I remember well the day my brother Rito died. He died of tuberculosis in Olive View Sanitarium, where he had been confined for as long as I could remember. I often forgot I had such a brother, except when on Sundays I was left at home while my parents and older siblings visited him.

Rito had caught cold, frio, as we said in the barrio, which settled in his lungs. He lost weight, and when the tuberculosis set in, he became weak. I only saw him a few times. I remember most that he wore blue cotton pajamas.

My parents visited Rito each Sunday. When he became worse after lung surgery, they visited during the week too. Soon afterward his condition became critical, and he was moved to a private room in the infirmary, to make sure he would contaminate others. When he took a turn for the worse in the winter, my father arranged to be notified, day or night, of his condition.

We had no telephone. Few folks in the neighborhood, other than local merchants and the Anglos who lived across the tracks, had telephones. All emergency calls from the sanitarium were relayed to our parents by Mr. Jameson, owner of the Pacoima General Store, and Mr. Tamez, of the Tamez Grocery Store. THey were good, kind men who did more than sell food. They extended food credit to la gente mexicana, those unemployed or sick. Sometime previously both men agreed to relay to my father any message they received from the sanitarium.

One night or early morning, Mr. Tamez came with the message that Rito was near death. I woke up when el Duque began to bark at the car that drove up and woke our household. Doña Luisa immediately got up, lit the kerosene lamp kept on the metal trunk, and got dressed. I saw the lights come on in our house the kitchen bulb illuminated my father's form. I head voices coming from my mother's room, soft, murmuring; there was never panic in our house. The engine of the Dodge sputtered, then came to life. I heard the car pull out of the driveway, my father at the wheel, the tires crunching on the hard dirt. I then went back to sleep, lulled by Doña Luisa, held tight in her thin arms. When I awoke the car was back. A deadly silence permeated our home, broken only by the sound of muffled crying.

I don't remember who told me Rito had died. I don't remember if I cried. I was a child and barely remembered the handsome stranger with eyes so like my father's, who had been in Olive View half of his life. In the morning I saw shadowy figures enter and leave our house: friends, neighbors, and relatives, dressed in dark clothes, came to give my parents el pesame. The women brought food, which was put on the kitchen table next to the enamel coffeepot that was kept filled by Elizabet. Inside the large kitchen, neighbor women warmed tortillas and beans for those who were hungry, but first they fed us hot cereal and toast. Quietly they shooed us out the kitchen door.

Curious as I was, I refused to stay in the backyard, so I found my way to the side of the house near my mother's bedroom window. I heard whispers, muffled crying, comforting words in both Spanish and English. Within minutes Uncle Louie, my mother's cousin (who wore bib overalls all his life), came to the door dressed in a dark shirt and pants. I barely recognized him. He came and left through the kitchen door, a red handkerchief held to his face. That afternoon Uncle Nasario, that jovial, out-going man who always made me smile, drove up in his shiny car, his handsome face strained and lined. He went to my mother, held her tight, then turned away to hide the tears that filled his light brown eyes.

I didn't see my mother for the rest of the day. She remained in her room, where sad-eyed women, most of whom I knew, arms laden with rubbing alcohol and hand towels, entered and left, as if on cue. Outside, near the garage, the men stood, among them my father and uncles, who huddled together. They spoke in Spanish; their short, muted sentences were hard to hear, but appeared to comfort my father.

Among the men was Berney, now in his early teens, a tall, strapping boy who, because of the seriousness of this occasion, was allowed to be con los hombres. Some of Berney's friends stood in the circle, among them Danny, a handsome young boy who it was said had a crush on Ronnie. Norbert stayed in the men's rooms, talking with friends who cut school to be with him. Ronnie and Trina, in clean dresses, remained indoors, helping with the guests that filled our house. Josey, I believe, slept most of the day. Now and then, tired of the inactivity (and knowing well I had to be quiet), I scrambled up on a chair to peek outside. Except for Uncle Nasario and a bibless Uncle Louie, I failed to recognize the men with my father.

Toward evening a small fire was built in the backyard where they men congregated. From the kitchen door I saw one of them sip from a small bottle, which was passed around to the others. When the bottle was offered to Berney, he declined the whiskey with a jerk of his curly head. My father, I knew, did not encourage his sons to drink, not even on this somber occasion. Around suppertime the women who earlier had ministered to my mother went home to feed their own families, saying they would return for the wake. Uncle Nasario and my father came indoors to eat the food prepared by Elizabet and two cousins from Oxnard whom I had never seen before.

The men remained around the fire, warming their hands and softly talking, as el Duque circled them. The yellow flames cast deep shadows on the men; their sad faces took on an eerie, deathly pallor. The Mexican tradition was that they remain until late at night, out of respect for my father.

Mexican families like ours had little money to spend on wakes or funerals. The funeral mass was offered free of charge; the cemetery plot was paid for in installments. The mortuary bill, which included la carroza and the coffin, was also to be paid in installments. Funerals were kept simple, not because of tradition but due to lack of money. The viewing of the body was done in the home; this was not only convenient but less expensive. Early on it was decided that Rito's wake would be held in our front room. My siblings and cousins put things in order. They cleaned and dusted, wanting the sala to look worthy of my brother. Once more I was shooed out the back door.

That evening I went to sleep with Doña Luisa as usual. She tossed and turned all night long and in the morning continued to sniffle, her dark eyes full of sadness. She put on her best black dress, one that came to her ankles, fed me avena y pan tostado, then went to our house to help prepare for Rito's wake.

I was playing hopscotch toward the back of the house, where I wouldn't be seen or heard, when the hearse came to deliver my brother's body. I was about to jump a square when I looked up to see a long black sedan, the length of two regular cars, approaching. The driver leaned out and asked, "Is this 13011 Hoyt Street?" "Yes." I answered. Before I could ask what it was they wanted, I heard movement inside the house. Suddenly the front door opened; out came Elizabet and cousin Mary, dressed in dark clothing. Cousin Mary, who was most proper, wore a navy blue dress with a white collar and cuffs; a short string of pearls was at her throat. Their loud and clear voices, so unlike the crying of before, drifted across the yard to where I stood. The driver, a pale man wearing thick glasses, backed up the hearse until it was parallel to the front door, then slammed on the brakes. The hearse appeared to let out a sigh, then came to a stop. The driver got out, door slamming loudly, then opened the back door and pushed back his hair, as if about to make a delivery. By now my father and my uncles Louie and Nasario were on hand to pull out the long silvery box that I knew was the coffin which Rito lay. They yanked it halfway out, squeezed it through the door, then carried it inside.

Anxious to see everything, I kept getting in everyone's way. Rather than stand aside, I walked alongside the men, my hand resting on Rito's box. When we neared the porch steps, I stumbled, nearly tripping Uncle Louie. Elizabet pulled me aside and began to scold.

"Stay in the back."

"But I want to see!"

"This is only for grown-ups."

"But . . . "

Doña Luisa came to the rescue; with promises of lemon drops, she convinced me to stay in the backyard. Accompanied by the faithful Duke, who for all the sadness of the day still wagged his tail, I went toward my favorite fig tree, then waited for Josey to join me.

When next I looked, the black car was gone. Relieved of its cargo, it slipped away down Hoyt Street, raising no visible dust, and onto Van Nuys Boulevard. I played with my dolls, one eye on the kitchen door, hoping to be called inside where the grown-ups were. In the cold, wintry yard everything seemed so still. Duke lay on the dirt, his tail looped around his scruffy legs, his long ears dropping across his face. Not a branch moved in the eucalyptus trees that cast huge shadows over our house. High above, a lone cloud drifted across the blue sky, then disappeared.

I heard crying from inside the house. Soft, forlorn. From near the fig tree, I heard my mother's anguished cries. "Hijo mio. Ay hijo mio." Her cries came and went like waves. Even el Duque was subdued. He kept to the back of the house, his tail between his legs.

Toward afternoon neighbors and relatives came to pay their respects: the Garcias, Jaramillos, Montanos, Solises, Reyes, and other. Among them was Mrs. Goodsome, principal of Pacoima Elementary School, which my siblings attended. She was a good, kind lady who liked our family, especially Rito, who she claimed was an excellent student. When I saw her inside, I too wanted to be part of the crowd. I pushed my way in between the mourners to the front of the room. It was then I saw Rito.

He lay inside a silver coffin lined in white material. The quiltlike material looked soft, comfortable. Rito's coffin was on top of the wooden bench that normally sat hear the garage. The upper half was open, so that we could peek at him. Rito was dressed in a dark jacket and a snowy white shirt. I think he wore a tie. His curly hair shone with pomade and was combed to the side, with one limp curl over his clear forehead. His lovely green eyes, now closed forever, were fringed by dark lashes that brushed his fair cheeks. His pale hands were clasped together as if in prayer; the tapered fingers were intertwined with a black rosary.

Behind the coffin and on both sides of the wall hung crisp white sheets. Pinned to them were velvety gardenias, their dark green leaves shiny and fragrant. Large candles were set at the head and foot of the casket and on the floor stood zinc buckets and cans with fresh flowers: roses, carnations, gladiolus. The flowers, brought by friends and neighbors, were surrounded by crespon, a mossy green fern that grew in our backyards. From a distance the home-grown flowers looked quite pretty, and not at all like the stiff, formal arrangements found at most wakes. I think Rito would have liked them.

On top of the closed half of the coffin lay a small silver crucifix. Next to it was a funeral wreath of gardenias and white stock. A white ribbon inscribed in gold letters lay across the wreath: Nuestro Hijo Querido. Bowls of buttercups, called tasa en plato, sat close by; they were pretty but gave off a strong smell. Their aroma, combined with that of the creamy gardenias, was what we kids referred to as olor a muerto, smell of the dead. The stifling odor and the sad eyes of the mourners forced me to leave the room, but not before I sidled up to Mrs. Goodsome, who hugged me, called me a sweet child, and admonished me to obey my mother.

That night Father Juanito came to pray the rosary. He first gave my parents el pesame, then knelt to recite the rosary. He prayed the Ten Soulful Mysteries. The women who throughout the day had been praying inside my mother's room gave the response. "Ruega por el, pray for him." When he finished with the rosary, Father Juanito recited the Litany of the Saints, then concluded el velorio with the prayers for the dead. "Requiescat en pace," he intoned. "Amen," we responded. He then took his hat with the pom-pom's (brought from his native France), set it on his graying head, and left.

That night I was allowed to sleep in my mother's bed. There was no room elsewhere, or so I was told. The relatives from Oxnard who remained overnight were given my spot on Doña Luisa's lumpy bed. Excited about the attention I was now getting, I began to jump up and down on the bed, until Doña Raquel (mother of my friend Romey) came into the room, tucked me in, and in a gentle voice told me to go to sleep. She stayed with me until I did.

In the morning everyone looked haggard and somber in their mourning clothes. Even Uncle Nasario's ruddy cheeks and friendly eyes appeared sad and drawn. Inside the kitchen my sisters and cousins served hot chocolate from an enamel pot atop the stove. They filled platters with the sweet Mexican bread brought earlier by Uncle Louie. Just then the church bell began to peal. Everyone began to gather coats and hats for the walk to church. Without being told, Uncle Nasario and our male relatives went into the living room. They pushed aside the limp sheets with the wilted gardenias and smelly buttercups that had made me sick. They picked up the silver coffin and Rito, hoisted it onto their shoulders, and went out the door, followed by my mother, who now dressed in a dark winter dress and her best hat. Neighbor women, black dressed to their knees, huddled around my mother, then escorted her down the porch steps and to the street. My older siblings checked our clothes and hair, then herded us children out the door toward Hoyt Street. I stumbled along with Doña Luisa, who appeared to lack her usual vigor. We caught up with the procession at the church door. Suddenly the bells began to peal again. Dong. Dong. Dong. Even the bells sounded sad.

At the entrance to the church, Father Juanito awaited Rito's body, which he blessed, while we crowded around. The high requiem mass followed, beginning with the "Liberame Domine." During communion friends and relatives received the host, which was offered for the soul of our dearly departed one, and which I knew would ensure that Rito's soul would ascend straight to heaven.

When mass was ended, we followed Father Juanito and the silver coffin down the aisle. Once more our pastor blessed my dead brother, the sang "In Paradisum." This last hymn signaled the end of the service and was something like la despedida, the farewell sung at Mexican parties. The coffin was then placed in the waiting hearse, the same one that had brought Rito home for the last time.

I did not attend the funeral; they said I was too young. I walked home trailing after my mother, who did not go to the cemetery. "I cannot bear to see my son interred," she whispered to my father, her voice lost and forlorn; my sisters however, went in her place. My mother now walked with my cousin Mary, who appeared to hold her up; their dark listless forms inched their way down the empty street.

When the big black hearse went by, my mother wavered in her step, then stopped. She stood deathly still until the hearse had passed, then slowly pulled back her hat veil. "Adios hijo mio," she murmured, then resumed the long, slow walk.

I stayed behind, slowly picking my way between the rocks and grass on the path next to the street, my eyes glued on the big black car that finally turned left and disappeared.

written by Mary Helen Ponce

from "Currents from the Dancing River"
--Contemporary Latino Fiction, Nonfiction, and Poetry
edited by Ray Gonzalez
© 1994