Читать книгу Sixty Shades of Love - Darlene Matule - Страница 8

Steve almost arrived in Glasgow too late—we hadn’t realized the required blood tests took time to process. Thank goodness for dear Dr. Smith who used his clout to speed things along.

Father Altmann gave Steve and me our wedding instructions—an hour of information about the new rectory the parish was building—and this suggestion for Steve—“Don’t keep her barefoot and pregnant.” He didn’t have any words of wisdom for me. Hmm!

At 9 a.m., on Saturday, August 18, 1956, we were married at St. Raphael’s Church. I promised to “love and cherish” Steve forever. “For better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do we part.”

I’ve never admitted this before, but I don’t remember what Steve promised. It must have pleased our priest though as I did hear him say, “I now pronounce you man and wife.”

The reception was a professionally decorated cake—thanks to Steve’s chef uncle, Nick Cladis—coffee, tea, and assorted mints. And a lunch catered by The Altar Society ladies for everyone—courtesy of my parents.

(We heard later that Steve’s father questioned if the wedding was even legal.)

“Where’s the booze?” he’d complained. “It’s not a marriage without booze!”

Apparently he stopped by the liquor store on his way back to the motel—loaded up with sufficient spirits to float a battleship. He hosted his own affair. (My parents weren’t invited, although they’d provided the whole wedding party with free rooms.)

We left about 1:00 p.m. in a car that Steve’s devious friends had defaced with slogans like Sucker, Does your mother know? And worse.

Not quite halfway to our destination of Havre (150 miles from Glasgow), just outside of Malta, we encountered a road block. Two sheriff’s cars had totally stopped traffic on the two-lane highway.

Getting out slowly, one sheriff approached. Motioned for Steve to roll down his window.

“Keep your hands on the wheel, young man. Got a call this car’s been stolen.”

“Damned Marty!” Steve grumbled.

Oh my God! I thought. I’m going to spend my wedding night in jail.

Steve sat behind the wheel in his brand-new, navy blue suit. I’d changed from my silk gown with a long train to a short white sheath. My gloves were off, but I still wore a white hat.

Luckily the officer saw the signage on our car—and put two and two together. Laughing he said, “Hope I haven’t slowed you kids up too long.”

We were off in five minutes.

Steve drove. Fast.

I kept him company reading excerpts from a wedding present (given to my new husband by his married friend, John—the one who he’d chosen over me that first night), a thin paperback entitled The Marriage Night.

We got our money’s worth from the Ranch Motel before dinner time. Then we took a break, donned regular clothes, walked down to the big hotel on Main Street, and had hamburgers and milkshakes.

Afterwards was a bonus.

We did have a snafu when we finally opened our suitcases. Wheat rolled out of Steve’s—rice from mine (and rolled and continued to roll out, a grain or two at a time, for years). Someone had sewed the bottoms of my nightgowns shut. Luckily, I had a manicure scissors in my cosmetic bag. Glad we hadn’t waited to enjoy our wedded state before we got ready to sleep that evening, we went to bed for the umpteenth time that Saturday, our wedding day.

We’d been married thirty days. It was Sunday. After church. After a late breakfast (no one called it brunch then). We’d just gotten comfy. In bed.

Someone knocked at the front door. Once. Twice.

Steve jumped up. Peeked out a corner of the draw drape. (The window was directly next to the front porch.)

“My God! It’s Helen and Bob,” he said—sotto voce.

Now Helen had been my best friend at college—Steve went to Gonzaga with Bob. They were engaged. Not married. I’d invited Helen to drop by sometime.

We both stopped breathing.

After what seemed like eons, we heard a car engine rev up.

We breathed a sigh of relief. Began where we’d left off.

Funny thing—after that Helen and Bob always called before they dropped by.

We’d been back from our week-long honeymoon to Glacier for 37 days. And I was late.

At the recommendation of Margie, my married friend, I made an appointment with Dr. Rotchford, an OB/GYN.

“You’re pregnant,” he said. “Barely.”

I guess barely. We’d followed the rules until August 18, our wedding day. How did this happen?

Through a fog of unbelief, I heard the doctor say, “I’d like your husband to come to your next appointment.”

A couple of weeks later, I sat in the doctor’s waiting room while the nurse took Steve aside. “To take a blood sample,” she said.

After pleasantries, the doctor said, “The two of you have a challenge. Your blood doesn’t match. Maybe someday it won’t be a problem, but in 1956, this is serious.”

“Serious? What are you talking about?” we both cried.

“You’ve heard of blue babies I’m sure,” he said.

I remembered when movie star Lana Turner’s “blue” baby almost died before it had a total blood change.

“Could our baby die?” I gasped.

“That’s why we’re looking at your pregnancy. Darlene, you have O negative blood. Steve has AB positive. That means your RH factors are fighting with each other in the baby who’s growing in Darlene’s womb.”

We were stunned. We hadn’t even planned on being pregnant at this point in our infant marriage. We were supposed to be having fun.

Dr. Rotchford explained. “First babies are the easiest. Often you make it through that one with no problem. But we can’t take a chance. Darlene, I want you in my office for blood titers every month for the first four months. Twice a month after January and weekly after April 1. Until your due date of June 3. But don’t plan on making it to term. In fact, having this baby early will give it a better chance.”

Then the doctor dropped the bombshell. “I have to tell you right off, the two of you shouldn’t have a lot of babies. And—definitely—you shouldn’t have them one after the other.”

My God! Didn’t he realize we hadn’t even been married two months? Didn’t he know we were Catholic? Didn’t he know how you made babies?

We were in the middle of our first storm.

Time passed. We lived. We loved.

I got a job—$200 a month. Steve began his Fifth Year—an accelerated program for an Education Degree. And got a part-time job—at Wes’s Phillips gas station at the corner of Boone and Hamilton. (We still had tuition to pay.)

Buying our groceries, I followed my college home economics teacher’s budget for two adults—$15 a week. We feasted on homemade pizza (a box of Chef Boyardee and a half-pound of hamburger—25 cents for the meat). And ate Dinty Moore stew—warmed—right out of the can. One week I splurged on a pork roast—but saved it in the fridge too long. It smelled rotten when I took it out of the plastic. I sobbed—it was supposed to feed us for two nights—and sandwiches.

My folks came to check on us in late October. My mother was not happy over my pregnancy.

“You just got married,” she whined. “What will people say? For heaven’s sake, don’t have it too soon!”

Furious, I thought, Like I can stop what’s already in process?

Steve and I really lucked out with our first neighbors—the McGraths—Clara and Bart. In their mid-forties, we had nothing in common.

They rented the house next door in early September and almost immediately invited us for dinner. Barbecued hamburgers the first night. They were the best we’d ever eaten, and we told them so. Clara and Bart beamed.

Next Bart cooked two-inch-thick pork chops on their outdoor barbecue, and Clara made corn on the cob. I’d never had my fill of that delight before in my life. My mother cooked three cobs of corn, one for my father, one for her, and one for me. That was it. Clara cooked enough for an army that night. (Found out she’d been an Army nurse during WWII.) She kept asking me if I wanted more—I kept accepting.

When we got home, Steve said, “I don’t want to make you feel bad, but do you have any idea how many cobs of corn you ate?”

I looked blank. I’d been too busy eating to count.

“Seven!” he said. “I’ve got to tell you, Darlene, if Clara hadn’t been so sweet about it, I’d have been embarrassed.”

My appetite couldn’t have scared the McGraths off. They soon invited us over for spaghetti and meatballs. Absolutely delicious!

Steve told them about my culinary attempt at Italian food—“Chef Boyardee out of a can. Not a meatball in sight.”

I explained, “That’s what my mother cooked—I have no idea how to make the real thing. In fact I’d never even tasted real Italian spaghetti until Steve took me to Lydia’s in Butte.”

“Would you like me to teach you how to make my Sicilian grandmother’s recipe?” Clara offered.

I jumped at the chance.

“Do you have a big pot?” she asked. “A grater? An electric fry pan?”

I nodded. We’d gotten lots of kitchen gadgets for shower and wedding presents.

Clara wrote out my grocery list. “That’s it, except the cheese. I get a big block of a special Romano at Tito’s once a month. I’ll share enough for your first batch.”

The next Saturday morning Clara arrived at 9 a.m., and the two of us got to work in our dollhouse-sized kitchen. (It was so handy you could stand in the middle of the room, cook at the stove, set the table, and wash dishes in the sink without moving more than a couple of feet in any direction.)

“Open the puree first,” Clara directed. “Next, add the tomato paste. Fill one empty puree can with warm water, swish it around, and add to the mixture. Then peel a clove of garlic and put it—whole—into the sauce in the pan.”

I must say, as I peeled that garlic I was glad my mother wasn’t there. She’d have been horrified. “Only poor people eat garlic!” she told me in no uncertain terms when my home economics teacher in ninth grade cooking class recommended halving a clove of garlic, squeezing it gently, and rubbing it on the entire inside of the salad bowl.

“Never in my house,” my mother said in her I’m-the-boss-and you-better-know-it voice.

Finally, Clara had me put a handful of commercial parmesan cheese in the tomato mixture. “Turn the burner on low and let it cook.

“Now it’s time to make meatballs.”

At Clara’s direction, I got out my biggest Pyrex bowl, the yellow one. She had me put in the two-pound package of hamburger I’d gotten at the IGA grocery store, two slices of grated white bread, and one whole egg.

“Now grate the Romano cheese.”

I almost died as she handed me the round ball. The cheese was green!

Clara saw me flinch—and explained, “Just the rind is green. Cut off a chunk. Grate the white part and put into our mixture.”

Finally there were only three unused bottles on the counter. One filled with dark green flakes, another with medium, and a third labeled powered garlic. (I’d have to hide that at Christmas time when my mother came to visit.)

Clara proceeded to teach me how to smidge. Fingers were used instead of measuring spoons. She demonstrated on a piece of wax paper. Had me practice a few times. “You’re a natural smidger, Darlene,” she said.

“Now—two smidges each of the sweet basil and oregano. One of garlic powder.”

Then we hand-mashed the meat/herb combination, tweaked out enough for individual meatballs, rolled the meat in balls, and browned each sphere in oil. That finished, we slid them into the tomato mixture on the stove.

“You’re done. Great job, Darlene. Stir every fifteen minutes. Simmer all day (it was only 11 a.m.). Follow the directions on the package of spaghetti, make a little salad, and you’ve got a meal.”

Right then I decided, I’m going to take a fresh clove of garlic tonight, slice it down the middle, squeeze it good and hard, and roll it around the entire inside of my salad bowl.

As she was getting ready to leave, Clara produced a loaf of French bread and said, “Bart got this for you and Steve. Enjoy.”

As she was leaving, Clara said, “Remember, next Saturday night I’m making veal and peppers. Come about five, and we’ll have a glass of wine.”

Minutes later—standing alone in my kitchen, I had the most amazing thought. Why, I’ve just been given Clara’s family-secret spaghetti recipe.

It was hard to believe—here was Clara, an almost-complete-stranger from Troy, New York—treating me like her own daughter.

I felt very special.

Thanksgiving loomed. We only had enough money to buy hotdogs. “They’ll be fun cooked over the flames in our own fireplace,” I encouraged my husband who longed for turkey.

The Saturday before the holiday, John and Margie invited us up to their place. When we arrived, we found the plan was for John and Steve to go to the St. Charles annual bazaar. Margie and I were going to stay home with the kids and make cookies.

I wasn’t prepared for the whooping and hollering three hours later. Steve came in waving a five dollar bill. John followed saying, “Look what else Steve won.” It was a 25 pound turkey. Happy is an understatement.

We ate turkey for ten days. I swear. Thursday was just us. I cooked the gravy—my very first attempt. It didn’t thicken. I poured in more flour. More. Got dumplings. It was wonderful!

Friday was a no meat day—pre-Vatican II. Saturday we invited John, Margie, and their three kids over for leftovers. We pulled our kitchen table into the living room. Lifted up the two leaves (we couldn’t fit the expanded version in our tiny kitchen). We had lots of food (thanks to that extra five dollars). Had lots of laughs.

Steve took a picture of the whole Donoghue family, John, Margie, Mary Kaye, Jimmie John, and Mark—with me sitting in the middle.

Jimmie John looked the situation over and asked in his three-year-old logic, “How come you don’t have a TV? What do you sit and watch?” (We bought one—on payments—immediately after.)

The next Monday, my childhood friend Gail arrived. We ate turkey. Had a wonderful reunion. Although not related, I considered him my twin brother. I’d cried when the Navy hadn’t allowed him a furlough to come home for my wedding.

Steve and I continued eating turkey until it was rancid. He never got sick. I did. He said it was because I was pregnant. (Note: it was a good forty years before I really enjoyed eating turkey again. Hmm!)

Even then, Christmas was my favorite holiday of the year. Both Steve and I had grown up in homes where there were only two decorations: a three-foot Christmas tree sitting on top of our mother’s sewing machine and two red cellophane wreaths, each with an electric candle in the center, placed in the middle of our frosted-over front windows.

The second Sunday that first December we drove over to Idaho, getting wet in snow up to our armpits in our search of the perfect spruce. We came home with our hand-cut tree—a tree Steve had to supplement by drilling holes with a brace and bit and inserting extra branches. Perfect? Maybe not—but beautiful to us.

A dozen glass ornaments, a string of multi-colored lights, and a couple of boxes of aluminum icicles—each strand painstakingly put on separately—decorated the evergreen we’d gone to such efforts to obtain.

Five plaster-of-Paris choirboys, each three inches high—just purchased at Sears, held the place of honor in the center of our mantle. (After sixty Christmases, we still have two of those keepsakes—displayed in a special place yearly. Our daughter Stephanie hangs the remaining colored balls on her tree.)

It was almost Christmas—our very first Christmas together. Snow fell outside—big, saucer-like flakes.

Steve made a fire with wood we’d scavengered in our Christmas-tree-cutting Sunday. Neither of us had ever lived in a home with a fireplace. We soaked up the warmth, the ambiance.

“Let’s go for a walk so we can see the smoke come out of our chimney,” he suggested.

The beauty of the night was breathtaking. Our love surrounded us like a warm blanket as we stood a block away, watching the smoke curlicue from our chimney. Holding hands through mittens on the way back was as sensuous as our first intimate touch.

“I’ll never forget tonight,” I predicted. He agreed. We never did.

By the first of May, I’d gained fifteen pounds, was being titered every week, and had just worked my last day at Tel Electric. (I felt great. But my boss seemed a bit nervous having an eight-month pregnant woman walking up to the second floor every day.)

I had two projects planned for the week—spring cleaning and typing Steve’s term paper. A chemistry major—my husband’s dissertation was way over my head. (Years later I discovered it was a 1956 explanation of DNA testing. No wonder—with only two semesters of college chemistry under my belt—I’d thought it was Greek.)

My girlfriends gave me a baby shower on May 8. After they left, I got down on my hands and knees and scrubbed the floors. (In retrospect, I doubt they were very dirty, but those were my Mrs. Clean days.)

During the night, I started having pains in my back. They progressed to my tummy. Steve called the doctor who said, “Bring her in.”

When we got to the hospital and parked, the pains stopped. I refused to go in.

“Margie said they’d charge us for a whole day if I get admitted, my labor stops, and I get sent home.” Given our money situation, we decided to walk around the Spokane reservoir and see what happened.

It was a glorious, sunny May morning. I had my hand in Steve’s pocket—keeping as close to him as possible.

The pains came and went. At 6:30 a.m. I grunted. Grabbed him so hard, I split his pants six inches down his leg.

“I don’t care what they charge us,” Steve said. “I’m not staying out here with you in this condition a minute more!”

In five hours, we had a beautiful daughter—Catherine Michele.

But, three days later—when Steve came to check us out—he had a major problem. We’d gotten a $150 refund from our income tax—and used it to pay the doctor. Now the hospital wanted $100.55. Steve’s teaching job (he’d gotten lucky and been hired at Otis Orchards High School in the Spokane Valley so we could stay in our house) wouldn’t start until September. He needed a summer job. We barely had enough money saved to buy groceries for the month.

“I can’t pay you now,” he said.

“That’s not acceptable, Mr. Matule.”

“You can’t get money out of a turnip,” he explained.

“Well! I never! Rules are rules. You can’t take your wife and baby home until the bill is paid. In full.”

“I’ll have it taken care of by the first of September.”

“Unacceptable.”

“Okay,” he said as he turned to leave. “I’ll be back to pick them up when I’ve got all the money. The hospital can give them board and room ’til then.” He began walking away.

“Now, Mr. Matule,” he heard. He continued toward the door.

“Mr. Matule. Come back. We’ll work something out.”

A half hour later, the three of us were driving north to our home on Montgomery Street.

By late August, paying $10 a week (Steve had gotten a job at Allied Truck Lines in June), I wrote the final check to Sacred Heart Hospital. We celebrated with milkshakes from The Westminster on Division Street.

Ten days later, on May 21, I celebrated my twenty-first birthday. Virtually all by myself.

Steve was at class during the day. In the evening he went to a big Gonzaga shindig at the Ridpath Hotel. Although I was invited (it was one of those free things—Steve was Vice President of the Student Body that year), things had changed. My baby daughter needed me.

My mother had come on the train to help after Michele was born. But . . . She’d forgotten everything she ever knew about taking care of an infant. She couldn’t even manage the brand new automatic washer and dryer we’d bought on time. Even though the doctor said “no stairs for a month,” I still had to walk up and down daily—albeit slowly—to do the laundry. She did cook—but baking was my mother’s thing, not cooking.

I decided to have a little pity party. All by myself.

Where was my fun? Why wasn’t I dancing at the Ridpath? Why wasn’t I eating steak and lobster? Why wasn’t I enjoying a celebratory glass of champagne? You only turn twenty-one once! I told myself.

I remembered the school year of 1955-56—the year Steve and I were engaged. One fun thing after another.

As they said in the movies, Ain’t love grand? Steve and I had watched Grace Kelly and Bing Crosby in High Society on our honeymoon. I could see Steve and me on that yacht, singing True Love. I could see myself in Grace’s gorgeous gowns (some of the dresses I sewed with my own two hands were equally lovely if I do say so myself.) I’d worn those gowns. I’d danced at the best hotels, the finest country clubs. Dined at the Manito Country Club with a Gonzaga supporter—I’d enjoyed my first raw oysters that evening. At my wedding I’d worn a bridal dress that had been featured on the Modern Bride cover.

Oh, I’d been spoiled! And I’d taken it all for granted!

The baby cried. I took her in my arms, calmed her. I gazed at the perfection that Steve and I had unknowingly created while we were enjoying the beauty of our love. Her little fingernails were just forming. She clutched my thumb.

I knew right then. Life is a miracle. With ups—and downs. I was where I was meant to be. Doing what I was meant to do.

I heard the car in the driveway. Met Steve at the back door. Together we hurried to our bedroom. Made sure the latch was closed tight (my mother was sleeping across the hall). Lay beside each other and cuddled.

I celebrated the last moments of the perfect twenty-first birthday—in my love’s arms, my baby daughter two steps away.

God is good!

In the next three years I learned many things.

Daily discomfort—when I took my temperature, rectally, every morning before I got out of the bed, to see if I was ovulating.

Frustration—his and mine—as I had to say, once again, “Not tonight.”

Acceptance as we spent our first wedding anniversary eating a take-out pizza. Watching Debby Reynolds in Tammy at the drive-in movie theatre—with Michele in her detached buggy in the back seat. (I still remember every detail whenever I hear anyone sing, “Tammy, Tammy, Tammy’s in love.”)

Toasting our first year together—after the movie—with root beers in the A&W parking lot.

Happiness when, after a year and a half, we moved to a bigger house. We still had the aqua blue cabinets. But we’d acquired a dining room “el”—we could leave the two leaves of our table up all the time. And it had three bedrooms—master, Michele’s nursery, and an extra bedroom. Plus a bigger monthly house payment—$15 more. I quickly learned how much $15 could be.

Shock as Michele stopped breathing—a hard candy lodged in her throat. But Steve knew just what to do. He banged her tiny chest. Turned her upside down. Willed the round sphere out her mouth.

Joy as she sputtered, reached for me, and said, “Mommy.”

Worry as Steve began having bouts of intense pain—and blood in his urine.

Horror when we heard the news—kidney stones. How could this be? He’d just turned 24. We had no hospital insurance (couldn’t afford it).

Desperation as the surgeon said, “This is an emergency. Steve will die if he doesn’t have surgery. Right now!”

Exhaustion as I worked at my new job in the bowels of the Old National Bank—a job taken to pay off the bill for the surgeon and Steve’s two-week stay at the hospital. Daily I worked eight hours, visited Steve, got Michele from the babysitter, and did whatever was needed at home.

And—the next day—began all over again.

During that time, I remember thinking. This isn’t what I signed up for. It’s not fair!

I’d expected good stuff in my marriage. Sure, I’d said the, “better or worse, richer or poorer, in sickness or in health” words at our wedding.

But I’d never given a thought to the worse, or poorer, or sickness parts actually happening. Not to us!

Looking back, I think I needed a taste of humility.

In the meantime, Steve went through the indignities of post op.

I remember the first night. As we visited, a feeble-looking old man kept walking back and forth in front of Steve’s open door. The oldster wore a knee-length, gaping-in-the-back hospital gown—he towed a bag of gurgling liquid on rollers.

“There’s no way I’ll ever be hooked to one of those things!” my young, strong husband bragged.

The next night, and thirteen more after that, I walked up and down the hall with Steve as he towed a similar appendage. However, at the suggestion of one of the nurses who Steve had known at Gonzaga, I’d brought his bathrobe so his backside was covered.

In retrospect, I believe that summer was good for us. And for our marriage.

We learned we could go to the depths—Steve had been at the edge of death. Yet he’d not just come back, he’d fought his way forward.

I’d planted some Shasta daisy seeds beside our house that spring. The soil was sandy. I’d not fertilized. But they popped out of the ground as happy as if I’d given them a daily drink of Miracle Grow.

“Flower,” I said to our fourteen-month daughter, pointing to the blooming plant.

Her eyes lit up. With perfect diction, Michele said, “Flow—er. Flow—er. Flow—er.” She pursed her lips on the second syllable as if she were puckering up for a kiss. And she giggled.

Steve and I never looked back.

Within a week, he was back at his summer job working for the Spokane Park Department.

Immediately, we got hospital insurance. We might not be able to afford it, but we realized we couldn’t afford to be without.

I continued working, moved from sorting checks to computer entry, to being a teller. It wasn’t my dream job, but my parents now lived in Spokane. For $100 a month they babysat. I paid off Steve’s hospital bill. We started saving money.

On August 18 we celebrated our second anniversary with dinner at the Ridpath Hotel (main floor King Cole Room, not the view Top.). We felt blessed.

We began planning our dream home. On Sunday afternoons we toured open houses.

Within walking distance of our church and a new elementary school, we found a neighborhood we loved. We made friends with a contractor who built beautiful houses. We drooled.

And then—by a fluke (the builder had an “open house” that didn’t sell)—he offered to take our little three bedroom project house as most of the down payment. The catch? Steve had to work as an assistant carpenter that summer on the builder’s jobs-in-process.

We jumped at the opportunity.