Dr. Brinkley's Tower

by Robert Hough

  After much gasping and prayer, there was an outbreak of whispered discussion. A minority viewed the event as sheer fluke, evidence of the anarchic forces ruling such things as destiny, comeuppance, and the functioning of the universe. There were others who saw it in purely physical terms — according to these individuals, the force of incline exactly matched the force of gravity; ergo, the fate of the tower, albeit somewhat unlikely in appearance, was not in any way glorious. The majority of those bearing witness, however, were practising Catholics. For them it was nothing short of a miracle, a testament to the way in which celestial powers guided their lives. For as they all stood there gawking, not one among them could deny that the tower had landed upright in the parched desert soil, an inch or two away from where it had originally stood, remaining aloft without the benefit of guy wires or foundation or supporting beams. In this, they literally imagined the fingertips of God, coming down from the sky and guiding the tower’s placement.

  There was one thing, however, that everyone could agree on. Even in the slight breeze blowing over the desert that morning, the tip of John Brinkley’s tower was wavering. With each rustle of air the tower’s steel fuselage groaned, sounding not unlike the gringo clients who until recently had attended the House of Gentlemanly Pleasures. This inspired more gasps and sub-audible prayers — it was clear that the next time a decent storm kicked up, the tower would topple and crush anyone sufficiently stupid to have lingered in its path. That was not the issue. The issue was where, precisely, that path would lie.

  A frightened calm descended over the town, a tranquility born of the knowledge that any significant noise or commotion might not only bring the tower down, but bring it down upon the heads of whoever produced that noise or commotion. People behaved as though somnolent. All movements were considered and slow, and whispering became commonplace. Steps were taken lightly, and only when necessary. The Villistas and White Shirts stopped fighting, as they realized that the initiation of any battle could be their last — guns were holstered, ammunition buried, bombs defused. Without an enemy to shoot at and atrocities to perform on the ideologically opposed, they were faced with crushing questions of self-identity, questions that drove them from the town as surely as enemy reinforcements. The paramilitaries wandered off to the rank, festering snakepits from whence they had come, and the Villistas rode back to whatever communist safe houses they had lived in prior to the fighting in Corazón.

  A few days later the hacendero went to the homes of the mayor, the cantina owner, and Father Alvarez. One by one, he invited them to come to his ruined hacienda, and one by one they said Claro and put on their boots. They were just about to cross the plaza and continue towards the hacendero’s house when Antonio stopped and turned to the closest friends he had on the planet.

  — Primos, he said. — There’s one other I should include.

  The others then followed him to the house of Francisco Ramirez, who answered the door with a surprised expression on his face.

  — Mijo, said the hacendero. — We are having a little meeting. I must insist that you join us.

  Francisco Ramirez stared at them numbly. Aside from his own father, they were the four men he admired most in Corazón de la Fuente, and to be included in their ranks was an honour he had never thought would be his. A minute later he was walking with them, causing those townsfolk who were looking out from between their shutters to understand that the social position occupied by Francisco Ramirez in Corazón de la Fuente had altered forever.

  Moving slowly so that Mayor Orozco could keep up, they traversed the central plaza, trudged through the mud of the ejido, and reached the hacendero’s bullet-riddled mansion. The hacendero beckoned them into his study, where a half-bottle of brandy and a carafe of water were sitting on a small table — he had donated every other stick of furniture to the people of the ejido, who would no doubt admire it for a few days and then use it as cooking fuel. The hacendero poured five glasses of brandy.

  — Caballeros, he said. — I wish to make an announcement.

  — Go ahead, said the others. — We are listening.

  — With the revolution, the men of Corazón de la Fuente lost something that no man should have to lose. When we lit that explosion, aided by our young friend Francisco, we got it back. For your role in this, I thank you all. Salud.

  The men drank.

  — I have one more thing to say. Tomorrow I will board a bus that will take me to México City. Then I will take another bus to Veracruz, where I have arranged passage on a ship that will return me to the land of my birth.

  His three oldest friends nodded, having expected this news years earlier, when the hacendero’s wife had first fled México. Francisco, meanwhile, looked on, irked by the way in which life never failed to operate. Just as he had gained the hacendero’s respect, and possibly even his friendship, the Spaniard was saying goodbye.

  The hacendero continued. — I need you to know that I do not make this decision lightly. I have lived in this house since the age of six. These four walls inform me who I am, and all that I feel for this little world of ours. Please understand that when I arrive in España, I will not be doing so as a Spaniard, or anything resembling one. I will tell my loved ones that my blood is now fully Mexican. I will live as a foreigner amongst my own people, and furthermore I will be proud to do so. Adiós, amigos. I will miss you most of all.

  There came the most profound of silences, followed by manly embraces. When the hacendero approached Francisco, there was a moment of reluctance on the part of the younger man.

  — Antonio, Francisco said in a halting voice. — I am sorry for killing your old nag.

  The hacendero grinned.

  — Mijo, he said. — She died in the pursuit of adventure. She died in the middle of a quest. You gave her a great gift. For this, I should thank you. Goodbye, my new friend, it is too bad we couldn’t have more time together.

  It then grew deathly quiet, both inside and outside the house; they all accepted this as an invitation to reflect. After a minute or so, the cantina owner cleared his throat and spoke.

  — Compadres, he said. — I have some news as well.

  The next morning, Carlos Hernandez went into the desert, to an old cholla he’d partially uprooted so as to produce a small black cavity in the scrub. From there he fetched a lockbox containing all the money he’d made as a saloon keeper during the construction of the tower — minus, of course, the dollars he’d spent on a .44 calibre pistol and the all but useless Compound Operation. Standing above the village, he thought of his years as the town’s lone saloon keeper, and was pleased to be leaving.

  He and Margarita packed as lightly as possible and caught a lift on the highway running across northern Coahuila. Just before sundown they reached the site of a new brothel, one that rumour had told them was just across the river from Laredo, Texas. Already there was the most rudimentary of buildings, no doubt tacked together by workers who were eager to be paid in services rendered.

  It had been a long walk from the highway, and the two felt hot and tired. Carlos knocked on the door, Margarita standing nervously behind him. After a moment it swung inward.

  Madam Félix blinked, and then smirked. — Cantina owner.

  — Hola, Madam.

  — And his wife, of all people.

  Margarita lowered her head and grinned bashfully.

  — What brings you to Nuevo Laredo? asked Madam.

  — You do.

  — I don’t think I understand.

  — I am thinking that this place … this Nuevo Laredo, as you call it … could benefit from other amenities. Do you not think that the gringos would be more likely to visit if there was a drinking establishment? A place where they could have a cold cerveza and a nice hot meal? Perhaps a few beds in which to actually spend the night? Do you not think the gringos would feel more anonymous if there was an entire town here?

  — You are telling me you wish to build a cantina here?

  — I am.


  — And you have the capital to do this?

  — Sí.

  — In that case, said Madam, — I grant you my best wishes. I will do everything in my power to aid you.

  The cantina owner and his wife were busy that evening. They borrowed some planks, nails, and floorboards left over from the upstart brothel and tacked together a lean-to that allowed a view of the river and the sort of tanning performed beneath moonlight. The next day, Carlos would scout the nearby town of Rodriguez for men who had sturdy backs and wanted to make a little money. When he had recruited a workforce, he’d travel to Sabinas and arrange for the delivery of building supplies. Then, over the next few weeks, the frame of his new saloon would appear out of thin air, each plank and joist offering the promise of new life. Shortly after that, the fledgling town of Nuevo Laredo would attract other residents, who would appropriately start small businesses of their own.

  But that was all to come. In the meantime, the cantina owner lay next to his wife and listened to the trickle of the Río Grande and the distant sound of voices and light traffic coming from Laredo. A delicious, tingly fatigue invaded their bodies — the kind of fatigue that feels well-earned, the result of a productive day. Their feet extended from the lean- to and were lit silver instead of sea green; this fact alone imbued them with gleeful optimism. From within the upstart bordello they could hear sighing and the noises made by those pressed hotly together, and these sounds inflamed the cantina owner with a desire for something other than rest.

  Carlos Hernandez turned to his wife. He kissed her slowly, as though all the time in the world were in their possession.

  — Margarita, he said. — I believe we will be happy here.

  — Sí, Carlos.

  — And I believe we will have so many little ones that you will never know the sound of peace.

  — Sí, said Margarita. — I believe that God wants this as well.

  Francisco Ramirez continued to follow Brinkley’s exploits in the newspapers available in the Del Río library. He was not surprised by what he discovered (or rather, he was not surprised by most of his discoveries). After a long and determined manhunt, it seemed that John Brinkley had been located by the gringo organization called the Internal Revenue Service — he’d been hiding in a place called the Smoky Mountains, in a shack known only to a few family members, sporting a hillbilly beard and hair bleached the white of a skunk’s stripe. They arrested him for tax evasion and wasted no time putting him on trial. Brinkley’s crimes, it seemed, were serious enough that the good doctor faced the possibility of spending the rest of his life in jail.

  The Texas papers also detailed the concoctions upon which Brinkley had based his operation: the fictional medical degree; the pharmaceutical products made from water, sugar, and gelatin; the invented science upon which the Compound Operation was based. Even his time spent in South America had been a fiction, his Spanish learned during a lengthy boyhood stint in Monterrey — apparently his parents, both of whom were carnival grifters, had exiled themselves to avoid some rather unsavoury criminal charges. Once that particular fact was unearthed, many of the nation’s reporters smugly noted that, as was generally the case, the apple had not fallen far from the tree.

  Yet the case of John Romulus Brinkley was a tricky one, one that confirmed that life’s rules are unknowable, and lacking in parameters or consistency. For when the charlatan doctor’s trial began, a series of national charity directors all testified in Brinkley’s defence, a few of them tearfully. For years, it seemed, Brinkley’s donations had comprised a significant portion of their annual budgets, and without them they weren’t sure how they were going to survive.

  And still John Brinkley’s dislodged tower stayed upright, despite the winds that ordinarily came to Corazón in the months preceding winter. The harmattan that normally appeared each fall, originating from somewhere in the Gulf of México, was abnormally tame that year. The sirocco that ordinarily blew down from Oklahoma raged so timidly that Christmas that most didn’t even register its arrival. The zephyr that usually arrived in the new year, perfuming the town with the kelpy scent of the Pacific, failed to make an appearance as well.

  Yet every person living in Corazón de la Fuente knew that the tower would one day come down — it was an event that was now central to their lives, one that granted their existence both shape and a fretful texture. Soon those who stayed would be called upon to rebuild the damage caused by the tower’s imminent toppling; for the majority it was a sense of duty that kept them rooted to the soil that had hosted them since their days in the cradle. It was, they all knew, the way of war, the innocent left to tidy up the aftermath of the vicious.

  Violeta Cruz felt this beckoning as well. Around the time her morning sickness began to wane and her belly began to inflate, she experienced a shift in both her priorities and her understanding of what is truthful in this bedazzlement called life. Late one afternoon she dressed in a black skirt and white cotton blouse, and she knocked timidly on the door of the house belonging to her one-time novio.

  Thankfully, Francisco answered.

  — Hola, Francisco, she said in the cautious, lowered tone that had become second nature to those still living in Corazón de la Fuente.

  — Violeta.

  She bit a minute obelisk of nail that had managed to take root on the baby finger of her right hand. She tried to speak and found that she couldn’t. When her words finally took root, they sounded like a plea.

  — Francisco … I know I don’t deserve to ask you this, but would you take a walk with me? Please?

  The two moved silently and carefully, a bank of air between them. Instinctively they meandered along the path leading past the mission, towards the lee where they used to have their assignations. There they looked out over a plateau turning gold in the falling sun. There was the occasional call of a hawk and, in the distance, the rustle of wizened tree branches.

  — Francisco …

  She glanced at him, then returned her gaze to the desert, which was changing hue with every passing minute. Her voice was a murmur. A ball of shame formed in her throat.

  — I know that you helped bomb the tower.

  — How did you find out?

  — I just did.

  — I see.

  — I also know why you did it. Or at least I … I know what the rumours say.

  — I did it to punish the man who disgraced you.

  There was a pause, during which Violeta began to sniffle. When she next spoke, it was in a voice breaking with emotion.

  — I need to know that you didn’t do it because you pity me. I need to know that you have never felt sorry for me, not even for a second. I will not allow this. I am a wealthy young woman, thanks to the money Brinkley paid me, and already I love my baby as deeply and as richly as any madre has ever loved a niño. I was never disgraced. I am not to be pitied. It would be unfair. Do you understand me, Francisco Ramirez? I will not allow it.

  Her voice broke and trailed away. Francisco kept looking forward, understanding that this was the moment he had hoped for — the moment in which he could tell Violeta that she shouldn’t have toyed with his affections, that she shouldn’t have fallen into the arms of the first rich gringo to come her way, that any predicament she now found herself in was entirely of her own making. He had rehearsed these lines so many times that they popped into his head fully formed, and with a savage degree of righteousness. A few weeks earlier he might even have given them voice. But the brutality he’d witnessed during what had come to be known as the War of the Tower caused him to realize that without such things as forgiveness and understanding, life was little more than a thing made of chaos.

  Instead of speaking, he placed three fingertips on Violeta’s forearm. He did this so lightly that he was only sure she felt their presence when he saw the fine auburn hairs on her arm rise and tremble gently in the breeze. The couple sat this way for several minutes, their eyes following the apparitions that hover over a desert during the t
wilight hours. Neither initiated the kiss that ensued, their mouths seemingly drawn together by forces magnetic in nature. Their heartbeats synchronized, their body temperatures rose to precisely the same level, and they both lost the ability to gauge time and space.

  And then, slowly, in the manner of those who have lost themselves in love, their corporeal selves melted away, freeing them from the self-consciousness that, at all other times, defines the act of living.

  Just as it was ordained to happen, the mothers of Corazón de la Fuente awoke one morning and lit fires and made coffee and kissed their children and stepped wearily onto their stoops. There it was: a slight yet discernible moisture clinging to the air. A diminishment of the sun’s normal intensity. The fractional drop in temperature that always presaged the arrival of a desert tempest. The scent of ozone, carried on the wind.

  Given the gathering motion of the air, most predicted the tower would come down within six or seven hours. They all went back inside and explained to their families that they’d be taking a little trip that day. Hampers were packed, picnic baskets stocked, carts dusted off. Mules were watered and bicycle tires inflated. Soon a procession of townspeople, using any and all methods of transportation, headed to the nearby towns of Rosita and Piedras Negras. There they would wait for the fall of the tower, after which they would return home and deal with the mess. Included among those returnees would be the town’s priest and the town’s mayor, both of whom would guide any reconstruction required once the tower finally came down. If the tower fell to the southwest or northeast, that reconstruction would be minimal. If it fell to the east, it would be considerable. The two hombres felt prepared for either eventuality, one emboldened by a new-found decisiveness, the other invigorated by a reborn trust in God’s ways.

  Sometime around noon, Francisco Ramirez told his father that he had something to do. Thinking his son was going to fetch Violeta — the two families planned to travel together to Saltillo, using the tower’s collapse as an excuse for a little holiday — Francisco Senior told him there was no shortage of chores to do before their departure, and that he should hurry. Francisco nodded and pledged to return soon. But instead of walking to Violeta’s house, he followed the path to the house of the curandera.