The Brick People

by Alejandro Morales

  Prior to the de Leon family move in 1925 to Maple Avenue in south Montebello, bordering Simons, Malaquías de Leon had moved his family to Downey. There he had rented thirty acres owned by Eliola Garcia Pardo, a Spanish widow who lived secluded in a large home near the governor’s mansion. The thirty acres rented to Malaquías were surrounded by parcels rented to Japanese farmers. Malaquías preferred living with the Japanese rather than at Cantaranas, a part of the Santa Fe Railroad Mexican camp nearby.

  Soon after moving to the Telegraph Road ranch in Downey, Malaquías bought three cows and a bull which soon multiplied his stock to six milking cows. The milk was sold to Japanese families and to families living outside the community. The Japanese made Malaquías a successful farmer. Matola, Ajimba, Matusaki, and Yokohira taught Malaquías many farming techniques which made his thirty acres produce bumper crops yearly. In return, he shared his tools and his time in helping them transport their crops to the market.

  The Japanese were considered rich by people on the outside. They did not require much to keep them going and most of their money was sent to the mother country. Nana, who helped Malaquías, often worked with the Japanese and would talk to the women. She would ask them if they saved their money in the bank and the women would reply: “No bank, send money Nipon, Nipon.”

  Late in 1921 some of the most successful Japanese families suddenly abandoned their homes, leaving tools and fields that needed to be tended. These sudden evacuations continued to occur. Malaquías asked Matola, Ajimba, Matusaki and Hokohira why their neighbors were leaving. The men either could not or would not give any explanation. Then in July of 1922, Matusaki and Hokohira both left without notice. Two weeks later at mid-morning Matola went to the de Leon home and asked to speak with Malaquías. From the kitchen window Lorenza and her children watched Malaquías motion in the negative to the request of Matola. Lorenza and the children sensed that the Matolas had to abandon the ranch. After Matola left, Lorenza and the children joined Malaquías outside and watched their friend disappear forever.

  “He is going, right?” Lorenza asked.

  “Yes. He gave me tools and what they left in the house. He said that tonight a group of men will come and take what is left and burn the house.”

  Late that night strange men entered the ranch and burned every house that the Japanese had occupied. Screams were heard by the people watching the fiery glow in the sky, and throughout the night and early morning Malaquías, surrounded by sharp farm implements and machetes, guarded his family.

  The sun played hide and seek with the rising grey pallor that streaked the early morning sky. In a matter of hours, from one day to another, life had radically changed. Malaquías, Lorenza, Paquita, Nana, Jesus and Andrea smelled the smoldering remains of the Matola home. As he walked through the ashes, Malaquías pondered why the forces that ejected the Japanese had not struck him. Obviously, he would be next. The Japanese had been there for years, doing good work, and unbelievably all that remained of their existence was black ash that the wind would spread into the fields.

  “You practically kill yourself to get ahead and look what happens!” Anguished, Malaquías spoke to Lorenza and Nana who listened while riding in the cab of the family panel truck heading home.

  “It’s because they are Japanese and we are Mexicans. If we were black, it would be worse.” Lorenza’s words sounded like a prayer. Nana’s eyes were hypnotized to the road that rushed at her.

  When Nana recognized a black automobile parked, waiting at the front of the house, her heart dropped to the pit of her stomach. Lorenza dreaded the thought of moving. She leaned on her husband and placed her head on his shoulder.

  “La señora Garcia Pardo,” Malaquías whispered to Lorenza as he reached for the handbrake.

  The chauffeur opened the back door and out from the 1924 Ford four-door sedan emerged la señora Eliola Garcia Pardo dressed in deep black.

  “Good afternoon, Malaquías,” señora Garcia Pardo said, offering her hand and smiling. “Malaquías, the Japanese have left. We can’t count on them. The majority of my land is empty and there is no one to attend it. Some day this land will be worth much money. Well, then, for being an excellent worker and for knowing how to treat the land, you can stay. I have also come to offer you ten acres of virgin land. Stay, Malaquías, work the land and you will become rich.”

  By the time señora Garcia Pardo had finished delivering her offer, she had circled Malaquías’ truck and perused the ranch.

  “I can’t buy that land. I barely have enough to feed my family,” Malaquías answered candidly as she went to the door of her automobile.

  “Five thousand dollars is nothing, Malaquías. Think about it. Try to get the money. Let me know in a week.” Señora Garcia Pardo closed the door and sped off into the edge of the afternoon.

  Malaquías spent the next four days planning how to get the five thousand dollars, but no one could guarantee the money without enormous cost. He wanted the land, but had to admit that it was impossible to purchase it honorably. While searching for the funds, Malaquías kept hearing and seeing unfortunate situations which stood out like omens telling him that perhaps it was safer not to buy the land.

  One of the strangest occurrences was the mysterious death of Rosendo Guerrero. His death took place in the Pasadena hills in a secluded chapel-like structure constructed with adobe by Rosendo and other acquaintances who, people said, gathered there to pray.

  The horrible state of Rosendo’s body was such that the man and child who discovered it went mad. The body had been dismembered and arranged in a large round kettle with a narrow neck which flared at the opening just enough to hold Rosendo’s head while the rest of him cooked. The room had frescoes painted on three walls. A man with Indian features sitting on a nautilus shell was painted on the west wall. The man, naked except for a rope knotted around the waist, sat with forearms resting on his knees and large tears streaming down the cheeks. The eastern wall was adorned with a large, perfect, yellow-orange circle. According to several accounts, the northern wall depicted a man severing his own left arm that was placed on a round stone. On the southern wall there was a painting of a kettle with a fire under it and a man’s head protruding through the opening in the top.

  The rumors were that Rosendo committed suicide or sacrificed himself or united himself with God by following an ancient Indian path known precisely to only a few people and enigmatically to all as El Sendero Luminoso del Sol. Malaquías returned home in the late afternoon with images of the sacred sacrifice of Rosendo Guerrero.

  At dusk a car slowly moved on the road leading to the de Leon house. Nana, Paquita, and Andrea watched the black mechanical insect turn off the illumination of its eyes. Doors opened and closed and the mysterious black bug crawled closer to the house. It moved off the road and parked on a rise under a walnut tree. Two men spread a blanket and stretched out. A third stayed in the car and pushed a cap over his face. Men had parked on Telegraph Road before, but now they began to venture on Malaquías’ property.

  Malaquías had prepared for these intrusions by purchasing a rifle which he never wanted to use. But tonight, before the night stole all the sight from the day, he would have to ask these men to leave, threaten them if necessary, and kill them if forced to protect his family. The images of bizarre deaths, disappearances and murders of Mexican children had haunted his mind for days. Nothing would deter him now from saving his family. He walked the short distance from the house to the car, rifle strapped to his back. At speaking distance, he rested the rifle across his belt buckle.

  “What do you want here?” Malaquías asked as he positioned himself to see the man in the front seat and the two men now sitting on the blanket.

  “We’re tired and it’s gettin’ late so we gonna sleep right here,” the one on the blanket said.

  “No. This is private property. Leave or I’ll shoot you!” Malaquías lifted his rifle to the man’s head.

  The car started. The man who had spoken was in
the back seat. The other grabbed the blanket and went to the front seat. The car drove around Malaquías, who pointed the rifle at their heads. The car sped to Telegraph Road, turned right toward Whittier and was lost to Malaquías’ view. Lorenza was at his side now.

  “Those men can come back. We can’t stay here any longer. It’s too dangerous,” Lorenza said, going back to the safety of the house.

  In the two weeks that followed, Malaquías sold most of his own tools and those acquired from the Japanese. The animals, except the horses he bought from Gonzalo, were sold. He found a house and property on Maple Street near Simons Brickyard. On a Friday morning he loaded the family belongings on the Ford truck, seated his children in the back and tied three horses to the truck bed hooks. As he drove away from the ten acres of prime land he could have had, he felt a knot of sadness grow in his throat and a great desire to cry. But he did not. What he felt then turned to bitterness and an image of failure. What could have been his biggest prize, he had lost. He stopped the truck, looked both ways and turned left on Telegraph Road toward Simons, in the opposite direction which the three men had taken two weeks ago. Perhaps they would never return, he thought as he moved slower, carefully leading the horses.

  Nana had finished washing and hanging up her brothers’ and sisters’ clothes while at her feet, the baby, almost a year old, played on a blanket. A few yards away Leonardo and Juan played with wooden blocks and cars. Towering above them silently, heard only when the winds shook their branches, eucalyptus trees marked the wide limits of Maple Street. Inside Nana’s yard, a willow’s branches brushed the smooth hard earth. The melodies of a Mexican ballad entered her mind.

  Nana picked up Rafael and walked to the kitchen where her mother and Paquita prepared dinner. She listened to the sounds of the house. It was alive, she thought. Everyone, even the baby, busied themselves with living. But Nana considered what she did at that moment, simply listening, different from what everyone else felt important. She felt lonely. Often Nana watched young women walk by the house with their fiances. She wondered about what they said, how they touched, what they felt when they embraced, how many times they kissed. Damn them, she would say to herself. How did they meet? How did they achieve the relationship they had? The love, the caring, the tenderness expressed in such intimate, soft, graceful actions. People in love are like flamingos in flight, she thought. She tried to remember where she had heard that strange statement about humans and birds.

  “Mama, why don’t you buy a phonograph?” Nana asked at the moment Malaquías hung his coat and hat behind the kitchen door that led to the backyard.

  “No, no phonograph, no phonograph! Instead, she should buy you boots and work clothes so you can help me load the manure. I need you to help me until your brothers grow up.” Malaquías spoke to both his wife and daughter. He reached for a towel and went out to bathe in the large tub next to the garage he had built.

  Lorenza’s face was streaked with embarrassment when Nana’s eyes screamed rebellion. Everyone knew the unspoken truth: Lorenza was unable to defend her own children from their father. Usually Nana was the target of his anger, his accusations, his failures. Nana had sacrificed school, domestic jobs, and training in a doctor’s office. Perhaps that was the origin of Malaquías’ anger and constant bitterness. His face was forever tense, as if he had a sour lime in his mouth.

  Nana placed the baby in the crib and walked to the porch where she had again begun a garden of potted plants. She watered the plants and studied the people who strolled through the late afternoon to the onrushing bright stars. Celia, the young woman who lived two houses away, waved and said hello. She walked with her friend Federico Revueltas.

  It had been a quiet ride from the doctor’s office. Nana held Juan wrapped in blankets, silently looking at his eyes. Malaquías drove the truck to the front door and watched his wife and daughter take Juan into the house. The doctor had told Malaquías, Lorenza and Nana that the lower intestine protruding from Juan’s anus would have to be removed if it did not regress with the treatments.

  Lorenza heated the water to just below uncomfortable. Four-year-old Juan, with his intestine hanging out, had to sit in the warm water. Everyone hoped he would survive that black thing dangling out of his body. Although somebody prayed for his death, it was never revealed who, but the fact was felt emotionally by Juan.

  Days passed and the treatments did not work. Juan would have to suffer a dangerous operation. Nana prepared for the trip to Whittier with her mother and Juan. His condition had deteriorated to where he could no longer walk normally. Juan advanced with his legs spread apart wide. People stared and said things that he was too young to understand, but the discomfort he endured clearly made him realize that this condition was terribly wrong.

  The doctor at the clinic in Whittier had gestured the action of a cutting scissors to Lorenza. Nana’s translation was not needed. Lorenza and Juan knew what the gesture meant. It was definite, sure as the date set that Juan’s condition required a trimming of the bowel. On the return home, riding La Paloma, the black and white trolley, Lorenza and Nana spoke little. Both women sat close together. Juan, snuggled up against his mother, his feet warm on his sister’s lap, slept all the way to Simons. When they alighted off La Paloma, Juan refused to walk. The thing felt thicker and longer. Lorenza checked her son.

  “The intestine is blacker and more swollen,” Lorenza said, kissing Juan and carrying him.

  “I’ll help you, mama,” Nana offered.

  “No, let me be. I want to feel this child in my arms.” Lorenza moved ahead.

  They rested at the water tank. Nana splashed cold water on her face and washed off the red brick dust. The day, neither hot nor cold, was comfortable weather in which other people strolled peacefully. Nana drank and sat next to the cement tub to watch the silver gush forth from the open spigot. Through the running silver cylinder she saw a deformed figure coming towards her. The man rode a black Arabian horse with a fancy saddle. Dressed in a black suit and tie, he removed his hat, dismounted, cupped his hands and swished water over his long hair. Nana noticed the strange long earlobes that dangled in the wet grey hair which touched his shoulders.

  “Buenas tardes, doña Lorenza.”

  Lorenza had immediately recognized him.

  “How are you, señor Lugo?” Lorenza smiled as if this man relieved a little of the worry and pain she felt for her child.

  “Why are you carrying that child? Let him walk. The day is for walking.” Señor Lugo detected the suffering in Lorenza’s sudden weak smile. “The child is sick?”

  Lorenza nodded yes.

  Fascinated by his mannerisms, Nana moved closer to listen to and watch this man whom Lorenza addressed as if she had known him for years.

  “Tell me about him.” Lugo knelt in front of Lorenza and Juan.

  “Juan has an intestine that is hanging out and the doctors want to operate. It is a horrible black swollen thing that came out from him,” Lorenza declared and slightly rocked Juan. She stopped and allowed señor Lugo to see the protruding colon.

  “Do not believe those scientists. They do not know what they say. I have had several fine horses that have suffered your child’s ailment. But only the fine ones suffer that illness. Listen to me, Doña Lorenza de Leon, because I will give you the medicine to save your son.” Señor Lugo spoke still on one knee, his voice changed as if he were composing a special poem.

  “Get a brick and heat it in the fire of your stove. Open a roll of cotton. Then ask for fig leaves, olive oil, alcohol and urine from one of your other children. Put these liquids in a pan and boil them. Take the brick out of the stove. Wrap it with the cotton and pour on the potion. Wrap all this with a black cloth. Lay the child down and place the medicine brick next to the intestine. Cover the child with heavy blankets to trap the vapor. Be very careful not to burn him. Repeat this treatment for seven days and nights and you will see that your son will be cured on the ninth day. Forget about the operation. Return to your hom
e in peace. Goodbye, Doña Lorenza, goodbye.”

  Señor Lugo walked away to the west. Nana remembered all he said. She watched him mount the horse and climb the hill on Vail toward the Simons general store. She imagined him crossing the railroad tracks and passing by Mount Carmel church. She now knew the identity of the man. He was a Lugo, a rich Mexican family who had lost their land. They lived in a large two-story square house off Garfield. It was rumored that one of the brothers was insane.

  Nine days later, Nana thought that if this Lugo was the insane one, his insanity was strangely wonderful, for as she entered her yard on Maple Street, she noticed that Juan was cured and running after a stray hen.

  Nana looked into the bedroom where her mother spoke with thirteen-year-old Andrea who was terrified at the sight of blood running down her leg. Lorenza never explained menstruation to her daughters. They would hear of it from friends who had started. Nana remembered her first experience, at fifteen. She had been at school listening to the fifth grade teacher. Suddenly she felt her pants were wet and asked permission to go to the bathroom. She screamed at the discovery of blood and carefully cleaned herself. The nurse explained what had occurred and sent Nana home where Lorenza quietly gave her the necessary hygienic items.

  If this was natural, why must women be terrified of the first blood, Nana thought as she watched Andrea come out of the bedroom with Lorenza. Nana smiled and her sister did likewise.

  “Take her outside and sit her in the shade,” Lorenza said.

  Nana and Andrea sat and talked about womanly subjects. Andrea stopped shaking and crying after Nana explained that it was all right to be afraid the first couple of times. Soon Andrea would become accustomed. Nana left and went to tend to her porch garden of potted plants. While she watered, Celia strolled by with her friend Federico Revueltas.

  “Nana, are you going to the dance? At the Rodelos’ house. We’ll look for you. All of Federico’s brothers will be there.” Celia giggled suspiciously about something that Nana was not privy to.