In the Geiger boardinghouse, things were done her way. Her husband Fritz never questioning her good sense, nor her ability to run their life as thoroughly as she did everyone else’s. So Jane’s first day in her new home went according to her landlady’s dictum, all except the “good night kiss” that turned into an offhand, though friendly, verbal “Good night, Jane,” even though it was only late afternoon.
She woke feeling guilty. Her husband’s side of the bed was empty. He must have already gone to work—and here she was, languishing under a mountainous feather bed as though she had no wifely duties to perform. Jumping up, chiding herself for such outrageous negligence,she realized that as they had arrived on a Saturday, this day must be a Sunday! Still, even Sundays required attending to one’s husband’s needs and, throwing off her nightclothes—that she had no recollection of how she had gotten into—she washed, plaited, knotted her hair, turned from the small framed mirror to find that her suitcase was nowhere to be seen.
Standing naked, feeling very self-conscious, she looked about the room seeing for the first time what was to be her home. Small, bare, except for essential pieces of brooding furniture, it had the look of transient occupation. The iron bedstead painted white, giving it an institutional look, dominated; two chairs mismatched, one cushioned, a slate-topped washstand, its doors decorated with borders of Bavarian hearts and spindly geese. On an ink-stained library table by a small window, a jelly glass with lavender sweet peas attested to a landlady’s welcome. In a massive wardrobe that seemed to dwarf the room further, Jane found her few belongings hung next to those of her husband’s, his so neatly aligned, no one would have suspected they were the belongings of a bachelor. His best suit, the one he had worn to be married in, seemed to be missing. Being Sunday, he must be wearing it. Perhaps he had gone to early Mass or expected later to be going to church, his wife by his side. Half dressed, Jane sat on the edge of the bed, to think how best to handle her refusal to do so, then remembered her husband’s scorn when criticizing her for not knowing who the Man of Light was. The practically degrading way he had pronounced religion did not, to her way of thinking, indicate an overly devout churchgoer. The more she mulled this over, the more convinced she became that Providence must surely have been on her side. Not only had she married a man completely unknown, who as yet had not surprised her unduly, but now it seemed, by mere chance, had found one who, by all indications, might not be a zealous Catholic, ruled by dogma, stoically oblivious to all reality. With such a man, this marriage of hers might be much easier to bear than first envisioned. Dressed, her spirits high, feeling ready for anything, she left the room.
Hearing voices, she followed their sound down the narrow stairs to a windowless room where men at a long linen-covered table sat within the perimeter of light from a shaded chandelier, having breakfast. Jane hesitated in the arched entrance as one of the men, his guttural accent identifying him as one of Balkan origin, said, “The flywheel magneto line before you left, John, no good! But now it works. Tomorrow—come—I show you.”
Hannah, moving down the table filling blue and white patterned cups from a large graniteware coffeepot, exclaimed, “Ach! Here! Our new Vifey, she is here! Come—come in, little one.” Waving her over. “Here, sit here by de blushing husband!”
Jane, feeling the speculative scrutiny of the now silent men, sat. At the head of the table, a stocky man, in Sunday vest and shirt garters, his Santa Claus face clean-shaven, broke the uncomfortable silence. In a booming voice, its German-Yiddish cadence matching his wife’s, he introduced himself as Fritz Geiger, husband of the “Boss”—adding, in a swallowed aside, “No manners—my Frau.”
Hannah, who could hear if a pin dropped in a house up the block, called from the kitchen, “Again, you criticize, Mr. Big Shot? First, I feed de so-tin wife—den comes your fancy manners!” Pots and pans slammed in emphasis.
Avoiding Jane’s eyes, the men drank their coffee. Smiling, John ladled sugar into his.
“Here, Child—eat!” Hannah plunked a tower of steaming flapjacks oozing butter and glistening syrup in front of Jane, shook out a large linen napkin, tied it under her chin, and, giving her back an encouraging shove towards the plate, took up her coffeepot. Suddenly ravenous, Jane did as she was told. Never had she tasted anything as good, but didn’t dare to ask what it was she was enjoying so. This time choosing to do so in German, Fritz Geiger complained to his wife for instigating an uncomfortable tension around the Sunday breakfast table. Hannah, pouring coffee, ignored him. Taking a last swallow of the strong black brew, Jane unknotting her bib, feeling wonderful, smiled, acknowledging her fellow boarders.
“See what I mean? Now de child is ready for de big meeting of everybody.” Hannah delighted, right as always, put down her pot, cleared her throat, and began. “Now, new Vifey, pay attention. Dat handsome baby boy next to you? Him you know. Maybe not yet so good, but soon maybe too much?” That brought chuckles. The boarders loved Hannah’s performances, now sensing one in the making, leaned back in their chairs, ready to enjoy it. “On de udder side of you, sits our Polish ox. Big important, rim-wheel man. Puts more tires on veels faster dan any udder—vas recommended by foreman, got even mentioned in our special Ford Times paper … Mr. Peter Clutovich, I introduce if you please!” A gentle giant, head and neck seeming fused, reddish hair standing like a scrubbing brush atop an innocent face, rose, extended a callused paw and, careful not to crush it, shook Jane’s hand, growling, “Welcome, Lady.”
Hannah beamed. “Very nice. Now from him, down de line, sits our Casanova Fancy Man. Very clever mit de Lizzies. Every time he mounts one, he dreams maybe it is his sweetie Frederika who still is vaiting in a stall in his Austria because she is maybe a cow! … Mr. Rudy Zegelmann, still bachelor!”
Laughing, not at all put out, a strapping tow-headed young man with delicate features took Jane’s extended hand and bending low, brushed the back of it with his lips. The audience applauded.
“Ach! De real Austrian! Enough horse-playing! Dis is serious good manners!” Hannah, keeping a straight face, continued, “Now ve come to Rumanian gypsy, also bachelor—Mr. Dark Silent—alvays mit de pomade in de so black hair and de beautiful moustache he fondles like it vas a lady love—best japanning man in de Ford business—watch out for him, Vifey … Mr. Stanislav Bartok—Stan for every day.”
A reedlike man, long angular face, pale background to a gleaming ebony moustache, curled tips waxed, bowed, shook Jane’s hand with a feathery touch.