‘Stop it,' ordered Briney. ‘This one is the master bedroom. Unless you prefer another room.'
It was a fine, big, airy room, with that sleeping porch off it. The house was empty and reasonably clean (I looked forward to scrubbing every inch), but some items not worth hauling away had been left here and there.
‘Briney, that old porch swing out there has a pad on it. Would you please bring that pad in?'
‘If you wish. Why?'
‘Let's ring the cash register!'
‘Right away, Madam! Honey, I wondered how long it would take you to decide to baptise your new home.'
That pad didn't look too clean and wasn't very big, but I didn't care about trifles; it would keep my spine from being ground into the bane boards. As Briney was fetching it in and placing it on the floor, I was getting out of the last of my clothes.
He called out, ‘Hey! Leave your stockings on.'
‘Yes, sir. Right away, Mister. Aintchu gonna buy a drink first, dearie?' Drunk with excitement, I took a deep breath and got down on my back. ‘What's your name, Mister?' I said huskily. ‘Mine's Myrtle; I'm fertile.'
‘I'll bet you are.' Briney finished getting out of his clothes, hung his coat on a hook behind the bathroom door and started to mount me. I reached for him. He stopped me, paused to kiss me. ‘Madam, I love you.'
‘I love you, sir.'
‘I'm pleased to hear it. Brace yourself.' Then he said, ‘Unh! Ease off a notch.'
I relaxed a little. ‘Better?'
‘Just dandy. You're wonderful, lady mine.'
‘So are you, Briney. Now? Please!'
I started to peak almost at once, then the skyrockets took off and I was screaming and just barely conscious when I felt him let go, and I fainted.
I'm not a fainter. But I did that time.
Two Sundays later I missed my period. The following February (1907) I had George Edward.
Our next ten years were idyllic.
Our life may have looked dull and humdrum to other people since all we did was live quietly in a house in a quiet neighbourhood and raise children... and cats and guinea pigs and rabbits and snakes and goldfish and (once) silkworms on top of my piano - a project of Brian, Junior, when he was in fourth grade. That required mulberry leaves, silkworms being fussy eaters. Brian, Junior, made a deal with a neighbour who had a mulberry tree. Quite early he displayed his father's talent for always finding a way to work out a deal to accomplish his ends, no matter how unlikely they seemed at first.
A deal for mulberry leaves was big excitement the way we lived those years.
We had kindergarten Crayola pictures with stars on them posted in my kitchen, and tricycles on the back porch, and roller skates beside them, and fingers that had to be kissed well and bandaged, and special projects to do at home and take to school, and lots of shoes to be shined to get our tribe ready for Sunday School on time, and noisy arguments over who gets the buttonhook next - until I got shoe buttonhooks for each child and put names on them.
Ali the while Maureen's belly waxed and waned like the round belly of the Moon: George in 1907, Marie in 1909, Woodrow in 1912, Richard in 1914, and Ethel in 1916... which by no means ended it but brings us up to the War that changed the World.
But endless things happened before then, some of which I should mention. We moved from the church we had attended while we were tenants of ‘Scrooge' soon after we moved to our new neighbourhood. In part we were upgrading in churches just as we were upgrading in houses and neighbourhoods. In the United States at that time Protestant denominations were closely linked to economic and social status, although it was never polite to say so. At the top of the pyramid was high-church Episcopalian; at the bottom were several pentecostal fundamentalist sects whose members piled up treasures in Heaven because they were finding it impossible to pile up treasures on Earth.
We had been attending a middle-level church selected largely because it was close by. We would have moved eventually to a more prosperous boulevard church now that we had moved to a more prosperous neighbourhood... but we moved when we did because Maureen got herself quasi raped.
My own silly fault. In any century rape is the favourite sport of large numbers of men when they can get away with it, and any female under ninety and over six is at risk anywhere and at all times... unless she knows how to avoid it and takes no chances - which is close to impossible.
On second thought, forget that bracket of six and ninety; there are crazies out there who will rape any female of any age. Rape is not intercourse; it is murderous aggression.
On third thought, what happened to me was not even quasi-rape, as I knew better than to place myself un-chaperoned in private with a preacher yet I had gone ahead and done so, knowing quite well what would happen. Reverend Timberly (the slob!) had managed to let me know when I was fourteen that he felt that he could teach me a great deal about life and love... while patting my fanny in a fatherly (!) way. I had complained to my father about it without quite naming him, and Father's advice had enabled me to put a stop to it.
But this Bible thumper - It was six weeks after we moved into our new house; I knew I was pregnant, and I was horny; Brian was away. I'm not complaining; Brian had to go where business took him and this is true of endless trades and professions; the breadwinner must go where the bread is. This time he was in Denver; then, when I had expected him home, he sent me a telegram (niteletter) telling me that he must go to Montana - just three or four days, a week at the most. Love, Brian.
Spit. Dirty drawers. Garbage. But I kept my smile because Nancy was watching me and at six she was hard to fool. I read her a revised version, then put the typed sheet where she could not get at it; she had taught herself to read.
At three that afternoon, bathed, dressed, and wearing no drawers, I tapped at the door of the study of the Reverend Doctor Ezekiel ‘Biblethumper'. My usual baby watcher was with my three, with written instructions including where I was going and the Home system telephone number of the pastor's study.
The reverend doctor and I had been doing a silent and inconspicuous barnyard dance ever since he had been called to that pulpit three years earlier. I didn't like him all that much, but I was acutely aware of him and his deep, organlike voice and clean masculine odour. It is too bad that he didn't have bad breath or smelly feet or something like that to put me off. But physically I could not fault him - good teeth, sweet breath, bathed and shampooed regularly.
My excuse for going to his study was that I needed to confer with him because I was chairman of the ladies auxiliary committee for the forthcoming whoop-te-do - I don't remember what. But twentieth century Protestant churches were always preparing for the next whoop-te-do. Yes, I do remember; a citywide revival. Billy Sunday? I think he was the one - a ball player and reformed drunkard who had found Jesus in a big way.
Dr Zeke let me in; we looked at each other and we both knew; we didn't need to say anything. He put his arms around me; I turned my face up. He put his mouth to mine and my mouth came open as my eyes closed. In scant seconds after he answered his door he had me down on the couch at the back of his desk, my skirts up, and he was trying to couple with me.
I reached down and took hold of him and got him aimed properly; he had been about to make his own hole.