The Fourteen Sisters of Emilio Montez O'Brien

by Oscar Hijuelos

  Yes, and Margarita, saintly and mischievous, had discovered the book one day, long ago while searching through her parents’ closet for a sun hat, and she’d smuggled it out of the house and, sitting under a willow, had read about “The Precepts of Sexual Intercourse,” as one of its chapters was called. It began:

  Inasmuch as many a young married couple have much affection for one another and a natural instinct for the procreational act, the authors of this manual feel that many young couples, ignorant of anatomy and the biophysiology of coitus, will much benefit from a thoroughly scientific step-by-step explanation of the act. We have thus divided this book into five sections: physiology, the psychology of love, seductions, consummation, and variations of coital position.

  She shook, she blushed, she laughed.

  In a state of arousal the man’s penis, henceforth called ‘member,’ engorges with blood and expands many times in size, its membranes, once aroused, taking on a hectic, raspberry coloration and the aspect of a mushroom or a helmet; most sensitive to the touch, it hardens into the consistency of wood, an ivory horn, or, if you like, a bone, this latter term being a misconception, since the member is at all times pliable. Brimming with the heat of arousal, much veined and at times oddly shaped—hooked, arrow-like, oddly curved, or snout-like—it can seem repugnant to the female. In this instance she should be gently coached as to the naturalness of this condition.

  During the act the female should be caressed upon the breasts and the contours of her body and, finally and above all, gently massaged upon her vagina, which is Latin for sheath. This is most important and it should be pointed out that many sources, among them our own esteemed Sir Richard Burton, have written extensively about the advantageous manipulation of that fleshly bulb, which, as per diagram 1a, is located just below the arch of the mons veneris labia minora and is called the clitoris or hood. The gentle manipulation of this sensory nodule can be aided with the use of a tepidly warmed vegetable oil or by the application of salivic moisture of the mouth, which is left to the judgment of the male and the prurient disposition of the female. Once properly manipulated, this sensory organ sends through the female body an effusion of pleasurable sensations much akin to what the male feels in those moments before ejaculation, and this prepares the female for the coitus by inducing a dilation of the vaginal canal which can then adjust itself to the introduction and comfortable accommodation of the erect penile member.

  Margarita had read this for an hour, her face getting very warm, and while for a moment she had been incensed that her father, the most respectable, hardworking, and generally straitlaced Nelson O’Brien, had this in his possession, she had found its contents illuminating and thought that she might share this with her sisters, like the twins, Olga and Jacqueline, who would surely have a good laugh later; in her room, lying down on her belly and thinking about the book, she felt pleasant sensations rushing through her body—her breasts, pressed flat but sensitive through her soft flannel nightgown, pinching at the sheets, and a tightness, warm and dense in her center, making her curl up and churn her hips. This was in 1918.

  Each year, during the autumnal sessions of love, performed with vigor, the house would fill with a scent of altar wax and butter, and soon enough rivulets of Irish sperm would join a Cuban ovum (continents of blood and memory—from Saracen to Celtic, Scythian to Phoenician, Roman to pagan Iberian, African to Dane, a thousand female and male ancestors, their histories of sorrow and joy, of devastated suffering and paradisiacal pleasures linked by the progression of the blood) and a new Montez O’Brien sister would come into the world. And on each of these occasions their father, Nelson O’Brien, looming over the cradle and ever unable to look at their unclad fannies, the peach of their sexes, blunt, raw, juicy in their cribs, would feel an odd sensation—a kind of spiritual torpor as if he were a tourist in a very strange country. The femininity of the household (what would one day be called the psychology of women, perhaps) sometimes made him feel very much alone, though that solitude lifted away when he’d find himself feeling “manly” among men. In a saloon, he’d listen to their tales of conquest and struggle, beer froth on his lips, the man clicking open his cameo pocket watch with its ornamental engraving on the case and Roman numerals on the face (figures getting nice and wobbly like Tunisian dancing girls, like Abdullah’s beautiful daughter). Trying to dispense with certain of his truest feelings (of horror, of pity), he’d tell these chaps, all pals listening to the rinky-dink piano, and expectorating tadpoles of chewing tobacco into the beautiful spittoons, about those “glory days” in Cuba and how it had started with the impulse to prove to himself and the family that he was a man, ambitious (though cautious), brave (often frightened), and stoic (often sickened to his guts). The fellows had their own stories, too, some of the oldest gents going back to the days of the Civil War. And though he would tell his tales, in his heart there was always a great sadness, despite the love he felt from each of his vibrant daughters, a sadness that sometimes overwhelmed him at four in the afternoon on a November day while he was driving his automobile along a country road, leafless forest around him. He’d feel convinced that he had not measured up as a man; because he’d not had a son, the good and humble photographer and movie-house operator who was Nelson O’Brien stepping aside and allowing the maudlin, self-pitying, angry Nelson O’Brien to take his place. Time to get lost in the world and have a few drinks, either a tin cup of whiskey or a mug of beer in a speakeasy or a tin cup of some medicinal tonic or other (like the dark syrupy Dr. Arnold’s Relaxation Heightener). He’d sip these drinks until the grayest day took on the heavenly colorations of spring and he would grow optimistic again, certain that one day he would indeed prove himself by bringing a son into this world.

  Generally speaking, he played the cheerful and respectful father—not one to dote on his daughters, he nonetheless had bounced them on his knees and always treated them with the kindness of a hotelier inviting new guests into his establishment. Each year he would gather the daughters in the yard for new family photographs. He became more and more the sentimentalist (with each passing year)—for new life was always beautiful—crying happily as he’d hold each new daughter in his arms (ever afraid of dropping the delicate little thing). He’d even gotten into the habit of collecting certain of their effects in one of his trunks, turning this into a museum of his daughters’ lives, the trunk stuffed with envelopes and lockets that contained strands of their hair, baptismal cards (each, with the exception of Margarita—who had been baptized in New York City in 1902—brought into Christendom by Father Mancuso), their baby teeth, shoes, toys, their first drawings, and so many of the countless photographs he had taken of them engaged in just about every variation of female childhood activity, even photographing the little ones hiding like water sylphs in a tin tub in the yard. Sometimes he’d pass the evenings adding color highlights to the photographs with diluted opaque paints, haloesque golds for the blondes, the blue of the sea for the blue-eyed, and the reddest of cheeks for all, even his darker daughters, who tended, in those touch-ups, to appear (in the estimation of the oldest sister, Margarita, years later as she looked through a box of said photographs) like those brightly Europeanized versions of harem girls, with their luscious peach-tinted cheeks, that one would find in books. There was no reason to think he did not love his daughters, but even in 1925, when he had already fathered so many children, the progression of his life both delighted and troubled him.

  Still, Nelson was pleased for Margarita, and that night, although he was not a big man, he loomed with benevolent enormity, his eyes tearful and happy, his Celtic face bump-cheeked and brilliant as he lifted his head and balanced its weight on the outstretched fingers of his hands on the table, shoulders hunched. At forty-six, his hair had just started to show the slightest touches of gray, and fell over his brow straight and fleecy, and though he sometimes jerked his head stupidly—beyond the bounds of sobriety—his daughters focused on him with love. (For a moment, their love was so st
rong he felt himself lifting off the floor, and then he settled down again.) He felt good: after all, he was a reasonably successful man who’d come from humble beginnings to America and had been a good provider. By his side was their mother, Mariela Montez, her eyes half closed, for she was tired, but she paid attention when he began to address his daughters. “We are blessed tonight,” he said in his brogue, “blessed to be here on the eve of Meg’s happiness.” His arms spread wide. “May God bless us all.” His head swayed.

  “Ah, if you knew, Meg, what all this means to me!”

  — Their Wedding —

  All like a dream, the hail of rice down the church steps after the ceremony—the chilly (as she was “common”) and rich family of Lester Thompson behind them, her father and her mother, ever pregnant (this time with Emilio), and all her sisters cheerfully following: and their friends—the García family, Miss Covington, Mrs. Vidal, the Basque bakers, and the many casual friends whom the family had made over the years.

  For the reception Nelson had rented the ballroom of the town hall, rafters decorated with garlands of crepe and paper lanterns, and they had brought in “refreshments” and even a little champagne for the bridal table. Inside the hall, a string-and-brass band performed popular tunes, the Charleston being the latest dance craze, and later his musical daughters performed for the crowd, things going well even if the bridegroom’s family were disapproving, Lester and Margarita dancing close on the dance floor. Everybody was happy, with the exception perhaps of García’s son, who, back from college, had still harbored a hope of loving Margarita. As he made his way over to the bridal table, he felt a little annoyed because Margarita had written him a casual letter saying, “There’s something I haven’t told you. I’m getting married in May, to a wonderful man named Lester Thompson.” He congratulated her, but as he did so, he had a look of deep contempt on his face. He sat with Isabel, speaking in Spanish, and tapping his fingers on the table, and as Margarita danced with her new husband, he watched their every move. Continually shifting in his seat, he smiled, but bitterly, so bitterly that Nelson walked over and, putting his arms around the young man, said, “I don’t know what happened between you and my daughter. This fellow Thompson seems all right, but, to be honest with you, I would have been happy if things had turned out all right with you.”

  “Thank you, Mr. O’Brien,” García’s son said.

  “Llámame Nelson. We’re friends.”

  ***

  It was after Maria, Olga, and Jacqueline’s performance that their mother began to feel the exhaustion of the day. With her limbs aching to the bone and her belly filled with seawater, and with an unruly creature kicking inside her, she nearly fainted from the effort of crossing the floor to embrace her lovely daughter.

  They had posed for some formal photographs of the occasion. Earlier, Nelson had photographed the bride and groom separately in his studio, she holding a bouquet of roses and he, the new husband, with his lean face, hair parted in the middle à la Rudy Vallee, foreheads nearly touching, an aura of bliss around them. Now the parties gathered before another camera, the Thompson family posed beside the expansive O’Briens, the bride and groom at the center, all giving a display of cheeriness, even when it was obvious that his family could not rationalize this union (“She’s so dark”). Years later, the black-and-white photograph would show nothing of the sweet springtime colors of the dresses and only a little of the glitter of rings and pins and brooches, and yet the feeling of that day, with its thick-hemmed and voluminous skirts nearly carried aloft by the drafts in the hall, and Margarita’s elation—and some of her weariness—would be captured on a sheet of heavy paper, chemically treated, that would one day endow the lovely colors and soft emotions, all washed out, with the gravity of stone.

  ***

  Later—and this startled the crowd—some mischievous kids opened the back door of the hall and a great ruckus was heard, a clip-clop of hoofs, and some screaming and laughter, tables knocked over, and into the hall bounded a muscular, soot-colored horse, a wreath around its enormous neck, the horse panicking and, as if presaging the marriage itself, galloping through a row of tables, scattering the orchestra and happy celebrants, rampaging until it was subdued.

  — Their Honeymoon —

  The morning they had reached their hotel, the Outlook Lodge on the American side of Niagara Falls, with windows overlooking the great white cascades and its furious currents, the foam like an exploding heaven, she stood by their window gazing out into the mist-cooled breeze. He watched her for some time and lay back in bed, waiting for her to join him. She was thinking about breakfast—the dining room was said to serve wonderful pastries—but he said, “We’ll eat later.” She said that it would have been nice for her mother and father—and for her sisters—to see this grand American sight.

  Soon he was standing behind her, pulling her so close that she could feel the stiffness of his beastly sexuality against the softness of her gown, and although she trembled, he pressed closer, a bolt of thick and exquisite heat against her buttocks. And then, just like that, she began to feel his hands moving over her—

  He loved to suckle her breasts, and when he finished with her breasts, he moved her onto the bed and undressed her: her plump nakedness pleased him, and soon he was delighting in the hairiness of her center, and wedging her legs apart, his head disappearing between them, his tongue jostling the quivery tissue of her femininity, and he lifted her up, tracing the dark pubic hair that rose from the yawning opening of her vagina to her belly button, and then he slid his tongue into the crater of her bottom, where there was a thick sheet of gleaming black hair. For all her fantasies about love, she had a hard time forgetting that she was the oldest of fourteen sisters and that, just a few days before, she had been living in a household in which most activities were public. She did not know how to react, for all she had read, and as he began to move over her, she had to laugh, because what she really wanted to think about was breakfast, and she said, “Don’t you think we should go downstairs,” which did not stop him.

  He deflowered her and she felt a vague disappointment. The thought of making love to him had been more monumental than the act itself. He made love to her three times, each session ending quickly, and she had daydreamed, in those moments, as much as she had tried to concentrate on her own pleasure, about the way things had been back in the house in Cobbleton, when it had been much easier, despite the tactile splendor and shocking nature of his penis—for it seemed strangely formed, like a sea creature—to touch herself. And she grew nostalgic.

  She had also wondered about what he meant when he’d said that she reminded him of someone else. He certainly loved her gypsy darkness, for that’s what he’d call her in moments of ecstasy—my little Pennsylvania gypsy girl—and, coming, repeat, “Oh, my God. Oh, my God.” She wouldn’t find it out for a long time, but her husband was thinking about the wondrous Jeannette, with whom the erudite and sophisticated Lester Thompson had spent many a day in bed during the happiest time of his life, when he had been traveling in Europe—Jeannette, who, as it turned out, had been a beautiful Parisian whore.

  — Their Marital Bliss —

  At first, she had enjoyed the comforts of living in his house; they owned a radio, electric fans, a large quilted bed, curtains of French lace, and their kitchen and dining room were filled with the most elegant utensils, ceramic bowls, and glistening trays and ladles. A maid cleaned and kept things in order for them. And Margarita? As his wife, as Mrs. Thompson, her main responsibility was to look after her husband; that is, to wait for him at the end of his day, when, like a good wife, she was to attend to his bodily pleasures.

  She remembered that before their love sessions he would ensconce himself in their bathroom and sit on a chair reading through rumpled, water-stained copies of a magazine called The French Gazette. This featured cancan girls with skirts hoisted just high enough that one could discern the shapely loveliness of their uplifted thighs, sometimes, too, revealing sh
adowy patches that looked like traces of pubic hair or, in any case, bursting femininity, which agitated him. He’d also read the Gazette (and other “European” magazines) in his office. He would daydream about love, the sight of a French gartered leg, ornamented with a rose, so exciting him that when Margarita happened by the store he would take her by the hand, lead her into his office, lift her skirt, pull off her undergarments (she much favored white buttoned panties edged with hand-crocheted lace) so that they dangled at her knees, and, looking over her legs, which were always gartered—garters he’d buy for her on his trips to New York and Philadelphia or order from the back pages of The French Gazette—proceed to exercise his matrimonial rights.

  At that time, she remembered, she had begun to think that the matrimonial bond had somehow made her more soft and malleable, indecisive and accommodating. Lester had started to treat her differently. He would call her “my pet,” and his gentlemanly behavior had been overtaken by the attitude that he, whenever he so wished, could tell her to unbutton his trousers and “kiss me there and put me in your mouth.” She’d watch him moving over her and worry about what she thought were unsightly ridges of compressing flesh across her belly. She was so preoccupied with her physical beauty, and with pleasing him, that in those moments when she appeared suddenly fat, she would compensate, grinding her hips further into him, as if to distract him. For all that sex—three, four times a day, for months, during the initial period of their love—she had not once felt the inward quivering of her loins, the promise of release that sometimes precipitated like a warming dew or heated sugar on her center. Then her simple Catholic guilt, the wondering about sins—about what she had done with her mouth, with her hips, the way she had almost cried, stretching herself open, only to watch the collapse of his ardor, the man quickly dressing and making his way back out into the world.