After months of worrying, not daring to even think of what might have happened to him—Hannah finally received word from Ebbely. In that flourished penmanship so suited to his flowery speech, he informed one and all that the mighty Spanish influenza had clicked its castanets in his direction and he its innocent victim had succumbed, been hospitalized on the very day of his arrival in New Orleans. Weeks at death’s pearly gates, he had struggled against Lucifer’s avarice to survive—the remembrance of Hannah’s glorious suppers his only talisman. Still too weak to attempt travel, his body would therefore not be present for the holidays, but his undying devotion—that would certainly be, always. Hannah was so happy her Ebbely was alive she didn’t even shed a tear at his absence.
By Hannah’s orders, Christmas this year was moved to Louisa Street so John put up his tree, Fritz carried over the manger, the menorah and decorations, Hannah the gingerbread house—and everything else. No one came—but then no one was expected. For the children, normalcy was attempted. Familiar songs sung, candles lit, sugar icicles sucked—sad thoughts held at bay—while Michael and Little John concentrated on generous wise men and suppliant shepherds … Jane, carried down to sit amongst cushions engulfed in blankets, joined in the manufactured mood. So much had been lost—so little won. Death had claimed 1918 as its personal trophy. Grateful they had been spared, Christmas on Louisa Street lay becalmed.
As many had before it, the New Year dawned crisp, white and very cold. Only the pond was changed—its glistening surface uncrowded—practically deserted. His head bowed, lacing up Michael’s very first skates, John murmured, “So many dead—war and pestilence—what a combination.”
Always intrigued when his father was being serious, Michael asked, “What, Papa?”
“Never mind—now stand up—careful. Put your feet together—don’t wobble …” and holding each other, they slid away.
Watching them with a doting mother’s pride, Hannah smiled.
“Fritzchen, so big he is—already first time skating and no Ebbely, no anybody to see dis big moment!”
Holding her close, Fritz waltzed them onto the ice.
Alone at home, bundled up by the fire, Jane her short hair making her look even younger than her youth, watched as little John played with his telescopic picture blocks. She felt fragile; with the child still alive inside her, even more so. There seemed such a chasm between the year that had been and the one just beginning. Somehow life, the very concept of it, had changed and she carrying it, wasn’t sure what that meant anymore or in what direction to steer her gratitude for being granted it.
“John,” her voice hesitant, the importance of her announcement making her stand overly straight as though fearful, Jane touched her husband’s shoulder as he undressed.
“Ninnie? Are you alright?” His concern for her still delicate health was immediate.
“Oh, I’m fine! But …” she hesitated again.
“Well, what?” As nothing but her health was important to him, this sudden timidity annoyed him.
“I am again with child and I thought you should know.”
The unbuttoning of his trousers forgotten, John grabbed for his wife. She thinking he was going to shake her again, backed away; he laughing pulled her into his arms.
“When, Tesoro?”
Relishing him calling her his “treasure,” she nestled against him.
“Summer. Maybe July, but I’m not sure—the sickness …”
“You’re worried?” He pulled her from him to see her face. She nodded. “Oh, come on, nothing to worry about. You feel fine, you said so yourself—anyway, you’re strong as a horse, nothing ever fazes you. Besides, when a Ricassoli finds a woman to cling to, he stays put. Told the boys yet?”
“No.”
“Hannah knows of course,” John pulled on his nightshirt.
“When I was so ill, she had to know.”
“Come to bed, Ninnie. You need your rest—especially now. I won’t touch you.”
Hiding her disappointment at that last remark, Jane went to brush her teeth.
Her recuperation now linked to a pregnancy if no longer in actual danger of aborting, still at plausible risk of producing a damaged child, Jane became self-protective. Having been conceived within pleasure, even possibly love, this new being demanded her devotion as none had before. Beginning to love its father, she loved it, agonized over what might have happened before it was fully formed. Her fears hidden by an outward assurance that bluffed its daily way as though all was natural—Jane achieved the visual lie that she was whole, in benign charge of her female destiny. John just grateful his wife was alive, handled Jane like a breakable treasure, dared not touch her for fear he might do whatever harm men were supposed to be capable of at such times. Hannah knowing exactly what Jane was afraid of—prayed.
The end of war did not bring the return of all-encompassing peace as everyone had expected. Too much garbage, both political and social, lay heavy upon an isolationist land forced by a world war to grow up before its national maturity had fully developed. Being geographically so vast, before the age of radio, America was capable of absorbing inner upheavals, often making it appear when viewing the whole that nothing of great import was happening at all, but the Ford Motor Company on its home turf would soon feel the backlash of the social turmoil already sweeping the rest of the country. But not yet—for now those whose lives were irrevocably joined to Ford and his magical little motor—the glorious dream could continue, for a while at least.
Everyday life resumed its recognizable patterns. It was time to resurrect the snakes, their bellies restuffed, their loosened eyes resewn. This year it was the fate of old faithful Hercules to be disemboweled then reshaped into a younger version of himself.
With so many women needing widow’s weeds to symbolize their new station in society—Jane’s sewing room was engulfed in black moiré, black alpaca, black braiding and so many boxes of jet trimming that she had to move some of this somber bounty into the children’s room to have space for her dress form and cutting table.
Freed by death of his filial duty, Zoltan became enamored of a young woman employed as assistant librarian in the city’s central circulating library. Russian literature being her passion, they had met, late one afternoon just before closing time, between the rows as he was searching and she was at that very moment replacing a volume of plays by Anton Chekov that he was looking for.
Their mutual interests soon led to courting—but before committing himself, Zoltan asked permission to bring the young lady to a Sunday supper so Hannah could give her opinion of whether he was simply being a romantic fool or not.