Thinking about the family and his standing in town, he would judge that, given the troublesome times, he had done well enough for himself. His daughters had turned out to be good women, though he’d worried about Violeta, whom he reluctantly classified as a “floozie,” and there were many days when he worried about poor Gloria’s health. And there was Margarita’s marriage to Thompson—whom were they trying to kid? The family treated the man well enough when he came to the house—what else were they going to do?—but Mariela would sometimes spend half the night in bed going on in Spanish about her daughter’s unhappiness, and “with such a good man,” she would tell him in Spanish, a wishfulness in her voice. He would listen and tell her, “He’s a drunk.” And it was true—who the heck did he think he was fooling, coming to the house ever so subtly drunk, a slight roll to his eyes and malevolence in his voice.
It takes one to know one, he would think to himself.
But Irene had married that nice butcher and he had become a grandfather and his other daughters had done well enough—though he could not help but worry about them.
The thing about life, he would think, is that there’s much that’s lovely and much that brings one pain. He’d always found little ways of telling his boy, Emilio, this truth of life, and he’d wish to God that there was a way he could guarantee happiness—if not his own, then the happiness of others.
He never wanted his son to notice his little habits—bootleg whiskey and bottles of Relaxation Heightener. A swig or two every hour until the last moments before bed—someone usually finding him asleep in front of the fireplace. He’d gotten used to hearing the sisters saying, “Daddy’s in an eccentric mood.” And why? Just because he would sometimes talk to himself as he sat watching the fire? He’d tried to quit, but bootleggers and speakeasies in Philadelphia, where one could buy a bottle of whiskey for five dollars, had always kept him well supplied, despite Prohibition; and there was the curative potion, which he had been drinking for many years and kept stocked in their cellar and in kitchen cabinets as well. It was his friend in time of need.
But he had to admit there were times when he’d gotten carried away, when he would move through the rooms of the house and have to gird himself to offer the appearance of normality. Some days, when he crossed a room, he’d suck in his stomach and concentrate on maintaining his balance so that he could walk into the parlor, where his daughters would be gathered, without “letting on.” Still, there were those nights when he would find himself roaming the field outside the house, all confused under the stars and thinking himself back in Ireland, near the Bridge of Echoes (and the River of Sorrows), Kate somewhere waiting for him. Or he was in Cuba, near Las Guásimas, roving in search of a trench to relieve himself, and suddenly he would hear a voice, or feel a hand shaking his arm, one of his daughters, or, in later years, his boy, his one and only son, Emilio, pulling him along, and as if he had been slapped in the face, he would soar out of these reveries and tell himself, “Come to your senses, man.”
He’d supposed he was fooling himself in thinking those bouts were his little secret. Even his wife, Mariela, unbeknownst to the children, promised to leave him if he didn’t change his ways—though she never did. Besides, he would go for weeks without touching a drop of anything; after all, he needed all his senses intact to carry on the business of supporting the family, and in that he took great pride.
When his son was eight, his hair started to turn gray, and although he wanted to assure the boy that all was well in the world, regardless of his personal habits, there were times when his tragic side took over. It was a funny thing. Always affectionate with his daughters, and sometimes vocal about it—“Now, listen to me, you come here and give your father a kiss”—he had not been very open with them about his life. With Emilio he behaved differently, confiding in the boy. My God, on some evenings he would sit with his son and tell him grand stories about his youth that always drifted toward the darkness (dim recollections coming to him that the next day would make him feel terrible)—the boy sometimes squirming in his chair and wanting to go away, but he would hold him by the wrist.
What could he have said?
He’d taken pride in teaching Emilio all about the photography process. He’d even sent his son to take care of a job when he could not, and he’d brought the boy along on his journeys to Philadelphia to pick up canisters of film for the movie house.
And yet—
Emilio, his flesh and blood, a fine, strong young man, gregarious and happy with his sisters, always seemed a bit on the somber side with his own father, and Nelson had remained careful about pressing him for conversation, preferring to go through their days offering common bits of advice. But as the boy got older, entering young manhood, his father had started to question him about the future.
“You know, there’s always the management of the movie house for you to think about,” he had said to the boy in 1939, when Nelson was already past sixty. “I’ve always said one thing to myself, boy, and that’s if there is anything I can do for the family it’s to leave them a means of support.”
Then: “You’re interested, aren’t you?”
“Yes, Father.”
His son’s response always heartened him, for as Nelson got older, he wanted to know that everything in the lives of his children would be in place.
“Just remember, too, that when I die, should any of your sisters be wanting in any fashion, or if your mother needs support, I want you to take care of them. You understand?”
— A Slight Excitement: Gloria —
He had to give his father credit—the man did teach him about the photography trade and the movie house—and in the days when Emilio had come of age his father (to remove any doubts from his own mind about the boy’s “maleness,” for who could say how a young man so subjected to the female influence might turn out) took him to a countryside brothel, the lady taking care of him a little sad, and reminiscent in his mind, because she was so dark and deliciously proportioned, of his older sister, Margarita. At the sight of this woman, who couldn’t have been more than thirty, in garters and with her thick bush prominent under the veil of her panties, he had thought about Margarita, not with incestuous desires, but with a strong memory of the days when his oldest sister would bring him over to her house and he would play, rolling a truck along the floor, and his oldest sister would come into the parlor, all dolled up, as they used to say in those days, carrying a book.
“You must learn to read, Emilio. Now come for your lesson.”
And he would sit on her lap, everything about her full and soft, the silk of her dresses touching him, and, if the truth be told, a slight excitement—though he confused it then with love for his sister—coming over him. Sometimes Gloria, his beloved companion, would join them, or Carmen or Violeta. Sometimes all the younger sisters would be gathered in that room where Margarita’s literary society met, the windows happy with light and the crystal objects in the room gleaming. But sometimes they were alone and the smell of her perfume and the sweet touch of her hand brushing his hair away from his eyes as he would lean forward to see the words better would make him feel like wrapping his arms around her and giving her a kiss—as he often did.
“Oh, but you’re affectionate,” she would say.
(Scent of violet perfume.)
He was not bookish, reading bored him, but for many afternoons he endured the ritual just so he could be near Margarita, always so tender with him, and sometimes staring so deep into his eyes that he would feel she was trying to enter inside. He would blink.
They would be alone, sitting together. His sister Margarita, with her grand wardrobe (and sadness, even then he could sense it), making him lunches of warmed chicken with mayonnaise and salt and pepper on rye bread and chocolate cookies and Coca-Cola, and the two of them afterward sitting, he on her lap, always on her lap, with a warmth rising up through her skirt, much peace and the monotony of the words, a happy time, until, unexpectedly, Lester, her husband, would com
e home, nervous and agitated from having spent the morning in the department store without having seen a single customer. He’d announce, “I’m here, honey,” and, “Where’s lunch?” and, in a shirt and bow tie, sit at the parlor table, munching on a chicken leg and pouring himself some liquid refreshment from a decanter. Afterward marching across the room with his suspenders down, he’d pat Emilio’s head and say, “Now, we’re off for a nap. You stay here and play. And if you’re good, there’s two-bits for you.”
On one of those days (perhaps several), he had gone upstairs and, crawling along the rug, had come to their bedroom and peered in through the slightly ajar door. What he saw was a dresser and mirror of an ornate design, a tassel-fringed electric lamp, and a bed, a man (Lester) kneeling on a rug before that bed, his head bent down and apparently concentrating on kissing or licking the outspread, brunette center of an unidentifiable being, whose legs fell over his shoulders, and he heard cries, “Ay, ay, ay,” and noticed, like a detective, that the subject of these attentions was wearing a pair of red leather high-heeled shoes with tassels, and through the brilliance of deduction, and because the woman raised her head to declare, “You’re biting too hard,” he saw it was his oldest sister, Margarita.
Of all the details, it had been the black thickness of her pubic hair that he remembered. In the brothel where his father had taken him, the prostitute, in garters and stockings that rose to her hips and with a brassiere that could barely contain her dimpled breasts, seemed most exciting to him. She had pulled her panties up high so that an uninitiated young man would see the fabric kissing the whorls of her labia. He stared and she tugged tighter. Strands of her black pubic hair radiated such promise that he wanted to mount her. She had reached out to suckle him, rolling her tongue about her lips, but he felt terrified. Laughing, she laid back on the bed and opened her legs wider: between her thighs and stretching across her feminine opening was written WOMAN, and he did not know whether he should stand back or leap. He stood back. She waited and then took hold of him, putting him into her mouth, and after a long time she declared, “I give up.” But he suddenly felt empowered and, not really knowing what to do, began kissing her as she guided him into her plush center. He blinked, thinking of his sister, guilt paralyzing him. Fortunately, Mother Nature prevailed.
***
In time, a new kind of brazenness and energy overtook him. He would run charging across the fields in bursts, hopping over stones and going on for long distances until he’d exhausted himself One afternoon he ran for nearly an hour and a half, making his way to one of the farthest hills, where it occurred to him that he wanted to keep running forever—imagining, in the distance whose silence would be cracked open by the occasional train whistle or a crop-duster crossing the sky, that there would be many other houses with brunette ladies awaiting him. On one of those days, with two dollars in his pocket, he ran back to the countryside brothel and spent his money there, his initial reservations and his boyish sense of propriety and deep respect for women giving way to a languorous appreciation of the female body, and unlike the other men who frequented the place, men who acted as though the whole business were “dirty” and the women employed there were “dirty” as well, this lad went about the act of love with great courtesy and diligence, as if he were studying some new craft. For several years, he’d go there every month or so, and during that time lost the last traces of his boyhood habits. He suddenly began to see the limits of childhood and to lose interest in being the “little brother.”
The sisters noticed this—his daily routines had started to change. It seemed that he was rarely in the house and showed much less patience when he would walk out the door and Gloria, always following him, would ask where he was going. She still loved to spend her time with him, while he simply wanted to be alone. But thinking himself cruel, he lacked the heart to dismiss her on those afternoons when he would go to town with the hope of running into certain girls, mostly high-society debutantes, the daughters of bankers and factory owners, who kept summer houses in the beautiful hills outside Cobbleton. They would walk to town together, Gloria frankly daydreaming that they would always be together and that one day they would pursue the most glorious adventures—traveling to the big cities and even to Europe, as some of their sisters already had, God willing.
She thought him “experienced.” Why, he had already journeyed as a boy to Cuba, a place as distant and mysterious as China (during the two loneliest months of her childhood), and though he remembered little about it, his journey gave him, in her mind, some credence as an adventurer; and because he was so strong, as she was not, she fancied that one day they would make their own journey together, her brother protecting her. In her daydreams, she and Emilio would pack their bags, and in the way that her father, Nelson, and his sister, Kate, had once traveled to America, they would set sail to many wonderful places where cities and people were so beautiful that she would forget her bodily woes and live a life of bliss. It was a daydream, for the world in those days was changing rapidly. Events in Europe, which they followed with rapt interest (listening to the news on the radio and watching the newsreels in the movie house), seemed, in the late 1930s, to be heading toward war, and yet the world in which she imagined themselves traveling existed outside all that, an endless array of perfectly painted vistas like the backdrops in movies or on the picture postcards that they’d receive from the musical sisters when they were in Europe. They would move through the future, like young couples making their journey through life in the wishful ads for places like the Alexander Hamilton Institute, which offered a course in business management—a man and a woman walking along the road of life, crooked and jagging, but heading toward a paradise of rolling hills and sunlight.
She thought about this often, especially during the days when Emilio seemed to be pulling away. “A stage he’s going through,” she heard Veronica saying one day, and she wanted to believe that. She had her own life—work in the movie house and dating from time to time—but in the end she simply preferred the company of her brother, hating it when he would disappear and she would find herself waiting and so distracted that her own mother had said to her, “Let him do as he pleases,” and in Spanish, “No te mortifiques.” Still, on many a lonely afternoon in the household with her sisters, Gloria would pine away for him, her body tensing, her symptoms—when she had them—worsening, as she thought that, were she to become gravely ill, her brother would rush to her side, never to leave her.
She’d pass through great torments, resting in her bed and sighing, her head filled with speculations about his changed demeanor. It would come to her as a relief to hear that he had spent the afternoon in the photography shop or had gone out with his father on some job. But all else—that he was roving about without her, youthful, vibrant, and handsome—troubled her, and the plans that she’d fantasized with in regard to her brother would unravel. What if he met someone who caught his fancy, so that, later on, this unknown person became the beneficiary of his company, “stealing” him away and going on all those journeys which she had planned, leaving her alone in the house with her mother or settled into a mundane kind of matrimony with some nice, normal fellow, who, for whatever reason, had found her charming and perhaps pretty. She would shiver, wondering, Why is he running away from me? She’d even feel concerned if he went to Margarita’s house to perform some chores for her, aware of Margarita’s seductiveness with Emilio. (And it was so. Gloria had accompanied Emilio to her older sister’s house, the house by that time sad and loveless, for many years had passed since the days of her happiness. And her sister, well into her thirties and childless, would appear in the parlor, as it happened, just closing the buttons of her blouse or hitching up her skirt, so that something of her very female body could be seen by anyone in the room. Her sister’s marriage was so loveless that Margarita would spend many a night at their house, especially on evenings when Lester was in a bad mood or had gone away, lamenting his misfortunes. The department store was doing ba
dly and they had moved from the grand house to a smaller, more humble dwelling. They did not get a divorce because it would be too expensive, but also because Lester was often away managing one of his family’s textile factories in Philadelphia for weeks at a time. By then this bookish older sister, feeling that her life was over, that she was married to an unhappy, foppish man, and—this went back years—without children of her own, took a special interest in Emilio. He had passed many of his childhood days in her company, days when Margarita, so it seemed to Gloria, had been a little more than sisterly with the boy, as if she wished to take him away for herself—away from the household, away from her.)
And although she loved her oldest sister, just the thought that she was spending time with their brother was enough to make her unhappy. By then Margarita seemed very old to her, yet Gloria entertained tormented visions of Emilio leaning his head against her breast, as if he were an infant again, and who knew what was going through her oldest sister’s mind?
It did not help matters that she had been aware of Emilio’s maturity for a long time, that she’d watched him writhing in bed and once opened the door to his room to leave a chocolate bar on his pillow and found her brother with his trousers down around his ankles, holding a book—whose cover read: A Gentleman’s Guide to Love—in one hand, his other fist fiercely working the ardent, veiny, and shocking appendage that was his sex organ. She closed the door as quickly as she had opened it, but despite the brevity of the incident, she walked around with that image strong in her mind and could not look him in the eye for a month, his male development, which she had intuited and caught glimpses of in the days when they all shared a room, so startling her—for “it” and “he” seemed so overwhelmingly powerful—that her thoughts unraveled, brushed against temptation and fantasies, how and why she did not know. It was just that she would find herself desiring contact with that strength, which confused her, as she loved him like a sister (his favorite, she liked to think). But no matter how many times she dismissed her reaction as the normal shock of discovering something intimate about the opposite sex, even one’s own brother, she could not get rid of certain thoughts that might not be considered “normal,” and berated herself for them.
The Fourteen Sisters of Emilio Montez O'Brien Page 24