Breeding Like Rabbits Read online

  “At bedtime when we were little,” Andy had told Britt, “Mama would listen to us say our prayers, the Our Father first, followed by the Act of Contrition, and then we ‘God blessed’ every member of our family. She then tucked us in and said, ‘Keep your hands on top of the covers, boys,’ to Luke and me before she went downstairs.”

  “Didn’t you ever ask her why?” Britt said. “Your bedroom must have been as freezing cold as Hannah’s and mine.”

  “It was. If we brought up a glass of water with us in the winter, sometimes it really would freeze solid. I did ask her why she said that once, telling her that my fingers might freeze off. She patted me on the head and said, ‘Good boys keep their hands on top of the covers when they sleep. You two are good boys; that’s why.’ She smiled and went downstairs. When we heard the door to the stairs close, we put our hands under the covers to keep them warm.”

  Their mother wasn’t around to watch those hands when they played outside, and though they may have felt guilt, they could not resist entering their “equipment” into competition with other boys. In grade school, boys have harmless contests to see who can pee the farthest or, at other times, who can pee the highest. Perhaps they even imagine they are firemen, putting out a raging fire with their “hoses.” Then puberty strikes, and the game becomes a contest to see who can come the fastest. In later life, when they want to be good lovers and satisfy their partner, they come too fast. They are victims of premature ejaculation, and will lose the good lover contest, the contest they most want to win. In the old days, this didn’t really matter, as women were supposed to lie still and think of other things, not about what was going on above them.

  Things changed with the publication of Pomeroy’s Sexual Behavior in the Human Female (1953). This report, expanded upon in women’s magazines, turned America’s beliefs about sex and women upside down. It revealed that women were sexier than anyone had thought and that they deserved to experience the big O for orgasm. It was up to her partner to see that she got the big O. Women, however, tended to have slower fuses than did men, so good lovers had to take their time. A man who couldn’t restrain himself would end up feeling that he’d let the woman down. Oh, oh, this report is going to be trouble—I hope Andy never gets wind of what’s in it. I know he’d never read it.

  A woman who loves her man and doesn’t want a crabby husband who thinks of himself as a loser learns to fake it, especially if she is one of those women who is the opposite of a “hot tomato,” as Britt was. The result was that Andy felt good about himself, and she was pleased that he was happy. It was no sacrifice for her, as you can’t miss what you’ve never had. It really was a win-win.

  Britt didn’t have to fake it all the time, just when she was tired or when she could see that Andy was tired. She didn’t want to take forever if he had to be up early the next day.

  Saturday morning, and Britt was busy cleaning the downstairs part of their Cherry Street bungalow. She dusted the top of the double dresser and lifted the little jewelry box sitting there. On a whim, she decided to check its contents. Not much in there: the pearls her mother had given her for high school graduation, the green cut-glass and silver necklace that Andy had given her on their anniversary, a gold-plated wristwatch, assorted clip-on earrings, and an ID bracelet. She picked up the ID bracelet and looked at it dangling from her hand.

  It was a gold ID bracelet—small and quite ordinary, measuring almost seven and one-half inches long from one end of the safety catch to the other. The ID plate in the middle of the flat, omega gold chain, was a slightly curved gold bar, one and one-eighth inches long and one-fourth inch wide. The face of the slim gold bar bore three Greek letters: ΦΥΟ. When and where did I get the bracelet and why? She turned it over and saw that her name was engraved on the back in a flowing script, Britt Anderson.

  Britt sat down on the bed and tried to think back thirteen years to 1952, the time when she was a student at the university in Rillstead.

  When Britt first entered the university, enrollment stood close to four thousand. This was before she attended the Minnesota School of Business, before marriage to Andy and life in Newport and then in Boston, before living in St. Paul where Andy attended Lee’s Barber College, before they moved back to their hometown where Andy finished his barber apprenticeship with the local barber, and before he owned his barbershop in Rillstead where they bought the house that Britt was now cleaning. She had given birth to a baby in each place that they lived—five babies. So much had happened in thirteen years.

  The bracelet must have been given to me at the university. The Greek letters on the front make that the most likely place. I do remember going to an Honors Day the end of the second semester of my sophomore year.

  Many were called up to the front of the ballroom. Scholarships and fellowships were awarded and prizes given to the deserving. I was among those called to the front. Being the shy, introverted student that I was back then, going up to the front of the room was accomplished in a fear-filled daze—after my name was called, I heard nothing—I shut down. But that must be where the ID bracelet came from. Britt ran to get her old college catalog and found the following entry on page 42: An engraved identification bracelet is given each year to the second-semester sophomore girl who ranks highest in all her university work.

  Wow! I ranked highest! I never knew that. If I had really listened to what the presenter of awards said, I would have known the reason for the ID bracelet that day. Had I realized what it meant, would I have dropped out of the “U,” gone to a “quickie” six-month business school, and married Andy? I guess I’ll never know. I do know that it’s fruitless to consider what-ifs.

  But it is not fruitless to consider “What now?” We have a permanent address, after having had so many different addresses before we bought our house. I could start something and not be uprooted in the middle of it. Britt was ripe for a change, tired of the endless cycle of housework. She’d wash clothes on Monday, iron on Tuesday, bake on Wednesday, sew and maybe have coffee with a friend on Thursday, clean the upstairs on Friday and the downstairs on Saturday. Then there was always church on Sunday. That was actually the most stressful day. It meant getting five children and herself ready for church while Andy was urging them to hurry. He always wanted to be a little early. And there was more.

  They were a household of seven people that had to be fed every day. That meant weekly trips to buy groceries and daily meal preparation followed by cleanup duties after every meal. Britt felt like a beast of burden tethered by a long rope to a well pump. With each circling of the pump, water would come out to nourish the life of those around her, but her life was being ground down by the endless cycle of repetitive, boring tasks. Maybe the ID bracelet is telling me that I could do more with my life, that I could go back to school and develop a side of me that I’ve neglected for far too long. Mother always said, “When a task is once begun, never leave it till it’s done.” I started college but left after five semesters. Maybe now I can finish what I started.

  Andy and Britt discussed what she wanted to do. Britt started the discussion. “I want to go back to school—finish what I started. I could get a job when I graduate—help out with finances.”

  “We can’t afford it. We have five kids to feed and clothe. You have a job, and that’s it.”

  “I need more in my life. For one thing, I need to get out and be with adults. I need to use my brain. I’m afraid it’s going to rust out.”

  “That’s silly. Read books.”

  “I could get a student loan. I really want to do this.”

  Andy hit her with an ultimatum. “Fine. But if you go, you have to get a job when you’re done. You have to use your education, and you have to pay back your loan, plus do the mother-of-the-house stuff.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Monday, Britt got in the car and drove across the city to the university. Barbers in Rillstead all took Mondays off, so And
y was child caregiver that day. She signed up for a three-credit correspondence course, Survey of English Literature. Britt was on her way to becoming a high school English teacher. She had chosen English as her major because that offered the most correspondence courses. She would not attend the university until Laura started first grade.

  The prospect of becoming a teacher scared her to death. When she couldn’t get out of a college class in public speaking, she took it in summer school. Summer school classes were smaller, and the teachers were more laid back in the summer. It was still torture. She could hardly breathe whenever she was called on to give a speech; that made it difficult to talk. Her knee caps took to jumping up and down—she was sure the other students noticed this. It’s a wonder she could hang on to her note cards with her shaking, sweaty hands. Her speech topic on one occasion was euthanasia, and she clearly said “youth in Asia” and almost started giggling out of nervousness. If, as a teacher, this happened, she’d lose control of her students.

  She did not want to be a teacher—she’d be more suited to research, shut away in a lab somewhere. Now, however, if she were to earn a degree, it had to be in teaching. No other jobs were as stable or paid women as much as teaching did. Teaching also meant that Britt would have the same vacation schedule as her children. I can just quit this nonsense and be a stay-at-home wife and mother. I have plenty to do at home. But I need to get out. I need to learn things, and I need to talk with people who want to learn. I also want to help Andy with expenses—he worries so. I have to do it. Desperate times call for desperate measures.

  Britt’s father gave a huge and unexpected boost to her dreams. Britt, Andy, and the children were at the Anderson farm for Sunday dinner. During some table talk, Britt mentioned that she might return to college. Her father’s eyebrows shot up, but he said nothing at dinner. Later he took her aside and said, “I bought war bonds for your college education. If you are going back, I want you to have them.”

  Britt’s heart did a flip. She loved him so much at that moment. “Oh, Dad, I won’t let you down a second time.” She hugged him tight.

  It was 1968. Britt was in summer school, finishing up her bachelor of science degree. As a student, she could take advantage of couple counseling for free. Though she was very busy and had college friends, there was still, in the back of Britt’s mind, the matter of her and Andy’s alienation from each other. Andy, being a sucker for anything free, just might go. It was worth a try.

  She chose an evening to bring up the subject after he’d had a good day and a good meal. “The college offers free couples counseling for students—free!”

  Andy, who’d had his head buried in the sports page of the newspaper, thrust the paper aside and looked up—a look of pained annoyance. She could tell he was trying to be patient. “I don’t know why you want to do that, but if you really want to, I’ll go once to see what it’s all about.”

  They entered a small, cozy room at the college. Two chairs sat in front of a desk with papers laid out upon it. They sat down—Britt sat to Andy’s left. She looked around—all earth colors, beige walls except for the accent wall in back of the desk. It was painted in a pale jade green. Britt looked to her left. Three windows, close together were situated high up on that wall—so high that no curtains or shades were needed, but they let in the light. Turning to her right and leaning forward to look past Andy, she saw a rather large pastoral painting—cows grazing the grass on rolling hills, with a farmstead nestled into a little hollow, protected from high winds—a white house, red barn, with a silo standing sentry. The picture’s horizontal lines gave a feeling of peace.

  The counselor, a Miss Hooper, was a young, red-haired woman. She entered, and Britt and Andy stood, and they exchanged introductions. She’s so young. What can she know about marriage and children? Miss Hooper walked to the desk, sat down in her chair, and motioned for Britt and Andy to sit down.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Hughes, how can I help you?” She looked from one to the other.

  Britt shifted in her chair, uncrossed her legs, and planted them firmly on the floor. “We’ve lost touch with each other. We used to be best friends, but now we’re drifting apart. I’m lonely just having the children to talk to. They don’t really converse; it’s just Mama this and Mama that all day long.”

  Miss Hooper turned to look at Andy. “Mr. Hughes—may I call you Andy?” Seeing his nod, she continued. “Do you feel that you and your wife are drifting apart?”

  “Our marriage is fine. It’s fine.”

  Britt glanced sideways at Andy. He sat stone-faced, his jaws clamped shut. She could see he was determined to keep them that way. She turned to face Miss Hooper.

  “Mrs. Hughes—may I call you Britt?” After a nod from Britt, she said, “You mentioned children. How many and what ages?”

  “Three girls and two boys, ranging in age from six to thirteen.”

  “I can understand that you are very busy and have been for the last thirteen years. They will grow up and need less care, you know. Do you get enough sleep?” She looked down at the papers on her desk, shuffled a few, and waited for Britt’s answer.

  “I do now. I’m like my dad, a good sleeper. I just miss my husband. We share so few interests.” This is going nowhere, and Andy’s not going to help any.

  They went only once more. The second visit was just a repeat of the first. Wasted time. Britt sensed that the counselor felt sorry for this poor guy who was obviously dragged by his wife into something he didn’t want to do. All right, Andy. If this is the marriage you want, I can accept that. I can do what’s expected of me—take care of the housework and children and give you sex when you need it. Some day when we get a chance to catch our breaths, we can look at our marriage and decide what to do, either separate or stay together. We did love each other once. We went together for four years; there must have been some attraction that kept us together. Maybe we can find it again.

  By the time Laura entered first grade, Britt had racked up twenty credits of correspondence, all that were available in her major at the correspondence school. It was time for her to head off for regular college and teachers she could see. She was able to get all her classes fitted into a Monday, Wednesday, and Friday class schedule, leaving her two weekdays and the weekend at home for study and catching up on housework.

  It was hard being a full-time student again. In some classes, part of the grade was based on class participation. This really stressed Britt out. For thirteen years she had been housebound. In fact, when she joined the Ladies Auxiliary in Rillstead and had to stand and tell them her name—just her name!—Britt’s kneecaps jumped up and down, and she had trouble breathing. The old anxiety attack. Now she would have to answer questions in a class full of young, smart college kids. Sitting in a political science class one morning, Britt was struck with a blinding migraine. She rushed to the ladies’ room and threw up and spent the rest of the day on the brown leather, mission style couch that the university had thoughtfully provided. Britt slept and recovered enough to drive home. Thank goodness she never had a migraine hit her in class like that again.

  There were other times when it became almost too hard, but the ID bracelet was a reminder that she had the ability. It said to her, “You can do this.” (Britt never wore the ID bracelet. She didn’t want to show off; that’d be against her Scandinavian nature. Besides, she’d feel terrible if she lost it.)

  Anxiety lessened when Britt got used to being a student again. In a year, including a summer school, she had fulfilled all the requirements for graduation, including six weeks of practice teaching. Graduation day was a proud day not only for her but also for her husband and children, her parents, her sister, Hannah, and her twin brothers. One of them, Owen, took Britt’s picture while she was walking back to her seat, clutching her diploma. Britt had finished what she started—she had graduated.

  Britt was fortunate to enter the teaching profession the same year (
1969) that the United States put a man on the moon. The Russian Sputnik—launched October 4, 1957—had made education the national goal; America strove to become the best and the brightest. If teachers needed certain supplies to help them teach, they had but to ask. Superintendent Torval Johnson, a balding, middle-aged man, interviewed Britt. They sat across from each other—he behind a huge walnut desk. His suit was charcoal gray, and he even wore a vest, but his tie betrayed him. It was red with orange polka dots—this was a man who could laugh and joke and could feel compassion in spite of the three-piece, charcoal gray suit. His piercing black eyes, behind black-rimmed glasses, fastened on Britt, but she was not afraid, just a bit nervous, having never been interviewed before. She must have done okay; she was hired to teach junior high language arts, in spite of the fact that she could not coach hockey—she really was asked that in the interview, but she knew he was joking.

  Britt’s first year of teaching became her definition of hell for the rest of her life. It was an even worse time than the eight months of celibacy she and Andy had agreed to after Amy was born.

  CHAPTER

  23

  It was a gorgeous summer, the summer of ’72, so people said. Britt didn’t know, for she slept through it. Her first year of teaching had been difficult, and she was worn to a frazzle.

  Britt tried dragging herself out of bed in the morning, but then, realizing that her family could do without her, she slept in. Often noon came and went, but she slept on. She’d forget to eat; she’d gained some weight eating the school’s lunches, and she wanted to lose it, but she forced herself to get up and make an evening meal for her family. She wished they weren’t so tired of Hamburger Helper—it was an easy meal. She wandered out to the screened-in patio and did a little work on an oil painting. She painted with oils because if she didn’t feel like painting, she could just cover her palette with a plastic bag and put it in the freezer. Mixing her paints with oil of cloves also helped keep it from drying out. Her painting consisted of copying pictures that spoke to her—pictures of children and flowers. She had painted very little this summer.