You Were There Before My Eyes

by Maria Riva

  “You are—sure?”

  “Yes, I am sure. There are changes in the winds and I must follow where they blow. It is in my nature to be facile you know.”

  John lit a cheroot. “Whenever you get this theatrical, Ebbely, I know you are hiding something.” John’s remark surprised Jane. She had not been aware that he knew Ebbely that well or had ever taken the time to discover his so carefully hidden vulnerabilities.

  “I am not! John, I assure you, I am not!” Turning to Mr. Henry, now a rosy-cheeked mailman of expanded girth, Ebbely inquired, “Well, my boy, have you made up your mind yet?”

  Spinning around, Hannah focused on her Mr. Henry.

  “What now?! Has he got you crazy too?”

  “Well …” Not wanting to hurt her, Mr. Henry searched for kind words. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, Mrs. Geiger, but when Mr. Fishbein said he was motoring all that long way and wouldn’t mind some company … well I thought to myself, ‘What a grand adventure! To go fording out into the wide-open spaces, sleep by the side of the road under the stars!’ I’d sure hate to miss a chance like that.”

  “You planning to go all de way to dat shame-on-you place, he’s going?”

  “Hope to, Ma’am. Sounds real lively—plenty of possibilities for a one-armed rascal man like me.” Using Hannah’s old affectionate nickname for him, Mr. Henry tried to soften the blow of his defection from her generous care.

  As he would be long gone before the holidays—the new Mr. Ebb Fish proclaimed that he was choosing Glory Day as his Giving-of-Gifts Day. Everyone dedicated to shielding Hannah from the evil being manufactured along with their beloved Model T, Ebbely’s announcement to celebrate Hanukah-Christmas on the Fourth of July was greeted with enthusiastic acceptance. Hannah was relegated to her kitchen to get busy making gingerbread boys, the children the important task of decorating the rubber tree plant that stood in the parlor, with imagination and cut-out shapes of colored paper. Fritz set out the nativity scene—even the menorah saying, “God wouldn’t mind, for after all the calendar was man’s idea.” Jane clipped the candles onto the rubber tree. When lit, it looked so splendid—Hannah said maybe she would keep the candles there for good.

  Trying not to cry, determined to be brave, Hannah baked so many festive delicacies that the house began to smell of warm cinnamon, nutmeg and precious clove, just as if it were really December.

  For an early farewell and holiday party combined, everyone joined in the sunlit festivities. Excited, the children waited for Ebbely’s giving of gifts. No one was forgotten. There were hoops and Erector sets for the boys, delicate porcelain-faced dolls for the girls, pretty will-o’-the-wisp mementos for the ladies, pungent, rich tobaccos for his friends. Then came the moment everyone had been waiting for—Hannah’s gift. What would it be? What could it be?

  Ebbely wheeled it into the parlor. Hidden under a large bedsheet it stood like a pylon—shortened to the size of its procurer as if waiting to be disrobed.

  Like a salesman giving a demonstration, Ebbely stood before his curious audience holding out a tiny metal box.

  “Ladies and gentlemen and Lilliputians, here in my hand you see a vital necessity to the one standing hidden before you. This tiny receptacle made of tin, its hinged lid adorned with flourished script indicates the manufacturer of its contents of needles and their graded sizes of soft, medium, medium-loud, and extra-loud. ‘Needles?’ you’ll say. ‘For what?’ You’ll mutter, ‘The man is mad!’ But stay—take heart for we have but begun. Assembled friends—as yours truly cannot be with you this year to enchant, transport, delight you with his sublime musical renditions, I hereby present you with a more than worthy substitute.”

  With the dexterity of a flamboyant conjurer, Ebbely whipped off the sheet.

  “Voilà! Behold! Here before you stands the latest marvel, a Victrola! Housed in its own cabinet of finest black chinoiserie. I shall now demonstrate.” Cranking the handle on its side, pushing a lever, Ebbely carefully lowered a peculiarly curved pipe, positioned its head into the grooves of a glass plate rotating at an alarming speed and suddenly a man’s voice enveloped the parlor in rapturous beauty.

  His audience gasped.

  Having achieved the impact of his surprise, Ebbely bounded about the room chanting, “Caruso! The divine Caruso—listen! What passion! What tonality!”

  “Who?”

  Ebbely, in midhop, froze—aghast.

  “You must be joking. You are, John, aren’t you?” Taken aback by the shocked faces directed at him, John shook his head.

  “My father-in-law just bought one of these new Victrolas just to hear the great man,” injected Zoltan.

  “You hear that? Zoltan, a Bulgarian, knows who Caruso is and you—a landsman of the great man, a compatriot, a true Italian—you don’t? You asked, ‘Who?’ You should be ashamed of yourself, John! You should hang your head in abject shame!” Ebbely shook his head.

  “So, hang me by my thumbs!”

  Everyone crowded around the splendid Victrola—examining the phonograph—discussing the great man. Caruso kept singing his heart out.

  Still not a word or sign of joy from Hannah. Ebbely, concerned by her silence, approached her. “Well, my dear? Was I wrong? Don’t you like it?”

  Eyes half closed—her body as still as a sunset—Hannah whispered, “Shhh … I am listening.”

  And Ebbely had his answer.

  “Ebberhardt—what a gift!” Fritz shook his hand. “You shouldn’t have spent that much money but I thank you anyway.”

  Later as the party was ending, Ebbely handed Jane a book wrapped in white tissue tied with red string.

  “For you, Jane. A courageous woman wrote this—I think you will understand what she had to say.”

  Throughout her life Jane kept her special gift. Uncle Tom’s Cabin became a sort of talisman—a reminder of those early years and all that Rumpelstiltskin taught her.

  The red maples had turned—clocks and nature had reverted back to where they belonged when Zoltan announced that his Agnes was expecting. Everyone was delighted—especially Hannah, who was heard to remark, “Now finally dat poor alone man—he will have a family—a real home!” Mr. Kennec and his Molly had said their annual farewell when John stormed into the house calling for Jane.

  “Ninnie! You will have to go! I have been assigned to the Rouge on a special project—so I can’t go.”

  Jane looked up from mashing potatoes.

  “Go? Go where?”

  “To New York—in three weeks when Celestina’s ship gets in.” Jane stared at her husband. “Well my sister can’t be expected to travel halfway across the country by herself.” Taking off his coat, John began washing up at the sink. Still no word from the woman frozen behind him. “For God’s sake, Ninnie, you’re capable, intelligent, you know how to handle yourself and you speak the language. Who else is there?”

  “Me? You want me to travel to the city of New York all by myself?”

  “Hannah will take the children, I’ll make all the travel arrangements, an exact schedule for you to follow, where you have to change trains, where you have to go—what you have to say and when. Both for going and coming back. You’re lodging …”

  “Lodging?” Though it was but a breathed question its panic was poignant.

  “Yes, you must overnight. It’s the only way you can be on the dock in time the morning of Celestina’s arrival. Of course I shall send you first class all the way. So you really have nothing to worry about.”

  Her ’20s bob contained by the latest fashion, a head-hugging soft felt she had made to match the shade of dark plum of her perfectly tailored traveling suit, Jane positioned herself by the window of the First Class railway carriage. For this her first adventure solely dependent on herself, she had permitted herself the luxurious affectation of a small velvet muff for added courage. That John trusted her to accom
plish this mission contributed much to her determination to succeed. That it also scared her gave her the incentive not to let it show.

  Elbow resting on the windowsill, gloved hand cupping her chin, a remembered pose observed so long ago, Jane gazed at the passing countryside as though genteel nonchalance was not new to her.

  A twilight arrival to a great city begets its own magic—that spectacular shimmering of lights before real darkness requires them, so different from any other times of the day or place. Caught by the wonder of having actually managed to arrive in the city of New York, Jane longed to explore its magic but as her explicit instructions made no mention of such wayward excitement, she lifted a gloved hand to hail a taxicab, handed the driver the piece of paper on which John had written her destination. Having given the cabbie sufficient time to familiarize himself with it, she inquired, “Do you know where it is?”

  He hesitated.

  “You sure that’s where you gotta go, Lady?”

  “Oh, yes—my husband wrote it.”

  “Yeah—sure!” He smirked—making Jane wonder if this somewhat sinister man might finally be one of those white slavers she had feared so very long ago.

  Thinking it a wise precaution, Jane ventured a soft, “On the way, I may wish to stop at the nearest police station—but I will let you know.”

  Still reeling from the shock of stormy seas and endless travel, Celestina close to tears in headscarf and rumpled coat, sat dejected on her battered case, when suddenly an elegant stranger advanced towards her, and she cringed.

  “Celestina! Don’t you know me? It’s me, Giovanna! I am Giovanna, your brother’s wife!”

  “Oh, dear …” gulped Celestina all flushed and trembling, “can we go home now? Please! All these people! And the noise and when I stand up—the ground moves and I have to sit down again.” This time the tears gushed. Jane held her close.

  “I know, I know. I felt just the same—everything wobbled. Don’t cry, in a few days it will be gone, but the many people and the noise, that won’t go away—you just get used to it.” Jane steered her sister-in-law through the crowds to the tram that would carry them to the station. Celestina recovered enough to be very impressed by Giovanna’s command of American plus her astounding expertise when choosing the proper coins to pay for their fare not to mention knowing where and when to alight from the strange but rather attractive wagon tinkling its bells with its shovel-like grate in front that Giovanna informed her was called a Cow Catcher—but though she looked, as she saw not a single cow, this confused Celestina even more.

  “Look!” Jane pointed, “look there—that’s a Ford motorcar—a Model T. It is the most famous motorcar in the whole world—the one Giovanni builds.”

  Celestina trying to take it all in—awed by so many wonders knew that if she lived to be a hundred she would never be able to do so.

  In their girlhood Italian they chatted—enjoying each other as though no time had passed to turn them into women. When changing trains and other such serious maneuvers, Jane was in charge—when on their way again it was Celestina’s turn to bring news from home.

  Flirty Antonia, betrothed to a successful elderly merchant from Milan, a splendid match that the whole village approved of without reservation, had run off with a common soldier, disappeared—no one knew where. “She chose a common foot soldier! Not even an officer with a horse! Imagine!” is how Celestina put it, after months still shaking her head in disbelief.

  “Broke her father’s heart. Since then it’s rumored that the accuracy of his treatments has waned alarmingly, some even suspect that our good doctor drinks.” Camilla had born twins, girls, now expecting once more was so big it would surely be twins again. “Remember the Rossini twins? Well, she married Mario the one with the big hands so it’s no wonder she keeps having two of everything! Giovanna, if you saw Camilla now you’d never recognize her. She already looks worn out, old and behaves just like her mother—always cooking, washing and having babies.” Taking a quick respite, Celestina nibbled on the tangerine Jane had peeled for her. “Last winter after spitting blood for goodness knows how long, Sister Bertine finally died of consumption. Her funeral was splendid! Everyone stopped work to attend, dressed in black. Even the horses had crepe ribbons tied on their harnesses. Father Tomasso was at his most inspired—listening to him everyone had the distinct impression they could hear angels singing the Requiem.” Removing her headscarf, Celestina used it to wipe her fingers.

  Jane thought, I must remind myself to tell Celestina that in America ladies wear hats.

  “Oh, even your father attended, which shocked quite a few of our village as you can well imagine. He has a peasant girl from the South—a Calabrese keeping house for him now. Have you ever heard from him?”

  Busy stowing their suitcases, Jane answered, “No.”

  “Oh well.” Celestina yawned.

  “Oh, please don’t go to sleep yet. Tell me, how is Teresa? Has anyone heard from her?”

  “We certainly haven’t—and I don’t think anyone else has either. Most of her brothers were killed in the war—the one who became a Franciscan—and her mother they died of the influenza—but no, no—nothing else.” The train wailed into the night as Jane’s heart echoed its lament.

  On a grim October evening, arctic winds whipping across the Great Lakes, teeth chattering like castanets, a very miserable, travel-worn Celestina was finally enveloped in Hannah’s welcoming embrace, given that instant loving safety that Jane remembered so well.

  Everyone came to meet and welcome the new immigrant come to stay. Confused, yet delighted by their generous acceptance of her, Celestina beaming kept repeating, “Gracia, molto pecharie, molte gentile,” asking her brother to please translate, assure his friends that she had made up her mind that she would speak good American by Christmas.

  Ebbely liked Celestina immediately. He called her his “Raphaelasian cherub” and delighted in her old world charm, her unabridged enthusiasm for every new discovery, every new experience.

  The children had great fun introducing their new aunt to the rituals of their country. There were so many things to learn, decipher, absorb that at times Celestina felt quite undone.

  Though this year young John refused to dress up, Michael ever loyal to his black felt went as his model T, and allowed Billy to borrow his ghostly sheet to spook in. Not one to be left behind, Celestina went as Bo Peep. Of all the new things she came to know, Celestina always liked Halloween the very best.

  As Ebbely’s exodus approached, Hannah hiding her broken heart helped him pack up his belongings. Each bibelot carefully wrapped, a reminder of a time, an occasion linked to their years of friendship. She did not begrudge Ebbely his decision just missed him long before he was ever gone. Jane was far less successful in hiding her loss of him.

  Autumn was fading into white, when one last time the famous hot-cold box was packed with Hannah’s loving provisions for a long journey. His trusty flivver piled high with his belongings, Ebbely bade farewell to his Michigan home and those he loved who had made it one. Vowing to return for occasional visits, especially for those that required his terpsichorean skill upon the icy pond, he kissed the foreheads of the children, both cheeks of his favorite Tall Ladies, was lifted up and bear-hugged by his favorite husbands and waving a last good-bye, Ebbely and his companion bachelor vanished into the winter gloom. With the departure of Ebberhardt Isadore Fishbein now but a simple Ebb Fish, it felt as though an era was gone as well.

  That once alone Hannah would cry, everyone knew; that Jane would, some expected, others not. Thinking this was only one of their Uncle Ebbely’s many absences that always culminated in his certain return, the children went inside to play.

  “Good for Ebbely to have company.” Hannah closed the front door.

  “Ja, good for both of them …” Fritz agreed. “Only hope Ebberhardt doesn’t get your postman into too much trouble w
ith his fancy ladies.”

  “My postman? Where you get dat wit my postman—dat poor boy what he needs is a little cozy business wit a nice-to-look-after girl, and so Ebbely promised me to find a special one who fits him. Fancy ladies? Where you get such talk?” And grumbling censure, Hannah escaped to her kitchen to prepare supper for those who were left.

  Despite all their studying, neither Jane nor Hannah voted this first year of being allowed to do so. The right of women to vote was still so new, so startling a concept that many chose to enjoy, glory in this right finally granted them without having the courage to actually do so. Women empowered by legislation passed by men—was a future to get used to in easy stages.

  Michigan and winter, so suited to each other, began their tryst. The snakes took their accustomed positions, wash hung steaming in kitchens, mittens were sorted, sleds sharpened, excursions to the grand city of Detroit for the vital aromas for the holiday season a must, this year with Celestina the willing awestruck convert to the treasures to be found within Mr. Hirt’s Aladdin’s cave.

  Old enough, Michael liked to be taken along, especially when such rare expeditions included visiting his Uncle Stan’s wife’s twin. He liked her storytelling, the way by her voice alone, she could paint pictures for him to visualize.

  Now a stereotypical old maid wearing a wedding ring, Morgana had acquired a gauntness that troubled Jane. Those sightless eyes so luminous even in their locked imperfection, now seemed suspended in sockets appearing too large to retain them. No longer the reflected image of her twin, now Morgana resembled a Serafina destroyed.

  It was on a winter afternoon when the little boy saw her after an absence of many weeks that Michael sensed in her, finality.

  “Aunt Morgana—it is me—Michael,” he announced on entering her private sitting room.

  “You have grown.”

  Michael moved to her side. “How do you know I have?”

  “I hear it in your voice—it has a growing-up sound and your walk is heavier.” Morgana patted the place next to her on the settee. Michael climbed up and sat. The slight shifting of weight made her wince.