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You Were There Before My Eyes

Page 14

by Maria Riva

“A baby! I knew! I knew! We are having a little bundle of joy! Mazel tov God willing!” Hannah chanted, quite overcome. Wiping away tears with her apron, she asked, “John know he is going to be a proud Papa?” Jane shook her head. “Now good time as any,” and pulling the reluctant girl behind her, stormed into the parlor.

  Startled, the men looked up from their papers. Although they were now used to having Jane in their midst, it was very unusual for Hannah to make an appearance during their digesting hour. Dwarfing the doorway, Jane hiding behind her, Hannah in a voice most often used for Royal Proclamation from flag-draped balconies, announced, “John, your Vifey—she has de wonderful news! First to whisper private in your ear. Den for all to know and cheer!” and pushed a reluctant Jane towards her husband’s chair.

  John’s reaction to his wife’s embarrassed whisper amused everyone—even her. It took a moment for the news to sink in, then, when it did, he looked with wonder upon his wife, as though he couldn’t understand how she ever could have achieved such an amazing feat all by herself.

  Hannah could wait no longer for John to come to his senses.

  “A BABY! John and his Vifey are expecting!” she blurted. “Now, we celebrate! I get Schnapps!” and rushed off.

  John, still speechless, sat glued to his chair. Jane, standing before him, wondered what she should do or say next.

  Rudy started to laugh. “The birds and the bees, John! Remember?” which Stan had to top with “Hey! Maybe we all got it wrong! Could it be it’s Hannah’s beau, Mr. Johnson the Mailman?!”

  Carl shut him up with a look. Stan jumped up, motioned to Rudy to take Jane’s arm, between them they conducted her to his comfortable armchair, insisting she sit as though birth was imminent. Clasping John in a fatherly hug, Fritz beamed, “You a Papa! Just a boy first time we meet—now you a Papa! My, my!”

  Grinning from ear to ear, Peter punched John’s shoulder, then dared to kiss Jane’s cheek. As the only father among them, Johann started giving John sage advice, while Jimmy began reciting suitable boys’ names, appropriate for a future true American born.

  Zoltan, very affected, blew his nose, rose, crossed over to John, shook his hand, murmured his heartfelt felicitations, bowed in Jane’s direction before heading back to his chair. If he had been wearing his derby, he would surely have tipped it to young motherhood.

  Hannah reappeared, bearing a tray with her very best crystal and a bottle of precious Schnapps that was kept under lock and key until momentous occurrences called for its laudatory kick of 100 proof.

  Everyone toasted John and his Missus. Fritz wiped his eyes, overcome when John asked him to be godfather. Beaming, Carl exclaimed he was going to be an uncle, the rest correcting him—saying that he would be only one of many!

  Hannah raised her glass. “I got another toast. Everybody—to our NEW BOARDER!” Jane felt John’s arm encircle her waist, drawing her against him. Forcing a smile, she wondered how a happy mother-to-be should react, hoping she was fooling them to their satisfaction, not to disappoint.

  That night, John left his sexual prerogative aside, held his wife as though she had acquired a sudden fragility. For the first time in her marriage, Jane felt the magic of feeling cherished and, when John murmured, “Good night, Ninnie, you now need your rest,” she slept lying against him, not turned away.

  “Missus Jane, you feeling okay?” How often did she hear that? Not a day went by when one or another of the boarders didn’t ask after her state of health, anxiously hanging on her reply.

  “You tink you got only one husband? You got EIGHT worrying Papas—dat, I tink must be a record!” Hannah would laugh, enjoying every minute of her pregnancy by proxy. She who had prayed for a child of her own, been denied this joy, now gloried in the participation granted her of soon bringing a child into her world.

  Henry Johnson, mail carrier by chosen profession, took his duty to the United States Postal Service very seriously. He believed without the slightest reservation in its credo that neither snow, nor rain, nor heat, nor gloom of night should stay him from the swift completion of his appointed rounds. So one bitter morning, not far from death by freezing, there he stood before the boardinghouse door. Chunky galoshes, like stovepipes tied beneath his knees—hands in multiple mittens resembling the paws of a grizzly, the tip of a purpled nose above a sumptuous moustache whose handlebars, once proudly waxed, erect, now sagged beneath the weight of tiny icicles, the only proof that amidst the layers of scarves, there must be a face.

  His syncopated knock brought Hannah scurrying to her front door, flinging it open, knowing it was he.

  “Ach, Mein Gott! Mr. Henry! Come—come quick, inside! Get melted!!”

  “No, no!” protested the mailman from between blue lips. “I’ll drip!”

  “Drip—Schmip!” She pulled him inside.

  “No, it’s not proper!”

  “No arguing! What’s dis mit de ‘proper’? You sick or someting? Hot coffee, a little nosh—you feel like a new man!” By this time she had him into the kitchen. “So, sit!”

  Henry Johnson sat, eyes downcast, watching the melting ice begin to pool around his galoshes. Hannah knowing how it upset him to mess up a floor, handed him an old newspaper.

  “Here, Silly! Put!”

  The mailman shoved it under his feet, began peeling himself as though he were an onion—multiple mittens first. Jane, at the sink, breakfast dishes forgotten, watched fascinated as each new layer made its colorful appearance. Hannah, noticing Jane’s amazement at the rainbow array, explained, “Mr. Henry—he bachelor, lives mit his sister—a widow lady. So many children she left mit to raise—she knits for dem everyting. Each one get a different color so know which belongs to which. When any wool left, she knit mittins for her brother mit de leftovers. Oh, please excuse—Mr. Henry, here by the sink is our very special Missus Jane. She expecting, so no get ideas! Vifey, here before you melting, sits Number One biggest heartbreaker, Mr. Henry Johnson, by the United States Government employed.”

  The mailman unwrapped his head, exposing a confusing face. Its gaunt hardness bordering on ugliness in which the softest eyes shone like enticing beacons in a darkening storm. Then, Mr. Henry smiled and Jane’s mouth fell open—her heart turned somersaults, Mr. Henry’s smile oozed seduction.

  “You keep your special smiles for my doughnuts, you Rascal Man!” chuckled Hannah, poking him in the ribs. “Dis is a ‘Good’ girl—so mit her no hanky-panky allowed!”

  Slender hands wrapped around his coffee cup, Mr. Henry turned his devastating smile on his benefactress and achieved an answering giggle—accompanied by a saucy wink. Stunned, Jane watched their interplay.

  “Rascal Man, what you do mit dat poor girl you was playing around mit, out in Polishtown? She still mooning mit heartbreaking for you?”

  And then, Mr. Henry spoke—and it was as though silk were sliding on melted chocolate and the butterflies that suddenly fluttered inside Jane’s stomach had nothing to do with her delicate condition.

  “Why, Missus Hannah—how you do go on!” Wiping powdered sugar from his lips with unconscious elegance, the mailman rose, uncurling his frame as though he were rising from bed. “Seen that little redhead charmer at Twenty-two Puritan? A real looker, that one. Know her?” He began replacing his many mittens, yellows first.

  “You out of luck dere, Honey Boy. She’s new engaged mit a big Irish rowdy. You make eyes, he knock you silly!”

  “Oh, a brute is he? Well, well.” Kelly green followed, then came ones of baby blue. “She’ll soon tire of that. A pretty girl like that, all pink and soft deserves something better—someone who will appreciate what she’s got to give,” he reached for mittens of bright red.

  “Aha! Like you maybe? You watch out, my boy!”

  Mr. Henry covered his rainbow paws with final Postal Service gray. “Missus Hannah, you know if you weren’t already taken, I could settle down, be saved
from all temptations. Nothing like a strapping woman to tame a sinner like me!”

  “Rascal Man! You got post for me? So? Give and out! Go deliver!”

  Grinning, Mr. Henry plunked the packages on the table, rewrapped himself, hefted his mail sack, blew Jane a kiss, gave Hannah a mighty squeeze and ran out of the house—she laughing, swinging a frying pan in hot pursuit. Panting, she returned to the kitchen, where Jane still stood, rooted by the sink.

  “Dat man! Such a joker! Full of de Devil! He break de hearts everywhere he goes—up and down de streets women he’s got waiting. Mammas know—time for de letters coming? Run—lock up quick de daughters! But, Mr. Henry not really bad—just naughty! Come, Vifey, now we open de treasures. See how smart you are outfitted from dat Mr. Montgomery Ward of big Chicago!” Her fingers were busy undoing knots of twine, “But de eyes—you see de way Mr. Henry can look mit dem? A tingle it gives. He’s someting, no?”

  The ordered overcoat was magnificent. Heavy and durable, it would last for years. Its velveteen collar, perhaps even its eight buttons might need renewing in the distant future but that didn’t worry Jane. Her seamstress eye delighted in the expert cut of its cloth—its tailored perfection.

  Hannah, excited, overcome by her own genius of having managed not only to instigate the need but the successful completion of Jane’s transformation into American Womanhood, insisted everything had to be tried on right there and then, make sure it fit, matched exactly the illustrations of the items they had chosen.

  “Vifey, run upstairs—get the shoes you got, also de waist you make so pretty mit de little lace collar—no good try on new tings mitout everyting all togedder—see complete effect.” Jane ran.

  The velour hat, soft and shapeless with only its small brim to give it form was slightly intimidating, until Hannah pushed its crown down, arranging it at an angle that suited Jane’s face perfectly, enhancing its patrician lines. Finally, dressed, prodded, pulled, arranged to Hannah’s satisfaction, they raced upstairs to the looking glass that stood by her bedroom window, hung in its tall oval frame of lustrous cherrywood.

  Jane looked at the reflection of herself as though encountering a stranger—doubtless a young lady of the upper class whom she would be very pleased to make the acquaintance of.

  “Dat’s you, Vifey! Dat smart American Lady—dat’s you, child!” Hannah wiped away a tear.

  Jane stared at herself. She, who had never taken notice of her looks except in derision, for the first time in her young life thought herself attractive and the shock robbed her of speech. Hannah shook her. “It’s getting late. Now put finery away safe—den come down. I got to get my pot roast making—work to do!”

  Changed, her apron tied, Jane didn’t walk downstairs into the kitchen, she floated!

  Hannah, busy cutting out biscuits, was already making mental plans that the very next day they would need to write out an order for proper hose—not the thick cotton kind, but ones Mr. Ward called “Silky Lisle Imported.” Very expensive at forty cents for only one pair but utterly necessary for when a country girl needed to know further she could be a pretty lady.

  Their evening newspapers in hand the men headed for their parlor chairs. Rudy, winking at Fritz, called out to Hannah, stopping her in the doorway.

  “Hey—heard your beau was here today!”

  “So? What’s it to you, Mr. Nosey?”

  With an exaggerated rustle, Fritz opened his paper. Zoltan sneezed, excused himself. Peter wished him health. John tried not to laugh. Stan jumped in with, “God, it was cold today! This winter is going to be a real corker!”

  Jimmy, packing his pipe, nodded his agreement. Without a backward glance, Hannah left the parlor. Fritz peeked out from behind his paper, gave Rudy a conspiratorial grin.

  “You two—you shouldn’t tease her,” John chided. “All the ladies like it when Henry Johnson comes to their door.”

  “Yeah, I hear some are so smitten, they write letters to themselves—so he has to come to deliver them!” Johann laughed.

  “But our Hannah? No—she never would do such a thing?” Peter sounded troubled.

  “Of course not,” Carl reassured him. “Johann meant the young ones—Henry is a good catch.”

  “If he ever lets himself get ‘catched’!”

  “Johann is right!” Rudy lit his cigarette. “That smart rascal loves the chase too much to let himself get tied to any apron strings!”

  Stan adjusted his footstool, stretched out his legs. “Well, if you ask me—I don’t trust him.”

  “But … I do,” murmured Fritz.

  Silenced, the men concentrated on their reading. In her corner, Jane opened the lid of her mending box.

  “Hey, John—I heard today the company wants to lower the price of the Touring another fifty, somewhere down to around four hundred and forty dollars,” said Carl.

  “What did I tell you! The more cars you can turn out, the more you can sell, the less you can sell them for—the more can afford to buy them, the more profit you make!” John loved those moments when he was proven right in his often euphoric-sounding predictions. “Any of you seen last season’s inventory lists?” He continued, knowing the answer would be no.

  “Why?” asked Carl.

  “I happened to see them in the office today. Seeing it all written out like that—it strikes you. I wrote some of it down …” Taking the notebook he always carried, like Henry Ford, John flipped pages, until arriving at what he was looking for, read out loud to no one in particular. “One million lamps, eight hundred thousand wheels, eight hundred thousand tires, ninety thousand tons of steel, two million square feet of glass for windshields, twelve thousand hickory billets for wheel spokes … it took thirty-five thousand freight cars to ship our year’s production …”

  “Well, I’m sure your wife enjoyed that bit of information. Right, Missus Jane?” said Carl, giving her a wink.

  Perhaps emboldened by the still vivid reflection of herself, Jane dared to ask, “Someday, may I see a Lizzie up close?”

  John frowned. He often forgot she was in the room. Now, being made aware she was there, it startled him.

  Stan looked over at Fritz. “Isn’t it time for our Fishbein to show up?”

  “That’s right! Before the holidays—he comes always!” Peter agreed, excited.

  Fritz looked up. “You have to ask Hannah. She has a sixth sense about him. Somehow, she always knows when he is about to arrive in town from somewhere!”

  “So, Missus Jane—you just may get that wish of yours. For Mr. Fishbein is our traveling salesman of no equal who has given up the rails for good—bought himself his very own Model T 2-Seater Runabout.”

  “How he manages to crank it is beyond me,” Johann exclaimed, smiling.

  “How his feet ever reach the pedals is even more astounding!” Jimmy laughed. “Mr. Fishbein is so gallant, he may even allow you, Missus Jane to touch his most precious possession.”

  “Wait till you see him. You won’t believe it.” Rudy joined in the laughter.

  Stan turned to the sports page. “We who build them just ride trolleys.”

  Fritz put down his paper. “Something is going on.”

  “You don’t say!” Stan’s sarcasm filled the air.

  Rudy rolled another cigarette. “Today we were timing the chassis. Big shots all over the floor, clicking stop watches, shaking their heads, running around … like crazy squirrels.” He was not amused.

  “I told you it’s the uniform speed rate. The secret is all in the timing,” John murmured from behind his paper.

  Carl disagreed, “It’s our standardization of parts that’s the key—without that, no newfangled idea of production would stand a chance!”

  “Well, that was proven long ago, Carl!” Jimmy joined the discussion. “Every one of our assembly plants across the country couldn’t exist without our revolution
ary system of fully interchangeable parts.”

  “A T sure ain’t a Daimler.”

  Startled by the first inferred criticism of Lizzie she had heard, Jane stared at Stan, her mending forgotten.

  “What do you want, Stan? A handcrafted unique jewel, weighing a ton, that must sell for a fortune?”

  “Stop the preaching, John. We all know the answer to that. But don’t tell me you never miss the days when we built an automobile with our hands.”

  “Of course I do—but we haven’t got time for that now! Those times are gone! It’s a new world, Stan—and it’s Henry Ford who made it!”

  “Looking back never good,” said Peter. “We lucky good work we got. Many don’t have any!”

  “Before, when I said that something is going on, I meant something is happening—nothing to do with the new moving line. Something else …”

  “What? Fritz, not again something new?”

  “No Carl, I don’t think so—it’s a feeling I got that’s got me worried.”

  Zoltan slowly folded his paper. “Fritz, what kind of a feeling is this ‘feeling’?”

  “I just told you—I don’t know. If I knew, I wouldn’t be worried!”

  Zoltan’s eyes swept the parlor.

  “In all the years I have known this man, never has he been wrong with ‘feelings.’ You who were there, remember? That day at the old Piquette plant? He shouted, ‘ACCIDENT’ so loud over the noise, they heard him but it’s too late, couldn’t stop the Latvian from falling through the hole in the roof? … but still, Fritz knew something—and what about the time when Stolz lost his eye from the hot metal chip—that morning Fritz also had a ‘feeling’!”

  “Hey, don’t forget to tell us when you got it figured out! In the meantime, I’m taking me and my rabbit’s foot to bed.” Rudy waved good night.

  Fritz looked up at the clock. Zoltan coughed, squirmed in his chair. Peter heaved his bulk from his and, saying good night, led the procession of men upstairs to bed.

  Jane stayed to tidy up, filching a Detroit Free Press left behind, so she could once read news that was happening instead of long ago; besides, it was cold up in the attic—then hurried to the kitchen to help. Hannah, having set out her sweet roll dough for Sunday breakfast, was heating the pressing irons on the stove, getting them ready for the ironing of the week’s wash. She chose to do this grueling task on Saturday nights because, as she explained, nighttime was good for the doing of “quiet” work and, Saturday being the day before the only day in the week one could sleep a little longer and had no lunch boxes to prepare, it made sense.

 

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