Hurry up! Please, God, hurry up! Britt looked at her daughter lying on the front passenger seat of the car. Sara was wearing her yellow snowsuit, as February in Newport, Rhode Island, is cool and she’d been outside. Her brown eyes fixed on her mother. She made no sound. “It’s okay, Sara. It’s okay. You’ll be okay.”
Britt’s eyes filled with tears. She looked away from Sara and out at the road, fingers tapping the steering wheel. Through blurred eyes, she watched the slow progression of President Eisenhower’s motorcade. It is taking forever! And my baby is hurt. Britt turned her head to check on Sara. She hasn’t moved, not even her eyes. She’s quiet—no sound, no sound. She just looks at me.
Just when Britt knew she could not wait another second and remain in one piece, the policeman motioned her forward. She lowered her foot to the accelerator and went as fast as allowed to Newport Navy Hospital’s emergency entrance.
“Help! Someone help! My little girl is hurt! She’s in the car!” Two corpsmen ran toward them, pushing a gurney. They put Sara on the gurney and rushed into the ER. Britt followed and watched as a doctor examined Sara. A husky, scowling nurse approached.
“You young navy wives! You shouldn’t have children. You don’t know how to take care of them. Now you go out there and sit!”
Cringing, Britt left—not to sit but to find a telephone. She called Andy’s ship, docked in Newport—about twenty minutes away by car.
“It’s an emergency! My husband, Andy Hughes, is a cook in the galley. There’s been an accident. Our daughter is hurt. We’re at the hospital. Tell him he’s got to come right away!”
She hung up the receiver and walked over to a bench in the hall outside the emergency room. In a daze, Britt sat down. Her mind was not working. A woman, probably in her sixties, holding a Bible moved toward her. Her voice was soft and caring as she said, “Can I help you?”
The woman reached out and placed her hand on Britt’s shoulder. Britt lost control and crumpled up on the bench. Harsh sobs tore at her throat. She cried as if she’d never be able to stop—until she was a sodden, tear-soaked, snotty mess. Exhausted, she lay on the bench, mute and unmoving, until Andy entered the waiting room.
He rushed to her side. “What happened? They said there’d been an accident!”
Her voice raspy low, Britt told him what happened. He held her. At that moment, they saw a priest enter the emergency room where Sara still lay. They followed behind him and stood just inside the door of the emergency room. They watched in horror and grief the anointing of their little girl with the oil used in the sacrament of Extreme Unction. Britt could barely breathe; her heart felt pierced. Only Andy kept her from falling, and she could feel the tremble in his hands.
Sara was taken to radiology. Britt and Andy sat on the bench in the hall, clinging to each other, waiting without words for the results of Sara’s x-rays.
A doctor approached. They stood, holding hands. The doctor said, “She has two cracked ribs. She’ll be fine, but we want to keep her overnight just to be sure.”
They could breathe again. She was going to live; she was going to be fine! The roadside curb must have protected her from serious, even fatal harm. Dizzy with relief, Britt clutched Andy’s arm for support as they made their way to Sara’s hospital room.
They hurried to her bed, a hospital crib. Britt spoke first. “Sara, you will be fine, but you have to stay here tonight. Mama will come and get you in the morning.” She didn’t dare give her a hug, but she kissed her sweet forehead and ran her fingers through her curly hair. Not even two years old, Sara seemed to understand. Even now, she shed no tears. Thank you, thank you, God.
Andy, with tears in his eyes, grabbed her foot and gave it a gentle shake and said, “You’ll be home tomorrow, Sara.”
Britt picked Sara up the next day and brought her home, trying to avoid even the smallest bump on the way. She scrutinized Sara’s every move for the next few days. Britt’s heart ached whenever she looked at the tape covering her little daughter’s ribs. Sara didn’t seem to be hurting, and she healed fast. She was soon her old self, lugging her blankie around. One thing had changed—she did not want to let her mother out of her sight.
Britt never told her parents about the accident. She knew she’d disappointed them when she’d dropped out of college and married so young—and to a Catholic fellow at that! She didn’t want to give them further proof of her imperfection, her inability to keep her child safe. Britt was afraid that their judgment would be the same as that of the navy nurse in the emergency room. She wouldn’t be able to stand that.
When Britt was certain that Sara was healthy and strong, she sat down to think things over. “All things happen for a purpose.” This was what she been taught. If so, what purpose was served by Sara, an innocent child, getting hurt? Sara, you taught me that it’s impossible to watch two children at the same time if they are not in the same place. Above all, you taught me what it really means to be a mother. Biology made me a mother when I birthed you, my first child. But our drive to the emergency room of the Navy Hospital, when you fixed your gaze on mine as we waited for President Eisenhower’s motorcade to pass, deepened my perception of motherhood. Your gaze, so full of trust, rocked me to my core. Your look said that motherhood was more than birthing and loving; it was responsibility. I had failed you when I left you outside while I checked on your brother. From now on, I will be more responsible—I embrace responsibility. Yes, Sara, you can trust me. I now know that giving birth is only the beginning of motherhood.
CHAPTER
15
All was quiet in the Hughes trailer. Sara and Daniel lay in their bunk beds, sleeping soundly as only the young and healthy can sleep. Mr. and Mrs. Hughes were also in bed, lying on their backs, soaking up the quiet. Their upside-down world had turned right side up again. Andy reached out in the darkness with his left hand and touched Britt’s thigh. She turned toward him, putting her arms around his neck and kissing him. Andy returned the kiss with interest—a slow, soul kiss.
Britt pulled him closer. “Shh!—we have to be quiet.” Then she bent her left knee and lifted it to rest on his right thigh.
Andy sprang into action. His deep kisses stirred her, made her stomach ache, and she couldn’t keep track of his hands—they were everywhere. They needed each other after the scare they’d had over Sara. They needed to celebrate the health of their children and their love for each other.
Later, spent and satisfied, Andy slept with one arm across Britt’s stomach. She was tired too, but she didn’t want to sleep yet; she wanted to bask in the warm glow of their lovemaking. We needed this, this coming together. We were so scared when we saw the priest go into the emergency room to give Sara the sacrament of Extreme Unction, or last rites. Seeing that made me want to die—but she’s okay—we all came through it okay. I will be a better mother now, so the experience served its purpose. But was that the only purpose? Or was there another lesson? If that priest knew that I was using a diaphragm to prevent pregnancy, would he have damned me to hell as Pastor Thomas did on his one visit to me in the hospital after I was hurt in our car accident? He said I would go to hell for marrying a Roman Catholic. Was that a sin? Are we sinning now? The priest and the pope would say that we are. They might even say that the “accident” to Sara was a warning to us, a warning that we were committing a mortal sin and we, especially me—for I let my mother talk me into getting the diaphragm—would be punished in one way or another. Britt tossed and turned, mulling over the questions in her mind. By three o’clock in the morning, she’d made a decision, and then she slept.
When Britt got up in the morning, she looked at her face in the mirror. The circles under her eyes revealed her lack of sleep, but she was not lacking in resolve. After Andy went back to the ship, she would destroy the diaphragm—the Hughes family didn’t need any more “accidents.” With the long, tiring trip back to Newport from her parents’ home, followed by mo
ving into the green trailer, she hadn’t had time to tell Andy about it. Destroying it now meant that she’d never have to tell him. She still wanted to space her children farther apart but not if it meant she would be punished through her children. Britt would give the rhythm method another chance.
She removed the diaphragm from its container and placed it on the wooden breadboard. She went to the knife block, picked up the big butcher knife, tested its sharpness by running her thumb lightly over the cutting edge, and with her lips set in a grim line, jaws clamped, and tears streaking her face, she positioned the knife over the diaphragm. You will no longer tempt me! She sliced through the center of it. You will no longer jinx this family! She lifted the knife twice more and sliced through each of the halves on the breadboard; the diaphragm was now in four pieces. That should do it. She put the pieces in a brown paper bag, gave the top of the bag a couple of hard twists, and threw it in the garbage. Good riddance.
It bothered them that the weather was beautiful but their children could only enjoy it when both parents were home—no more one person trying to keep track of two children. It was hard because Andy was gone a lot. The solution? Build a fence. Andy purchased a bundle of laths at the lumber yard, and he made a large “play pen.” It started at the front of the trailer, extended back twenty feet, and then ran parallel with the trailer for fifteen feet before making a ninety-degree turn and running fifteen feet to where Andy attached it to the trailer—a three-sided play area.
Inside the play area, they put a large wooden fruit basket filled with toys for outside—trucks, shovels, a couple of pails. But sand was needed, so they bought a plastic wading pool and filled it with sand. This was great until the black kitty discovered it and used it for her own business. They had to dump out the sand, but they kept the pool for future use as a kiddie pool on warm days. Britt usually went out with them. She’d bring something to sit on and some reading material. If she had to run in and stir a pot or something, she could look out of the top glass on their front door and see the entire play area. It made things easier for all.
Andy’s four-year navy hitch was up in the fall of 1957. Looking back, it had gone pretty fast. Two children were born to Andy and Britt—Sara, two and a half years ago in Newport Naval Hospital, and Daniel, almost a year and a half ago in Chelsea Naval Hospital. The bill for their deliveries was less than eight dollars apiece. When Andy had shipped out on his first six-month cruise, Britt was busy working in a Newport law office. When he had to leave on another six-month cruise, she was the mother of two children, and she had taken them and gone home to her parents. (In the first three years of their marriage, Britt had only lived with Andy a year and a half.) His ship schedule when in port was the usual—seven twenty-four-hour days on ship out of every fourteen days. They were lonely during the absences, but they were always busy. No wonder the time flew.
Some things would be missed. They would miss the commissary with its nine cents per quart of milk. They would really miss the low cost of care in the naval hospitals. (Their third child would be born in a civilian hospital in June 1958. He would not be paid for in full until he started first grade.) And they would miss their friends, Amy and Chuck, but as with most friends made in the military, they disappeared into their own lives.
They would not miss Andy’s sea duty. They welcomed the chance to have a more stable married life. Andy would be using the GI Bill for education. He wanted to go to Moler’s Barber College in Minneapolis. It was not to be because he’d have to wait for the spring classes, so he chose Lee’s Barber College in St. Paul—he could get in there shortly after Christmas. A barber could support his family and still keep his hands clean; ever since childhood, he hated getting his hands dirty.
The old gray Ford wasn’t what she used to be—part of the flooring in front of the passenger seat had rusted through. Britt could see the road streaming backward under them as they travelled. Something had to be done. She bought a large kitchen metal “hot pad”—the padding underneath it was asbestos. It was meant to be a place on which to put hot dishes when they came out of the oven, but it covered the hole in the car floor and then some. With a floor mat on top, nobody would even know that a portion of the floor was rusted out.
The car had some rust, but it still was a reliable friend that could pull her weight and more besides. Andy bought a carrier for the top of the car and put the plastic swimming pool on top loaded with towels, bedding, and some kitchen supplies. He filled in the cracks with miscellaneous clothing items, threw a tarp over all of it, and strapped the load down securely. The car was a two-door, so they didn’t have to worry about kids falling out—just falling down off the backseat.
Somewhere, Andy saw and bought a contraption that could turn the entire backseat of a car into one big area—a playpen. The contraption consisted of two panels of steel that telescoped into each other, so the length was adjustable to fit the width of the backseat. The top ends of two large hangers had “crooks” like a shepherd’s staff that fit over the backs of the front seats. The back of the horizontal steel panels rested on the backseat. The whole thing formed a sturdy floor, and when covered with a quilt, it was a play, eat, and sleeping space.
Under that sturdy floor, an amazing amount of stuff could be stored to be used during the trip—pajamas, clothes, diapers, and a cooler for milk and juice. The diapers presented a problem. Soiled diapers had to be stored until they could be rinsed in a gas station or motel bathroom. For storage, a chamber pot with cover was also stashed under the sturdy backseat floor. Clothing separated the cooler from the chamber pot.
On the road—first stop Niagara Falls, a romantic place for honeymooners, which Britt and Andy definitely were not, for both were continually holding on to the hand of a child. Britt wasn’t positive yet, but she was probably carrying a third child “under her heart.” At least that had a romantic ring to it.
At night, beautiful colored lights behind the falls, in fuchsia, blue, purple, aqua, and green, turned Niagara Falls into a vertical rainbow. Judging from the voiced “oohs” and “aahs,” every member of the Hughes family was enchanted. By day, the awesome natural beauty of the falls and the roar of the rushing, falling water—a sound that was hardly noticed when the night lights were on—made Britt want to sing her father’s favorite hymn, “How Great Thou Art.”
After spending time at Niagara Falls, they drove to St. Catharine, in Canada’s province of Ontario, and stayed the night at an inn. No one had trouble falling asleep. Early the next morning after a breakfast of pancakes and eggs with orange juice, they left for Brantford, Ontario, the home of Andy’s aunt Amelia and uncle Russell and their two sons, Alain and Denis. Andy had never visited them, and it would have been a shame not to visit now when they were so close. But just dropping in on them? This worried Britt.
It was needless worry. Andy’s aunt and uncle were thrilled to see Josie and Phil’s “boy,” Andy, and his little wife and children, of course—so thrilled that they invited the neighbors to come over. It turned into a party. After Britt fed the children, they went right to sleep. The sight of so many strangers had squelched any desire to make a fuss about bedtime.
Andy, a natural athlete, was excited about the fact that both Alain and Denis were hockey players. He must have talked with them about the game for a good half hour before Uncle Russell got out his fiddle and began to play. He was good. No one could stay seated when Uncle Russell played “Turkey in the Straw” or “Sally Goodin.” Everyone had a ball, especially Andy and Britt. They hadn’t felt such freedom to just enjoy for a long time.
After a good breakfast and tearful goodbyes, the Hughes family stopped for gas in London, Ontario—just in case Sara and Daniel wanted to tell their friends someday, “We’ve been to London.” Then they were on their way to Jackson, Michigan—back in the USA. They skirted Detroit, the automobile capital of the world, because it was just too big. A good night’s sleep at a motel in Jackson refreshed them, a
nd while Britt put some diapers in a nearby Laundromat, Andy ordered breakfast and started feeding Sara and Daniel. On the road again. They decided to stop in Kalamazoo for a while because the name intrigued them. The drive there was gorgeous. Autumn in Michigan is ablaze with color—red, gold, yellow—the leaves of all the various deciduous trees trying to outdo each other in beauty.
Kalamazoo. They stopped at a gas station for cleaning up and gassing up, and Andy asked if there was a park nearby. There was, so next stop was a grocery store for chips, dip, bread, cheese, and milk. It was a fine picnic and nice stretching break for all. Andy most of all needed the rest—he had to drive through Chicago and on to Dubuque before the kids got too sleepy. The next day, they left Dubuque and drove the one hundred and eighty miles to Interstate 35W. They turned north, and then it was just about a straight shot to their hometown. All in all, the four-day journey was not too bad, thanks to pacifiers and graham crackers and stops at the Laundromat.
CHAPTER
16
The Hughes family stayed in their hometown for a week, making their headquarters out at the Anderson farm. It was inconvenient to be so far out of town, but that disadvantage was overridden by the advantages—Britt’s parents and her twin brothers were so taken with Sara and Daniel that Britt and Andy could visit relatives and friends and not worry about looking for a babysitter. Andy’s parents weren’t too happy about this, but they had to admit that the Andersons had more room both inside their house and outside. A large backyard enclosed a swing set and a teeter-totter, and bordering the play area, a grove of trees beckoned to little explorers.
The first thing Britt and Andy did was to clean up the “playpen” backseat of their car. The playpen had turned into a pigpen—apple cores and potato chip pieces, along with soggy graham crackers, covered the quilt that was the playpen’s floor. It smelled of sour milk and something worse. They hauled out the quilt, folded all the icky stuff inside it, and dumped the food leavings into the burn barrel. The quilt, sturdily sewn in the around-the-world pattern, in Britt’s favorite colors—turquoise, sage green, Chinese red, and camel—came out of the washer almost as good as new.
Breeding Like Rabbits Page 13