by Maria Riva
Later, all heavenly clean, Jane was shown the front parlor and understood why her two new friends had been so upset at being denied it because of silly sniffles. It was truly an astounding, awe-inspiring sight! Emerald green, the golden glow from its electrified crystal chandelier giving it the look of soft velvet, it resembled a secret glen in some enchanted forest. Jane wondered if she would ever possess a front parlor as resplendent as this and, if so, how would she ever manage to dust it!
John was given another kiss, this one lasting even longer as it was one of farewell. Jane was bear hugged, given a loving slap on her behind, admonished to be good to fine “Johnny” the apple of Mamma Nocci’s eye—and everyone knew that her eye was never wrong—to make lots of healthy babies, adding that when they were old enough, to bring them to New York City for her to look them over. Most of the nieces followed them out, their colorful kimonos decorating the stoop as they waved good-bye. Shouts of “Good Luck!” “All the Saints protect you!” mingled with the clanging of the trolley carrying John and his bride to the railway station and the train that would carry them to their next stop, a place called Buffalo. Now she sat on a padded bench that even had armrests, on a train so long, like some giant snake it undulated, its tail forever lost from view. Sights whizzed by at an alarming rate at times resulting in unidentifiable blurs. Jane wanted to ask when she could expect to see her first whooping Indians chasing alongside, but didn’t. She was rapidly learning the many things that seemed to annoy her husband and disturbing him with childish questions while he was reading his newspaper was one of them. So she concentrated on the blurs, hoping one of them would metamorphose into an Indian chief, feather headdress flying, astride a spotted horse. After a while, this made her dizzy and she turned from the window to observe their fellow travelers instead. It seemed that here in America even unaccompanied ladies journeyed. Their travel attire, obviously store-bought of finest workmanship, the piping of corded braid on lapels and cuffs, most elegant, their skirts never sweeping the dusty ground, yet hanging below the heel of their high laced shoes as convention demanded. Gloved hands held books that they read, oblivious, even disinterested, in the exciting sights and sounds surrounding them. Their easy self-assurance so intrigued Jane, her eyes kept returning to study them. Even those obviously married, at their husband’s side, children claiming their attention, had an air about them that was foreign to Jane’s experience. She couldn’t quite explain it to herself, yet something unusual was there, even in the way they sat, erect, shoulders back yet completely relaxed. None of the self-conscious tension so inherent in the women of her old homeland and, when they spoke, their voices had an ease as though they never had to wait to be given first permission to do so—as if certain they would be listened to.
John, noticing his wife’s concentrated interest in the American women, felt it necessary to comment, “It is considered rude to stare,” before unfolding his paper to the next page.
Jane turned back to the blurs. In time these became endless vistas interrupted by too many people encircled by too many buildings. It seemed that everything in her new country was overly large—maybe even had to be, abundance in volume as well as size. It could make one reared within the restricted confines of the old world feel of no consequence. Yet she found this very exaggeration exciting. Like the train, her spirit welcomed the approach of every bend, anxious to see what would lie beyond.
Across from her, John sat, silent, all boyishness gone. She wondered why. She had liked him being “young.” Maybe she should try to make conversation like she had seen the American ladies do with their husbands, elegantly conversing about, what seemed from their expression, to be topics lacking drama, bland in nature. Now that she was to be one of them, she should really try out some of the behaviors belonging to them. Straightening her spine, yet relaxed as though nonchalance wasn’t new to her, she spoke. “John, I enjoyed the city of New York very much. Iris and Lily were delightful, ever so helpful.” Folding her hands, Giovanna settled back in her seat as she had seen the other ladies do, expecting a cozy conversation. Her husband behaved as though he hadn’t even heard her speak. She tried again. “I was wondering, why are all the nieces named after flowers? I met a plump Rose and a shy Violet, who didn’t say much. And a Daisy was busy and, when I asked why the one named Honey wasn’t a flower, Lily said she was, a Honeysuckle which is a flower in America.”
Her husband got up and went in search of a lavatory in the next carriage. He returned to find his wife doubled over, holding her hat, trying to see up beyond the frame of the window.
“What in God’s name are you doing?”
“Trying to see the tops of pine trees,” came the muffled reply from down below.
“Well, you won’t. American pines are too tall—so sit up and behave yourself!”
She did. Until they had to change trains in Buffalo and, while waiting, just had to ask what that persistent sound like distant thunder was. When he explained it came from a giant waterfall quite some miles away, she didn’t even blink an eye. Again just another inexplicable wonder of a country that just didn’t seem to have any boundaries for such things. But it irritated her, being constantly reduced to an awestruck infant, its mouth hanging open in perpetual bedazzled confusion. Besides not liking this picture of herself at all, she was equally certain that the man who had married her without wanting to, was liking it even less. What was she to do? How could she cope, absorb all the overwhelming newness and still not be overcome by it? It was not like her to flounder, her character forbade it and so, she resolved that henceforth, she would accept unconditionally whatever was in store for her in this astounding country with quiet assurance devoid of awed histrionics whenever possible. She did not consciously decide this to please her husband. Her knowledge of him was still too much in progress—it was quite simply how Jane coped with life in general, its intricacies in particular, first facing truths, evaluating their importance, then searching, expecting eventually to find an answer that would accommodate an acceptable solution.
Their next train out of Buffalo, despite its equally impressive length, chugged, its wheels clickety-clacked, billows of snow-white smoke dipped down by the windows looking like masses of whipped cream tumbled off a giant ice cream cone.
She noticed that some of the ladies, now sharing their carriage, had removed their broad-brimmed hats, securing their long hatpins, before placing them in the overhead nets. So, as it seemed permissible, she followed their lead even to the removal of her gloves. In America, freedom seemed to reach even into the category of wearables. She liked that. Smoothing the fingers of her gloves before rolling them into a neat ball, like a pair of men’s hose, she placed them beneath her hat—then noticed John watching her. How long had he been doing that? And why? Not certain how to react, what to say, made suddenly shy—which in itself was an unnerving sensation—she looked out the window, pretending that something outside had caught her interest, not he. His gaze remained on her. It became so disturbing she turned, met it head-on, silently challenging its reason. Still he didn’t speak. Running a hand over her hair, she waited. He had better say something because she was certainly not going to make another abortive attempt at polite conversation. Finally, his tone serious, he asked, “This may seem a strange question but tell me, have you got anything against making soap?”
Jane had to laugh. “Of course not. Why? As a matter of fact, I make very good soap. I don’t use as much lye with the potash as one is supposed to. I always wanted to add a little oil of rose but it is too expensive—so I couldn’t.”
“When we get home, I’ll buy you some.”
“Oh, thank you! I will make you a nice batch for your baths. Will I have a strong pot large enough?”
“My landlady has one.”
“Oh. That lady of yours seems to have everything, how convenient.”
Jane had the feeling that the making of soap was not the reason her husband had been watch
ing her but, as he seemed inclined to talk, she didn’t want to lose this rare opportunity. But what could they talk about? What could bring this man to life? What would pique his interest, capture his attention? Hoping time wasn’t running out, Jane evaluated possible subjects, then decided, she plunged, “John, you have never described where you do your so interesting work? Is it in a shed? Of course, I realize it must be a big one. Is it?”
Her husband grinned, “Yes, I think you could call it big. Actually, it is often referred to as ‘mammoth’ in the newspapers as it is the largest single manufacturing institution in the world.”
She had him! Smiling, she said, “Please, tell me all about it,” and, settling back in her seat, allowed his enthusiasm to wash over her.
“Three years ago, in 1910, we made the move from Piquette to the new plant in Highland Park. Its size is nearly impossible to describe. If I tell you it is as large as two American football fields, you wouldn’t know what I am talking about. The area used to be a racetrack, maybe that will give you some idea. But you have to actually see it to believe it and, even then, it’s hard. One day I’ll take you and show it to you. But no words can prepare you for what you will feel when you actually stand before it! It’s called Henry Ford’s Crystal Palace! A self-contained world that has never existed before.”
Eyes amazed saucers, all fine resolutions to remain cool and collected no matter what, completely gone, Jane sat spellbound.
“We have our own railroad yard, so we can load directly … our power house was inspected and approved by Thomas Edison himself. The great man even praised our exceptional dynamos!”
His audience of one just sat there. No reaction forthcoming that such a glorious occurrence warranted, John stopped his proud oratory to comment, “Even the great Henry Ford bows down to the genius who harnessed light—you must know who he is!” Jane shook her head. “The incandescent lamp, my girl! My God! What have you been doing with your life? Flipping your bobbins all day?”
It was the sharp tone of that “my girl” that woke her. Its biting censure broke through her trance, making coherent speech once more available to answer him. “We lived our life as we expected to.”
“Amazing! Lace and religion! Timeless isolation encased in granite!”
“Is that why you left?”
“Isn’t that why you needed to?”
He had a way of surprising her. When suddenly, as now, his strangely hidden sensitivity appeared, made itself known by the truth it had surmised. Perhaps this was what she liked about him the most, this instinctive knowing, then the practically casual way he had of voicing what he had felt, perceived in another. Even in its rawest state, it had a childlike honesty that Jane found utterly disarming. It just might be difficult to retain one’s anger at such a man.
“This place you call Highland Park—is it there we will live?”
“Yes.”
“But Detroit? My address paper says …”
“It’s on the outskirts of Detroit. Now, it is late, get some sleep. We still have a long way to go before we get to Ohio.”
“Ohio?” Jane stumbled over the pronunciation.
“Ohio, that’s Iroquois Indian language for ‘Fine River.’ It comes before Michigan, which means ‘Great Water’ in Chippewa. Now we’re only just leaving the State of New York for the State of Pennsylvania.”
“All this long time has only been one United state?” Jane gasped, convinced he must be playing a joke on her.
“Just go to sleep. The size of America is also too impossible to explain.” Thinking that perhaps he had sounded undeservedly severe, he took his jacket and, folding it into a pillow, tucked it by Jane’s head. She thought that was especially nice of him and, settling her head into it, obediently closed her eyes.
Pennsylvania seemed endless, Ohio too, and had a lake that John told her was so large one couldn’t see across it, but to wait until he showed her a Lake Huron that was even larger but small compared to the one called Michigan … that was so huge it lay by Chicago, which was in another state entirely, called Illinois—which meant ‘Great Warrior’ in Algonquin. Finally, she just gave up trying to understand the entire phenomenon of American geographical marvels but, resolved that once arrived in Highland Park, once a racetrack now an outskirt of Detroit, in the State of Michigan, that in Indian language meant ‘Great Water,’ she would find herself a map and figure out where she was, once and for all!
4
Puddles of early morning rain mirrored a colorless sky. Barren trees sentineled the narrow street of porched houses, clapboard and gabled, separated by thread-thin alleys; each one alike, devoid of individuality, as though placed by an exacting child playing with uniform building blocks.
A sharp wind pulled at Jane’s shawl. She clutched it closer, glad she had thought to pull it from her case on arrival before they had hurried out of the streetcar into the rain. Weeks of endless travel had taken their toll—images blurred, experiences muted, excitement and wonder dulled by exhaustion. Fellow travelers and destination had become interchangeable, memories defused, the endurance required, leaving nothing in reserve. Jane felt the late summer cold as though it were the one of winter. Her arms ached, the straw of her case had taken on added weight from the rain, as had her precious shoes, the ground still swayed as though it would never stop; there was a painful knot in the pit of her stomach. Now that she had come to the end of her journey, she found she was frightened of the one about to begin for her.
She reprimanded herself, as she often did when confused.
Well now, Giovanna, here you are in the Highland Park of America—and what do you do? Cold and tired and scared like a mouse. Here it is where you will be a wife, so wipe your nose and follow your man where he leads you. Squaring her shoulders, she followed him up the porch steps of a gray house, to its painted door that opened before he could knock.
“Ach! Da bist du, finally! My baby John has come home! And vid de little Italian bride!” exclaimed a woman of Valkyrian proportions, face beaming, dimpled and plump, topped by a towering knot of straw-colored hair, its tangled confusion escaping pins of various shapes and sizes trying desperately to contain it. “Come, come into de house, get warm quick!”
Jane had the fleeting impression that this face belonged on a body of diminutive proportions, not this towering Amazon, before she was grabbed, pressed against a bouncing bosom that smelled of lavender sachet and cleanliness—then, with equal force, pushed away as eyes, blue as forget-me-nots, surveyed her with what seemed to the startled girl military scrutiny. “But? She is not ‘little’? No ‘dark pools.’ No ‘angel curls’? No ‘curves’?! So vat is dis? Wrong vife?” Jane still held in a vicelike grip trembled.
John had the grace to be embarrassed, murmured, “This is my wife. Her name is Jane.”
“Vell, it is not vat you told us! All dat so big stories about a little dainty sweetheart back home. We vere expecting maybe some sugar plum fairy! But dis one? Dis one is much better for a vife. She vill give you strong sons mit no hanky-panky flirty! Now, children off mit de vet tings—quick!” Pulling off Jane’s soggy hat and coat, she handed the mess to John, instructing him to be a good baby boy and do the same. Putting a comforting arm around Jane’s shoulders, her eyes giving her another fast going-over, she led her down the hall towards a big kitchen. “Now, my little scared rabbit, you come mit Hannah. First, get dry and cozy, den some good hot chicken soup! After dat—to bed! Now here, Vifey, sit! Baby John, you take off de child’s vet shoes. I poke coals around for to heat up de soup.” Jane, looking down at her husband kneeling before her, obediently unbuttoning her shoes, felt like giggling but controlled herself just in time. Slapping butter on thick slices of still steaming bread, ladling out her justly famous chicken soup, Hannah Geiger filled John in on some neighborhood news.
“Frau Feldmann, remember? De one in de house dat needs a good coat of paint not dat cheap stuff
already mit de peeling—down the block? Her husband, Rudolph, he is home two days, lost a finger by de drill press. Frau Powdonsky, across de street a little down? She lost a lodger to dat stuck-up Mrs. Adams four streets over, who talks de fine la-de-da English, but swallow her cooking you can’t, he …” All of a sudden Hannah stopped. “Ach! Mein Gott! John, your Vifey? She maybe not understand English? And me rattling on!”
Jane, warming her hands around the porcelain bowl, spoke before her husband could answer. “Signora Geiger, I speak not too well, but I understand better. I am very happy to be here in the United States of America and I thank you.”
“She speaks! Vhat a wonder! Already mit de English and so pretty singsongy!” Wiping her hands on her apron, Hannah was delighted.
“I have been giving Jane lessons. She is a very good student for languages. She also speaks French—the nuns taught her.”