Breeding Like Rabbits Read online

  They were quiet on the ferry going back to Newport. It would be quite a year for them. They sat and thought about how their lives would change when they became mothers. Would they be good mothers? They hoped for easy labors and easy babies.

  Not long after that, Britt wanted to do something nice for Carmela for making New Year’s Day a wonderful day instead of a very lonely day. She invited Carmela over for spaghetti. Carmela accepted and came over after work. They had fun talking about work and what the future might bring. As Carmela got ready to leave and catch the ferry for Jamestown, Britt asked, “Did you like the spaghetti? I made it because I thought that’s what you’d like.”

  “Britt, don’t ever make spaghetti for an Italian again.” And Carmela was gone.

  Britt was dumbfounded. I don’t think she liked the spaghetti at all. What did I do wrong? Did Carmela just insult me? I wonder what I’d think if she made lefse for me. She wouldn’t be able to make it right—her hands would be covered with sticky potato and flour goo. It’d be a mess. It would probably go over with me the way my spaghetti with the store-bought sauce went over with her. My spaghetti tasted kind of starchy too. It’s okay. We had a good time, and she gave me good advice. Britt cleaned up the kitchen and got ready for bed.

  Jan’s husband came home at the end of April. One night when Britt was over there watching television with Jan and her husband, Bill, he looked at her and said, “You are a beautiful girl.” It was perhaps a compliment, but Britt didn’t like it. She was a married woman, and a pregnant one to boot, and Jan was one of her best friends. Time for me to go home.

  “Thank you, I think, but I also think I better go home now. I’m pretty tired.” She got up and went out their door and across the hall to her door. My key! Where is my key? Oh, no, I’ve locked myself out. She didn’t want to go back, but she had to ask for help, though what they’d do, she didn’t know.

  “I can get it,” this from Jan’s husband. He hoisted himself, all six foot two of him, off the couch and went out in the hall and tried the door—no luck. He went back into the apartment, found a screwdriver, and took her door off the hinges. “There you are. Go in now, and I’ll put your door back.” And he did.

  It was 1959, and the Hughes family was living in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Britt sat at the kitchen table drinking a cup of coffee and reading the Minneapolis Tribune. A caption on an inside page caught her eye: “Midwest man murders woman during baseball game.” She read on, and the man named had the same name as Jan’s husband. The murder occurred under the bleachers. According to the newspaper, the man had been dishonorably discharged from the US Navy.

  CHAPTER

  9

  The phone rang; Britt almost tripped over her own feet in her hurry to answer it. It might be Andy!

  Her hand trembled, and so did her voice as she answered the phone. “Hello.”

  “Britt, Britt, it’s me, Andy. We just docked. I’ll be home as soon as I can. How are you?”

  “I’m—we’re fine, Andy. I can’t wait to see you.”

  Waiting was hard. She had to keep going to the bathroom. What if they won’t let him off the ship? They just had to. She lit the gas burner under the hot water heater for a bath—she wanted to smell nice and look nice when he came in the door. She’d put on the striped, seersucker robe she’d made. She liked the style—long sleeves with ruffles at the cuffs and enough fullness in its front to almost completely hide her expanding belly. What would he think of her stomach? It looked like a big blister! The water was hot enough, and she couldn’t wait any longer. She turned off the burner under the hot-water tank and ran water into the tub.

  Ah, that feels so good, but I don’t have time for a soak. She grabbed a washcloth from the little stand near the tub, washed her face and rinsed it, and then scooted down a bit and turned over—she felt like a seal—to get wet. She soaped her body and rinsed by doing the “seal” duck-and-turn maneuver again. Good enough! Exiting the tub, hanging on to the edge until her feet were securely grounded, she toweled off and went to dress and “pretty up.”

  As she was trying to put on lipstick with shaking fingers, she heard knocking on the door and a voice: “Britt, Britt honey, open up! I don’t have a key. I’ve never seen this place, remember?”

  Andy! Throwing the lipstick tube down, Britt ran to open the door. There he stood, Andy, handsome as ever. They reached for each other, hugging and kissing; it’d been so long! The closeness wasn’t the same. Something had come between them. Britt’s belly, of course, kept their bodies a little further apart, but that wasn’t all; Andy’s belly was almost as prominent as Britt’s! She pushed him away and looked at his midsection, “Wow! You must be a really good cook and baker.”

  “I know, I know. I’ve never been so heavy. When I first got on the ship, I was seasick—all I did was throw up and sleep. I wanted to die! I was so happy to feel hungry again that I guess I overdid it. It was those brownies—I make really good brownies, and when I missed you so much I could hardly bear it, I ate brownies! Now that we’re together again, I won’t be doing that.”

  Britt laughed. “Oh, Andy, I’m glad you missed me. I missed you too—so very much. We’ll slim down together, me quite suddenly, but it might take you a little longer. Come in now.” She shut the door and reached for him, hugged him as tight as possible, put her head on his shoulder, and cried. The long wait was over.

  Not having to eat alone anymore was heaven; even cooking was a pleasure. She had eaten good things when she was alone—fruits and vegetables, oatmeal—but she didn’t bother to make what she’d been brought up to believe was a full meal; she mostly snacked. Maybe that was why she never gained more than the two pounds a month that the doctor insisted upon. Each month, after the weigh-in, she rewarded herself by buying a bag of burnt peanuts. She knew she should have bought something healthier, like green grapes, for example; they were only nineteen cents a pound, but she loved the sound and feel of the crunch when her teeth smashed the peanuts.

  Going to St. Mary’s church every Sunday, the church where John F. Kennedy and Jacqueline Bouvier were married in 1953, would be easier, pleasanter, with Andy by her side. Those questioning looks she’d encountered when she’d gone there alone, Sunday after Sunday, with her waistline expanding, would now be squelched. But by far, best of all, she now did not have to sleep alone every night; her partner, her love, was there, seven nights out of fourteen, to have and to hold. (Andy, being a cook, worked a rotation of two days one week and five the next. The days he worked, he had to remain on the ship overnight.)

  Andy liked the place and what she’d done to make it homey. He was proud of her, so proud that he wanted to show off. He invited a shipmate over to dinner—their first guest as a married couple. The guest was Peter Lundstrom from Wisconsin. It was a delight for Britt to hear his Midwestern accent, though it did make her a bit homesick.

  For dinner, Britt made scalloped potatoes and ham. She also made a green salad and finished off the meal with a serving of spumoni, an Italian ice cream consisting of three flavors—chocolate, pistachio, and cherry—plus fruit. Mr. Veroni of the delicatessen downstairs had introduced her to it, and it was delicious. The entire meal was delicious, as was the conversation. Britt knew that Peter was more than a little envious of Andy’s situation because of the way he dragged his feet when it was time to go.

  Peter pushed his chair back. “I should be getting back to the ship.”

  “It was so nice to have you as our guest—you’re our first, Peter,” said Britt as she rose from the table.

  “Eating home-cooking, and you can really cook, Britt, nothing is better than that.”

  Andy was on his feet, moving toward the front door. “Don’t compliment her too much; it’ll go to her head.”

  “Peter, don’t listen to him. Thanks for the compliment, and you’ll have to come back after the baby’s born so you can meet our little one.”

 
Peter stood up, moved to the door, and said, “I’ll look forward to it.”

  At the end of March, Britt quit her job. She wanted to spend more time with Andy, and she had to get things ready for the baby that was due on—who would believe it?—Mother’s Day! She already had a layette. The Enlisted Men’s Wives Club always gave a layette to the pregnant wife of an enlisted man. It was a small layette, and Britt knew that she’d have to add to it—diapers, for sure; receiving blankets (her mother said you could never have too many); baby lotion and some baby bottles. Britt planned to nurse, but she’d still need small bottles for water and juice. Then there was the question of the bed. Where would the baby sleep?

  Walking by a pawn shop one afternoon, Britt and Andy saw a bassinet in the window. Their bedroom was small, but a bassinet would be able to fit in. They went in and came out with not only the bassinet but also a TV with a round twelve-inch screen. They carried home their precious purchases and tried them out.

  The bassinet fit perfectly against the wall, and Britt decided she’d paint it white—a safe choice as they didn’t know if the baby would be a girl or a boy. The TV was not as satisfying. The antenna, called “rabbit ears,” was a tricky proposition. The two arms had to be positioned just right or the picture, which was none too clear in the first place, would start to roll. A person could get dizzy just looking at it rolling up or rolling down. The only way to stop it was to fiddle with the rabbit ears or give up and turn it off. Britt hoped that the baby wouldn’t be as temperamental as this TV. However, on nights when I Love Lucy came in almost clearly, she was glad they’d bought the TV.

  Bassinet painted white, Britt felt ready. Now it was up to Mother Nature.

  Her back ached, but every time she’d had her period, her back had ached, so that was nothing new. She was down on her hands and knees, scrubbing the slightly cracked red and white kitchen linoleum when the ache had started. Then it turned into something a little different; the ache in her back came forward and clenched her abdomen, making it harden—a cramping spasm that soon loosed its hold. Maybe I’m having those false labor pains—Braxton Hicks, I think they’re called. I’d feel like a fool if I went in too early and then had to come home again. She scrubbed on. Another ache, a clenching fist, radiated from her back to her abdomen and held on. Britt felt powerless against this onslaught; it would do what it would do, but she was not ready to give in yet. If she was in labor and soon hospital bound, she wanted to come home to a clean floor. Her mother washed the floor every single day. She couldn’t stand a dirty floor, and Britt felt the same way.

  How did her mother feel about labor pains? Britt had asked her that once, and her mother said God would not give anyone more pain than she could stand, and once a mother held her baby in her arms, she forgot about the pain. Britt believed this—her mother didn’t lie—but she hated feeling so helpless. Her dad’s favorite quote was from “Invictus” and he’d stand straight and proud while saying: “I am the master of my fate; I am the captain of my soul.” No woman who had ever given birth could have written that poem.

  Floor nice and clean, Britt went and got her bag—actually the suitcase her parents gave her when she graduated from high school—for the hospital and checked to be sure everything that she’d need was in there: pajamas that opened down the front for nursing; lotion, lipstick, and a comb; toothbrush and toothpaste; and for the baby, diapers, of course; an undershirt and a bellyband for the naval; a flannel receiving blanket; a little sweater and cap in white with pale green trim; pale green booties; and a warm, pale-green blanket trimmed with white satin. As to her clothing, she packed a couple of pairs of underwear and also a couple of sanitary napkins. She didn’t pack a coming-home outfit. She’d wear home what she wore to the hospital because her friend, Jan, who’d had her baby two weeks ago—an eight-pound little girl she named Karen—told her that she’d still look about six weeks pregnant after the baby was delivered. “It takes time,” said Jan, “to get back in shape.” Oh! She mustn’t forget to ask Andy how she could get ahold of him if he were on the ship. What if he couldn’t take her to the hospital? What would she do? Call a cab, I guess … She could feel another pain coming; this one was harder. Maybe she’d better start timing them.

  As that thought crossed her mind, she heard the key turn in the lock. “Andy! I’m so glad you’re home. I’ve been having some pains. They’re about five minutes apart now. Do you think this is the real thing? If it is, we should go.”

  “Go where? What? You mean …”

  “Yes, the baby’s coming. Maybe I really will be a mother on Mother’s Day.” Britt watched as Andy dashed about “like a chicken with its head cut off,” her mother would say.

  “Where are my keys? I just had them.”

  “On top of the dresser, like always. Grab my suitcase, will you, Andy?”

  “Your suitcase! Are you leaving me?”

  “Yes! But just to go to the hospital and have our baby. Let’s go now!”

  A nurse in a starched white uniform checked them in, got their information, and ordered a wheelchair for Britt. Then she sent Andy away saying, “You can’t do anything here. Go home or go back to the ship.” When Andy protested, she added, “You belong to the US Navy. If they had wanted you to have a wife, they would have issued you one. We’ll call you when the baby gets here.” She said all this without a trace of a smile.

  Andy, not one to like being alone, went back to the ship.

  The nurse wheeled Britt to a room with a white-sheeted gurney and helped her get on it. Enema time. What! I’m in pain, and she’s going to give me an enema? That’s sick. I can’t stand the pressure … The nurse helped her onto the toilet, and the enema did its job. She could rest now. But no, the nurse had another awful idea. “Into the shower. Wash yourself and then I’ll get you into bed.” Yes, a bed. Get me a bed and leave me alone.

  But the fist of God would not let her alone; it just took over her body and squeezed it, hard, again and again. Her mother had said that God would not give anyone anything she could not stand. How did her mother know that? Her mother didn’t even know her. A nurse entered and poked her gloved finger up her. What is the matter with these people? Those are private parts! Britt heard someone say something about “dilation,” whatever that was. “Leave me alone!”

  “No way, little girl,” and two orderlies slid her onto a gurney and rolled her into a room with the brightest lights in the world. Masked, white-coated figures stood around, gloved hands raised. Was this the Twilight Zone? Before her mind could sort it out, she was rolled onto her side, and she felt the pain of a needle entering her lower back: the Twilight Zone receded into nothingness.

  Britt woke sometime later. She was in a large room with six occupied beds; hers was one of them. A nurse came in, smiling (they could actually smile!) and handed her a pink bundle. “Here’s your little girl!”

  Britt held the bundle, hardly daring to breath. She pushed the blanket off the top of her head and gasped, “What’s wrong with her head? It looks like a banana, and she has red marks on her cheeks!” How could Andy and I have a baby with a head like this? Andy and I have nice-shaped heads.

  “It’s because of the forceps. You have a narrow birth canal, and then there was that car accident when you broke your pelvis—it’s on your chart. The doctor thought a forceps delivery would be best. Give her a couple of days, and she’ll have a beautiful head. You just wait and see.”

  Well, I guess we won’t be calling her “Tony.” Britt undressed her little daughter to get a good look at all of her. She had all her parts, and if what the nurse said was true, she’d be perfect. Britt looked up as the nurse came in again, smiled, and took the baby away. “She’ll be back in the morning to nurse, but you try and get some sleep now.” Britt, exhausted, fell asleep almost immediately.

  The nurse, true to her word, came in with the precious pink bundle at five in the morning and woke Britt up. Though groggy wi
th sleep, Britt remembered what she wanted to ask. “What does she weigh and what time was she born?”

  “Your baby was born at 1:13 a.m. and weighed in at six pounds, five ounces. You became a mother on Mother’s Day. Your husband should never forget that date.” The nurse handed Britt her baby, helped her sit up, unbuttoned her pajama top, and then showed her how to put the baby to her breast.

  “Ow! It really hurts to sit. Is it always like that?”

  “You had an episiotomy, which is common with a forceps delivery. The doctor made an incision between the vagina and anus—not a very deep one. While you’re here, you’ll have a Sitz bath every day, a bath in a tub with shallow, lukewarm water, just enough to cover your legs. You can do that at home too. Add some baking soda to the bath for added relief.”

  “How long will it take the incision to heal?”

  “You do have stitches, so you don’t want to lift anything heavy and take a chance on breaking them; that would set you back. Swelling will cause the stitches to pull. When you get home, continue with the ice packs that we’re giving you now; it will ease the pain. A package of frozen peas makes a good ice pack. We’ll give you cleaning materials to use after every urination and bowel movement now, and we’ll send some home with you too. By the way, you should probably buy some stool softener.”

  “I was born at home with the help of a midwife, and I weighed just about the same as this baby,” and Britt caressed her baby’s downy head, “and my mother never mentioned anything about stitches.”

  “Maybe not, but we know you have stitches, and they need to heal. Keep clean, use ice packs, and no intercourse before your six-week checkup with the doctor and he tells you that you are healed.”

  “You mean I’ll feel like this for six weeks!”

  “No. You should feel better in two or three weeks if you take care of yourself. Some women find that a doughnut-shaped pillow makes sitting much more comfortable.”