Jane, fully affected, breathed, “What?”
“Mr. Henry Ford said, ‘Now, boys … take her apart!’—and, that they did! Piece by piece, bolt by bolt. Everything! They laid out all the pieces like a giant puzzle right there on the floor of the secret room, so to make the drawings, the plans, so everyone will know for always how to put together again their so perfect Model T! No one sing ‘Happy Birthday,’ but that’s what it was that day for our Lizzie!”
“What are you rascals teaching my wife?” John asked good-naturedly as he entered the parlor.
“We were only trying to explain how to start Lizzie up!”
John settled in his chair, stretched out his legs. “Nothing to it! First you sweet-talk her—then you crank like crazy!”
Carl gave him a look.
“My boy, watch your tongue. Your lady wife will think we are a bunch of bully-boys!”
“Oh, my Jane is no shrinking violet. She has a sensible head on her shoulders and knows how to use it!” For some reason, this remark of her husband’s both pleased and rankled and, for the life of her, Jane couldn’t think why.
The next evening, on the way to his chair, Zoltan first bowed in Jane’s direction, then hurried over to whisper, “Last night they forgot to tell you—she holds the world’s hill-climbing record. Just point her nose downhill and reverse her up it—and with the crankcase oil? Once it warms up a little, she settles right down like the good girl she is,” and he scurried off to sit in his chair.
“Zoltan! Whispering sweet nothings to my wife?”
“Oh, goodness! No!” Zoltan, flustered, shook his head like a quail on the run. “Only thought your Missus should be informed of what was left out last evening …”
John, trying not to laugh, continued in the tone of a suspicious husband, “And, what was that?”
“What? Oh dear!” One eyebrow developing a tick, Zoltan’s eyes darted about the room looking for help. The men hid behind their papers, pretending disinterest. John’s questioning gaze remained fixed on the squirming tester, who, nearly stuttering, beseeched his would-be accuser. “The warming of the crankcase oil! So she settles! The Lizzie.” By now, both eyebrows were twitching. “To start her up is tricky climbing—well …”
John could hold it no longer, his laughter exploded. The men howled. Zoltan, the butt of a joke, was miffed.
“That was not fair, John. Putting me on! Thought you were serious. Not good for the nerves! Not good at all!” and opening his paper with noisy flourish, he disappeared behind it, refusing to be spoken to for the rest of the evening.
As time passed and the men kept singing her praises, the Lizzie became sort of human, even to Jane. Her indomitable courage, her honorable dependability, her devotion to her owner, her spunk, appealed to Jane, like someone real one would want to meet, call a friend. That little black motorcar had a way of capturing one’s heart; this might be considered foolish to admit but “by gum,” Jane was learning all sorts of American expressions, it sure felt right to love it! Secretly, she determined, no matter how long she might have to wait, that someday she would ride in a Model T, have Lizzie show her the freedom of the open road!
5
The first time Jane laid a fire in the coal stove, poured on the kerosene, then lit it—thick smoke spewed from its iron belly, engulfing everything. Hearing the mighty swoosh, Hannah rushed into her kitchen and, seeing the blackened apparition, doubled over with laughter, slapping her thighs.
“A minstrel—in my kitchen! I got a minstrel! Hey, you gonna play me a fine toon on your banjo now, ya? What a ninnie!”
Jane, covered in soot, just stood there, feeling very foolish yet grateful Hannah wasn’t angry, thinking it would take days to wipe all traces clean! That evening, over supper, the boarders were treated to a full theatrical performance of what became known as the Big Black Minstrel Explosion. As it was embroidered with fascinating additions whenever retold—it was requested whenever they felt Hannah was in the mood to perform her rendition of “De Camptown Races,” strut and all. It was from this that Jane received her very first nickname, the one that John used from then on. To hear her husband call her Ninnie was a joyous warmth she held on to—until the very end. But her first reaction to it surprised her because she liked it so much! Perhaps, as with some nicknames that seem to change one’s character in order to suit them better, for her, Ninnie by its lilting sound indicated a lightness, a girlishness, a special femininity, even a prettiness that as a plain Jane she secretly aspired to, so that when she heard herself called by it, she had the feeling of being actually pretty.
October passed, but not before Jane was introduced to Halloween. She had dreaded the arrival of November and its macabre beginning of All Saints’ Day as she remembered it from Cirié. The candles, the incense, the sanctimonious reawakened mourning for those long since turned to dust, mostly forgotten. So, when Hannah, all smiles, solicited donations from her boarders for something called penny candy—saying that this year she would be adding Neccos to her trove of Jub-Jubs—Jane, intrigued, asked her what those were and why.
“Oh, Vifey! I forget—dis your first. I tell you. Last nighttime of dis month, October, children, some naughty, some not so, come—in sheets—mit sock full mit flour. You puzzled, right?” Jane nodded. “I explain. First, dey sing-a-ling—‘Trick or treat!’ What that means? Dat mean if no treat, you get a bang mit de sock, flour mess all over your nice front door. So what you do? Give quick a candy treat, Jub-Jub, maybe even a peppermint stick—or sometime licorice twist—den dey happy … go away. Dat’s American Halloween!”
Jane digested this for a minute, then questioned, “Why sheets?”
“For de ghost dressing up!”
“Ghosts—are fun?”
“Sure, only children playing—not serious—good to have fun mit de ghosts, not so scary den for little children such tings. Tomorrow night, Vifey, you watch door—you learn. If we lucky, dis year maybe we even get some witches!”
Stationed by the front door, supplies of sticky treats awaiting the arrival of Happy Ghosts, Jane, ready at her post, filched a Necco from the brown paper sack and, though surprised that a child’s sweet should taste of lavender, had to admit once gotten over the initial shock, that it was delicious. Hannah, keeping one eye on her bubbling goulash, the other on her front door, enjoyed the parade of little ghosts as much as Jane’s obvious delight with her first introduction to an American holiday.
Now that winter was coming, Hannah’s sumptuous soup tureen, so diligently transported from an old life to dispense its warming comfort to a new, took its rightful place at suppertime. Carl floated chunks of crusty bread in his favorite lentil soup.