Breeding Like Rabbits Read online

  Marriage would give her an instant identity: “Mrs. Andrew Hughes.” After all, wasn’t that the main reason girls went to college? They were there to get their “Mrs.” She’d heard that sad joke countless times. She had wondered earlier if she loved him enough to marry him, but did she love him at all? What is “love”? She never felt the earth move, nor did she hear bells when they kissed—such reactions may only be propaganda spread by mushy romance novels. But she certainly liked him, and he was kind. Last year when he returned from the harvest brigade, the first thing he bought was a Sunbeam mixer for his mother. Britt wanted a man like that—one that would put her first and who’d be kind. It didn’t hurt either that Andy was very handsome, with black, wavy hair, brown eyes, and the body of a natural athlete, which he was.

  It would be an adventure! “Join the navy and see the world!” In her case, it’d be, “Marry a sailor and see the world with him.” Britt wanted out of small-town rural America. Getting married meant that she no longer had to figure out who she really was and what she really wanted. She’d be a wife, with a husband who also was her best friend. But was she just using Andy as an escape hatch? Perhaps, but she could help him make the marriage work. She was taking a business course now, and she was a good typist. If she dropped out of the university and went to a business school, she could be certified as a secretary by the time Andy finished basic training. A good secretary could get a job anywhere.

  But marriage was scary. She rolled to her other side. Darn! Now she was all tangled up in the sheet. She freed her legs, and her mind again snapped back to thoughts of marriage. Andy’s parents didn’t have a particularly happy marriage. His father took construction jobs in other states, and when he came home, he read books and drank. His mother worked as a clerk at Ace Hardware part-time, and she took in washing and ironing for other people. Her income was the only steady one, the one that fed the family. Britt had been over there several times, but never did she see any show of mutual affection, nor did she hear them talking, really talking, to each other.

  Britt’s parents wouldn’t win a happy marriage contest either. A silent father who avoided affection in both word and deed was a hard man to live with. Her mother was just the opposite; she craved affection, was starved for it, and suffered when it was not forthcoming. The only time either one laughed and seemed to enjoy life was when they were with others: her mom with the quilt club or chatting up the hired “girl,” and her dad out in the fields yakking it up with his hired hands. Many times, Britt wondered how those two ever made it to the altar. She’d heard that her father had been engaged to another and that the woman had run away with his cousin. They married, and seven months later, the woman gave birth to a premature baby. It must have hurt her father a lot if it were true. She never dared ask.

  The question was, could Andy and she have a good marriage with those role models? Losing him, however, terrified her—and love conquers all, right?

  Yes, she would be a navy wife. And with that decision, Admiral Farragut’s words appropriately popped into her head just before sleep descended: damn the torpedoes and full speed ahead!

  CHAPTER

  2

  On Britt’s last day of work, she planned to tell her boss, Jackie, a sturdy woman with a my-way-or-the-highway attitude, that she was going to be married to Andy Hughes early next year. While waiting for Jackie to finish totaling up the day’s proceeds, Britt took a good look around.

  It wasn’t a big place, but the location was great—right off the highway that ran north to the Canadian border and south to the Twin Cities of Minneapolis and St. Paul. It had all the usual equipment needed by a fast-food place that served hamburgers and french fries. You knew it was a drive-in though, because of the long, eighteen-inch-wide shelf right below the two large front windows. The windows slid open when an order was ready. The carhop put the order on a tray, the kind that attaches to a partially rolled down window, and brought it to the person or persons who had put in the order. The only tricky thing about this was making sure that the tray was secure and in no danger of falling and dumping the food on the ground.

  My first real job—will I miss it? I don’t think so. I loved french fries when I first started here. Jackie let me eat as many as I wanted. After gaining ten pounds and struggling into my clothes, I quit eating them. I can’t even stand the smell of a deep-fat fryer anymore. One weekend I had to lock up. I thought I’d done a good, responsible job, but Jackie didn’t. She said I’d left grease in the corners of the grill. “Didn’t your mother teach you how to clean things properly?” I left the grease, and now she’s attacking my mother? Here she comes. I wonder how she’ll take my news.

  “Jackie, I’m marrying Andy Hughes as soon as he finishes basic training at the Great Lakes Naval Training Center.” Britt swallowed hard when she saw the scowl on Jackie’s face. “I won’t be working here anymore.”

  “It’ll never last. Not only are you of different religions, but your father is one of the biggest farmers in the county, while his father has never had a steady job and they have a hard time making it.” She folded her arms under her big breasts.

  Britt’s hands clenched into fists at her sides, and she wished her nails were shorter. “Andy is not his father. He’s a hard worker and he’s good to me, but most important, we love each other.”

  “Love—at your age? I doubt it. It’s just lust, and lust wears off. What do your folks say?”

  “I’m going to tell them tomorrow.”

  “Ah.” Jackie’s eyebrows lifted so high they almost disappeared. “Now is when it hits the fan. No more college money—no money at all. You’ll change your tune pretty quick when you can’t depend on Daddy’s checkbook.”

  “We can make it. We’ve got it all figured out. Andy will get extra pay when he marries—I’ll be his dependent but not really, because I can work too.”

  “Oh, yeah, doing what? Don’t try getting a job cleaning—you have a few things to learn about that. Go to college, get a degree, and then you can look for a good job. Use your head, girl.”

  Britt studied her shoes, afraid that tears would spill over and fall onto them. She was glad that this was her last day at the drive-in. She’d given her notice two weeks ago. Jackie thought she’d be going back to college for the fall semester, and she’d been okay with that. The drive-in closed in late fall and didn’t open again until the spring.

  “I am going to college, secretarial college in Minneapolis. I’m a good typist, and I know some shorthand. By the time Andy finishes boot camp, I’ll have my secretarial license. I’ll be able to get a good job.” Britt squared her jaw, lips pressed together, and looked Jackie straight in the eye.

  Jackie looked back, her jaw as set as Britt’s. “It’ll never last. You’re both too young.”

  Britt picked up her last paycheck and left.

  The next day, she packed up all her belongings and cleaned her apartment. She called home and was pleased when her father answered. “Dad, I’m all done with work—got my last paycheck today, eighty-nine dollars and twenty-five cents for one month. Seventy-five cents an hour really adds up. I want to come home. Will you come and get me?”

  The ten-mile ride back to the farm with her loving yet silent father gave Britt time to think. It’d be a long time before she’d see the farm again. She grew up on a much smaller farm, one that had cows, pigs, chickens, and horses—her father loved horses, but he sold them when he realized how much more land he could cultivate with tractors. Now her father farmed over two thousand acres—crops of wheat, barley, potatoes, and sugar beets. He was a good farmer, and WWII had proved profitable for most farmers in the fertile Red River Valley of Minnesota.

  Carrying and heating water for clothes and people washing was a must during Britt’s childhood. They didn’t get running water on the farm until she was thirteen. They had to wait until the Rural Electric Association made it out to their way—running water needs an
electric pump. All farm water, including water for the stock, was pumped by hand. Their well pump sat on a concrete base about thirty inches high, and wood planks covered the top on which the pump was bolted. An end plank was hinged so that it could be lifted up, giving access to the cold water below. A rope hung from a rod, and Britt’s mother used to put food into a pail and lower it down into the well to keep butter, vegetables, and other food stuffs fresh in summer’s hot weather (in the winter, they just put perishables upstairs). The old red pump was still on the farm, but it was rarely used. Paint was peeling off, and rust spots took the place of the peeled paint. No longer did a dipper hang from the pump to give thirsty people a cool drink of water. Sad, but oh the wonder, the ecstasy, of running water when it finally came: priceless.

  Britt would always miss the big red barn with its hay loft where she used to hide to read in peace when it wasn’t too hot or too cold. It was the one place where she didn’t have to fear being startled by her mother yelling, “Get your nose out of that book. Look around. You can see what has to be done—do it.” But during one bad storm when Britt was eight, the barn was hit by lightning and burned to the ground. Her spotted baby 4-H calf was too small to leap over the half door, and he died in the fire. Her father didn’t rebuild. Instead, he set a Quonset hut on top of the old concrete floor and halved it. One part held a cow or two for milking, and the other half stored hay and feed.

  Yes, the big barn was physically gone, but in her mind she could still see it. Tomato red—her father kept it painted—with a cupola on top. A kid could crawl up inside the cupola and look out over the prairie; on a clear day, one could see for ten miles. Atop the cupola was a weather vane—a horse, telling you the direction of the wind. Hannah now had that horse.

  Britt thought of the house last, because the original house held sadness. It was a small white clapboard house with wood shingles. A story and a half, they called it—three rooms and a space for a future bathroom downstairs; a steep stairway led to a loft where Britt and Hannah slept under a mountain of quilts in the winter and where they roasted during the hot summers. The sadness came from the accident that occurred when the house was moved from a low spot to a higher, healthier place on the farm so it would be ready for the soon-to-be-wed couple, Britt’s future parents.

  The day of the move was cloudy with threatening rain. Grandpa Anderson was helping his son with the move. The cellar had been dug, and with the help of jacks, the house would be set over the cellar. It started to drizzle. Grandpa decided a jack had to be adjusted. In the process, the jack collapsed, and the corner of the house fell on Grandpa Anderson and crushed his chest. It took three painful days for him to die.

  They pulled into the yard, and Britt looked at the house. It looked nothing like the house of her childhood, though the sad core of it was still the original house. It was twice as big and sported gleaming white siding with green trim around windows and doors and green shingles. It was not a bit player anymore, for the house dominated the farmstead. It had three bedrooms and a sewing room upstairs. Besides her parents’ bedroom downstairs, where it had always been, there was a large living room on the west side—the old living room was now the dining room. A modern kitchen and bath were the stars of the downstairs.

  Britt looked to the left where two new and very large Quonsets sat in the southwest part of the farmstead. These Quonsets were machine shops for repairing and storing all the farm equipment and machinery that kept the farm running. Also in the southwest part of the farmstead was a large gasoline storage tank. The tank sat on a sturdy seven- to eight-foot-high scaffold. Gravity allowed the gas to fill empty tanks.

  The farm of her childhood with all its animals was gone. The Anderson farm was now an agricultural industrial complex. There is no place like home anymore. Britt felt an ache, an emptiness, in her stomach.

  After dinner, she and her parents sat around the table enjoying a fresh apple pie and making small talk. Britt chose this time to tell her parents about Andy’s and her decision to marry.

  She took a deep breath. “Andy has enlisted in the US Navy, and we’re going to get married.”

  Ingrid shoved her chair back from the table so hard it almost fell. She stood up. “You can’t marry a Catholic, Britt. You just can’t!” She grabbed her apron, tying it around her waist with angry jerks, and started clearing the table. A plate hit the floor, and tears threatened.“You’re being foolish—halfway through college, and you want to quit! Are you pregnant?” She drilled Britt with her eyes.

  Britt’s face flushed, but she returned her mother’s look. “No.”

  “Will he become a Lutheran?” This from her father.

  “No. I’ve been studying the religion in school, and I’ve decided to turn Catholic.”

  “You’re going to worship Mary? Now I’ve heard everything.” Ingrid clamped her lips together and folded her arms in front of her.

  “Mother, Catholics don’t worship Mary; they don’t believe she’s God—they revere her and respect her.”

  Ingrid grabbed her chair and sat down, her face a frozen mask, her eyes tear-filled.

  Britt’s father cleared his throat. “Did you even ask him to become a Lutheran?”

  “Yes, but he can’t be anything but a Catholic.” The “yes” was a lie, but Britt knew that the rest was true.

  Her father was quiet, thinking over all that his daughter had said. “How are you going to live?”

  “We won’t marry until he finishes boot camp, and while he’s in North Chicago doing that, I’ll be going to secretarial school in Minneapolis. I saved enough from my job at the university and this summer at the drive-in to go to business school in the Cities. I’ll finish school about the same time he finishes basic training. I’ll be able to get a job no matter where we live—we’ll both be making money.”

  Her mother roused herself and said, “Finish college. I could have gone to nurse’s training in Canada, stayed with relatives there, but I married instead. I’ve had my regrets …”

  Father and daughter looked at each other for a long moment. Britt then broke the silence. “Dad, I’ve been going to school, but I don’t know what I want to be—two years, and I haven’t chosen a major. If I went back, you’d be wasting your money. Andy will be gone four years. I’m afraid I might lose him …”

  They were all tired of talking. Britt helped with the rest of the dishes, and they retired for the night. Britt had wanted to hug her parents before she went upstairs to bed, but she couldn’t breach the wall of their deep disappointment.

  It was a soggy, rainy fall day when Britt left for school in Minneapolis. The acrid smell of wet cottonwood leaves filled her nostrils; a wonderful smell—the smell that meant her favorite time of year was near—potato harvest with all the workers. Most commuted from their homes, but three or four lived in the bunk house, taking their meals with the family, until all the potatoes were picked. Britt loved the way her father reacted to the hustle and bustle of it all. He, who was usually so introspective, came alive. He talked and joked with his workers, told them where to find gunnysacks and potato baskets, and said that lunch would be brought out to them at ten in the morning. It was his world, and he ruled.

  Ernie, her cousin, who had business in Minneapolis, was driving back there, and Britt’s mother insisted that he let Britt ride with him. Britt had no place to stay, but Ernie drove around until he spotted a YWCA, and he dropped Britt off there.

  The Y, a clean, Lysol-smelling, sterile place was her home for a few days. It was a world of white: walls were white, the bedspreads in the rooms were white, and windows had white pull-down shades. The one-inch by one-inch tiles in the bathrooms and on the main floor were also white—strong and easy to clean. Girls, all older than eighteen—some much older—ran here and there. Britt didn’t dare ask anyone anything—she knew no one. The good thing about it was that it was only a few blocks from the school, and it didn’t cost much. />
  Early the next morning, Britt walked down the street to enroll at the business school. She marveled at the height of the buildings—the highest building in her hometown was the three-story hotel, if you didn’t count a couple of grain elevators. She craned her neck to see to the top of the building she was near—it had to have at least five or six floors to it. She looked at the large, arched doors over which she read “Dayton’s.” Oh, I’ve heard of you. She peered in the windows, marveling at the mannequins dressed in the latest fashion. She saw dresses with tight bodices and free-flowing skirts. A beautiful brown chiffon dress in polka dots with a ruffle around the neck, with one ruffled end extending down to the brown four-inch belt, almost made her drool. Slip on a pair of heels, short brown or white gloves, a matching hat with handbag, and she’d look like a movie star. Not all the skirts were full. She spied a red suit with a slim skirt and a cropped jacket. Now that’s what I’d wear to the office, with heels of course, and always, always a girdle. I don’t have time now, but on my way home, I’m going to go into this store. I hear they have an escalator—I’ve never ridden on one. Does it go up or down? Must be up, considering the name. How do they get down again? Stairs, probably. This is like another world.

  Britt enrolled, and then she took advantage of the school’s employment office and applied for a part-time job as a live-in nanny. The Y was okay, but she needed to make some money. The next day, a Mrs. Kelly called, and they met that afternoon for an interview.

  The school had a small interview room with a table, two chairs, and a two-seater sofa upholstered in dark brown leather, over which hung a beautiful print of Winslow Homer’s oil painting Breezing Up. On one side of the sofa was a stack of old magazines, a lamp, and an ashtray.