You Were There Before My Eyes

by Maria Riva

  One sun-drenched morning, once again exposed, free of his winter cocoon, he came, looked up at her waiting on the porch, waved a slender milk-white hand in her direction, smiled his devastating smile and then, passed her by. Only Mr. Henry could make not getting a letter, though fleeting, a sensual experience. Sighing, Jane went back into the house to cook and clean. Maybe he would stop tomorrow.

  Frederika, very satisfied with the results of Jane’s work, recommended her to a neighbor who was also with child. A fat lady to begin with, at first Jane had great difficulty in finding enough in the seams to let out, until she had the idea to use the material in the hem, working it cleverly into inserts in the bodice then putting a false backing for the hem of the skirt. The blossoming lady was so pleased to once again fit into her Sunday best, she told her friend, wife of the coal merchant, all about the Italian woman on Louisa Street who was so skilled with the needle.

  Slowly, Jane accumulated cents until they added up to a whole dollar—then two. There was no need to conceal her special activity from her husband, for John rarely took notice of what held no interest for him.

  At times aware that he had probably made an excellent choice after all, John was very satisfied with his wife. Her respect for his work, her willingness to take second place to it, endeared her to him. She functioned independently, never needed tedious cosseting or cavalier behavior to keep her in a pleasant mood, as so many wives seemed to require. Hannah’s influence had been as constructive as he had known it would be when first he had decided to bring Jane into her orbit to benefit from her example. John liked to have things turn out correctly as planned. Now, after two years together, he had become used to her. Not necessarily in the physical sense, nor an emotional one, but simply that she existed. Though at times this puzzled him, it did not disturb him unduly. As with most ambiguities relating to human behavior, John did not delve, accepting their existence as though of no overly serious consequences. What he could see, could feel with his hands, that John understood—intangibles eluded him. His meticulous intelligence was focused on conclusion, not the intricacies of its process. As Jane became symbolic of his male achievement as breadwinner, husband, father, John began loving her as such. Jane, feeling affection, began to love him for nothing more than that—he seemed to like her. And so their marriage solidified, both oblivious to the nullifying direction this might take. Except for a war too far away to cause them any physical harm, their life had become comfortable. So comfortable that John, taking an obliging woman to bed now and then, did not disturb its grounded structure. John did not consider his sexual release as an act of faithlessness, and Jane, had she known, would probably have thought the same for, during these scattered interludes of not being her husband’s focus of desire, the reprieve from that constant fear of another pregnancy she found a pleasant change.

  Serafina, predicting rain for the Fourth of July, persuaded her father to set up a tent he had once used in his garden for a meeting of the Brotherhood, then told everyone to come and have their picnics there. Glory Day dawned, bright and sunny, but by noon the skies had opened up, drenching everything in sight. Serafina triumphant, swept amongst the picnicking groups beneath the sheltering tent, greeting friends, accepting their homage as their clairvoyant savior.

  Rudy, watching her, turned to Stan. “She’s amazing! How does she do it? Even when she’s wrong, in one way or another, she’s right. Of course, you know Hannah is convinced your wife is a witch!”

  “Hannah isn’t the only one.”

  “You’re joking!”

  “I’m dead serious! The whole family is strange. You think we Rumanians, with our werewolves and legends of crows that pluck out the eyes of fresh corpses are weird? We are as pure as the driven snow in comparison to a house full of Sicilians!”

  Rudy roared with laughter.

  “What’s so funny?” John joined them.

  “Stan agrees with Hannah. His Serafina has the Evil Eye!”

  “All Sicilians do.”

  “See! What did I tell you, Rudy. The whole lot are touched in the head!” Stan wasn’t joking.

  John laughed, “They’re not exactly, crazy, Stan. Just strange—full of macabre superstitions … and dark secret rituals.”

  “Must be that constant hot sun beating down on their heads,” Rudy chuckled, “makes them a little peculiar.”

  “Well, you three are having a jolly time. What’s so amusing?” Ebbely joined them.

  “Stan was criticizing his in-laws.”

  “Oh, my God! Not here!” Ebbely looked furtively over his shoulder. “The place is full of them! Some look quite ferocious. I saw one, with a distinct bulge under one armpit!”

  “It takes one to know one!” Stan grinned.

  “Yeah, Ebbely, got your trusty cannon with you?” John asked.

  “Now please,” Ebbely lifted a tiny hand, “I don’t mean to offend, Stan, but never would I be so foolhardy as to venture into your father-in-law’s domain carrying a concealed weapon! Dangerous! Very dangerous! Not being Italian, even more so! Shall we rejoin the ladies? Hannah’s huckleberry pies look divine. John, I have tasted your Jane’s lemon meringue—bliss! Absolute bliss!”

  “You staying awhile this time?”

  “No. In three days I will be on my way, heading towards trellised balconies, painted women, steaming cocoa for breakfast with flaky croissants—in a town that wakes by night, makes love by day.”

  “Hey, Ebbely, where is this paradise?”

  “Ah, my poor deprived! Prisoners of cold machines and endless precision—New Orleans of course! Pampered harlot of the South! Once she has seduced you, a man is never the same again!”

  The morning Ebbely left, he reached up, pulled Hannah’s face down to his, gave her cheek the softest of kisses, then allowed her to straighten up again, as he put on his driving gloves. “Dear Lady, have no fear! I shall return, this time bearing pecan pralines that, once tasted, one never forgets—and real cocoa powder just for you—I’ll stop off at John’s to say good-bye.” And he vaulted over the fake door of his Model T, squirmed over to the driver’s seat, calling, “Beware of somber men coming to do God’s work in the name of our saintly Henry! Keep those Watchers alert! Farewell! Auf Wiedersehen!”

  The repeated honking of Ebbely’s horn brought Jane running out of her house into the street.

  “Tall Lady! I have come to say good-bye! Give that delightful son of yours a chaste kiss from me. Tell John to treat you kindly—I shall return before the chestnuts fall! Now, stand back, no more cranking—observe how my new special self-starter springs this heap of tin into instant action!”

  It was truly an amazing feat to behold! She shivered, she quivered, she shimmied, puffed, rattled and shook—then—exploded! Shouting, “Au revoir!” Rumpelstiltskin and his Lizzie disappeared in a cloud of dust.

  Soon, Missus Schneider would no longer warrant her appendage of eight-blocks-over for, despite the many advantages of being a Ford man, her Walter, feeling his country needed him, had decided to take his wife and bank account back home to Westphalia to take up arms against the enemy. Hannah, returning from wishing them a safe journey, stopped off at Jane’s. Stirring her coffee, she sighed, shaking her head, “Why? Will you tell me why? Dat Walter give up best job he ever can have? Leave a fine free country to go shoot peoples? And for what will you tell me? … And anudder ting—dere goes de best midwife we got! What we do now for when you get next baby?”

  “There isn’t going to be a next.” Jane lifted Michael down off his chair.

  “Ha! Dat’s what you tink!” Hannah took a bite of Jane’s apple cake. “Dis good, Ninnie. You make it wit de dried apples like I tell you?”

  “Yes, and I added a little molasses.”

  “Nice … but dat woman going, can’t get over dat! What are we going to do?”

  “For what? Missus Horowitz lives on the same street, so she
can take over her post as Watcher—and I’m certainly not going to need her.”

  “What, your John not sleep with you no more?”

  “Of course he does.”

  “Well, den what you tink is going to happen? Such tings a woman decides? Or God maybe? What you tink you are? Magician maybe?”

  “Please don’t worry, Hannah …”

  “Dis war, even so far away, make everyting topsy-turvy … everyting is changing!”

  “More coffee?”

  “A little too warm. De udder night, my Fritz he says maybe better we change, our name is too German. To what? I ask, and he says that some at the plant just translate—so I ask, you want we should be now Mr. and Missus Fritz Violinist? He laughed but, whole ting is not so funny.” Hannah bent down to Michael, scooped him out of his pen, and onto her hip. “Come, my Bubbeleh, we take a nice walk in de sunshine and get happy.” She started out the door. “Ninnie, you know—I just tink—dat Missus O’Reilly, de one mit de ten children? For sure she’s got to know what to do.”

  Jane carried their cups to the sink, began to wash them. Hannah’s conviction that a second pregnancy was only a matter of time, completely unavoidable, disturbed her.

  Hannah insisted everyone attend the first graduation ceremony of the Ford English school, scheduled to be held on July 25. She argued that as her Boys had been such fine volunteer teachers, it was only right they witnessed the triumphant fruit of their labor. Besides, as Heinz-Hermann would be amongst the graduates, she was forced to go and needed company. She had confided to Jane that now her nephew had learned English, she hoped he would get himself other work—far from Highland Park, preferably out of the whole State of Michigan—IF she was lucky!

  “I know it is not nice to say, but I can’t help it! Now he makes friends with bully boys. Every night he goes—comes back—sometimes in de morning. When I ask—he snaps—none of your business … I worry—maybe he gets mixed up wit bad sort. Yesterday, you know what he says? Yellow peoples not civilized, dat’s why not get ahead as good as white peoples. And colored peoples—dey come from Africa, where dey like animals in de jungle and dat white men brought dem to America so to make dem civilized. Can you believe it? And he says dis in front of Fritz—so you can imagine de trouble! But, you know what? Dat boy just kept right on insisting—shouting every word was true—because he was quoting direct what is written in de Ford Guide schoolbook. You tink dat can be true? I don’t believe it. Fritz said in private to me, he is going to get one of dose school books and see if such tings really are written in dere.”

  Dressed in lederhosen held up by suspenders embroidered with stag heads, his Tyrolean hat sporting the obligatory boar’s brush, Heinz-Hermann stood amongst Rumanians decked out as colorful gypsies, Greeks in white pleated tutus, Hollanders in perked caps and wooden shoes, Armenians in home-spun robes, Albanian goatherds in furry vests, Russians in banded tunics and tall leather boots, Italian organ grinders, only their monkeys missing, every nationality represented, garbed as though attending a theatrical costume party. The children amongst the crowd of spectators enjoyed it the most. Especially when the vast horde of adorned men upon the stage began to move down a makeshift gangplank of a cardboard ship, received diplomas, then filed obediently down into what looked like a huge black cauldron representing a melting pot, the ford english school written across its front, to be stirred with a mammoth ladle, only to reappear a short while later from out of its depth completely transformed. Every man now in a proper suit, shirt, and tie, all looking alike—newly reborn, waving little American flags in celebration of their joyous transit to Standardized Americanization, courtesy of Henry Ford.

  Jane thought the whole spectacle hilarious but, as everyone was cheering, not laughing, she kept her amusement to herself. It surprised her that Hannah, even Fritz applauded as enthusiastically as the people around them.

  After the ceremony, Heinz-Hermann preened, accepting congratulations, slaps on the back, as though he alone had achieved something truly laudable. Jane held back from the effusive mood, bothered by something she could not as yet name but certain that, when she could, it would turn out to be somehow disturbing.

  Arrived home, she changed, put away her good clothes, gave Michael his bath, fed him supper, put him to bed refusing to read him a story because he had had enough excitement for one day. Calling to John to wash up for supper, she went downstairs. They ate in silence. Neither had much to say. Later, John read his paper while she mended, trying to sort out in her mind what was bothering her. She knew it wasn’t just the rather ridiculous spectacle of grown men dressing up only to undress, then re-dress themselves. It was much more than that. Perhaps it was why they had done so, their acquiescence, their willingness to obey any dictum of Ford’s even if that meant making fools of themselves? Had they no pride? Or, did they perhaps not even realize what had been demanded of them—that dressing up like children for a costume party, performing the ritual assigned to them, would make such fools of them? Frightened people desperate to conform, seeking safety in acceptance, allowed many abuses to be done them. Maybe that was what disturbed her so—the need of so many exploited that had made that day’s entertainment possible.

  John folded his paper.

  “It’s been a long day. I’m glad Hannah made us go, just goes to show what can be done if someone really cares. They’ll all remember Ford alright!”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m off to bed. Coming?”

  “I just want to finish this.”

  “Don’t forget the light. Buonanotte.”

  Alone, Jane stitched by the light of the single lamp.

  12

  On the first of August, the Ford Motor Company announced that as 308,213 automobiles had been sold during the previous year, it would begin mailing out fifty-dollar rebate checks, representing about 9 percent of the purchase price of a Model T. The final tally would eventually come to more than fifteen million dollars dispensed—but, once again, Henry Ford had captured the nation’s headlines, this time as the self-made millionaire whose word was his bond.

  The first transcontinental telephone communication was achieved from New York all the way to San Francisco and Heinz-Hermann left to be an apprentice butcher in Chicago, Illinois. To celebrate all these wonderful happenings, Hannah invited everyone to a special supper. For such a festive occasion, Stan and John brought red wine, Rudy and Johann, white, Carl and Peter, buckets of beer, Zoltan a fine after-dinner brandy, Fritz, not to be outdone, opened a new bottle of his potent Schnapps. Only Ebbely was missing.

  Zoltan never made it home that night, needed to be bedded down at Hannah’s, Rudy and Johann, singing naughty schoolboy songs, had to be guided home by resigned wives, while Rosie and Dora herded their weaving husbands to the Inter-Urban trolley stop like unruly sheep. Stan couldn’t even find his automobile, let alone the crank. Serafina, very furious, steered him to it, ordered him to get in. As he was valiantly attempting to do so, she lost patience, gave him such a shove he went flying into the back seat, where he remained—out cold. Putting on his duster, crank in hand, Serafina marched to the front of the Touring, started it on the very first rotation, clutching her skirts, climbed up, engaged the gears, trod on the pedals and drove off. Hannah and Jane, who had helped her get Stan out of the house, stood transfixed, watching the ruby glow from the tail lantern disappear. A woman driving an automobile? That, they had never seen!

  “Dat crazy Serafina! She is really someting!” Full of admiration, not yet quite over the shock, Hannah went back inside to make sure Fritz could get up the stairs, find their room. Jane, very envious of Serafina’s amazing accomplishment, wishing she too knew how to drive, followed—to lead John to his hat, and show him the way home.

  Stan having volunteered to drive John and his surprise home from work, helped him carry it around to the back porch.

  “I can’t stay, John. We’re having a meeting tonight.
”

  John looked at his friend, “Careful, Stan.”

  “I’m always careful.”

  “Who’s coming? Any of my men?”

  “I know how you feel about union talk, better you don’t know. I got to go. Say hello to Jane for me. She still angry about the other night?”

  “I don’t know. With Jane, you never know!”

  “You’re lucky. My wife hasn’t spoken to me since! I’m off, see you tomorrow.” Stan hurried back to his waiting automobile.

  “NINNIE, I’m home!” John called through the screen door. “Come out here! I’ve got something to show you!”

  Puzzled why he was at the back, dodging the long curls of sticky flypaper hanging down from the kitchen ceiling, Jane stepped out onto the porch.

  “Ninnie! Here it is! Your Izze boite!”

  “Did I ever pronounce it that badly?” Jane laughed, not quite believing what stood before her.

  “Yes, I liked it.”

  “Really? But now I can say it properly.”

  “I know. Well? You like it? It’s a Siberia, secondhand; I bought it off one of the Belgians going back.”

  “Oh, it is marvelous! Now the milk won’t curdle and the butter won’t melt! I can even keep meat! Thank you, John!”

  “Well? Come on, say it.” Jane, suddenly shy, hesitated. “Come on …”

  “I-C-E B-O-X.” She said it carefully, pronouncing it as though announcing a royal personage arriving at a palace ball.

  “But first, I have to repair the handles, then you can give it a good cleaning. Don’t worry, I’ll be adding the extra cents to your weekly household money for the ice.”