“Well, you won’t. American pines are too tall—so sit up and behave yourself!”
She did. Until they had to change trains in Buffalo and, while waiting, just had to ask what that persistent sound like distant thunder was. When he explained it came from a giant waterfall quite some miles away, she didn’t even blink an eye. Again just another inexplicable wonder of a country that just didn’t seem to have any boundaries for such things. But it irritated her, being constantly reduced to an awestruck infant, its mouth hanging open in perpetual bedazzled confusion. Besides not liking this picture of herself at all, she was equally certain that the man who had married her without wanting to, was liking it even less. What was she to do? How could she cope, absorb all the overwhelming newness and still not be overcome by it? It was not like her to flounder, her character forbade it and so, she resolved that henceforth, she would accept unconditionally whatever was in store for her in this astounding country with quiet assurance devoid of awed histrionics whenever possible. She did not consciously decide this to please her husband. Her knowledge of him was still too much in progress—it was quite simply how Jane coped with life in general, its intricacies in particular, first facing truths, evaluating their importance, then searching, expecting eventually to find an answer that would accommodate an acceptable solution.
Their next train out of Buffalo, despite its equally impressive length, chugged, its wheels clickety-clacked, billows of snow-white smoke dipped down by the windows looking like masses of whipped cream tumbled off a giant ice cream cone.
She noticed that some of the ladies, now sharing their carriage, had removed their broad-brimmed hats, securing their long hatpins, before placing them in the overhead nets. So, as it seemed permissible, she followed their lead even to the removal of her gloves. In America, freedom seemed to reach even into the category of wearables. She liked that. Smoothing the fingers of her gloves before rolling them into a neat ball, like a pair of men’s hose, she placed them beneath her hat—then noticed John watching her. How long had he been doing that? And why? Not certain how to react, what to say, made suddenly shy—which in itself was an unnerving sensation—she looked out the window, pretending that something outside had caught her interest, not he. His gaze remained on her. It became so disturbing she turned, met it head-on, silently challenging its reason. Still he didn’t speak. Running a hand over her hair, she waited. He had better say something because she was certainly not going to make another abortive attempt at polite conversation. Finally, his tone serious, he asked, “This may seem a strange question but tell me, have you got anything against making soap?”
Jane had to laugh. “Of course not. Why? As a matter of fact, I make very good soap. I don’t use as much lye with the potash as one is supposed to. I always wanted to add a little oil of rose but it is too expensive—so I couldn’t.”
“When we get home, I’ll buy you some.”
“Oh, thank you! I will make you a nice batch for your baths. Will I have a strong pot large enough?”
“My landlady has one.”
“Oh. That lady of yours seems to have everything, how convenient.”
Jane had the feeling that the making of soap was not the reason her husband had been watching her but, as he seemed inclined to talk, she didn’t want to lose this rare opportunity. But what could they talk about? What could bring this man to life? What would pique his interest, capture his attention? Hoping time wasn’t running out, Jane evaluated possible subjects, then decided, she plunged, “John, you have never described where you do your so interesting work? Is it in a shed? Of course, I realize it must be a big one. Is it?”
Her husband grinned, “Yes, I think you could call it big. Actually, it is often referred to as ‘mammoth’ in the newspapers as it is the largest single manufacturing institution in the world.”
She had him! Smiling, she said, “Please, tell me all about it,” and, settling back in her seat, allowed his enthusiasm to wash over her.
“Three years ago, in 1910, we made the move from Piquette to the new plant in Highland Park. Its size is nearly impossible to describe. If I tell you it is as large as two American football fields, you wouldn’t know what I am talking about. The area used to be a racetrack, maybe that will give you some idea. But you have to actually see it to believe it and, even then, it’s hard. One day I’ll take you and show it to you. But no words can prepare you for what you will feel when you actually stand before it! It’s called Henry Ford’s Crystal Palace! A self-contained world that has never existed before.”
Eyes amazed saucers, all fine resolutions to remain cool and collected no matter what, completely gone, Jane sat spellbound.
“We have our own railroad yard, so we can load directly … our power house was inspected and approved by Thomas Edison himself. The great man even praised our exceptional dynamos!”
His audience of one just sat there. No reaction forthcoming that such a glorious occurrence warranted, John stopped his proud oratory to comment, “Even the great Henry Ford bows down to the genius who harnessed light—you must know who he is!” Jane shook her head. “The incandescent lamp, my girl! My God! What have you been doing with your life? Flipping your bobbins all day?”
It was the sharp tone of that “my girl” that woke her. Its biting censure broke through her trance, making coherent speech once more available to answer him. “We lived our life as we expected to.”
“Amazing! Lace and religion! Timeless isolation encased in granite!”
“Is that why you left?”
“Isn’t that why you needed to?”
He had a way of surprising her. When suddenly, as now, his strangely hidden sensitivity appeared, made itself known by the truth it had surmised. Perhaps this was what she liked about him the most, this instinctive knowing, then the practically casual way he had of voicing what he had felt, perceived in another. Even in its rawest state, it had a childlike honesty that Jane found utterly disarming. It just might be difficult to retain one’s anger at such a man.
“This place you call Highland Park—is it there we will live?”
“Yes.”
“But Detroit? My address paper says …”
“It’s on the outskirts of Detroit. Now, it is late, get some sleep. We still have a long way to go before we get to Ohio.”
“Ohio?” Jane stumbled over the pronunciation.
“Ohio, that’s Iroquois Indian language for ‘Fine River.’ It comes before Michigan, which means ‘Great Water’ in Chippewa. Now we’re only just leaving the State of New York for the State of Pennsylvania.”