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 with 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.
“Is it very bad being blind?”
“Sometimes, when you want to see.”
Michael reached for her hand. “What?”
“Oh, things”—Morgana moved her hand to clasp his—to the boy its touch felt like a fallen autumn leaf.
“Why are you sad?”
“I am not sad, child—not really—just tired.”
“No, you are sad first!” Michael’s voice held the tone of masculine conviction.
Stroking his hand, Morgana smiled.
“I am the one who has visions, not you—you scamp.”
“If I give you a hug will that hurt you?”
“Why do you say that? How do you …” Morgana let the useless words trail.
Michael looked up at the haggard face that could not see its own destruction.
“I’ll be careful, Aunt Morgana—really I will, I promise.” Carefully his small arms encircled her waist. His head resting on her protruding rib cage, they sat—child and woman, and Morgana wept while Michael listened—feeling it was their moment of farewell.
When Morgana died in the agony of rapacious cancer everyone wondered why no one had guessed her suffering. Dry-eyed, Michael stood by the open coffin remembering Gregory, wondering why grown-ups felt it right to fix dead people into strangers. Looking up at his father beside him he whispered, “Papa?”
“Yes, Michelino?”
“Papa …” he hesitated.
“You’re disturbing people—what is it?”
“When I die don’t fix me.”
“Fix you?” John’s whisper held impatience.
“I don’t want to look funny like Gregory and Gloria and Aunt Morgana. Okay, Papa? Promise?”
“He means strange.” And taking Michael’s hand, Jane took her son out into the soft snow.
It was not because they had celebrated Hanukah-Christmas in July that when it was time for the real ones—it seemed like a memory no one wanted to remember. For Celestina and the children the rituals were re-created—the festive mood pretended—the prevailing sense of emptiness hidden from those whose lives were still in their beginnings. The sumptuous Victrola spun its lyrical magic—yet Ebbely spinning his piano stool would have been preferred.
On New Year’s Day, certain she would plunge and disappear, Celestina refused to set foot onto frozen water assuring her new friends in most passable American that watching everyone else slip and slide amused her far more. Somehow the old year was gone, as though it had never been.