Lily, a cream pale blonde, blew her nose. Iris, a slow-eyed brunette, considered the problem, then both relinquished their daily right to bathe to the yearning immigrant before them.
Like adoptive hens to a newly hatched chick, they fussed, getting into the spirit of things. An elegant copper bath was dragged into the kitchen, water heated, then filled to its beveled edge; Lily, sprinting to the attic to fetch her essence of violets, insisting that a bath without a drop of it couldn’t be considered a bath at all, while Iris climbed onto the kitchen stool, stood on tiptoes to reach the topmost shelf of the china cupboard to steal a cake of the special oatmeal soap kept hidden there. To shield their chick from the possibility of a draft, they positioned a lacquered screen, its panels depicting coy Japanese ladies peeping out between branches of cherry blossoms in full bloom and urged Jane to hurry, get into the water before it turned tepid. Bringing chairs, placing them in front of the tub, they sat as though they were about to attend a special performance at the Hippodrome. Flimsy kimonos askew, revealing camisoles trimmed with tiny rosebuds and bows nestled amidst rushing of Venetian lace, legs crossed, a hint of milky thigh above white hose of silken lisle, one foot dangling a seductive boudoir slipper imported from France, they waited for the show to begin. The enjoyment they derived from their good deed was so infectious that it freed Jane of all shyness. Amidst the steamy scent of wood violets, she scrubbed while her new friends applauded, enchanted by the virgin in their midst.
Later, all heavenly clean, Jane was shown the front parlor and understood why her two new friends had been so upset at being denied it because of silly sniffles. It was truly an astounding, awe-inspiring sight! Emerald green, the golden glow from its electrified crystal chandelier giving it the look of soft velvet, it resembled a secret glen in some enchanted forest. Jane wondered if she would ever possess a front parlor as resplendent as this and, if so, how would she ever manage to dust it!
John was given another kiss, this one lasting even longer as it was one of farewell. Jane was bear hugged, given a loving slap on her behind, admonished to be good to fine “Johnny” the apple of Mamma Nocci’s eye—and everyone knew that her eye was never wrong—to make lots of healthy babies, adding that when they were old enough, to bring them to New York City for her to look them over. Most of the nieces followed them out, their colorful kimonos decorating the stoop as they waved good-bye. Shouts of “Good Luck!” “All the Saints protect you!” mingled with the clanging of the trolley carrying John and his bride to the railway station and the train that would carry them to their next stop, a place called Buffalo. Now she sat on a padded bench that even had armrests, on a train so long, like some giant snake it undulated, its tail forever lost from view. Sights whizzed by at an alarming rate at times resulting in unidentifiable blurs. Jane wanted to ask when she could expect to see her first whooping Indians chasing alongside, but didn’t. She was rapidly learning the many things that seemed to annoy her husband and disturbing him with childish questions while he was reading his newspaper was one of them. So she concentrated on the blurs, hoping one of them would metamorphose into an Indian chief, feather headdress flying, astride a spotted horse. After a while, this made her dizzy and she turned from the window to observe their fellow travelers instead. It seemed that here in America even unaccompanied ladies journeyed. Their travel attire, obviously store-bought of finest workmanship, the piping of corded braid on lapels and cuffs, most elegant, their skirts never sweeping the dusty ground, yet hanging below the heel of their high laced shoes as convention demanded. Gloved hands held books that they read, oblivious, even disinterested, in the exciting sights and sounds surrounding them. Their easy self-assurance so intrigued Jane, her eyes kept returning to study them. Even those obviously married, at their husband’s side, children claiming their attention, had an air about them that was foreign to Jane’s experience. She couldn’t quite explain it to herself, yet something unusual was there, even in the way they sat, erect, shoulders back yet completely relaxed. None of the self-conscious tension so inherent in the women of her old homeland and, when they spoke, their voices had an ease as though they never had to wait to be given first permission to do so—as if certain they would be listened to.
John, noticing his wife’s concentrated interest in the American women, felt it necessary to comment, “It is considered rude to stare,” before unfolding his paper to the next page.
Jane turned back to the blurs. In time these became endless vistas interrupted by too many people encircled by too many buildings. It seemed that everything in her new country was overly large—maybe even had to be, abundance in volume as well as size. It could make one reared within the restricted confines of the old world feel of no consequence. Yet she found this very exaggeration exciting. Like the train, her spirit welcomed the approach of every bend, anxious to see what would lie beyond.
Across from her, John sat, silent, all boyishness gone. She wondered why. She had liked him being “young.” Maybe she should try to make conversation like she had seen the American ladies do with their husbands, elegantly conversing about, what seemed from their expression, to be topics lacking drama, bland in nature. Now that she was to be one of them, she should really try out some of the behaviors belonging to them. Straightening her spine, yet relaxed as though nonchalance wasn’t new to her, she spoke. “John, I enjoyed the city of New York very much. Iris and Lily were delightful, ever so helpful.” Folding her hands, Giovanna settled back in her seat as she had seen the other ladies do, expecting a cozy conversation. Her husband behaved as though he hadn’t even heard her speak. She tried again. “I was wondering, why are all the nieces named after flowers? I met a plump Rose and a shy Violet, who didn’t say much. And a Daisy was busy and, when I asked why the one named Honey wasn’t a flower, Lily said she was, a Honeysuckle which is a flower in America.”
Her husband got up and went in search of a lavatory in the next carriage. He returned to find his wife doubled over, holding her hat, trying to see up beyond the frame of the window.
“What in God’s name are you doing?”
“Trying to see the tops of pine trees,” came the muffled reply from down below.