by Maria Riva
“He don’t look down on nobody. Could, being son of big Boss!” said Peter. The men nodded in agreement.
Jimmy wiped his mouth. “I find the whole idea rather astonishing.”
“What?” Fritz asked.
“Henry Ford, letting the boy work, like one of his men, no favors shown.”
“That’s because Edsel will be boss someday. Good, learn what it takes now, to work for a living. Being rich born not teach you how hard that is.”
“Quite right, Fritz.” Jimmy acknowledged the older man’s opinion.
Jane, helping Hannah clear, heard her murmur to herself. “Dat’s American way, Mr. Jimmy Englishman, everybody equal.”
“In one way, I agree with Jimmy,” Johann looked at Fritz. “Now that Edsel has graduated, why not let him go get himself a fine college education—the money sure is there, so why not? Why have him join the company?”
“Why? Because the Boss is getting his boy ready to run his Ford Motor Company one day! Teach him more here what he needs to know than fancy college full of other rich sons!”
“Heard Edsel has himself a girl,” John announced.
“Already? So young?” Fritz exclaimed.
“Good for him!” Stan approved.
“Okay with the Boss?” Rudy asked.
“Oh, nothing serious,” John chuckled, “still only good clean fun.”
“Well, soon the boy need to marry—important we have sons, make Mr. Ford happy grandpapa—know his company then safe for always.” Fritz pushed back his chair, rose, led the procession of men to the parlor.
Jane, clearing the table, wondered as she often did, at the intense interest Henry Ford’s workers had for anything that concerned him, like a father with many children—they felt they were a part of him. Everything he did, his very thoughts were a part of their lives. That this man’s children numbered more than fourteen thousand workers, as well as the astounding sum of Model T owners, Ford dealers, and assembly shop personnel across America as well as foreign lands, made this so intimate interest in the boss of this vast empire that much more beguiling.
Jane was becoming a “Ford wife” and it pleased her. This amazing man, who had elevated the common man to the equal mobility of his superiors, was now about to change the concept of quantity production for all time, had captured her imagination. She, whose need for limitless horizons had propelled her across the sea, bound her to an unloved stranger, felt a longing kinship with one whose dream had become reality. Each evening, she rushed to be settled in her corner, ready to listen—fascination growing as the Ford men talked.
“Today overhead wheel line move so fast, make you hurry up so don’t miss something, ’til you feel like machine, too,” announced Peter, his tone tinged with guilt for voicing what might be construed as a criticism.
Jimmy struck a match against the heel of his boot. “Joke going around, your boys on the line drop a wrench, bend down to pick it up—three Ts have passed you by.”
“Like I said, if this goes on, monkeys will wear our badges, punch time cards and we? We’ll have to move to Flint!” Stan was not joking.
John, ever the defender of his hero, answered him. “You forget Henry Ford is a mechanic. He has always respected his men. And what about Couzens and Sorenson? Even Avery. You really believe, Stan, such men would allow inferior workmanship to increase production?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Well, I don’t!”
“Have it your way, John,” Stan murmured, not wanting to get into a fight.
John, opening his paper, changed direction if not the subject of their evening’s discussion.
“Fritz, tomorrow put down your nimble thimble, come down from your eagle nest and I’ll show you how we now turn out crankcases. You’ve got to see this. Right, Jimmy?”
Fritz put down his paper. “Another new thing?”
“You bet … and it’s fantastic! On an overhead automatic conveyer system—they now go direct from the pressed steel department to the paint tank, onto the drying ovens—that before, took up miles of floor space … time and men at hard labor.”
Zoltan sneezed, excused himself, adding, “Everything dangling above the heads—hope that’s safe.”
“I say, we should put the whole car assembly on a continuous line!”
“John, that’s plain crazy!” Rudy blew a smoke ring. John shrugged.
“Heard today a man out West has invented a hand pump that can pump gasoline into a gas tank. They said he calls it a ‘Filling Station’ because it has wheels, can be rolled right to a curb.” Johann looked around for a reaction and got one from Stan.
“A curb? How many towns do you know that even have streets?”
“Not a bad idea, though,” Fritz observed.
“Now everybody’s inventing something. There’s a company offering T owners a Speed-O-Meter. Sells for twelve dollars. Who can afford that?”
“And what about the one offering gasoline gages,” Rudy sounded excited. “Can you beat that? If you own one of those, you don’t have to get your ruler out of the toolbox—make your girl get out to pull up the front seat to get to the tank and measure to see what you got left in there!”
Johann laughed. “There’s even a man who swears he’s invented an alarm that will ring when the Henry is about to go dry!”
Jane wondered just how many more names one little automobile could be known by.
“Yes, I hear there have been letters on that.” Carl agreed.
“There are letters on everything! Evangeline saw one from a lady in Virginia, who complained that when one squeezed the bulb on Lizzie’s horn it sounded like a duck with a bad case of catarrh!”
Everyone laughed, except Jane, who didn’t know what catarrh meant.
Carl turned to John. “So, you saw the fair Evangeline!”
“Hey, Missus Jane—you better watch your fella! He’s associating with dynamite!”
“Quit it, Rudy.” John was not amused.
“Yes, boys—no teasing John’s Missus. She still new—not knows our joking way.” Fritz sounded stern.
Silenced, the men took up their evening’s reading—Jane, her darning forgotten, was trying to digest what she had heard.
“Hannah?”
It was Friday, Noodle Day, and Jane was rolling dough into thick sausages, ready for cutting.
“Yes, child, you got trouble?” Hannah turned from the sink.
“Oh, no, not the noodles. I just wondered if you know an Evangeline?”
Hannah dried her hands on her apron. Her usual effusive verbal output reduced to a solitary “Sure,” which hung in the air as though looking for a place to land safely.
Jane, concentrating on cutting the rolled dough into quarter-inch-wide sections, murmured, “Is she someone who works in the plant?”
“Yes.” Again a one-word answer from Hannah, a most unusual occurrence.
Jane continued cutting. Whatever was worrying her could not be permitted to interfere with the prescribed width of Hannah’s egg noodles.
“Does she work in the dynamite department?”
That did it! Hannah fell onto the kitchen chair and burst out laughing.
“Oh, Vifey Vifey! Dat is funniest ting I hear for long, long time! Oh, my!” Wiping her eyes, gasping for breath, Hannah tried to collect herself. “How come you hear of her? Never mind! She not work with dynamite. She IS de dynamite! Very sprightly, sort of soft little bundle of ‘Squeeze-me-come-on, fella’ type she is. But no floozy. Mit all dat, she is still a lady, dat I gotta say.”
“She’s that pretty?” Jane asked, wondering why her stomach suddenly felt so queasy.
“Ya—dat’s why de Boss so smitten. Everybody has idea maybe Miss Evangeline soon his special friend!”
“The Boss?” Jane breathed.
“Who else? Everybody knows,
sort of. Even his smart so good missus maybe. But dat’s dere business—if okay by dem, okay by us who work for boss of good and decent Ford Company. Why you ask?”
Jane, very busy suddenly, fluffing out the perfectly cut noodles, answered her as though completely disinterested.
“Oh, nothing really. I heard the name and just wondered who she was.”
Smiling, Hannah returned to her sink to scrape carrots for supper.
November winds whipped across the Great Lakes beginning to freeze over. Morning dew no longer lay silent waiting to evaporate, acquired an opaqueness that powdered when disturbed. Daylight, foreshortened, took on the color of a tarnished blade. The North American winter had taken up its residence along the Border States.
Not even amidst the glacial granite of her mountain village had Jane ever experienced such bone-twisting cold, known it could exist where civilized beings needed to go about their daily lives. She marveled at the accustomed acceptance of the people around her—their casual explanation “that’s Michigan” when one’s breath seemed it would freeze in midair. Even that there had ever been a time when the arrival of Mr. Kennec, the iceman, had been welcomed seemed now only two months later, quite inconceivable.
Even before Halloween, the Geiger boardinghouse had been readied to withstand the attack of winter. With Fritz as marshalling foreman, the boarders were organized into an efficient squad of handymen. Hannah and Fritz’s ultimate pride, their Acme Hummer Heating and Ventilation Hot Air Furnace, courtesy of the ever dependable Messrs. Sears and Roebuck, stood freshly reamed, cleaned, and swept, waiting in the cellar domain ready to do its duty. Every pipe was wrapped in shrouds of newsprint and flannel scraps that Hannah collected in her rag-bag throughout the year, windows corked and puttied, every door had its very own threshold “snake”—a Hannah whimsy of thick sausages made of remnants, twisted, entwined, then sewn with carpet thread to keep out lethal drafts. Their name of “snake” derived from Hannah’s proclamation that as dead cloth sausages lying about depressed her, she had decided to bring them to life by giving them button eyes. Jane became especially fond of the one that reclined along the base of their bedroom door. One of its buttons, being smaller than the other, gave it a cross-eyed myopic expression of perpetual surprise. She christened it Francis after an illustration she remembered from one of Sister Bertine’s favorite class books dealing with the lives of saints, in which the monk of Assisi had been depicted as close-eyed as his birds. Hannah so loved this idea of affording her snakes personal identities, she christened the fattest one stretched beneath the back porch door Hercules—because, of all his brothers, who kept out drafts, he was the one who had the toughest job to do.
Heads swathed in woolen mufflers, mittened hands clumsy, Hannah and Jane were taking wash off the line. Hannah sighed, “Winter here, Vifey. No more hanging out. Wash freeze—snap right in two. Everyting now have to hang on pulley rods from ceiling in warm kitchen.” Jane, too cold to speak, nodded. “Soon de holidays coming and den we go into big city of Detroit, you and me, yes?”
“Oh, yes, Hannah, please!” Jane’s words muffled by the scarf Hannah had tied over her mouth, saying “Freezed lips no good for kisses.”
“Now you speak so good American and you no greenhorn no more, maybe time you look it smart for de so fine city shopping.”
“But, Hannah—I won’t be able to make anything in time!”
“No—no—not make! Ready-made from a store bought by de mail-ordering American way.” Grabbing the handle of the full basket, Hannah motioned Jane to take the other and between them, they carried the wash up the back porch and into the kitchen.
Unwinding her mufflers, Jane protested, “Anyway, I can make them better … and store-bought costs too much!”
“You want to look Italian Mountain Woman, fresh off de boat? Or American married lady mit husband steady working, even mit raise, in biggest motor company in whole world?” Not waiting for an answer, Hannah plunked one of her precious mail-order house catalogs onto the kitchen table, opening it to the Ladies’ Garments section. Peeling off her mittens, unwrapping herself from yards of knitted wool, she sat, patting the seat of the kitchen chair next to hers.
“Come, child, sit … nice and cozy … we look for outfitting you as befits.” An inner excitement stirring, Jane sat. “See, right away—here is nice skirt. Says ‘serge’ better dat dan dolman cloth—lasts longer. Oh, looky here—coat perfection for de skirt—just right. Sturdy overcoat too you need—Michigan cold for long, long time—so money well spent for into future!” Wetting a finger on her tongue, Hannah turned pages, pointed, delighted, “Here! Look! We got de hats! All first quality … dis one—dat will look special smart on you—not too fancy like floozy, but good classy ladylike. Good shoes already you got. Real leater soles very important. People notice. Like in old country, look—decide about you right off. But in America, here you can look what you want to be—not be stuck what you are. Important what your purse holds, not where you first come from. My Fritz say, maybe dat not so good dis for people sometime, but I say, work hard, behave yourself, do everyting right, so when time comes you can show off—why not? Be proud! Enjoy!”
That evening after supper, the men were minus their usual attentive listener—Jane, captive in the kitchen, was being measured, schooled in the fine art of writing out requests for her winter finery to be sent to her by the so-efficient United States Postal Service and the anticipatory visit of Hannah’s secret admirer, Mr. Henry Johnson, Mailman.
The next evening Jane cornered her husband as he was about to leave their room to go down for supper, speaking Italian, as was their habit when alone, “John, it has been brought to my attention that before going into the grand city of Detroit, I need to be properly attired as befits your wife.”
“Who put that silly idea into your head?”
“I do not think it is silly, as you put it. Besides, it was Hannah who said it,” countered Jane.
“Well, if she thinks you need some new clothes, tell me how much you will need for the cloth and I’ll give it to you.” John turned to leave.
Jane’s “Oh, no!” stopped him. Her Italian came in a rush, “I must have a ready-made from a store-bought complete outfit. This includes a hat in fashion, a full ensemble and a proper winter overcoat with real buttons, maybe even a velveteen collar, and for all this, I shall need the rather large sum of seventeen dollars and eighty-five cents, if you please.”
“What? Seventeen dollars for a skirt, coat, and overcoat—who do you think you’re married to? J. P. Morgan?”
“That was seventeen dollars and eighty-five cents and you forgot the hat. If I needed a pair of proper leather shoes and gloves, which I already have, it would cost much, much more!”
“What has that got to do with it?”
“Please, you’re shouting. Hannah will get upset. It was she who thought I should be dressed to complement your station of high employment—not me. If you cannot afford to dress your wife …” She let it trail. Italian was such an effective language to infer criticism without actually having to spell it out.
“Dress my wife? Who said I can’t dress my wife? Here …” and stepping back into their room, he strode to the wardrobe, opened it, pulled out his metal cash box from behind his good shoes and, unlocking it with a key attached to his watch fob, counted out seventeen dollars and eighty-five cents in change, placing it into Jane’s outstretched hand.
“Thank you, John. If at all possible, I shall try to require less and then return what is left over.” Stuffing the precious money into the deep pocket of her apron, Jane hurried downstairs before her husband could change his mind and ask for the treasure’s return.
She could hide it from herself no longer. She was with child and this appalled her. It was not the physical process that she feared, but the enslavement it represented, would demand of her. This annex to marriage that women were schooled to accept without r
ebellion Jane had believed she would escape, if only by determination alone.
Now reality mocked her naïve complacency, forcing her to take stock. She realized her compulsive search for unfettered freedom at any price had but shifted her direction—not her destiny—had propelled her into a life of socially accepted bondage for which she might as well have remained where she was. After all, bondage was bondage, regardless of its geographical encampment. She did not want to be a mother, rejected the image of herself as one, yet knew now it was up to her to find the disciplined acceptance of becoming one. She absolved her husband from blame in all this, for she blamed only herself for the confinement she found herself in. Having learned at much too early an age to hide her anguish, Jane told no one, kept her inner conflict hidden, suppressed, as though it were of too little consequence to warrant serious concern. Throughout her life, Jane chose this path of injuring herself with what often appeared as an ever-ready willingness for self-harm. Now, as she faced her first pregnancy, its joylessness her secret, an imperceptible hardening began to encroach onto the fledgling softness that had just begun to blossom under the encompassing warmth of Hannah’s mothering affection and a man’s not unkind protection. As the child grew inside her, the inner escape route of her childhood resurrected itself. Once again, she used it to detach herself from overt life, reducing it to mere experience instead of passionate involvement. Spectator to her own existence, she stood apart. This self-protective reflex to negate what might offer her salvation would come to haunt her.
Hannah, who had witnessed Jane turning green at the sight of boiling cabbage, noticed her sudden aversion to early morning coffee, knew exactly what was going on but waited, though impatiently, for the official announcement that surely by late spring of the new year, a miracle would be occurring under her very roof. Due to her repeated bouts of nausea, the truth of Jane’s condition could not be hidden for long, and, finally, one evening she was forced to confess. Hannah clucked, kissed, hugged, clapped her hands, danced about her kitchen with such joyous abandon, Jane felt guilty she couldn’t join her happiness.