her father’s glimmering perspiration. Octavio smiled at Nana and his daughter and swung the pick again. Happy and satisfied with what he built, his body did not hurt.

  Nana was concerned about Octavio’s constant, slow weight loss. The image of the slim, deteriorated, infected body of Maximiliano, who had died of leukemia two years after she and Octavio were married, lay below the surface of Octavio’s strong body. Octavio seemed to work faster, as if he expected to finish the digging for the foundation in one day. His lean beautiful animalness was not the body of the boy she had married twenty years ago; instead it was the body of the man to whom she was still sensually attracted. But Octavio’s slow, unnatural weight loss bothered her and made her uncomfortable amidst her children. Octavio slung the pick to the earth. At the point of penetration his arms and back tensed. ... He must be as beautiful when he finishes in me ... Nana faded as the frame transformed into a voice.

  “Please go and prepare some tacos for later. Send one of the girls,” Octavio said and wiped his brow.

  “I want a ham and cheese sandwich, Mama,” Javier called out from the other side of the square.

  “Sodas, some sodas,” Arturo added to the order.

  Nana heard but did not respond. She knew what they wanted. Her concentration was focused on Octavio’s health. ... Don’t work so much, Octavio ... Nana could predict his reaction. She remained silent.

  At five in the morning, Octavio opened his eyes. He had had a restless night. Today, after two weeks of digging trenches, mixing, pouring cement and dealing with the building inspectors from the city of Montebello who had delayed the construction because of the negative statements made about the fire department, Octavio and his crew would begin the framing of the house. In a week he had finished the necessary work on the foundation. The inspectors had finally given Octavio the go-ahead. The framing materials had arrived, were paid for and waited at the site. At last he and his family would see their house begin to take shape.

  He blinked his eyes repeatedly, chasing the sleep away. He rubbed and opened them wide. Under the covers he reached to touch the small of Nana’s back, her buttocks. He turned toward her. She assumed the natal position. He maneuvered his left hand and arm under her pillow, around her neck and down her shoulder to hold and caress her left breast. With his right hand he held her other full bosom. Nana murmured sleepy complaints and held his hands still. He kissed and inhaled her fragrance. He pushed his penis against her rump and cuddled her. In that wonderful warmth he dozed off. Still early in the morning, he opened his eyes again. His left arm had fallen asleep. He lay on his back and listened to the movement in the kitchen. ... My mother never seems to sleep ... He imagined Milagros brewing coffee and preparing breakfast for Damian. In a few minutes Nana would take over and feed the entire family.

  Damian was a man who seemed to eat privately even when surrounded by his family. That morning the children hurried through breakfast. Their conversation was centered on the house and they decided to check the status of the construction. Micaela and Arturo went to work, Javier and Flor to school. Gregorio lay in his bed traveling through the great mountain ranges and deep valleys of the ceiling. Milagros washed dishes. Octavio sipped coffee and Nana made lunches. As Damian rose from the table and took his lunch from his daughter-in-law, he paused and watched Octavio motion for more coffee. There were no words, only the sound of sudsy water, clinking dishes and glasses. Today Damian left later than usual. Nana found Damian’s vacillation strange. She saw him stare lovingly at his oldest son. The crusty, strong, sixty-six-year-old moved toward Milagros and touched her shoulder. She froze, surprised by the rare caress. Milagros dried the last dish and concluded that his concern was not for her, but for Octavio. Damian moved to the door and nodded at the man he had conceived and for whom he would willingly die to save from death. He recognized Maximiliano’s symptoms and watched the infected, decayed body float through the memory fluids in his brain. Nana observed the drama created before her. Something odd and unique about the morning, perhaps magical, was on the edge of occurrence.

  “Adios, Papa,” Octavio smiled at his father. No matter what his father had done, Octavio never lost respect for him.

  “Have a good day, son.” Damian left, wishing that Octavio had kissed his hand. But that custom was practiced only with the old generation, not with the young people, he mused as he went to fire up one of the huge brick kilns not far from the house.

  In the kitchen three were left: Milagros who knew exactly what would occur; Nana who had an idea and would not be surprised; and Octavio who made ready to begin the framing of the house which at that moment was all that he had on his mind. />
  Milagros thought about her friend Doña Marcelina Trujillo Benidorm, the great curandera, and the narratives of their life that they had often repeated to each other. Octavio walked alongside his mother, partly angry that the work on the house had been interrupted and partly relieved that his mother had finally forced him to visit Doña Marcelina. He never expected it to happen that morning. At first he had resisted, but upon Nana’s insistence and Milagros’ glare he began to walk out towards the church north of Vail, on Rivera Road across from the American Foundry, to Doña Marcelina’s domicile. Mother and son advanced carefully and silently on Vail Street, passing workers on their way to their daily labor. The people who greeted Milagros and Octavio asked about the construction of the house.

  “Good morning, señora. How’s the building, Octavio?”

  “How are you, Doña Milagros? And the project, Octavio?”

  Everybody in the neighborhood was interested in the progress of the Revueltas house. A change of attitude toward the family was implied in the casual conversation. In some, a shade of jealousy, envy and hope of failure belied the external ritual. As Octavio’s answer, “Bien, gracias,” was always constant and as the house rose, feelings became harder to disguise. The neighbors now considered the Revueltas family different. In their view, the Revueltas’ were no longer poor but had become “los ricos que construyen una casa sobre la barranca.” The effect of this change of opinion built pride within the Revueltas family. They became aware that Octavio was accomplishing a task that at the time not many families dared to dream about and even fewer were capable of doing.

  To the outside world the Revueltas’ home indicated a success, but within the family it caused some tension between sister and brother. Aunt Felicitas and Aunt Rogaciana felt antagonistic toward Octavio’s wife and children. His two younger sisters seemed to interpret all discussion about the house as an ostentatious show of uppityness and money.

  In them, jealousy and envy were the result of what Octavio built. Their husbands, they complained, had never thought of leaving Simons. The men had never expressed the idea of independence. When the women brought the subject up, their husbands’ response was not original.

  “It can’t be done,” the men would say.

  “Too expensive.”

  “Where does Octavio get so much money?” Aunt Felicitas and Aunt Rogaciana wanted to know.

  “God knows,” the men replied.

  “They pay him very well at Phelps Dodge. Why don’t you get a job there?” the aunts demanded of their husbands.

  “He also wins a lot at gambling.”

  “It was the fire. We don’t need to move. We are fine here.”

  “But I don’t want to live in this shack forever. We deserve something better!” Aunt Felicitas and Aunt Rogaciana cried out in disgust.

  Milagros sighed at the results of success. This family friction preoccupied her. Nonetheless she supported Octavio. She felt his actions would serve as a model for her family. They were builders. They should build again.

  For a while Octavio walked behind Milagros. She stopped to wait for her son.

  “There’s the house,” Milagros announced, standing perfectly still and slightly raising her chin. Milagros stood strong. A breeze played in her black hair. Beyond her face Octavio looked at the house. He felt that he was about to step into a photograph.

  The greeting was short. They knew what had to be done. Marcelina Trujillo Benidorm seemed to Octavio to be one hundred years old and yet he saw her as a beautiful young woman. She opened the door and bade them enter into an immaculately bright white room. The room was large, higher than what the exterior revealed. On the wooden floor stood no furniture. On the walls, evenly spaced, were images of the passion of Christ. The entrance to the house was located in a truncated corner where Octavio waited. To his left, in the center of the wall, was a passage to another space to which he was being led by the two women. As he was guided into the area he heard his mother bid him farewell. In front of him on the wall hung a painting of two praying figures: a man sitting on a wheelbarrow and a woman sitting in front of him. The painting was dark; storm clouds dominated the distant sky on the horizon. Situated under the canvas was a wheelbarrow; in front of it was a black block. Octavio discovered a cross standing diagonal to the corner on his right.

  “Octavio, sit here.”

  He obeyed and while he listened he saw his mother observing from the centered opening in the wall. A quilted, multicolored jacket and black skirt covered his vision when Doña Marcelina, with her fingers intertwined on her lap, sat on the black block. She smiled and initiated an ongoing litany of prayers, declarations and demands, all the time describing the contents of each potion she mixed for him.

  “El susto is always black. It is a black veil that covers the brain and the eyes. It came upon you in the form of a great shock the night of the fire.” She made the sign of the cross. “Drink these ground white spiders in manzanilla tea so that they can take us to where the black susto has hold of you.”

  Doña Marcelina complimented Octavio on his fine cooperation as a patient. She stirred up another potion. “Drink this ground octopus in yerba buena tea so that the black susto will take its form. Yes, I’m beginning to see. Soon I will be close enough to ingest it,” she said in a serious tone.

  “It is huge. Help me. Strength, spirits of my ancestors, accompany me now.” Doña Marcelina battled to gain control and dominate her foe.

  Fascinated, Milagros intently witnessed the struggle. As the battle evolved, it seemed as if Octavio took on Doña Marcelina’s physical characteristics. A transfiguration had occurred. Octavio was physically her. In this way she was able to explore his/her body readily and locate her enemy. From where Milagros stood she saw that the face of her son reflected the image of Doña Marcelina. After some time a large grotesque form on the right buttock and lower back of the curandera began to appear. The shape grew distinctly into a strong octopus with powerful tentacles that wrapped around Doña Marcelina’s waist. At times the beast pulsated. The susto was alive, parasitic, sucking the life of Milagros’ son, but now Doña Marcelina had traveled through the physical body of Octavio and had taken the susto out. It now clung to her. It wanted to live on, but the curandera knew how to control and consume it.

  Gradually Octavio reappeared in his own body and face. His heart no longer heavy and tired, his spirit bright and free, his eyes sparkled once more. Hours had passed without his realizing the passage of time or what he had done. When he began to focus on the objects of this world, he was startled to find that he wore a replica of Doña Marcelina’s jacket. Octavio smiled over to his mother, took off the jacket and placed it over the wheelbarrow. He never asked where the jacket had come from. He went to his mother. Some time later Doña Marcelina gave Milagros nine small pouches.

  “Give him one pack each day. There are nine. He cannot miss one day.” Doña Marcelina implied a danger if Octavio interrupted the nine-day treatment. “El Susto is clawed deep in your right hip. It’s large and strong. It already has eight thick tentacles. You should have come earlier. But I ingested it. With my treatment I will cut its eight tentacles and the beast will dissolve in nine days. One day for each tentacle and the ninth for the spider body of the susto.” Doña Marcelina calmly escorted the patient and the guardian to the opening of life on earth.

  “Gracias, may God repay you,” Milagros whispered.

  Doña Marcelina discreetly took the money in Milagros’ right hand. Octavio waited at the center of the white room for the ritual to end. He glanced toward the painting on the wall in the room where he had been cured. Carefully he studied the painting and discovered to his astonishment that the composition had been altered. The man who prayed had been taken out of the painting. Everything else remained the same. As Doña Marcelina Trujillo Benidorm waved goodbye, he found himself waiting for his mother to open the door to their house.

  Arturo drove his car under the carport he had built. He turned off the engine and s
at comfortably listening to the radio. Through the windshield to the left he could see his Aunt Felicitas washing clothes in a large aluminum tub and hanging the garments on the clothesline. While she washed and hung, Arturo noticed that her lips never ceased moving. A chuckle came to him as he imagined the dastardly words and comments that the hard work evoked from his aunt’s bad-tempered mind.

  Aunt Felicitas distorted her mouth in disgust when she realized her nephew stared at her from his immaculate car. Whenever Aunt Felicitas and Arturo moved into a space together, a strong tension grew. Their extreme dislike for each other was not a family secret. There had been minor confrontations, stopped and controlled by Milagros. The family tried to steer them apart but as Arturo became more independent, the disharmony between aunt and nephew became more critical and overt. The cause of the rift was known only to Aunt Felicitas and Arturo. The terrible secret affected both so strongly that one could not incriminate the other without suffering psychological damage. Every member of the family had a theory, but each kept silent for they feared the vulgar vocal wrath of Aunt Felicitas. In fact, she had alienated many of the neighbors. Anyone, who complained about her children or stood in her way was verbally attacked. Her mouth was feared not only by the neighbors but by her family as well. Francisco Tibor, her husband, was often the target of verbal abuse. Her yells often shattered the tranquility of the street.

  Arturo turned the radio off, closed the door and entered the house. He found his mother, as he expected, preparing dinner for the nine who lived in the house. He understood it was part of the agreement that his father, mother and grandparents had arranged until the house was finished. Nonetheless, Arturo did not like his mother working so hard for all of them. Nana’s face reflected a stone tiredness. Tortillas and meat with chile warmed on the stove.

  “What time do we eat today, Mama?” He picked up a tortilla and a small piece of meat.

  “In half an hour, son,” Nana answered and continued her work.