“Allison, I don’t know what my father did. You can ask him.”
Agatha smiled at Allison, who did not shy away from asking questions. Outside, Sol’s truck started up, and the two women walked to the parlor windows to see the neighbors’ children riding in the back of the pickup, waving good-bye to their friends.
ERNEST HAD NOT seen his Uncle Philip for at least two months. Allison and Ernest had decided not to seek him out after the Crash. They knew he had been hurt badly by the stock market disaster, but they were not really sure how badly or whether he had a secondary plan that might have saved some of his money. He had been so stubborn. He was hard-headed and, worst of all, his Aryan racist ideology had made him mean. Ernest and Allison dreaded his visits to complain about the girls, about the aliens, the Mexicans taking over the country, and to sound off about the Rivers family ruining the Keller children. Some time had gone by without Uncle Philip’s toxic visits.
“It’s been too long. I should go check on him!”
At daybreak on a Monday, Ernest drove out of Hancock Park and headed for Uncle Philip’s home, noticing the green grass and flowers that always seemed to be in bloom. As Ernest drove up the winding, isolated street in Beverly Hills to his uncle’s driveway and parked under the archway that covered the side-door entrance to the kitchen, he noticed that the screen door was shut, but the main door was wide open. It was 6:30 A.M. Maybe his uncle was already up, Ernest thought, as he opened the screen door.
“Uncle Philip! Uncle Philip, it’s Ernest!”
Dishes, with meat, asparagus, carrots, and a bowl full of wilted salad, all sat on the kitchen table. A wine bottle laying on its side had spilled its contents onto the red tile floor. The smell of decomposing meat suddenly became worse. Ernest anxiously and tentatively followed the morning sunlight filtering through the large dining room and into the living room, where he found chairs overturned, lamps broken, documents scattered everywhere. He stood still in front of the shattered doors of the china cabinet. Most of the china had been thrown randomly in all directions of the dining and living rooms. Broken pieces of magnificent antique china formed puzzle-like forms, one on top of the other. Crystal glasses and liquor bottles in the bar had been smashed. The smell of hard whisky blended with the heavy odor of putrefaction. The hallway to the study and bedrooms was covered with clothes, towels and bedding. Halfway to the master bedroom, Ernest noticed several bloody towels.
“Uncle Philip! Uncle Philip, where are you?”
Ernest walked into the bedroom. Uncle Philip, wearing a shirt and nothing else, lay face down in the middle of his bloodied bed. The stench was even more repulsive. At the side of the bed on an expensive Indian rug, Ernest found a pan half filled with urine and lumps of feces.
“Uncle Philip,” Ernest called in a whisper to his uncle, but there was no response. He moved closer. “Uncle Philip!” He lay in a puddle of vomit and urine.
Ernest turned him over. What he saw horrified him. His uncle’s face was unrecognizable. His left ear was hideously enlarged, his nose flattened, his eyes swollen shut, his lips split open. But he was breathing.
Finally there was a response. Uncle Philip coughed, grunted and mumbled.
“It’s Ernest. Uncle Philip, it’s Ernest.” Ernest struggled to sit him up.
Uncle Philip grabbed his nephew’s forearm and squeezed it.
“I’m calling an ambulance. Let go, come on, let go!”
“No! Take me, please, you take me.”
“Calm down. Fine, I’ll take you. Don’t be upset. I’ll take you. Now, let go of my arm.”
“No, I’m not going anywhere! Ernest, don’t let them take me! Don’t say a word! Damn you, don’t say a word!” Uncle Philip screamed.
Slowly Philip opened his hands and released Ernest’s arm. From the filthy bed, Ernest pulled down the cleanest pillows and brought sofa cushions and more pillows from other rooms. He moved his uncle to the edge of the bed. He pushed the cushions and pillows to the side of the bed and created a soft landing in case Uncle Philip fell. Ernest went for bath towels and began to clean the filth off his uncle’s body.
“No, stop this! Get away!”
Ernest ripped his uncle’s shirt off.
“You ruined my shirt!”
Uncle Philip swung wildly and slapped his nephew on the side of his head.
“Damn you! You’re not getting into my car like this. You’re full of filth!”
Ernest cleaned his uncle’s legs and chest. With a wet towel he wiped Uncle Philip’s face and neck. He ran to the bathroom, soaked another towel and wiped his uncle’s head clean. The cold water seemed to calm Uncle Philip, and he rested perfectly still. Ernest quickly eyed clothes that were scattered everywhere. From a pile in the corner, he pulled out a pair of pants and a wrinkled white shirt. He returned to his uncle, who rested quietly, and proceeded to dress the man. The pants and shoes were easy, but the shirt was a struggle. He rolled his uncle from side to side but failed to get the shirt on. Finally, Ernest positioned Uncle Philip facedown, slipped the shirt sleeves up one arm and then up the other. He rolled him on his back but could not button the shirt. Ernest went to the living room, carried in the large sofa cushions to prop his uncle up. Ernest jumped on the bed, crouched behind him and wrapped his arms under Uncle Philip’s armpits. His uncle yelled when Ernest pulled him up. Ernest was finally able to button the shirt and put a jacket over Uncle Philip’s shoulders. With a soaked cloth he gently wiped the sweat from Uncle Philip’s face. His uncle winced with pain every time Ernest dabbed at the crusted blood. Ernest stopped when a trickle of blood ran from a deep cut in his cheek. Ernest noticed that many deep cuts covered Uncle Philip’s face, as if his face had been slashed repeatedly with a sharp object. Ernest wrapped a large dark-blue towel around his neck, and with another covered his wayward uncle’s head. Uncle Philip’s moans became louder and more consistent.
“All right, all right, I’m taking you to the hospital now. You have to walk to the car. I can’t carry you! Come on, I’ll help you.”
Uncle Philip reached up, placed his hand on his nephew’s shoulder, stood up, screamed and collapsed, taking Ernest down with him onto the wooden floor. Ernest looked at his uncle’s legs. He didn’t have to roll up the pant legs to realize how horribly his uncle’s knees were swollen. His ankles had turned black and blue, and now, with a slight touch to any part of the legs and torso, Uncle Philip screamed and cried. He was getting worse by the minute. Ernest again thought about calling an ambulance but decided that if he did, his uncle might fall into a worse state. He pushed up from the wooden floor. What a beautiful smooth floor, he thought, that ran through the bedroom, down the hall, through the living room to the foyer and on to the front door.
“Uncle Philip, I’m going to drag you to the car.”
He placed the thick bed cover on the floor and rolled his illustrious Uncle Philip Keller to the center. He wrapped him up, like in a cocoon, and easily dragged and maneuvered his battered uncle through the bedroom, down the hall, through the living room and the foyer. As he pulled the unwieldy load, Ernest had looked down at the hideous swollen creature who was getting heavier by the minute. Ernest stopped and ran out, drove the car as close as possible to the front entrance. Within seconds, Uncle Philip moaned and yelled even more from the pain and suffering now being inflicted by his nephew as he dragged him over the brick walkway to the car. He opened the back door.
“This is going to hurt.”
With all the might he possessed, Ernest was able to lift Uncle Philip’s upper body onto the back seat, but his uncle’s legs were hanging outside the car. Although Uncle Philip screamed in agony, Ernest placed his shoulder under his uncle’s lower back and pushed him forward, getting his body almost completely into the car. He pulled the blanket out from under him, covered his uncle and tried to shut the door.
“Fold your legs just a little so that I can shut the door.”
“No, no, oh, oh no!”
A smile crossed Ernest
face. He laughed at how ridiculous all this might appear to someone watching, but nobody was in sight. Nobody had come out to investigate his uncle’s screams and curses.
He slapped his uncle’s legs. “Fold your legs! Here goes! I’m closing the door!”
Uncle Philip screamed several times, but he folded his legs to make his body fit in the back seat. Ernest started the car and drove down toward the heart of Los Angeles.
As Ernest drove, heading to the hospital, he wondered what had occurred in that Beverly Hills house. These thoughts were more than puzzling, annoying to Ernest. In the back seat Uncle Philip squirmed and moaned. With that, Ernest’s principal concern was that his uncle survive the severe beating he had suffered. Ernest also worried about the man’s financial condition. Had he lost all his investments? No matter, Ernest thought, as he drove on. He was prepared to save his uncle’s house and to honor his twenty-five percent of Keller Construction now under new company guidelines that had already been drafted by Banac & Sons. Ernest wanted to protect the company and also to provide for his uncle’s welfare. He drove faster to save Uncle Philip’s life. Finally, he arrived at the emergency entrance of the Los Angeles County Hospital, where he stopped right in front and two black orderlies opened the back door to the car. Despite Uncle Philip’s ugly, screaming protests, they picked him up and placed him on a gurney. Ernest followed his uncle being pushed forward into the hospital by the two black orderlies, who laughed at every insult sent their way by the battered Uncle Philip Keller.
MONTHS HAD GONE by since the Crash. People filled the Los Angeles streets as before, but now they wore a mask of deep hurt, a mask of victims of betrayal. When Ernest parked his car on a downtown street, he noticed a glare from passers-by that could only mean I am walking and you are driving that new expensive car. The men, in their gaze, revealed resentment. A young man slowly made his way across the street, peered into the windshield, caught Ernest’s eye and spat on the car. While walking the sidewalks of the city, people stared at Ernest’s shoes, his tailored suit and fine hat; then, they turned away from him in disgust. He sensed a deep hatred of the wealthy who had survived the Crash. Ernest quickly moved through the crowds, watching people walk past him, heading somewhere, looking for something. Some turned back to stare at him. Maybe they had lost money in the stock market, Ernest thought. Most likely their hours at work had been cut back. Maybe they had been laid off, to be called back at a later date when things got better. Or worse, they had been let go—lost their jobs—because the company had gone out of business. Some owners, like their workers, had lost all assets and had been rendered penniless, homeless, hoboes, nomads. Living in their cars or on the street, they were searching for work to feed their families.
FOR ABOUT AN hour, Allison and Louise, and Agatha and Albert sauntered down First Street toward Belvedere. The windows and doors in a few houses were raised or flung open. After more than a year of perhaps too much turmoil and sadness, Agatha and Allison decided that they had to get out among people, the way they used to before the Crash. The world was in an economic depression, but life had to go on. They were not content to stay cooped up in their homes. Agatha still went to work, and Allison continued her volunteer service at Catholic Services. Oakley and Ernest were meeting with Leonard Banac at Sun Construction’s Boyle Heights office to discuss the impact of a labor law that the California legislature had approved. It so happened that the wives and their oldest children, independently of each other, had come to walk down to the river to enjoy the breezes and freshness of the morning.
Allison and Louise had arrived, only minutes before Agatha and Albert stepped out of the office and met several workers getting ready to head out to construction sites. The crews had gotten smaller because Oakley had laid off workers, and because many of the single men had repatriated to Mexico voluntarily or had been held without any legal charge and deported forcibly. The Depression’s job shortages had caused a reaction in the press against Mexicans holding jobs or joining welfare rolls. Anglo Americans—a term in the Southwest that now included all “white” ethnics—echoed the scapegoating expressed by President Hoover: “The Mexicans took jobs away from American citizens.” Locally at the same time, City Hall was restoring La Plaza—not for Mexicans, of course, but for tourists. Olvera Street was being transformed into a “picturesque Mexican marketplace.”
On that morning walk, Allison and Louise caught up with Agatha and Albert while they were talking to some workers who suggested that they walk down to where Doña María Olazábal and the Cooperative Society of Unemployed Mexican Ladies were selling tamales to help the laid-off barrio residents. The workers all agreed the tamales were delicious and cheap, and they suggested to the patrones that the walk would do them good.
As the group approached, they saw five women tending to the tamales stand. Four large metal pots filled with hot water contained warmed smaller pots packed with tamales. At this time of day there didn’t seem to be much business. Many workers from the barrio had already come by to purchase the tamales that would sustain them through another day of searching for a job. Many of the workers were in Los Angeles by themselves, without wives to cook and care for them. For some, one tamal would be the only sustenance they would have for twenty-four hours. Some women also came to buy tamales for the end-of-the-day meal. They served the tamales with vegetables from their family gardens. Most Mexican families had a home garden or at least tried to grow vegetables somewhere near the place where they lived.
Doña Olazábal showed Agatha and her group to some folding chairs and placed a paper plate of tamales on the table.
The women ordered small cups of agua fresca that Albert enjoyed.
“With poquito limón and sugar. It’s delicious, ¿verdad, m’ijo?” Doña Olazábal said as she placed her hand on Albert’s shoulder. He turned with a mouthful and drank the agua dulce.
The women laughed at Albert’s expression of satisfaction.
“Una docena, Señora Olazábal,” Agatha spoke slowly but clearly as she ordered a dozen tamales to take home.
“For you, Señora Rivers, no charge.”
“Thank you, señora. Pero mi amiga Allison y yo want to buy to help la organización de mujeres del barrio. Alberto y Louise also are here para ayudar su organización.”
“Muchachas, listen. Estas señoras quieren ayudar la cooperativa.”
The women stopped their work and applauded the pledge of support. Doña Olazábal sat down, lady to lady, with Agatha and Allison, to chat about the Cooperative Society of Unemployed Mexican Ladies. Meanwhile, Albert and Louise walked away to a quiet place where they could be alone.
IN JUNE AT about nine-thirty on a cool clear night, people watched the moon rise, its full face gazing down upon the City of Angels. For long moments the moon demanded complete silence, interrupted only by a speeding car on Olympic Boulevard. Albert stood alone in the front garden of the Rivers’ home on Plymouth Street in Hancock Park. He closed his eyes as the moonlight bathed him and wondered how many Sun Construction employees enjoyed the magnanimous moon tonight after Oakley Rivers had laid off half of the company’s crews. Albert had listened to his father explain why he had to stop some of the men from working on the big jobs that had been funded until completion. He promised that each worker would receive a small company benefit to help pay housing, utilities, groceries and doctor bills. Some of the men who lost their jobs were stoic; others stood, made a fist and squeezed; a few yelled unpleasant remarks, some at the boss, some at the circumstance; many just walked away.
A man named Rolando asked, “Mr. Rivers, sir, when do we get our first check?”
“You’ll get half the benefits at the end of this month. Then you will receive full benefits at the end of each month for as long as the company can afford it. Don’t forget: As long as you get the benefits from us, you must report to five o’clock roll call every morning. Who knows, we might need you that day. The situation will get better. It has to, for all of us. Thank you for understanding,
Rolando. Now, go and be with your families. See you on Monday morning.” Oakley had made changes to the Boyle Heights office and the yard when he’d initially established his business on the property, but since then only minor improvements had been done. He enjoyed the office building near the river, near his father and mother’s house. Often he walked out to the river, meandered through his parents’ gardens, stood on the lawn and gazed beyond the River Mother’s dwelling, across the river to Los Angeles. He remembered his parents, he remembered when he was Otchoo Ríos and when he felt a part of the river, the land, felt he belonged here. He didn’t care what people were saying or thinking. For generations his family had lived in Los Angeles. He and his family, more than anyone else, belonged here! He and his family were not aliens, not immigrants. This was their land.
Oakley sat in front of a heavy mahogany desk that the river had generously given to Sol. The desk had three leather inlays and a delicately carved baroque trim around the desk top, drawers and legs. The wood was a heavy rare mahogany, skillfully honed down to a masterful work of art. The desk had not been in the water long when the River Mother spotted it and sent Sol to fetch it. After Sol had cleaned off the mud and weeds and set it outside for a few days, the desk emerged unscathed. Sol then cleaned and polished the fine wood. Finally, carefully, he maneuvered the desk onto his pickup, covered it with blankets and secured it. He was eager to see his brother’s eyes when he looked upon the magnificent piece that the River Mother had sent to him. Sol knew that Oakley would be pleased.
Oakley was admiring the desk’s detail when several cars drove into the yard and stopped, leaving the engines idling. He focused his attention again on the dark mahogany desk, running his fingers over the carved detail on the desktop edges. A sense, a breath, a taste, a pleasant perfume, a pleasure rubbed on his fingertips. A vision, the word “magic” came to his mind.
“Papá, Papá, some men want to see you.” Albert came to the door and stepped aside, letting the men enter.
River of Angels Page 21
