Breeding Like Rabbits Page 7

  “You disagreed, but you were able to find a compromise. Perhaps that’s another secret for a happy marriage.”

  Because her aunt worked the late shift at the hospital and slept in, Britt started making breakfast for her uncle and Ellen. She and Hannah used to cook for the family when their mother suffered a migraine, so she knew her way around a kitchen. This kitchen had the same red Formica-topped table with the chrome legs as the one in her mom’s kitchen. She wished her mother had a pantry like Aunt Jean’s though: everything within easy reach. A large white sink with its attached drainage board made washing dishes a breeze. Of course there was a refrigerator—white with rounded shoulders, and the red-and-white linoleum looked like a checkerboard and brought to mind cheerful thoughts of playing checkers with her dad. Someday she’d like a kitchen just like this. Right now, however, she’d settle for an apartment with Andy.

  Andy called. He had a seventy-two-hour leave, and he was coming to get Britt, starting out from Newport right then. He’d be there in less than three hours. After a day and a night with his aunt and uncle, they would have to leave the next day, early, for the drive back to Newport. He had a dental appointment at eleven, and after that they’d go apartment hunting. Britt could hardly wait—it’d been four months since she’d seen him. She was so nervous she put water in the percolator but forgot to put in the coffee grounds; coffee drinkers had to settle for the hot water poured on a tea bag. She kept running to the window to see if he was coming, but how could she know? She didn’t even know what kind of car he’d be driving. Britt caught herself chewing the ends of her hair; she hadn’t done that since taking college exams. Finally a gray car slowed and then stopped, and a handsome sailor stepped out.

  Britt raced to the elevator and pushed the “down” button. Come on, come on! Finally. She stepped in and, with shaking hands, pushed the “ground level” button. Everything’s taking so long!

  The door opened, and she dashed out. “Andy!” She flew into his arms. “Andy, I missed you so much—you’re burning up!” Britt removed her arms from around Andy’s neck and raised her right hand to feel his forehead. “You have a fever.”

  Aunt Jean showed up just then. “What’s this I hear? My nephew has a fever?” She walked over to him and put her hand on his forehead. “Well, I guess so! How do you feel? Are you in pain?”

  Andy gave his aunt a quick hug. “I had an abscessed tooth and had a root canal done, but it hurts more now than it did before. Every time my heart beats, I can feel it throbbing in my tooth. I have another appointment with the dentist tomorrow—that’s why we have to leave early in the morning.”

  “I’ll give you something for the pain, but be sure to keep that appointment.”

  “Yeah, I will.” Andy put his arm around her. “You’re lookin’ good, Aunt Jean.”

  “So are you, in spite of your swollen top lip. You sure favor your mother—those French eyebrows. How is my sister these days?”

  “We stayed with my folks when we returned home after the wedding—she was fine. Still working part-time at Ace Hardware.”

  “And your father?”

  “Not working, but he makes a great split-pea soup.”

  They all trooped back into the house and made a beeline for the kitchen, where Aunt Jean made a fresh pot of coffee, and unlike Britt, she did not forget to put in coffee grounds. While it was perking, she went into the bathroom and came back with a bottle of pills. “Take two of these now, Andy, and two more every four hours—your pain should be a lot less. And don’t eat or drink anything that is hot or cold. You stick to warm food and drink. I’ll pour you one half cup of coffee. Add milk to make it a full cup.” She handed Andy the bottle of pills.

  Uncle Fritz had been watching and listening while he filled his pipe and tamped down the tobacco in the bowl. He lit it, took a puff, and said, “Andy, why did you join the navy?”

  “I didn’t want to get drafted into the army and end up digging foxholes. I wanted a job where I didn’t have to get my hands dirty. That’s what the navy offers, plus a clean place to sleep and regular meals. When I get out, I can get the GI Bill. I’ll use it for more education and to buy a house for my wife and me.” Andy put his arm around Britt and drew her close to his side. “In fact, I’ve been accepted into cooking school. Britt and I will be together for a few months before I have to go on any cruise.”

  Ellen perked up at this. “Learn to make brownies and birthday cakes.”

  “I will—the school teaches cooking and baking.” Andy poured milk into his coffee and took a sip. “You’re right, Aunt Jean—warm is good.”

  “Mom, do you have any more cookies? I finished the last one.”

  “I put some in the fridge. Ellen, take this empty plate and fill it up. We’ve got a lot of talking to do.”

  Britt, overjoyed to see Andy again, was sorry that he was in pain. In a way, she was relieved too. She was near the end of her period. She hadn’t told Andy because she didn’t want to disappoint him; it was a sin, maybe even a mortal one, to have intercourse with a woman who was menstruating. But if he was sick, he wouldn’t want to do it anyway. They’d be sleeping in Ellen’s room—Ellen on the sofa in the living room. They’d have privacy, but she was still relieved that she had an excuse not to do it in Andy’s aunt and uncle’s house.

  Britt told Andy about her condition at bedtime when they were choosing, separate beds or together? They chose to sleep together in one bed. So what if they couldn’t have relations; they could be next to each other. Britt, as usual, lay on her left side. Andy did too, putting his right arm around her waist. They fell asleep, nestled together like two spoons in a drawer.

  CHAPTER

  7

  Newport was an island city in 1954, reached only by going over the Narragansett Bay by way of a long bridge or by flying in. A port city, it smelled of the sea—sometimes but not always, a good thing. Thames Street, Newport’s oldest street, was paved with cobblestones—a surprise to Britt, as she’d never seen streets like that before. In their exploration, they drove down Purgatory Road, and one of the shops along the route made tombstones! They stopped at a cemetery off Spring Street and were amazed to see death dates in the 1700s. So old and all fenced in with wrought-iron fences and gates. They took Ocean Drive, a must for anyone coming to Newport. The drive follows close to the seashore and is exhilarating, especially when waves race in, smash up against rocks, and spray you with drops of the Atlantic Ocean—a blessing.

  Newport was a sailor’s town—all about the navy. It was the home of the United States Naval War College, the Navy Undersea Warfare Center, and a major United States Navy training center. Sailors in their dress blues and their cooler whites were everywhere, coming out of bars, stepping out of stores with a package or two, walking into the post office, and always and everywhere, snapping off salutes to anyone who outranked them.

  It was the morning of Andy’s dental appointment, but they had time to eat a light breakfast and visit the Traveler’s Aid Center. They wanted help in looking for an apartment. The woman behind the counter, a volunteer, told them that not much was available. “Many of Newport’s residents,” she said, “did not like or trust sailors, especially enlisted men.” Right now the only vacancy was a small house out by Easton’s Beach. “You can go out and look at it if you want to.”

  “A house on Easton’s Beach—that sounds wonderful! Let’s go, Andy.”

  “Okay, after I see the dentist.”

  The woman at the desk spun her Rolodex until she found the homeowner’s card. “I’ll see if he’ll open up the place for you. Give me a call just before you go out there to be sure it’ll be open.” She wrote the Traveler’s Aid phone number on a slip of paper and handed it to Andy. “If it doesn’t work out, check with me again tomorrow. That’s when the new listings come in.”

  While waiting at the dentist’s office for Andy, Britt thought about what the volunteer at
Traveler’s Aid had said about residents not wanting to rent to enlisted men. Did the community believe that old saw that sailors had a girl in every port? Did they look at a sailor suit and think of it as a suit of immorality? Andy walked out into the waiting room, a smile on his face.

  “Hey, you’re smiling—that didn’t take long.”

  “When he did the root canal, he put in a ‘sleeve’ to drain the abscess. Somehow it got plugged up, and that’s why my tooth hurt so much. He unplugged it and gave me a penicillin shot. I have another appointment next week. He’ll probably give me another shot, and after the infection is all gone, he’ll finish fixing my tooth.” He took her by the hand and pulled her up. “Come on, Mrs. Hughes. Let’s find us a place to live.”

  The house out by Easton’s Beach was small, but it had two bedrooms and a bath—their own bathroom! It wasn’t close to the beach. It was set back into the woods, and the road to it was crumbling. Britt would be lonely out there when Andy was gone—it was, in fact, scary.

  “Britt, this is too far from the center of Newport. We have to find something in town.”

  Britt agreed; this would be private, too private. They drove back to Newport, had a good meal—Andy’s first good meal in two days—and, exhausted, checked into a hotel.

  An old man with a fringe of white hair circling his large bald spot looked at them, one eyebrow raised and a smirk on his face as they signed the hotel register, “Mr. and Mrs. Andrew Hughes.”

  Britt wished she could stop her thoughts, but she just knew he was thinking: Well, what have we here? A couple of randy kids coming in for a quick roll in the hay. They can’t fool me with “Mr. and Mrs.” I’ve been around the block; I know what’s what. In a way, Britt didn’t blame him. They did look young. In the hospital when she was recovering from their car accident, one nurse swore she was only fourteen. It was her round, baby face that fooled them.

  Their room was upstairs. As they climbed, Britt was careful not to snag her heels on the worn carpet. She wouldn’t want to land on a carpet that looked so in need of a good cleaning. At the head of the stairs, they turned left, and there it was, room 210. Andy fumbled with the key, and the door squeaked open, treating them to the smell of mold and cigarettes. He made as if to carry her over the threshold, but Britt shook her head.

  “Not here. This place is not a home; it’s just a needed stopover. Let’s get some sleep, but first I want to take a shower.” I want to wash off the dirt I feel after the look we got at the hotel register. I hope this shower isn’t like the one we had in our room the day we married; I’m too tired to mop the floor tonight.

  Showers refreshed them, and they went to bed. Andy put his hand on her breast, and they kissed. His other hand moved up her thigh, but it was not demanding. They hadn’t made love at his aunt and uncle’s house because Britt was not yet completely through with her period—besides, Andy was afraid. He worried that Britt’s pelvis and hip joint injuries from their car accident in March may not yet be strong enough. Britt was afraid too but not that she’d break; she was afraid the man at the register would hear them and get off on imagining what those “kids” were doing.

  Crack! The bed gave way and their mattress landed on the floor. They were too tired to do anything about it. What could they do anyway? They said their prayers together, kissed good night again, and this time they meant it. Andy fell asleep almost right away, but Britt lay looking up at the yellowed ceiling and all the brown water stains. She tried to see pictures in the stains the way people do when they lie on their backs and look up at moving clouds. She could see a four-leafed clover—a good sign. Sleep then claimed her.

  They checked out early and headed back to Traveler’s Aid and its list of available places to rent. It was a short list, only two new listings, but they were both close to downtown, a good thing. When Andy shipped out, Britt intended to look for a job, so that meant something not too far away from Thames, the main street in Newport. They drove to the Webster Street house first. It was a 712-square-foot rental with one bedroom and one bathroom. And that’s all. The “kitchen” was in the bedroom: a plug-in, two-burner hot plate; a small refrigerator; and a table for two with two bent-wood chairs. The kitchen cupboard was an old armoire with shelves built into it. It held mismatched dishes and two dishpans. This would not do at all.

  The second listing was on Front Street. Andy knocked on the door, and a frowzy, gray-haired woman opened it, her left hand gripping a cane. She wore run-down slippers, and a far-from-clean apron covered her faded floral print housedress.

  “We’re here about your room for rent.”

  “It’s right in front. Come this way,” She shuffled down the hall for about eight feet and then opened the door to her left. “It’s not much, but it has a good mattress. You’ll be sharing the kitchen with me and the couple in the back room. I have the kitchen from nine to ten in the morning, one to two in the afternoon, and seven to eight at night. I don’t want to see any crumbs or dirty dishes lying around after you leave. Work out your kitchen time with the other couple. Do the same with the bathroom time. You won’t have to share with me there; I have my own bathroom. Oh, and your refrigerator shelf is the middle one—the one down from yours belongs to the other couple. Any food that gets put on my shelf, I’ll eat. Understand?”

  It was plain to see that she really didn’t want them there. They found out later that she was a widow and did need the money. They took the room, fearing that if they didn’t, someone else would, and then they might not find anything else. They paid the rent for two months, and she gave them a receipt and the apartment key.

  Andy opened the door to their apartment, turned around, bent down, and scooped Britt up in his arms and carried her over the threshold. That night they celebrated by eating out—clam chowder and beer—at the White Horse Tavern just one block over from Thames Street.

  The couple in the apartment on the other end of the house must have gone out too, for they had the bathroom all to themselves when they returned. Not once did anyone pound on the door and yell, “Hurry up in there!”

  Squeaky clean and relaxed, they returned to their apartment and prepared for bed. Andy turned the radio on with the volume down low, and the romantic strains of Irving Berlin’s “Always” sung by Frank Sinatra wafted through the air.

  In bed, they held hands and said the Lord’s Prayer together. Andy would not let go of her hand—he pulled her to him and started kissing her neck and moved on to plant a light kiss on her lips. He stroked her face with his fingertips, moving from cheek to chin. Britt put her fingers on his lips, and he kissed them. She moved her fingers down the bridge of his nose and touched the bump there. It was a reminder of when he broke his nose in a rough game of basketball. Britt gently slid her hands over his muscular shoulders and upper arms and into the tender hollows of his elbows. She pulled his shirt over his head. She felt him slide her silky nightie up and off her body. They held each other, skin against skin, hearts pounding, until they could breathe again.

  He cupped her breasts, kissed them, and ran his tongue over her nipples. He kissed the curve of her hip bone. He took her hand and guided it down to help him remove his shorts. He then reached his hand between her legs. She bent her knees and opened them, urging him on further. One finger slipped inside of her and found her center, moist and plump. She felt his hard penis on her inner thigh—he started to shiver. She spread her legs like wings, inviting him. He accepted the invitation, and she helped guide his penis into the moist warmth. Andy began to move—increasing in power and speed as he felt her tighten around him. He crushed her to him and exploded.

  Exhausted, they lay across the bed, his penis still within her, but it was shrinking, retreating. Their gasps became gentle and regular breaths. Never have I felt so close to anyone before. We were one. What is that song I hear? “Unforgettable”—it really was.

  Andy stirred, sat up, and reached for a cigarette.

&nb
sp; Andy had applied for Navy Cooking School, a nine-week program, in order to spend more time in Newport with Britt. After he graduated, he would leave Newport aboard a destroyer and spend the next six months at sea. Andy had school five days a week, starting at 0800 hours and ending at 1600 hours. Britt interviewed for a job at a law office on Thames Street and was hired as a member of the “steno” pool. Knowing their time together was limited, they made the most of it by doing the things tourists do on the weekends that Andy had off.

  Newport had a lot to offer, and as they’d never had a honeymoon, they made every possible weekend until Andy shipped out a mini-honeymoon. The first weekend they visited the Breakers. The Vanderbilt’s summer “cottage,” a seventy-room Italian Renaissance villa that opened to the public in 1948, was high on most visitors’ lists. Income from visitors went to support the Preservation Society of Newport County.

  Andy and Britt didn’t see all seventy rooms, but they saw the ones that were important to them. The library impressed Britt the most. Its ceiling was painted with dolphins, symbolic of the sea and hospitality. A wide border of walnut paneling right below the ceiling was impressed with gold leaf, making it look like a horizontal row of leather-bound books. Book shelves and gold-leafed paneling dominated the room. A large fireplace bore the inscription “I laugh at great wealth, and never miss it; nothing but wisdom matters in the end.” A large, patterned area carpet in reds, whites, and blues covered the floor in front of the fireplace, and on this carpet, arranged in a semicircle, were comfortable upholstered chairs in soft greens. No chance to sit: the area was roped off.

  The kitchen drew Andy’s interest, not surprising since he’d just started cooking school. All those copper pots and pans—more than thirty!—hanging overhead drew his gaze: stunning. Andy admired a work counter of beautiful dark wood, at least twelve feet long, with a single row of drawers under its zinc-covered top. It combined practicality with beauty. Ingredients were crushed by a marble mortar in front of this counter. Light and airy, the kitchen was located on the first floor—preventing cooking smells from migrating into the main house.