Book Report: The House of Broken Angels

5. Luis Alberto Urrea, The House of Broken Angels (2018) (5/1/18)

I had the great pleasure of listening to Luis Alberto Urrea "read" one of his short stories at a writers' conference a few years back (it was actually a by-heart dancing performance—absolutely riveting), and I have been enamored of him ever since. I then read one of his novels, Into the Beautiful North, and thoroughly enjoyed it, and David read his nonfiction The Devil's Highway, about people crossing the border from Mexico into the U.S., and ditto. So I was excited when his newest book came out two months ago. (Because I am trying to actually read the books I buy in hardback, when the question came up of what to tackle next, it was an easy choice.)

The House of Broken Angels is a family saga—the family Mexican-American, living in San Diego as the novel gets going, most of them here legally, but some not. The story plays out over the course of a week bookended by a funeral—the matriarch's—and a birthday party—that of the matriarch's 70-year-old son, Big Angel, who also happens to be dying of cancer. But it also plays out over the decades of these people's individual stories, as memories are visited, dreams re-explored, tragedies put once again to rest. Time is a character in this book as well.

Occasions like these bring in everyone, and the family tree is large and complicated. Figuring out who's who (everyone has at least one nickname) and who's related to whom how is part of the fun of this book. It's like being a guest yourself at a large family gathering where you only know one person (in this case, Luis himself—a professor at the University of Illinois, his father Mexican, his mother American, who in the novel "is" Little Angel, Big Angel's half-brother by an American mother, and a professor in Seattle). Little Angel is somewhat estranged from the clan, so we get to watch through his eyes as he sorts things through. It helps. Because you have to pay close attention, watch and listen carefully, to tease out the relationships, the energies, sometimes even the identities of those assembled.

It is also a story full of emotion: as the NYT reviewer, Viet Thanh Nguyen, notes, it includes all sorts of dualities—anger and sorrow, love and pain, joy and resentment, hatred and reconciliation, backstabbing and tenderness. In short, there's a whole heckuvalot of humanity in this book. And the ante is upped by it being Hispanic humanity, in this country, now.

I flagged many passages for the beauty, humor, pathos, emotion, of the writing. Here are a couple, chosen somewhat at random (one interior, one dialogue). They're long, but I want you to get a good sense of the flow. Urrea can write, yes—description, sequence—but he also has deep insight into the heart of us, and it, all. (In the following, Perla is Big Angel's wife; Lalo and Minnie are his children. The "invisible interviewer," I'm guessing, is God.)

Big Angel was turning seventy. It seemed very old to him. At the same time, it felt far too young. He had not intended to leave the party so soon. "I have tried to be good," he told his invisible interviewer.
  His mother had made it to the edge of one hundred. He had thought he'd at least make it that far. In his mind, he was still a kid, yearning for laughter and a good book, adventures and one more albóndigas soup cooked by Perla. He wished he had gone to college. He wished he had seen Paris. He wished he had taken the time for a Caribbean cruise, because he secretly wanted to snorkel, and once he got well, he would go do that. He was still planning to go see Seattle. See what kind of life his baby brother had. He suddenly realized he hadn't even gone to the north side of San Diego, to La Jolla, where all the rich gringos went to get suntans and diamonds. He wished he had walked on the beach. Why did he not have sand dollars and shells? A sand dollar suddenly seemed like a very fine thing to have. And he had forgotten to go to Disneyland. He sat back in shock: he had been too busy to even go to the zoo. He could have smacked his own forehead. He didn't care about lions, tigers. He wanted to see a rhinoceros. He resolved to ask Minnie to buy him a good rhino figure. Then wondered where he should put it. By the bed. Damned right. He was a rhino. He'd charge at death and knock the hell out of it. Lalo had tattoos—maybe he'd get one too. When he got better.

. . . . .

It was almost party time. Back in the bedroom, Perla and La Minnie were struggling with Big Angel. They had pulled the chair backward, against his will. Every inch made him more hysterical. He dragged his feet until the linoleum pulled off his slippers and then his socks.
  None of them could remember what pills he was supposed to take at what hour. They had to trust his computer of a brain to keep track of all his mega doses. And his least favorites: the chemo lozenges. Minnie was certain he was hiding these under the bed, but she could never find them.
  They muscled him into the bathroom and stripped him.
  "Ay," he said. He went limp in their hands and sagged, grunting. "No."
  They pulled off his diaper.
  "No you don't!" he said.
  Minnie carefully wrapped the diaper in a tight ball and dropped it into the trash can.
  "No, I said!" Big Angel was trying to sit on the floor. "Leave me alone."
  Every damned day, the same thing. "Come on, Daddy," Minnie urged. "Stop being a baby."
  Perla ran the water. She was careful—kept her hand in the stream until she was sure it was perfect. Too cold and he'd curse, too hot and he'd cry.
  "No bath today!" he said.
  They lifted him into the water. He kicked weakly.
  "Flaco! This is the one day you need to take a bath. Your party!"
  "I don't want a party."
  "Be good, Flaco."
  "Too hot! Ay! Too hot!"
  "Dad!"
  "Help!" he shouted. "Angel! Angel, come!" He thrashed. "Carnal! Help me!"
  "Flaco, stop it."
  Little Angel rushed into the bedroom behind them. "Angel?" he said. "You okay?"
  "Don't come in here, Tío," said Minnie, kicking the bathroom door closed.
  Big Angel sat in the water, hands over his face. His back looked like a Halloween costume of gray bones. He shivered in the warm water.
  "You wanted a party," Minnie said. "Do you want to look good or not?"
  "Good," he said softly.
  Perla leaned in with a huge soft sponge foaming with soap and reached between his legs.
  "Better, Flaco? Sí? Feels good, no?"
  "Don't watch," he told his daughter.
  "Ain't watching. I'm busy with your armpits."
  He lay back in the water and kept his eyes screwed shut.
  "Nice and clean," Perla said. "Como un buen muchachito."
  Big Angel covered his sagging breasts with his blackened hands. "Mija?" he said.
  "Daddy?"
  "Do you forgive me?"
  "For what?"
  He waved his hand in the air. "I'm sorry."
  "For what, Daddy?"
  "All these things." He opened his eyes and stared at her. "I used to wash you," he said. "When you were my baby."
  She busied herself with the bottle of no-tears baby shampoo.
  "I used to be your father. Now I am your baby." He sobbed. Only once.
  She blinked fast and put shampoo in her palm. "It's okay," she said. "Everything's okay."
  He closed his eyes and let her wash his hair.

And at the very end, after the party, Little Angel promises Big Angel a trip to La Jolla the next day—and Big Angel drifts to sleep dreaming about watching "great waves traveling forever across the open copper sea." I don't think that's really giving too much away.