Breeding Like Rabbits Read online

  Let the toasts begin! Andy’s best man, John, was the first to toast the couple, and he did it with the Irish marriage blessing:

  May God be with you and bless you;

  May you see your children’s children.

  May you be poor in misfortune,

  Rich in blessings,

  May you know nothing but happiness

  From this day forward.

  A couple more toasts followed, but the last toast, Hannah’s, left everyone laughing: “Today when Britt married, I gained a brother. More than that, her bedroom can now be my sitting room. Britt may have married her sweetie, but I got a bedroom suite.”

  No bridal suite for the newlyweds. They spent the night in the St. Anthony Hotel, one of the older hotels in Minneapolis. Mr. and Mrs. Hughes were not only tired after the long day, but they were also a little tipsy from the beer. It seems that they’d ended the wedding dinner with a game of quarters. Once in their room, Britt took a shower but failed to notice that the shower curtain was on the outside. Water flowed out and all over the bathroom floor.

  Andy had collapsed onto the bed. Wondering if Britt was done with her shower, he opened the bathroom door, and there she was, down on her knees, sopping up water with a bath towel.

  “What are you doing down there?”

  “Uh, I got water all over the floor. I’m wiping it up.”

  “Well, hurry up and come to bed.”

  “In a minute. I’m almost done.” She wrung out the soaked towel, letting the water fall into the toilet bowl, and bent to continue mopping.

  Five minutes later, she was done, but by then, Andy was asleep. Britt, trying not to make a sound, in spite of her chattering teeth, inched herself into the bed and fell asleep.

  Toward morning, Andy, half-asleep, rolled over and soon realized he was not alone. He reached for his wife. She turned toward him, and he kissed her, a long, slow kiss. It woke him up all the way, and he shifted into fifth gear. His hands sped over her body, trying to touch everything at once. Did he think he was a NASCAR racer and her body the race track? It was disconcerting.

  They did it, for sure this time. It hurt a little, but it didn’t last long. Britt got up to wash herself, making sure that the shower curtain was on the inside. When she got back to bed, Andy was fast asleep.

  CHAPTER

  3

  From Minneapolis, they headed north, back to the cold country where they were born. Though March, winter was still king. Britt and Andy rode with two of Andy’s classmates, wedding guests. One was a cousin on his father’s side—the one who, Andy had told her, often got him into trouble. In fact, this cousin had insisted on stopping in Stillwater to visit a relative who was an inmate at the Minnesota State Correctional Facility, leaving Britt to wonder if he was an admirer of behavior that landed one in prison. He went in alone, leaving the others to sit and shiver in the cold car. Fifteen minutes later, he came out, and they were on the road again.

  Great Prairie, hometown but a strange house—Andy’s parents’ house would be their home until Andy’s leave was over. Only Andy’s parents lived there now. His sister, Mary, one of the witnesses at their marriage, was away teaching school in another town. His brother, who had spilled the platter of ham at Andy’s going away party, was now a corpsman with the marines, stationed on some island. Britt was glad it wasn’t crowded. She liked Andy’s mother, Josette. She was even-tempered, even stoical, a bit like Britt’s dad. Andy’s dad, Phil for Phillip, was the opposite; he was often depressed and drank too much. Andy had told her that he used his belt to discipline Andy and his brother when they misbehaved. Their misbehavior was usually in the form of fighting with each other. When their father told them he drank because they fought, he and his brother quit fighting for a whole year. It was a lie; he drank because he drank. Britt did not like her father-in-law and had as little to do with him as possible.

  Marriage surprised her. She really didn’t know what to expect. When she was thirteen, her mother handed her a book titled, Strictly Confidential. It told all about the human reproductive system, male and female, and about menstruation—correct and scientific with black-and-white drawings. It showed how men were built; she didn’t know a penis looked like that—so fleshy. She also found out that her equipment “down there” was not called what her mother called it, an “apparatus,” but that it needed three terms for proper definition, none of which was her mother’s term. The book said nothing about love or how intercourse between a man and a woman was accomplished or how it was supposed to feel.

  In the early 1940s, a gale had roared through the county, overturning small buildings and trees. On the Anderson farm, two huge, partially uprooted cottonwood trees had snapped off about fifteen or twenty feet from the ground. They leaned to the east at a twenty-five-degree angle, five feet apart and parallel. Britt and her sister, Hannah, slapped some burlap bags on them for saddles, and near their snapped-off tops, they added a bridle made of rag strips, and voilà! They had two high-spirited, western riding horses that went up and down as they bounced—galloped—along. They whooped and hollered as they galloped into the sunset; no, that’s not right. The trees faced east, so they galloped into the sunrise. No matter: it was fun, and they were pretty proud of themselves for creating such fine saddle horses. Their mother came out to see what all the hollering was about. She took one look at what Britt and Hannah were doing and said, “Girls, if that starts to feel good, stop!”

  Britt didn’t know what she was talking about—she was, after all, only seven. Her sister didn’t know either, and they didn’t dare ask. They figured it must have something to do with “down there,” but the only feel good that Britt or Hannah got out of it was the feeling that they were cowgirls riding their broncos, rounding up cattle!

  Now Britt realized that her mother must have been talking about sex. And Andy seemed obsessed with it. He thought of her as a sex toy, and he was always in the mood to play. She was getting sore in more ways than one. She couldn’t understand why he was like that, especially in his parents’ house! When they’d come downstairs in the morning, she could barely look his parents in the eye, she was so embarrassed. Her mother had told her only two things about marriage: (1) men were more needy when it came to sex (that information was right on) and (2) making love was a wifely duty, and a good wife never said no to her husband. Was her father ever like Andy? Britt would never dare ask her mother something so personal.

  In one week, Andy had to report back to Newport Navy Base, but before that, he wanted to meet his cousin’s new husband, a former classmate, and say goodbye to both of them. They lived in Daville, fifty miles away. They left Great Prairie on a Saturday afternoon. They chose Saturday because both would be home that day. It was very cold, twenty degrees below zero, but the sun was shining on flat, snowy prairie, turning it into fields of sparkling diamonds too bright to look at without sunglasses—a glorious day.

  They rode along in the car Andy had purchased as soon as he came home from boot camp; a married man needed a car! It was a ’48 Ford, the weird model that some called the suicide model. Its back doors opened toward the front. If a wind caught those back doors, they’d be blown right off, and maybe a passenger would tumble out. They felt great. They were on their own, starting a life together, and everything seemed possible. Andy’s cousin and her husband felt the same way: life was good. The four of them had laughed and joked, catching up on all the news—who was going with whom, and was anyone pregnant. They then played some pinochle, snacked on chips and nuts, and had a couple of brews—things like that, just an all-around good time.

  The good time ended when the windows began to rattle. A good, old Minnesota blizzard had blown in, creating a white-out condition. They should have tuned into the weather news before they left, but they hadn’t. Andy’s cousin and her husband had a hide-a-bed, and they slept on that. In the morning, the weather report said the storm would abate by ten in the m
orning. Not wanting to outwear their welcome too much by staying for lunch, they left for Great Prairie at eleven thirty.

  The sun reflecting off the snow created a world so bright and so white it hurt to look at it. Here and there, a few groves of trees, indicating farmsteads, dotted the all-white landscape. The roads weren’t bad; the storm had blown the snow across the roads, diagonally, creating finger drifts.

  Britt heard Andy say, “I hope he stops!” She leaned forward to fiddle with the radio, trying to find some music they both liked. Andy liked country western, and Britt was more into pop. Then the unthinkable happened: something big slammed into the side of their car and sent them flying. Later they found out that they’d been struck by a snowplow clearing a side road. It was a huge machine, with a wide V-shaped blade in front. They hit the left side of the blade, careened up its side, and off into the air.

  Airborne, in silent slow motion, the car rolled over and over. In slow motion, Britt’s body moved with each roll. She floated up, and her head touched the roof of the car. Then her feet settled on the floor mat, and she sank into a crouch. She drifted against the car door and slid down to rest against Andy, who slumped, motionless, in the driver’s seat. Britt glanced out the passenger side window. Snow blocked the view except for one small upper corner where a bit of blue sky was visible. Wait! She heard voices and something else—the sound of digging. What was going on? What happened?

  Questions, questions—five days ago, she stood in front of a priest in Minneapolis as he said, “Do you, Britt Lucy Anderson, take Andy Sean Hughes to be your wedded husband, to … be faithful only to him so long as you both shall live?” And she said, “I do,” but now she had no answers. All Britt knew was that a pleasant visit with friends in Daville, before Andy returned to navy duty, had ended in a crash.

  Andy’s side of the car was not as deeply stuck in the snow-filled ditch as Britt’s, so they pulled him out first. Finally, they opened her door, and hands lifted her out. Two men tried to stand Britt on her feet. She looked down and saw that she was wearing her navy blue knit suit, her honeymoon traveling suit, the one with the pearls around the neckline—her favorite. It took Britt over a month of part-time work to earn the money to pay for it. About then, she realized that her legs weren’t cooperating. Britt crumpled down onto the snow.

  The men picked her up and put her in a car. Britt didn’t know who they were—one was probably the driver of the snowplow that had slammed into them. The other must have been the Good Samaritan who had stopped to help. Andy was in the car. He was awake and seemed only to have a bump on his head and a sore arm. For that, Britt was thankful—from wife to widow in only five days would have been just too cruel. Andy glanced at his watch. The crystal was smashed, the hands frozen at ten minutes to one. The date was March 28.

  Andy wasn’t even hospitalized, though he did throw up once in the hospital. In fact, he was again airborne two days later, flying back to duty aboard the US Navy destroyer, the Dortch, harbored at Newport, Rhode Island.

  Britt wasn’t so lucky. Seat belts didn’t exist back then, so when a car rolled and bounced, so did its passengers. As a result, Britt’s pelvis was broken and a hip socket cracked—no wonder she couldn’t stand up. Doctors can’t put a cast on breaks like that, so Brit spent two months in a hospital bed with her rear end in a sling, dangling in the air, a bit above the mattress.

  Tough break, but she will never forget the comfort and joy of dozing in the sun’s warmth as it streamed in through the east window and right onto her hospital bed. Its warmth enveloped and soothed her. Britt loved the sun.

  Sunday afternoon, and the new Lutheran pastor, Pastor Thomas, was a lunch guest at the Anderson farm. His black hair and brown eyes made him stand out in the mostly blond and blue- or green-eyed, Scandinavian parish. And he was a looker, quite a contrast to old Rev. Samuelson, the recent retiree.

  Eight-year-old Britt walked through the grove of trees, swinging the old garden basket. She was on her way to the garden, just beyond the trees, to pick lettuce. Pastor Thomas was their lunch guest, and her mother wanted lettuce for a salad. It didn’t take Britt long to fill the basket. She started back to the house and came face-to-face with Pastor Thomas. What was he doing out there? He grabbed her hands and saw that her nails were painted a hot pink.

  “Britt! What’s that on your fingernails? Paint? Don’t you know that’s from the devil? Only bad girls paint their nails and wear lipstick. You don’t want to be a bad girl, do you?

  “No.”

  “What did you say? I can’t hear you.”

  “No!”

  “Don’t ever paint your nails again.” He released her hands, and Britt raced to the house, gripping the handle of the lettuce basket and trying to figure out what had just happened. She knew she was not a bad girl and didn’t want to be one. What did hot pink nails have to do with anything? It was just a color, a pretty color, and God used lots of pretty colors, and if all things came from God, then so did pink nail polish.

  Later that summer, she lay in bed, experiencing that twilight stage between waking and sleeping. It was a Saturday morning—no school. She was alone; Hannah had already gotten up. Britt snuggled down deeper into her bed and then realized that the blankets didn’t cover her anymore. She was, instead, cocooned in a substance that looked like pink cotton candy but was oh-so-soft and not at all sticky. She was cuddled in softness, warmth, and an orangey pink glow. No edges existed between the cocoon and her body. They were one. It was glorious, and she basked in overwhelming love and security, knowing that she belonged. Britt stayed as still as possible, hardly breathing for fear she’d break the spell. It didn’t last long, but while it did, she was in heaven.

  Britt didn’t expect her parents to visit her in the hospital. She knew she had disappointed them very much by becoming a Catholic and marrying Andy. They lived thirty miles away, and one never knew what the weather would be like in March. In 1941, March 15 and 16, a terrible blizzard with winds reaching 85 mph blew into the area, causing thirty-two deaths (“Beware the Ides of March”). But many other people did visit. She had visitors every day but one. Andy’s cousin, John, came often, bringing Britt books and Dairy Queens. One of the nurses, impressive in her white uniform and starched white cap, said, “You watch it, or you’ll get big as a horse eating all that ice cream with no exercise.” Brit didn’t though—a couple pounds, yes, but not horse size.

  Pastor Thomas came to visit out of what he no doubt considered his Christian duty. He was the one who had scolded her for wearing nail polish when she was eight years old. No longer the slim, handsome, young pastor, he was almost fat, but that did not stop the black-suited figure from storming into Britt’s hospital room, his face red and contorted above his pastoral collar. With his right arm outstretched, he pointed his finger at her and roared, “You are going to hell for marrying a Catholic; this is just the start of your punishments!”

  He told Britt that he would pray for her. It frightened Britt to see him like that, and her heart beat fast, but she stiffened her backbone as much as that’s possible when you’re lying flat out in a bed with your rear in a sling. “I will pray for you too, Pastor Thomas.”

  Without another word, he turned on his heel and left. He did not come back.

  Every two weeks or so, Britt was rolled to x-ray to see how her bones were healing, and finally the doctor said, “Get up and practice walking with a walker.” What a wonderful day! After a few days of that, Britt was released, and that was another wonderful day, as her dad came and took her home. She found out later that he had paid her hospital bill: six hundred dollars and a few cents.

  CHAPTER

  4

  Britt stayed at her parents’ house for a week; it didn’t feel like her home any longer. She wasn’t theirs anymore; she had a husband. They tiptoed around each other, feeling out their new relationship. It made for long, painful pauses, but then they weren’t a family that t
alked to each other very much anyway. Britt would soon take the train to Connecticut to stay with Andy’s aunt until he got a leave. He would then come and get her, and they’d go back to Newport, Rhode Island, and find an apartment to rent. But before she left, she wanted to look around, to revisit all that had meant so much to her as she was growing up.

  Britt walked to the country school she had attended for eight years—it was only an eighth of a mile away. She had walked alone to school her first two years, but when Hannah started first grade, the sisters walked together. One day when she was in third grade and Hannah in first, their dad gave them a ride to school. The weather was bad; it was fifteen degrees below zero with blowing snow. Their Dad harnessed up the horses, hitched them to a sleigh, lifted in Britt and Hannah, covered them with an old, stinky buffalo robe, and away they went! Britt had wished the horses were wearing jingle bells.

  During the eight years Britt attended the country school, she was taught by four different teachers. Her fourth-grade teacher, Miss Turner, was very pretty, a sweet face set off by curly brown hair, and she had a trim figure—a twenty-three-inch waist. She only taught one year because she married in the summer, but while she was still teaching, she’d sometimes come over to Britt and Hannah’s house and have coffee with their mother.

  Britt and Hannah hovered in the background, eavesdropping and sneaking peeks while Miss Turner and their mother sipped coffee and enjoyed a raspberry jelly roll.

  “Britt’s a good student—learns fast—she’s a pretty girl, though she is something of a scatterbrain.” Miss Turner broke off a piece of jellyroll and popped it in her mouth.

  Ingrid put down her cup of coffee. “Don’t ever tell her she’s pretty. She’ll get a big head. It’s not good for a child.” She paused, letting her words sink in, and then picked up her cup again.

  Why had her mother felt that way? Britt walked on, kicking a stone out of her path. Why is being a good student okay, but being pretty is not? Sometimes it was hard to understand her mother. She had reached the school. It looked blind and old. The dirty windows, tall, blank rectangles, lacked life. The school’s white clapboard siding had peeled, and now it looked almost gray. Britt climbed the three rickety steps, crossed the porch, and entered the school. A musty smell wrinkled her nose, and she sneezed. Britt looked to the left. The green, two-burner kerosene stove was no longer on the counter. We used to cook our lunch potatoes on that stove. Also gone was the water pail and dipper. The two oldest students had to take the water pail each morning and go over to the neighbor’s pump, seventy yards away, and fill it up and carry it back to school. Now the counter held bags of superphosphate fertilizer.