“Oh, I just wonder if Herr Geiger and you have seen the city of New York.”
“Ven ve got passed from dat Ellis Island, vere ve vere, ve vent. Stayed mit Hyman, school friend of my Fritz, vere he lived a place called Hester Street. Nice name, not so nice street—too much like old country. Vy go all de vay across de sea to so big America to live all squeezed? Everybody on top of everybody like bees, but no honey. Everybody still poor, so vork hard daytime, even all de nights. Bring piece vork sewing home—so whole family stitches. Even de little children so hard dey vork … but nice, too—all togedder, safe vere everybody speaks de same. De talking I miss—sometime. But not good to hold on too much on tings too gone avay. Ven I become American citizen, I am one hundred percent United States!” Hannah shook out a sheet, its wetness cracking the air. “So, child, why you ask?”
“Oh, I wonder if you know Signora Cantonocci. We stay with her overnight.”
“You did? Vat happened?”
“Happened? Nothing. I see her beautiful green parlor with—how you say ‘statues’? And so many nieces, very pretty.” Bending to pick up the empty basket, Jane did not see Hannah’s expression. Even if she had, she probably would not have understood why her landlady suddenly looked so cross.
Before supper that evening, Hannah cornered her “baby” John in the hall. Her low voice ominous, an accusative finger poking his chest to the rhythm of her words, she hissed, “Okay, Fancy Boy. You explain to me, right here and now vy you take a so new innocent Vifey to dat House of Hanky-Panky in dat city full of it!”
John, under attack, about to hang up his hat on the hall tree, stopped in mid-reach.
“Who told you that?”
“Your sweet Vifey—who knows not a ting—tinks only nieces and so pretty parlor! You should be ashamed!”
“I’m sorry, Hannah, but it was the only place where it wouldn’t cost anything for the night!”
“Cost? It vould have cost you plenty! Count your lucky stars you got avay mit it! Dat hot stuff Daisy—she dere still?” That last barb Hannah threw at him over her shoulder as she hurried back to the kitchen and her simmering stew.
One morning that heralded what Hannah proclaimed would be a late summer scorcher, she placed a numbered card in her front window, covered the kitchen floor all the way out to the back porch with old newspaper, poured a tall glass of her sweet lemonade and sat peeling potatoes anticipating something. Jane, in the back yard hanging her wash, heard the loud clip-clop of a heavy horse, when Hannah called, “Vifey! Iceman here! Come, come see!”
Dropping her clothes-pegs, Jane ran. In front of the house stood a thick, muscled horse, hitched to a splendid wagon that reminded her of those gypsy tinkers who came to Cirié on festival days. Its rear wheels high, front ones low, painted bright red; the sides of its enclosed body elaborately decorated with ornate lettering that curved above and below a large oval-shaped scene depicting two happy polar bears in an artistic arctic setting. A big scale swung merrily from its back; but Hannah said Mr. Kennec, the Ice Man, always “guesstimated”—he was so good at it that he never needed to weigh her fifty-pound block. His baggy pants held up precariously by very old suspenders half attached, Mr. Kennec was as chunky as his horse. Everything about him gave the impression he was in the process of coming apart at the seams. On seeing Hannah and Jane, he doffed his cap, hailed them with, “Mornin’ Ladies!” as he swung his pincers, biting into a large block of ice that he hoisted onto his shoulder padded by a piece of soggy sheepskin. Up the back porch stairs, into the kitchen, melting ice dripping, mixing with the mud from his boots, Jane, following, understood why the need for the newspaper on the floors. From a loop on his belt, Mr. Kennec lifted an ice pick of lethal proportions—as Hannah exclaimed, “Vifey—now vatch! Dis is beautiful! Real talent dis man got! He do it here inside for me.”
Fist clenching his mighty weapon, the iceman raised a bulging arm and struck! Crack! Ice chips spewed up into the air like silver fireworks! Once more a mighty blow and Hannah cried out in wondrous delight. “See! Presto! It fits! Into my icebox it fits like hand in glove!” Mr. Kennec sheathed his stiletto-like weapon, beamed, basking in her approval. “Come, now, drink lemonade—all ready for you like alvays. Oh, excuse … dis here new vife of my Italian boarder—Missus Jane, just come over from de old country!”
“Howdy, Ma’am, pleased I’m sure.” Mr. Kennec tipped his cap, drank down his lemonade in one gulp, smacked his lips, collected his twenty cents and doffing his headgear once again, said in a tone of sad farewell, “Next summer then, Missus Geiger. Good winter to ya. You take care now. You too, Miss,” and left.
Hannah gazed after him as though a good friend had departed on a long journey, then began picking up wet newspaper.
“Nice man. In vinter time big Lake Erie makes special ice. But is so big hard work to cut out. Den, de ice vaits in de big icehouses for me to get ven hot time summer comes around again. Clever, no?”
Jane nodded in agreement. That day, under the chestnut tree when she had heard of an icebox for the very first time, having the chance of actually ever seeing one had been quite inconceivable, yet here she was, in the same room with one, had witnessed ice splinters in splendid explosion and Jane was now convinced that she had finally seen it all!
As summer ended, time became sectioned by routine, the women’s days as structured as those of the men punching time clocks. Beds stripped, aired, remade, carpets beaten, everything dusted, polished, brushed and shined, peeled, cut, sliced, pounded, kneaded and cooked. Interrupted by exciting adventures of long walks to the grocery man and butcher to select, discuss and argue prices. Jane observed new wonders as they applied to the preset structures of daily life. Those still to be discovered just had to wait out their time.