This year changes were everywhere. The Ford Company’s famous profit-sharing plan was discarded and the bonus and investment plan took its place. Most of the men, not understanding the change or how this would affect them, simply accepted their boss’s reminder that “thrift is an index of character” as readily as they had so many other homilies. The feared Sociological Department suddenly became the Educational Department, its ominous inspectors rechristened benign advisors, and so after much soul searching Hannah disbanded her Angel ladies and the Watchers were no more. The factory newssheet printed enticing advertisements extolling the advantages of purchasing not only one’s grocery goods but also the latest men’s clothing at the Ford Company store, guaranteeing the wise shopper that “a dollar saved is a dollar earned” which then could be placed within the safety of the company bank.
On the morning of January 18, in pressed suit, high starched collar and band box bowler, the 1920 census enumerator appeared at 398 Prospect Avenue to record that its inhabitants were bona fide citizens, two by decree, three by birth. This first official documentation of her new identity so pleased Jane, in a rush of unusual familiarity she invited the so earnest gentlemen in for Prohibition’s latest stepchild—a glass of bubbling root beer, which he politely declined, stating he was strictly scheduled. That evening, feeling newly important for being recorded within her new country’s historical archive, Jane greeted her husband with “John, today a gentleman from the government came to take what he called ‘the census.’”
“Did you answer all his questions?” John dried his hands on the dishtowel she handed him.
“Yes—they were very simple ones. Only the one about your work—what you do—I wasn’t sure of. But I didn’t let him see that.”
John smiled. “What did you tell him?”
“Well, I said my husband is a special machinist for Mr. Henry Ford. You once told me that. Was that alright?” Jane ladled out the soup for their supper.
“Good enough—such things are not that important anyway.”
Carrying the soup plates to the table, Jane thought that such a momentous occurrence of historical significance warranted more than such a dismissive remark.
When new laws were proposed setting forth immigrant quotas—the mood around Hannah’s Sunday table smoldered.
“You hear, now they say Jews, also Slavs can only come, only a few?” Peter, troubled, looked over at Fritz.
“Ja—they say every country now will have a limit.”
“I heard also no more than a hundred darkies are going to be allowed from any African country.”
“Well that will be a new one!” Zoltan’s sarcasm dripped.
“What about all the others?”
As though wishing to finish the subject, John answered, “Germans, English, Irish are to have very large entry quotas—Lithuanians, Russians, even Italians, theirs have been drastically reduced. It seems that despite the war and now President Wilson’s lofty dream of a unity of nations, America may choose isolationism after all. Time will tell. Fritz, please … pass the gravy.”
John’s overly casual comment surprised Jane. It was unlike him to choose to evade a discussion that could lead to an invigorating battle of diverse opinions. If Ebbely had been present he would not have allowed such a withdrawal—but as he was absent pursuing what he referred to as an “evening of profound insight,” no one challenged John’s opinion.
What or where Ebbely was being profound and in what specific direction of insight—no one knew. Not even Hannah, although she tried her very best even resorting to jelly doughnut bribery—Ebbely divulged nothing of his “One Sunday Evening a Month Sortie” into the city of Detroit.
“You tink maybe he has a woman, Ninnie?” asked a troubled Hannah trying not to sound a bit jealous and failing.
“Oh, no! Ebbely wouldn’t do that in secret.” Dodging the subject, Jane made herself sound very convincing.
“Ya—I suppose. But why den so punctual—on de dot—he goes and all dressed up in his fine three-piece suit with de silk cravat, yet. I don’t like it—looks like hanky-panky to me!” Hannah rattled her pans—Jane opted for silence.
Later that evening as they were walking home John stopped suddenly, startling his sons following behind, turned to his wife carrying their youngest—and in a voice full of command and irrevocable decision announced, “Before that miserable Italian entry quota becomes law, I am bringing over my sister. Celestina can live with us—until I can find her a suitable husband.”
Ever since influenza had felled Ebbely then permitted continued living, a magnanimous gesture wholly unexpected, he had become introspective. As though weighing his past in order to rebalance this gifted future, he seemed preoccupied. Though he continued to play himself, he no longer believed in the role.
Army long johns long gone, newly emancipated women thumbing their noses at frills and finery—Ebbely now contemplated the beckoning charm of becoming a player of tunes.
“What you mean tunes?” on first hearing this Hannah asked, giving the utterance of tunes as though he had decided on becoming a rat catcher.
“Music, dearest Lady. I have come to the conclusion that the time has come to indulge myself. Life is tenuous, its very fragility demands one to look beyond those horizons decreed by need and convention to those that only beckon, their perimeters yet unexplored, those so virgin vistas of the perhaps still possible …”
“Maybe you still know plain English?” Hannah sat in Fritz’s chair ready to do battle.
“Oh, dear Lady—I am a little man …”
“No, dat’s just silly. After my Fritz—you are de biggest man I ever know.”
For a moment silenced—Ebbely murmured, “Thank you, my dear.”
“It’s true! So? Why you suddenly want to be a somebody dat plays in a honky-tonk place with no respect?”
“Is that what you think?”
“Dat’s what I tink, yes!”
“I don’t play well?”
“Oh, you play very beautiful—even on dat so funny banjo you sound nice—but …”
“But what … ?”
“Well … see how good I now say de double Us?”
“Hannah, you’re stalling …”
“Okay—playing for de joy it gives is one ting—playing for nickels and dimes is not.”
“Even if I enjoy it?”
“Even.”
“Hannah, I still have to earn a living.”
“Not dat way.”
“Well, of course I could always become a sporting man, wear a long feather in my hat.”
“What’s he do?”
“He runs a racy stable of obliging girls—the feather in his hat is a sign that he has personally tested them all.”
“You making wit de jokes again?”
“No, sage Lady—in New Orleans such men are very prosperous and duly respected.”
“Now you mention dis—dat so almighty place you love so much—is a place you shouldn’t be in also!”
“Oh my Juno! Now that you have stripped me of all my earthly pleasures—what divine concoction do I get for my supper?”
“Aha—mit de jokes—just to get out from under de serious—that you never like. I know. Okay, now I go make you stuffed cabbage how you like—but you better remember what I was telling you!”
When Rumpelstiltskin happened to casually mention the subject of his desire to change professions, Jane’s reaction surprised him by its enthusiasm.
“Oh, Ebbely will you really?”
“I am seriously contemplating it.”
“That New Orleans—you really like it there.”
Though it was a statement of fact not a question, he answered, “Yes—possibly even more than simply like. It’s a comfortable city.”
“Comfortable? You always tell me how exciting everything is there. ‘Comfortable’ seems an odd word.”