You Were There Before My Eyes

by Maria Riva

  Because neither could think of a name that pleased them both, they named the baby John. Throughout his life, he was referred to by that name. Never a Johnny or Jack, even when a small boy, never held a nickname. It suited his character to be—a dour, impregnable John. Michael tried to adore his new brother but was not permitted to by the object of his affection. As with most, the baby shunned whatever contained human warmth as though mistrusting it. John was a child one remembered by the confusion one felt in his presence. His speculative gaze made most people uncomfortable, as though he knew their secrets and was willing to tell. Hannah, who schooled herself to love Jane’s sons equally, found the effort this required unnerving.

  Daylight had darkened, the threat of approaching thunder heavy in the summer air when, after a lazy labor aided by Morgana’s infusion of sage leaves steeped in laudanum, Serafina gave birth to Stan’s son. Overly large, already handsome, he resembled those chubby cherubs depicted on ceilings of ornate Italian churches. While her boisterous family celebrated, toasted the new father, stomped joyously about to the music supplied by happy uncles, Serafina, freshly washed and cologned, examined her child for signs of the Devil. Satisfied that he was neither marked by a clubfoot, nor a discoloration upon his flesh, she handed him over to Morgana, turned on her side to enjoy the still lingering effects of her potion and slept.

  Believing it was his idea, Stan named his son Salvatore, after his father-in-law, earning that man’s benevolence for relinquishing his Rumanian heritage in order to do honor to his. When Fritz and John spoke of this, they both agreed it was certainly a diplomatic move, but that Stan believed he needed to flatter, they found disquieting. At the musical uncles’ insistence, the boy was given a second name in honor of the greatest living tenor and fellow Italian—Enrico Caruso and, just to make sure at least one saint was in his corner, they also added Anthony.

  The boy’s formative years were ones of confusion, his identity continuously disrupted. His grandfather called him Salvatore, his uncles Enrico, his father and those of his friends, Tony, his mother and aunt, having decided from the moment of birth that he was too perfect to be anything but an angel come to earth, called him Angelo. In later years, Tony, as he thought of himself, could switch names with rapid ease whenever the need arose for him to stay one jump ahead of the law.

  Flimsy peignoirs and lace-trimmed unmentionables restocked, Ebbely was ready, once more, to return to his Southern Route, explaining that only there, frail females still practiced the true art of delicate manipulation of their men with style.

  “Give me a Southern belle and I’ll show you a woman who knows how to entice a man, show him no mercy, while making him rapturously oblivious to his fate! I’d rather face a horde of Bengal tigers who haven’t eaten a man in months, than one of those dainty damsels from South of the Mason-Dixon Line!”

  “Den why in Himmel you go all dat way down dere, you silly?” Hannah challenged.

  “Why my dear? Because those vixens are forever in need of new ammunition and, yours truly is just the man to supply them with it. Do with it what they will—I sell—they buy and let those that can, save themselves! Farewell! I’ll be back in time to Trick or Treat.”

  “So long? It isn’t even real summer yet?”

  “I must. I have pretties to sell, places to see—you know me—the open road beckons and I must follow where it leads me! My God! I sound like John! Kiss his new babe for me and tell our Michael, no jealousy of new brothers allowed. I shall return sated with corn pone, hush puppies, and collard greens, ravenous for all you have to offer and I don’t just mean your cooking! Adieu, Stalwart Guardian at the Gate—pretty postcards I shall send!” and Rumpelstiltskin was gone once more.

  Apple trees were in full blossom, wild huckleberries would soon be in season, time for Hannah and Jane to make their summer trip into the city of Detroit. Leaving the baby in Rosie’s care, this year they took Michael with them, so he could have his first taste of a strawberry ice-cream soda which, of course, he adored—even though at first it tickled his nose.

  Now, all of two and rock steady on his chubby legs, he joined the band of boys that trailed Mr. Kennec’s wagon, hoping for icy chips to fly their way. He would have followed even if there hadn’t been any coveted rewards, for old shaggy Molly was still his first love and the iceman his very special friend.

  “Missus, I notice your little tyke has joined my bunch of scallywags. Okay by you? I’ll send him home if it ain’t.” Mr. Kennec pocketed his twenty-five cents.

  “He never goes further than this street. He’s very obedient that way.”

  “Well, if you say so, it’s okay then.” Pointing to the wash basket newly occupied. “See you got yourself a new one. Congratulations. Boy or girl?”

  “Boy.”

  “Nice looker.” He finished his lemonade. “Well, I’ll be on my way. Good mornin’ to you, Ma’am.”

  “Mr. Kennec.” He turned. “Here, you forgot your carrot.” Molly’s treat had become an expected ritual.

  “Much obliged as usual.” Tipping his cap, the iceman left the kitchen, calling, “Hey, Mike, want to feed Molly for me?” This too had become a summertime ritual that to the little boy seemed forever new.

  In the early hours of Glory Day, after a difficult labor bordering on complications, Henrietta’s third little girl greeted the day. Thinking it a fitting name for a true American born on the Fourth of July, Johann named her Gloria. Again there were christenings to sew for and attend—and again Jane was relieved that John made no reference to wanting such for his sons. Hannah thought of saying something but then remembered what a sensitive subject religion as a whole was to Jane, so kept her mouth shut.

  15

  Rushing down the stairs, John called to Jane in the kitchen. “Can’t stop for breakfast, the president is coming!” Wiping her hands on the apron, Jane entered the hall.

  “What? What president?”

  “Woodrow Wilson, president of these United States, that’s all.”

  “He’s coming here?!” Jane knew it was a stupid question but it just slipped out.

  John, busy putting on his bicycle clips, didn’t look up.

  “Yesterday they draped the whole Administration building in flags and bunting, put up a huge sign that says ‘Hats off to the president who has kept us out of war.’ Those are the Boss’s own words!” He reached for his derby. “When he arrives, there will be more than thirty thousand workers assembled to greet him. Our photographic and moving picture departments are going to record it. We have been getting organized for days! Got to go! I don’t know when I’ll be home. Ciao, Ninnie!” and he was off.

  Returning to her kitchen, Jane wondered what it must feel like to actually see the president of a great country—have him come to pay his respects for what you have achieved. It was a great honor to be sure! Maybe she could walk over, the plant wasn’t that far away, just to catch a glimpse of him; but Michael wouldn’t be able to walk all that way and, with the baby in one arm and him in the other, she wouldn’t make it either. Oh, well, better put the water on to boil, start washing diapers and forget about grand excursions. Sometimes she felt as confined by motherhood as she had by the mountains of her youth.

  At breakfast the next morning Jane couldn’t resist asking if John had actually seen the president and what did he look like.

  Focused on carefully decapitating his three-minute egg, her husband replied that Woodrow Wilson was a true aristocrat and that in his silk top hat he looked as distinguished as one would expect him to be.

  “And Ninnie, you will have to curb your spending, learn to be more frugal.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Just what I said. I noticed you sent away for material again.”

  “I thought you agreed we finally needed curtains for the bedroom. We can’t keep tacking up sheets, linen costs more to replace.”

  “Well, when Mr.
Ford ordered his gardeners to dig up the dandelions on the Fair Lane lawns, you know what his wife said?”

  “How would I know that? Michael finish your milk.”

  “Mrs. Ford said, ‘Thirty men at six dollars a day picking dandelions! We can’t spend that much money!’ If a millionaire’s wife can say that, surely you can do without bedroom curtains!”

  “Eggs have gone up—used to be seventy-two cents for three dozen, now it’s that for two.”

  “I wasn’t speaking of essentials.”

  “I see. Michael don’t squirm, finish your oatmeal. Hannah and I were planning while they last to put up some spiced peaches, but if you think these are unessential …”

  “Is she planning to make her special baked ham for Christmas this year?”

  “I think so—”

  “Well then, spiced peaches are essential. Better buy two bushels. See you tonight. Michael! You heard your mother—finish!” And John was off.

  Young Mr. Edsel became officially engaged to the pretty young thing that had first caught his eye when, as a youngster, he attended Miss Ward Foster’s dancing classes to acquire social graces. Niece to J. L. Hudson, founder of the grandest department store of Detroit, the Ford wives fully approved of his choice, eagerly awaited any news concerning the preparations for the wedding announced for November; speculated on where the ceremony would take place, who would be invited, how many millionaires with bejeweled wives would attend, what color the so lucky Miss Clay would choose for her bridesmaids’ dresses, how many she would have. Highland Park buzzed with the excited anticipation as did the other immigrant communities within and about Detroit that housed the families of Ford workers.

  Prototypes of Henry Ford’s pet project, his Fordson tractor, had been built, were being demonstrated at local and state fairs across the country, the Boss often appearing in person accompanied by his son, a camera operator to film the occasion for Ford’s animated weeklies, and to make absolutely certain that no one could miss knowing they were there, bringing along the Ford Company’s Hawaiian band strumming their ukuleles.

  On the western front, the carnage accelerated. The battles of the Somme had begun and on the first day of the British offensive, forty thousand were wounded, another twenty thousand killed—Jimmy Weatherby among them. Shot through the heart, by the time a brave Lizzie found him, it was too late. His friends, not knowing Jimmy was already dead, waited for news of him.

  On the first of August, the Ford Motor Company declared a one-million-dollar profit, and paid those workers who qualified for its profit-sharing plan the highest wage in the industrial world. John splurged—bought his wife a baby carriage. It was so grand it had real bicycle tires on its wheels, even sported an attached parasol. The whole neighborhood came to admire it. Missus Nussbaum pinched the tires, very impressed, Missus Horowitz marveled at the roomy interior, Missus Sullivan commented on the elegance of the fringed parasol; all the wives agreed that Jane’s husband was both thoughtful and generous. Good-hearted Henrietta wasn’t a bit jealous—only mentioned she hoped Johann would think they could afford one just like it.

  The first morning Jane wheeled the baby over to Hannah’s house, Michael in his sailor suit trotting proudly by its side, her gloved hands resting on the ivory handle guiding the tall carriage, Jane felt like one of the grand ladies she had seen parading their offspring along the flower bordered paths on Belle Isle. From then on, her days took on a freedom she had not known since becoming a mother. She went visiting, explored sections of Highland Park she had never been to, even took over Missus Nussbaum’s Watcher duties when her Elsa came down with chicken pox.

  When Michael learned to balance himself, straddling the carriage without crushing his baby brother, she was able to go all the way to the plant, showed him the wondrous world where his father really lived. In the warmth of summer, they could stay out for hours; whenever the baby needed to be fed, she nursed him beneath her shawl, hidden in a doorway while Michael munched a sandwich and the apple she had brought for him. Then it was back to showing him the exciting sights beyond the tall link fence that separated the kingdom of Ford from Manchester Street; the great puffs of billowing smoke that rose from the busy railroad yard, the fascinating noises that came from trains that the little boy couldn’t actually see, far over by Woodward Avenue, more smoke rising high into the sky from a row of thin chimneys so tall they looked like giants on stilts.

  Jane pointed out the great power house, the foundry, where they boiled the special steel that made the little Model T—and over there, that long, long building with all the windows—that was the Crystal Palace, where many men and their very important machines did their work better because they had so much daylight to see by. She pointed out the chutes, the walkways, the overhead cranes.

  Excited Michael would ask questions and she, as excited as he, answered, tried to explain as best she could. They could have stayed all day and never had enough. One afternoon, arriving late at their special spot, they were caught as thousands of workers were leaving their shift and thousands more were arriving to begin theirs. Bells clanging insistently, endless streetcars arriving disgorging men, others departing with more, factory whistles blaring, thousands streaming out as thousands streamed in. Plastered against the fence, the baby carriage between them, Jane and Michael were too scared to move. But the second things calmed down a bit, they hurried home, got safely inside the house just as John’s bicycle came into view.

  One Sunday, arriving at the Geigers’ just as Stan drove up, Michael pointed to his automobile and, in his childish lisp, piped, “Th-that’s a Model T. I know where Papa makes it—Mamma showed it me!” and the cat was out of the proverbial bag.

  Most of that evening revolved around John’s little boy, his obvious pride in his father’s work, the Ford men delighting in asking him questions, receiving his enthusiastic and amazingly knowledgeable answers. Beaming, Johann turned to John. “That boy of yours is going to be a master mechanic someday!”

  “Damn right he’ll be. You can see it’s in his blood,” Carl agreed.

  “Never in all my days have I seen a youngster so interested—not even the Boss’s boy!” Fritz preened, the proud godfather. Zoltan helped himself to another biscuit.

  “Stan, as Serafina will be expecting you back early anyway, on your way, why don’t you drive the boy home after supper.”

  And so, thanks to his uncle Zoltan, sitting by the side of his uncle Stan, Michael was driven home in flivver style. John lifted his son down from the car, was about to carry him into the house, when a sleepy little voice asked, “Uncle Stan? Is your motorcar a Touring?” Taken aback, Stan answered that it was. The little boy nodded, as if satisfied with himself. “Uncle Ebbely—he has a Sedan and Mamma and me, we have a carriage,” and, putting his head on his father’s shoulder, Michael fell fast asleep.

  Now that John knew, Jane was afraid their exciting expeditions to the busy plant might be forbidden, but all he did was caution her never to go there when shifts were changing, explaining that could be chaotic and possibly frightening—which Jane already knew only too well. He made love to her that night, with a tenderness she hadn’t felt for a very long time. Later, lying beside him as he slept, she wondered why this time had been so different.

  The baby carriage became Jane’s prized possession. She kept it polished, waxed and oiled, after every adventure she washed its splendid tires till they looked unused. Having freed her, she named it her Lizzie and, for a while, was content.

  In New Jersey, German saboteurs blew up a munitions arsenal that the newspapers claimed was a staggering twenty-million-dollar loss and Stan felt vindicated. “What did I tell you? That much stockpiled ammunition? For what? Only one reason—we’re getting ready to enter the war!”

  Fritz disagreed. “That’s not for us. We’ve been sending war materials over to England ever since the war started. That’s why all those German spies are ove
r here.”

  “Well, if you ask me we should be using it ourselves! How much longer are we going to just sit back and watch?”

  “As long as President Wilson has his way.”

  “You mean, as long as we make a profit and the steel barons get even richer,” snapped Stan.

  Woodrow Wilson’s reelection campaign running under the slogan “He kept us out of the war” was beginning to find opposition.

  The Henry Ford trade school for teenage boys who, in the founder’s words, “Never had a chance,” had been “thrown on the world without a trade,” opened to the approval of his men.

  Margaret Sanger opened the first birth control clinic and was stoned.

  Yellowstone National Park admitted its first automobile—a Model T, driven by its owner, a woman—and after excluding them since the windfall of 1914, the Ford Motor Company decided to extend its Five-Dollar-Day policy to finally include its women employees.

  Tin hats proving too vulnerable to flying shrapnel, the first helmets made of steel were introduced by the Germans, and quickly became a part of modern warfare on all sides. In America, the Ford Motor Company was given a contract to produce them for the British armed forces.

  Eager to fight for his kaiser, Heinz-Hermann left Chicago, secretly crossed the border into Canada, bribed his way aboard a Norwegian merchant ship, eventually made his way back to Prussia, to take up arms for the glory of the Fatherland.

  September winds stripped the trees, early frost was in the morning air, the time had come for Hannah and Jane to get out the snakes, see who needed mending. Hercules had lost one of his button eyes, Goliath, who stopped the draft coming up from beneath the cellar door, needed his belly resewn, others, having given dedicated service the winter before, were leaking their stuffing. In the cozy kitchen, John sleeping in his basket under the table, Michael busy on the floor drawing serious squiggles on leftover paper his father had brought him from work, the two women sewed. The baby woke, began to fuss, Jane spiraled her mended snake into their basket, bent, picked up her son, put him to her breast. An automatic action of accepted duty without a trace of tenderness, that struck Hannah to the heart. An act so breathtakingly beautiful in its human simplicity had become mundane, even bovine. What demons did she hold so dear, that kept this young mother from being one? For Hannah, who either loved or hated, knew no middle-road emotion, the so hidden core of Jane eluded her; at times it felt as if she had bestowed her love on one who, though she needed it, accepted it, used it well, did not, in fact, exist. Like the fairy tales of her German childhood that doted on little children wandering lost, abandoned in dark forests, Hannah sensed Jane was too, wished she could find her, lead her home. Teresa had believed Jane’s emptiness could be filled by recognizing God, Hannah by recognizing love—perhaps both were right—it was the same thing.