“All this long time has only been one United state?” Jane gasped, convinced he must be playing a joke on her.
“Just go to sleep. The size of America is also too impossible to explain.” Thinking that perhaps he had sounded undeservedly severe, he took his jacket and, folding it into a pillow, tucked it by Jane’s head. She thought that was especially nice of him and, settling her head into it, obediently closed her eyes.
Pennsylvania seemed endless, Ohio too, and had a lake that John told her was so large one couldn’t see across it, but to wait until he showed her a Lake Huron that was even larger but small compared to the one called Michigan … that was so huge it lay by Chicago, which was in another state entirely, called Illinois—which meant ‘Great Warrior’ in Algonquin. Finally, she just gave up trying to understand the entire phenomenon of American geographical marvels but, resolved that once arrived in Highland Park, once a racetrack now an outskirt of Detroit, in the State of Michigan, that in Indian language meant ‘Great Water,’ she would find herself a map and figure out where she was, once and for all!
4
Puddles of early morning rain mirrored a colorless sky. Barren trees sentineled the narrow street of porched houses, clapboard and gabled, separated by thread-thin alleys; each one alike, devoid of individuality, as though placed by an exacting child playing with uniform building blocks.
A sharp wind pulled at Jane’s shawl. She clutched it closer, glad she had thought to pull it from her case on arrival before they had hurried out of the streetcar into the rain. Weeks of endless travel had taken their toll—images blurred, experiences muted, excitement and wonder dulled by exhaustion. Fellow travelers and destination had become interchangeable, memories defused, the endurance required, leaving nothing in reserve. Jane felt the late summer cold as though it were the one of winter. Her arms ached, the straw of her case had taken on added weight from the rain, as had her precious shoes, the ground still swayed as though it would never stop; there was a painful knot in the pit of her stomach. Now that she had come to the end of her journey, she found she was frightened of the one about to begin for her.
She reprimanded herself, as she often did when confused.
Well now, Giovanna, here you are in the Highland Park of America—and what do you do? Cold and tired and scared like a mouse. Here it is where you will be a wife, so wipe your nose and follow your man where he leads you. Squaring her shoulders, she followed him up the porch steps of a gray house, to its painted door that opened before he could knock.
“Ach! Da bist du, finally! My baby John has come home! And vid de little Italian bride!” exclaimed a woman of Valkyrian proportions, face beaming, dimpled and plump, topped by a towering knot of straw-colored hair, its tangled confusion escaping pins of various shapes and sizes trying desperately to contain it. “Come, come into de house, get warm quick!”
Jane had the fleeting impression that this face belonged on a body of diminutive proportions, not this towering Amazon, before she was grabbed, pressed against a bouncing bosom that smelled of lavender sachet and cleanliness—then, with equal force, pushed away as eyes, blue as forget-me-nots, surveyed her with what seemed to the startled girl military scrutiny. “But? She is not ‘little’? No ‘dark pools.’ No ‘angel curls’? No ‘curves’?! So vat is dis? Wrong vife?” Jane still held in a vicelike grip trembled.
John had the grace to be embarrassed, murmured, “This is my wife. Her name is Jane.”
“Vell, it is not vat you told us! All dat so big stories about a little dainty sweetheart back home. We vere expecting maybe some sugar plum fairy! But dis one? Dis one is much better for a vife. She vill give you strong sons mit no hanky-panky flirty! Now, children off mit de vet tings—quick!” Pulling off Jane’s soggy hat and coat, she handed the mess to John, instructing him to be a good baby boy and do the same. Putting a comforting arm around Jane’s shoulders, her eyes giving her another fast going-over, she led her down the hall towards a big kitchen. “Now, my little scared rabbit, you come mit Hannah. First, get dry and cozy, den some good hot chicken soup! After dat—to bed! Now here, Vifey, sit! Baby John, you take off de child’s vet shoes. I poke coals around for to heat up de soup.” Jane, looking down at her husband kneeling before her, obediently unbuttoning her shoes, felt like giggling but controlled herself just in time. Slapping butter on thick slices of still steaming bread, ladling out her justly famous chicken soup, Hannah Geiger filled John in on some neighborhood news.
“Frau Feldmann, remember? De one in de house dat needs a good coat of paint not dat cheap stuff already mit de peeling—down the block? Her husband, Rudolph, he is home two days, lost a finger by de drill press. Frau Powdonsky, across de street a little down? She lost a lodger to dat stuck-up Mrs. Adams four streets over, who talks de fine la-de-da English, but swallow her cooking you can’t, he …” All of a sudden Hannah stopped. “Ach! Mein Gott! John, your Vifey? She maybe not understand English? And me rattling on!”
Jane, warming her hands around the porcelain bowl, spoke before her husband could answer. “Signora Geiger, I speak not too well, but I understand better. I am very happy to be here in the United States of America and I thank you.”
“She speaks! Vhat a wonder! Already mit de English and so pretty singsongy!” Wiping her hands on her apron, Hannah was delighted.
“I have been giving Jane lessons. She is a very good student for languages. She also speaks French—the nuns taught her.”
The pride in her husband’s voice made Jane’s heart beat faster. My intelligence pleases him! she thought.
“Nuns?” Hannah shrugged, her tone dismissive. “Now, little one—up! A vash, a varm bed, a good night kiss, no more! Husband, you hear dat?” Hannah’s eyes pierced John, as though she had slapped him. “Den, in de morning you vake up, be a brand-new girl—de vorld all shiny good!” By Hannah decreed, so be it!