That evening after supper, the men were minus their usual attentive listener—Jane, captive in the kitchen, was being measured, schooled in the fine art of writing out requests for her winter finery to be sent to her by the so-efficient United States Postal Service and the anticipatory visit of Hannah’s secret admirer, Mr. Henry Johnson, Mailman.
The next evening Jane cornered her husband as he was about to leave their room to go down for supper, speaking Italian, as was their habit when alone, “John, it has been brought to my attention that before going into the grand city of Detroit, I need to be properly attired as befits your wife.”
“Who put that silly idea into your head?”
“I do not think it is silly, as you put it. Besides, it was Hannah who said it,” countered Jane.
“Well, if she thinks you need some new clothes, tell me how much you will need for the cloth and I’ll give it to you.” John turned to leave.
Jane’s “Oh, no!” stopped him. Her Italian came in a rush, “I must have a ready-made from a store-bought complete outfit. This includes a hat in fashion, a full ensemble and a proper winter overcoat with real buttons, maybe even a velveteen collar, and for all this, I shall need the rather large sum of seventeen dollars and eighty-five cents, if you please.”
“What? Seventeen dollars for a skirt, coat, and overcoat—who do you think you’re married to? J. P. Morgan?”
“That was seventeen dollars and eighty-five cents and you forgot the hat. If I needed a pair of proper leather shoes and gloves, which I already have, it would cost much, much more!”
“What has that got to do with it?”
“Please, you’re shouting. Hannah will get upset. It was she who thought I should be dressed to complement your station of high employment—not me. If you cannot afford to dress your wife …” She let it trail. Italian was such an effective language to infer criticism without actually having to spell it out.
“Dress my wife? Who said I can’t dress my wife? Here …” and stepping back into their room, he strode to the wardrobe, opened it, pulled out his metal cash box from behind his good shoes and, unlocking it with a key attached to his watch fob, counted out seventeen dollars and eighty-five cents in change, placing it into Jane’s outstretched hand.
“Thank you, John. If at all possible, I shall try to require less and then return what is left over.” Stuffing the precious money into the deep pocket of her apron, Jane hurried downstairs before her husband could change his mind and ask for the treasure’s return.
She could hide it from herself no longer. She was with child and this appalled her. It was not the physical process that she feared, but the enslavement it represented, would demand of her. This annex to marriage that women were schooled to accept without rebellion Jane had believed she would escape, if only by determination alone.
Now reality mocked her na?ve complacency, forcing her to take stock. She realized her compulsive search for unfettered freedom at any price had but shifted her direction—not her destiny—had propelled her into a life of socially accepted bondage for which she might as well have remained where she was. After all, bondage was bondage, regardless of its geographical encampment. She did not want to be a mother, rejected the image of herself as one, yet knew now it was up to her to find the disciplined acceptance of becoming one. She absolved her husband from blame in all this, for she blamed only herself for the confinement she found herself in. Having learned at much too early an age to hide her anguish, Jane told no one, kept her inner conflict hidden, suppressed, as though it were of too little consequence to warrant serious concern. Throughout her life, Jane chose this path of injuring herself with what often appeared as an ever-ready willingness for self-harm. Now, as she faced her first pregnancy, its joylessness her secret, an imperceptible hardening began to encroach onto the fledgling softness that had just begun to blossom under the encompassing warmth of Hannah’s mothering affection and a man’s not unkind protection. As the child grew inside her, the inner escape route of her childhood resurrected itself. Once again, she used it to detach herself from overt life, reducing it to mere experience instead of passionate involvement. Spectator to her own existence, she stood apart. This self-protective reflex to negate what might offer her salvation would come to haunt her.
Hannah, who had witnessed Jane turning green at the sight of boiling cabbage, noticed her sudden aversion to early morning coffee, knew exactly what was going on but waited, though impatiently, for the official announcement that surely by late spring of the new year, a miracle would be occurring under her very roof. Due to her repeated bouts of nausea, the truth of Jane’s condition could not be hidden for long, and, finally, one evening she was forced to confess. Hannah clucked, kissed, hugged, clapped her hands, danced about her kitchen with such joyous abandon, Jane felt guilty she couldn’t join her happiness.
“A baby! I knew! I knew! We are having a little bundle of joy! Mazel tov God willing!” Hannah chanted, quite overcome. Wiping away tears with her apron, she asked, “John know he is going to be a proud Papa?” Jane shook her head. “Now good time as any,” and pulling the reluctant girl behind her, stormed into the parlor.
Startled, the men looked up from their papers. Although they were now used to having Jane in their midst, it was very unusual for Hannah to make an appearance during their digesting hour. Dwarfing the doorway, Jane hiding behind her, Hannah in a voice most often used for Royal Proclamation from flag-draped balconies, announced, “John, your Vifey—she has de wonderful news! First to whisper private in your ear. Den for all to know and cheer!” and pushed a reluctant Jane towards her husband’s chair.
John’s reaction to his wife’s embarrassed whisper amused everyone—even her. It took a moment for the news to sink in, then, when it did, he looked with wonder upon his wife, as though he couldn’t understand how she ever could have achieved such an amazing feat all by herself.
Hannah could wait no longer for John to come to his senses.
“A BABY! John and his Vifey are expecting!” she blurted. “Now, we celebrate! I get Schnapps!” and rushed off.
John, still speechless, sat glued to his chair. Jane, standing before him, wondered what she should do or say next.
Rudy started to laugh. “The birds and the bees, John! Remember?” which Stan had to top with “Hey! Maybe we all got it wrong! Could it be it’s Hannah’s beau, Mr. Johnson the Mailman?!”
Carl shut him up with a look. Stan jumped up, motioned to Rudy to take Jane’s arm, between them they conducted her to his comfortable armchair, insisting she sit as though birth was imminent. Clasping John in a fatherly hug, Fritz beamed, “You a Papa! Just a boy first time we meet—now you a Papa! My, my!”