One

“Her eyes are too small,” my new mother-in-law said, eyeing me warily. “If she does have a son, will he be handsome enough to warrant a top-shelf wife?”

“Of course he will,” my father-in-law boomed, his pale face turning red in his anger. He was of Italian and Irish decent, not unlike my beloved First Wife Young. The thought of her threatened to overwhelm me, and so I pushed her from my mind.

“He will be the heir to my fortune and the man of his household,” he was saying, “And any man in the Roy family clan warrants a top-shelf wife, regardless of his eyes.” He spat at Mama-Roy’s feet, clinching his jaw. He was infuriated that she would question his only son’s choice in First Wife, and he didn’t have the decorum to discuss the matter privately.

“I suppose her children could have my eyes,” Mama-Roy said quietly, looking down her nose at me. At that moment, I resented being so short. “We can hope.”

I kept my eyes trained on the wall in front of me, remembering the painting that had hung in First Wife Young’s bedroom for as long as I could remember: a beautiful woman, the painter some Italian with a strange name- Leonardo. The woman was called Mona Lisa, and she was the epitome of all that we should be, at least according to First Wife Young. We should be strong, resilient, and, most of all, emotionless. Worried? Filled with anxiety? Overly happy? Depressed? Jealous? All of these things could- and would- ruin a marriage and a family, and all of these things should be hidden behind a mimicry of that slight look, that sly and winsome façade.

So I plastered a Mona-Lisa smile on my face, practiced through years of tutelage in front of First Wife Young’s painting, and though my hands were trembling beneath my elongated bridal sleeves, I thought that I hid my emotions well. I was supposed to appear neither eager, like a whore, nor frightened or sad, as if the family I was marrying in to was undeserving of my love. First Wife taught me to stare at the ancient Mona Lisa every day, practicing her timeless patience. Was she happy? Frightened? Confident? Afraid? Confused? No one knew, and neither would my husband.

I bit my tongue as my mother in law, known as Mama-Roy in this household, circled me yet again, like a vulture, looking for faults and passing overtly loud judgments.

No, my husband wouldn’t know what I was thinking or feeling. Nor would his mother.

She walked in circles around me, examining me from head to foot with her watery eyes, large blue circles that seemed to take up half of her face. She was stunning in a sharp way, her features too pointy and her chin too clean-cut, but stunning nonetheless, even in her old age, and judgmental as only a mother to a son can be. She was a Fifth Wife, and my father-in-law had no patience for her beyond his gratitude for their mutual son.

“Mahmah,” my husband said breathily, speaking quietly. “I think I’ve made a good decision. She’s brilliant. She can do-“

“The only thing I’m interested in is what she can do with what’s between her legs,” Mama-Roy interrupted him. She smacked my behind, and I yelped, despite my careful concentration in upholding my Mona Lisa façade.

Mama-Roy smiled. “I see she’s ready for the bed, then,” she said. I could smell her, and she had a spicy scent, like a man. She was all coarse angles- filth-impropriety and embarrassment. I knew without being told that she held fast to the old ways and would brook no arguments when it came to new ideas. She wore no deodorant and had no need to emphasize her features with makeup, so she would expect the same from those around her. I would have to be extra careful to contour my face and line my eyes before she awoke for the day. It would be exhausting, and inwardly, I wilted at the thought of it, but I kept my back straight and my eyes forward under her scrutiny.

A woman like this produces a son, I thought. I cringed, watching my husband’s face blush with shame. He quickly walked forward and took my left arm while my new father-in-law took my right. Mama-Roy followed behind as we trailed slowly, ceremoniously, into my new life- through this unfamiliar mansion, down hallway after seemingly endless hallway, and finally to the bridal quarters, nestled deep within the wing of the building that would belong firstly to me and, later, to my sister wives.

The wedding bed was a rope bed, old fashioned and expensive. Like any traditionalists, they followed custom here. Rope beds were used in the days of plentiful sons, so we used them now for luck.

Luck to fuck, I thought crassly and almost giggled at my own impropriety.

“You’ll do it like this,” Mama-Roy said, climbing grandly onto the bed. She bent over, on her hands and knees, and Papa-Roy climbed onto the bed behind her. He looked bored as he thrust at her bottom a couple of times, fully clothed, and then he rolled his eyes and climbed off of the bed. “I think he’s got the gist of it,” he said, and Mama-Roy reluctantly climbed off of the bed, too, disappointed that her moment to shine was over.

“Do it just the way I showed you,” she said, pointing her finger at my face. “If you want to produce a son, take my advice. That’s how I did it, and that’s how you’ll do it, too.” She hugged me roughly to her, kissed the top of my head, and left, Papa-Roy following behind. The awkwardness of the encounter left me speechless.

My new groom closed the door behind them and cleared his throat.

“Well,” he said, clasping his hands together, the sound echoing in the too-quiet room.

My own hands were sweaty, and I rubbed them on the inside of my bridal sleeves, where my mother had thoughtfully sewn two cotton patches into the silk for just this purpose. Thinking of this small kindness made me miss her terribly, and the feeling came on so suddenly that I thought I might weep, right there in front of my husband.

But I couldn’t do that. My place as First Wife wouldn’t be secure until we’d copulated and I’d produced a child, at least a daughter- but of course, everyone’s hope was for a son.

“We’ve… we’ve done things before,” he started, walking closer to me. “We’ve done all but… this. So it shouldn’t be as… painful for you as…”

I nodded my head at him, trying to signal that he could cease his rambling, awkward speech. He was trying to talk me into letting him have sex with me when that was his right. I was his wife. It was my duty. Even if I’d wanted to object, I couldn’t. There was no place for a First Wife who would not even try to produce a male heir to the family fortune.

But the truth was, I’d been silently looking forward to this night for months. It was getting harder and harder for me to tell Chan no, to push him away when he started to climb on top of me and do what he could not. I wasn’t exactly in love with him, but I was eager to finish what we’d started so many times in hidden sections of my family’s compound. “That’s for my husband,” I’d whispered, for months and months, and now- he was my husband. He could.

He nodded at me, blew out the candles, and made his way to my side. Slowly, carefully, he unbuttoned my wedding dress. It would have been sweet, tender, of him to unbutton all hundred of the buttons, from the back of my neck all the way down to my feet, but tradition called for ripped fabric on the bride’s wedding gown- a sign of unbridled passion and good luck for future sons. So I steeled myself, and he gripped each side of my dress. “Ready?” he asked, his voice a whisper at the back of my neck, and I nodded my consent. He ripped the fabric apart with a quick yank. Gray and pearl-white buttons flew away from me and landed with tinkling sounds all over the floors. I wistfully rubbed the cotton undersides of my sleeves once more as the dress slid off of me, saying goodbye to my former life.

Still behind me, he started kissing my neck, and I relaxed against him. This part was familiar to me, a dance we’d done a hundred times in my own home, sometimes in hidden alleyways in the city, or under un-judging stars and a glorious moon on the rare occasion I’d managed to sneak out past curfew.

Then he reached around and grabbed my breasts, stroking my nipples tenderly, and I turned to face him. I put my hand on his face, encouraging him, and he scooped me up as if I weighed no more than a feather and laid me on the bed. It made a hideous noise as the force of our weight fought with the ropes, but I refused to be distracted.

This was the night I would make a baby. A son, I prayed, and it became a chant in my mind, a force that pushed through from my brain to his, breaking the barriers of our skulls. A son, a son, a son.

Finally, skillfully, he flipped me over and pulled at my hips, positioning us the way his parents had instructed. I could feel myself opening up to him, wanting him, and I offered no resistance. I felt the tip of his member, familiar to my mouth but not to this new place, pressing against me, and I smiled, ready to receive him.

But when he pushed himself inside of me, I gasped and slammed myself forward, away from him, involuntarily. He slid out of me and drew in a sharp intake of breath, then grabbed himself and stroked, quickly, urgently, until he came all over the sheets between my legs.

He collapsed onto the bed beside me, panting, and I curled up into a ball, cupping my burning, aching center.

“Did I… I’m so sorry,” he said, between gulps of air. “Did it-?”

“Yes,” I answered, my eyes filling with tears. It hurt. I didn’t expect it to, because his fingers had gone there first, smoothing the trail for our wedding night, but his fingers were not an adequate preparation for his penis, and I was humiliated by how badly it had hurt. My insides felt like they were on fire, and accompanying that feeling was a deep pulsing ache that synched with my heartbeat. I felt something wet between my legs; I held my hand up, and noted with disgust the streaks of pink blood.

“Oh, God,” he said, jumping off of the bed. “There’s so much of it. I knew that there was supposed to be a little but- Piya! Are you alright?”

“I…” I looked at the blood and remembered First Wife Young’s tutorial. No matter the pain, you must always try to get pregnant. You’ll have him to yourself for just a little while, a few months if you’re lucky, and then he’ll take a new wife. Prove your worth. Prove your fertility. Get pregnant right way, no matter what it takes.

“I’m fine,” I said, my voice losing its shakiness. “Would you mind just getting me a towel, please?” This was a business transaction. I’d been foolish to lose myself in the passion of the moment to begin with. I had work to do.

He slid off of the bed and ran to the bathroom, and while he was in there, I did what I had to do.

I slid my hand over the sheet, scooping up as much of his masculine mess as I could, and I shoved it inside of myself, biting my tongue to keep from crying out. I lifted my hips and felt a wet heaviness, already cooling with the temperature of the room, sliding into my center, and I relaxed.

This was my job. It wouldn’t always be pleasant, but I was First Wife now, and I would do whatever it took.

The next morning, when I awoke, Chan was still sleeping. This was the part of the marriage ritual that caused me the most anxiety in the months before my wedding- would I be able to set my internal alarm to wake me up before my husband? Before my household? I must always be beautiful. My status as First Wife would hold more power if I always appeared elegant and lovely, pleasing to the eye. I was relieved to be awake while everyone else slept, and I quietly pulled my body out of the bed, away from Chan’s freckled, warm back. He was snoring, and his breathing was quiet and slow.

In the bathroom, I quickly applied my makeup, first washing off the previous day’s face, and re-curled my dark hair. I then tousled it just enough so that it appeared natural, and I climbed back in bed. I had shut my eyes for only a moment before Mama-Roy was opening the door, barging her way into my marital bedroom.

“Up! Up, up, up, Channyboy,” she sing-songed, smiling at her only child. “We must see that the deed has been done!” She cast a disapproving eye at me and I knew that she hoped the worst for me. I had only to deliver a healthy baby, boy or girl, and my status would be above hers in all but the respect that I chose to show her, based on societal propriety. My respect to her would be a gift after the birth of my first born, but today, it was her right.

I climbed out of bed, feigning sleepiness, and wrapped my robe around myself, huddling into the far corner of the room. Chan stumbled off to the bathroom to relieve himself, the sight of his mother in his room something that wasn’t unusual to him. My husband was still very much a baby, a man-child, as so many men were in this world dominated by women but ruled by men.

Mama-Roy ripped the blankets back with no hesitation, and immediately my mistake was made apparent. There, on the pristine white sheets, were the blood smears- shaped like fingers, and running through a yellowing stain. It was obvious to both of us what that stain was, and I held my breath as Mama-Roy squinted her eyes. She stared at my bloody finger-shaped smears, at the stain, and I watched her face as understanding dawned on her.

To my surprise, she looked at me and smiled. She dropped the blanket and took the four steps to my corner, where I stood huddled in my robe, and she wrapped her arms around me, hugging me tightly to her.

“Good girl,” she whispered. “We’ll get a baby out of you yet.”

I was so shocked at her kindness that I didn’t remember to tell my arms to wrap themselves around her, returning her hug, and before I could do so, she pulled away from me, all traces of tenderness gone. She yanked the sheet from the bed and held it above her head. As she walked out of the room, it trailed behind her like a deflated flag.

“It’s done!” she called, her screeching voice echoing in the long master hallway. “The deed is done! Come and see!”

I sank to my knees and pressed my face into my palms, careful- always careful, no matter what- not to smear my mascara, not to undo the careful, face-shaping contouring I’d applied just moments ago. I took deep breaths in, held them, and released them, calming my heart, while I listened to my new mother-in-law parade my bloody sheets throughout the house.