She learned how one could feed eight men and still have pennies left to hide away in a sugar bowl for “dat rainy day dat oh, God in Heaven shouldn’t come,” that the big broad paddle really did help stir the wash when hands and arms felt they would drop off. That a little salt, sprinkled into boiling starch kept it from sticking, that a tub half filled with ashes and water made such a strong supply of lye that, when added to water, it turned it soft as rain. How one padded the kitchen table, heated an iron, pressed upon it mountains of shirts and still had it cleared in time to prepare supper. How to brush a man’s suit correctly so it would look as though newly store-bought, that a coarse broom was for cellar, yard and porch, while a soft broom was for inside only.
The scrubbing of floors—that she knew, but even there Hannah had a few tricks to teach her that she said would make it easier when Jane had a home of her own and would be “big mit child!” No matter how used Jane got to Hannah’s way of speaking her mind, there were times when she still could shock her. Being “with child” was not part of the bargain she had made. No matter how many women commented favorably on her capability to produce, Jane had no intention of doing so. Mothering was foreign to her—to be one a disturbing intrusion, even an unpleasant one. She was sure by willpower alone she would avoid it.
In bed at night, her husband continued his right to her. She, not knowing that this required anything of her, lay submissive as always, waiting for the whole mysterious gyrations to be over, reducing the act to mere bodily exertion, love a misnomer.
That John was patient, with overtones of disinterest, did not help her introduction. That his true passion was the consummation of his work made sex within their marriage a routine of duty, practiced when the reminder of its obligation arose. If Jane had loved him, perhaps that emotion might have propelled her into a needing physical maturity. As it was, he emptied himself, she received, without reaction or complaint. It would take quite a long time before she would learn what it was she had been missing. For the present, she thought that marriage, once entered into for its paramount reason, held few advantages after its initial need had been realized.
What bothered her though, and that she should be bothered at all she found irritating, so out of character for herself, was the physical regularity. Her husband’s so predictable punctuality of availing himself of her, that brought her at times to the brink of inner fury. She astonished herself for being affected by something so basically common, for if she analyzed the whole strange procedure, parts of it could be considered even pleasant. The touch of another’s body held a certain comforting warmth, even its encompassing weight could not, in all fairness, be judged wholly dislikable. So why was she suddenly so resentful?
Whenever Jane confronted self-confusion and got no immediate satisfactory solution, she turned whatever was bothering her around, distilling it to pseudo non-importance. Slowly, Jane became a housewife, if not a wife.
She baked bread that only had air holes where they ought to be, was introduced to the consummate skill of producing an American pie crust. Became so proficient in lemon meringue pies that Hannah stopped making them altogether, letting Jane be the one to receive the men’s accolades whenever she paraded hers into the dining room, while Hannah perfected her already perfect apple instead. The men threw themselves into what they perceived as a pie rivalry between the two women. Tasting, looking serious, tasting some more, feigning indecision to taste again. “Yesterday Jane’s lemon was just a little tart—Hannah’s apple was just right … but, I’m not sure … so you better give me another slice, just to be sure …” As Sundays were exclusively reserved for strudel and doughnuts, during the week, like small boys, they played their tasting game consuming an astounding amount of pie in the process—never fully aware that the two women were enjoying themselves as much as they. Jane found there was something in the very act of baking an American pie that seemed joyous, wholly inexplicable, yet true. As the seasons changed, so did the fillings. Jane gave up on pumpkin when it just refused to become one of her accomplishments—but that was all right with everybody because in pumpkin pie, Hannah was untouchable. In a world of backbreaking work and dedicated concentration to hold on to it, childlike behavior often serves a vital function. To become an untroubled child, even for minute spaces of time, allows a burdened spirit rest.
In her kitchen apron, escaped tendrils of hair framing her face, Jane opened the door for her husband, greeting him in Italian. “Good evening, John. You have time to wash up for supper. Fritz and the others are home already. Oh, in our room, you will find a bushel basket I have lined with some cloth that Hannah let me have. From now on, please place your dirty wash into it, not as you have been doing, on the floor. Now that I am here, Hannah should no longer collect and wash your clothes. Also, by next payday, I shall have an accounting book, then you can give me the allowance for our household purchases. It is time for me to learn how such things are acquired and accounted for in the American way.” Slightly taken aback, John informed his wife that he was used to leaving all such things to capable Hannah and was answered, “Well, now that you have a wife, it is no longer the responsibility of another. Go wash … supper will be ready in six minutes,” and Jane marched off to the kitchen.
In a foul mood, John ate his meatloaf, not even looking up when his wife, having taken on the chore of serving the evening meal, asked him if he wanted more gravy on his mashed potatoes. Hannah, having been told to sit for a change, eat with the men, enjoyed the unexpected luxury as much as John’s reaction to Jane taking charge. “Vifey” was no longer the poor little thing she had first welcomed into her house. Not disliking this new self-sufficiency in the young woman, still it interested her what was really responsible for its appearance. Love could bring such self-awareness, satisfactory sex even more so, yet Hannah’s unfailing instinct told her neither of these reasons were correct. No, this tall girl-child, with all her sensible seriousness, her cool calm, was still unawakened, a virgin emotionally, if no longer in body. Hannah’s thoughts corrected themselves, no—even the body part not a woman yet. She would have to have a little serious talk with her Baby John for sure. There was something there he was not doing right by that good girl she had come to love.
The next day, John brought home a present for his wife, wrapped in brown paper, tied with string.
“Here, for you.” He handed it to her, adding, “Mr. Ford says every good American home should have one of these. Open it.” Watching as she unknotted the string, winding it around her fingers before putting it into her apron pocket, smoothing the paper to use it again, she unwrapped her first book, entitled McGuffey’s Eclectic Primer. “This one is for you to keep. The office will let me borrow more later when you have learned this one.” She was about to thank him, when he continued, “Jane, I wish to speak to you. Although in English you are making excellent progress, your pronunciation is beginning to sound like Hannah’s. You must watch that. Your ear for language is much too fine to allow yourself to speak so badly. Please try to remember that not all words beginning with a W are pronounced as though they start with a V and that the starts with the sound of th, not a d.”