“Dat man! Such a joker! Full of de Devil! He break de hearts everywhere he goes—up and down de streets women he’s got waiting. Mammas know—time for de letters coming? Run—lock up quick de daughters! But, Mr. Henry not really bad—just naughty! Come, Vifey, now we open de treasures. See how smart you are outfitted from dat Mr. Montgomery Ward of big Chicago!” Her fingers were busy undoing knots of twine, “But de eyes—you see de way Mr. Henry can look mit dem? A tingle it gives. He’s someting, no?”
The ordered overcoat was magnificent. Heavy and durable, it would last for years. Its velveteen collar, perhaps even its eight buttons might need renewing in the distant future but that didn’t worry Jane. Her seamstress eye delighted in the expert cut of its cloth—its tailored perfection.
Hannah, excited, overcome by her own genius of having managed not only to instigate the need but the successful completion of Jane’s transformation into American Womanhood, insisted everything had to be tried on right there and then, make sure it fit, matched exactly the illustrations of the items they had chosen.
“Vifey, run upstairs—get the shoes you got, also de waist you make so pretty mit de little lace collar—no good try on new tings mitout everyting all togedder—see complete effect.” Jane ran.
The velour hat, soft and shapeless with only its small brim to give it form was slightly intimidating, until Hannah pushed its crown down, arranging it at an angle that suited Jane’s face perfectly, enhancing its patrician lines. Finally, dressed, prodded, pulled, arranged to Hannah’s satisfaction, they raced upstairs to the looking glass that stood by her bedroom window, hung in its tall oval frame of lustrous cherrywood.
Jane looked at the reflection of herself as though encountering a stranger—doubtless a young lady of the upper class whom she would be very pleased to make the acquaintance of.
“Dat’s you, Vifey! Dat smart American Lady—dat’s you, child!” Hannah wiped away a tear.
Jane stared at herself. She, who had never taken notice of her looks except in derision, for the first time in her young life thought herself attractive and the shock robbed her of speech. Hannah shook her. “It’s getting late. Now put finery away safe—den come down. I got to get my pot roast making—work to do!”
Changed, her apron tied, Jane didn’t walk downstairs into the kitchen, she floated!
Hannah, busy cutting out biscuits, was already making mental plans that the very next day they would need to write out an order for proper hose—not the thick cotton kind, but ones Mr. Ward called “Silky Lisle Imported.” Very expensive at forty cents for only one pair but utterly necessary for when a country girl needed to know further she could be a pretty lady.
Their evening newspapers in hand the men headed for their parlor chairs. Rudy, winking at Fritz, called out to Hannah, stopping her in the doorway.
“Hey—heard your beau was here today!”
“So? What’s it to you, Mr. Nosey?”
With an exaggerated rustle, Fritz opened his paper. Zoltan sneezed, excused himself. Peter wished him health. John tried not to laugh. Stan jumped in with, “God, it was cold today! This winter is going to be a real corker!”
Jimmy, packing his pipe, nodded his agreement. Without a backward glance, Hannah left the parlor. Fritz peeked out from behind his paper, gave Rudy a conspiratorial grin.
“You two—you shouldn’t tease her,” John chided. “All the ladies like it when Henry Johnson comes to their door.”
“Yeah, I hear some are so smitten, they write letters to themselves—so he has to come to deliver them!” Johann laughed.
“But our Hannah? No—she never would do such a thing?” Peter sounded troubled.
“Of course not,” Carl reassured him. “Johann meant the young ones—Henry is a good catch.”
“If he ever lets himself get ‘catched’!”
“Johann is right!” Rudy lit his cigarette. “That smart rascal loves the chase too much to let himself get tied to any apron strings!”
Stan adjusted his footstool, stretched out his legs. “Well, if you ask me—I don’t trust him.”
“But … I do,” murmured Fritz.
Silenced, the men concentrated on their reading. In her corner, Jane opened the lid of her mending box.
“Hey, John—I heard today the company wants to lower the price of the Touring another fifty, somewhere down to around four hundred and forty dollars,” said Carl.
“What did I tell you! The more cars you can turn out, the more you can sell, the less you can sell them for—the more can afford to buy them, the more profit you make!” John loved those moments when he was proven right in his often euphoric-sounding predictions. “Any of you seen last season’s inventory lists?” He continued, knowing the answer would be no.
“Why?” asked Carl.
“I happened to see them in the office today. Seeing it all written out like that—it strikes you. I wrote some of it down …” Taking the notebook he always carried, like Henry Ford, John flipped pages, until arriving at what he was looking for, read out loud to no one in particular. “One million lamps, eight hundred thousand wheels, eight hundred thousand tires, ninety thousand tons of steel, two million square feet of glass for windshields, twelve thousand hickory billets for wheel spokes … it took thirty-five thousand freight cars to ship our year’s production …”
“Well, I’m sure your wife enjoyed that bit of information. Right, Missus Jane?” said Carl, giving her a wink.
Perhaps emboldened by the still vivid reflection of herself, Jane dared to ask, “Someday, may I see a Lizzie up close?”
John frowned. He often forgot she was in the room. Now, being made aware she was there, it startled him.
Stan looked over at Fritz. “Isn’t it time for our Fishbein to show up?”
“That’s right! Before the holidays—he comes always!” Peter agreed, excited.
Fritz looked up. “You have to ask Hannah. She has a sixth sense about him. Somehow, she always knows when he is about to arrive in town from somewhere!”
“So, Missus Jane—you just may get that wish of yours. For Mr. Fishbein is our traveling salesman of no equal who has given up the rails for good—bought himself his very own Model T 2-Seater Runabout.”
“How he manages to crank it is beyond me,” Johann exclaimed, smiling.
“How his feet ever reach the pedals is even more astounding!” Jimmy laughed. “Mr. Fishbein is so gallant, he may even allow you, Missus Jane to touch his most precious possession.”
“Wait till you see him. You won’t believe it.” Rudy joined in the laughter.
Stan turned to the sports page. “We who build them just ride trolleys.”
Fritz put down his paper. “Something is going on.”
“You don’t say!” Stan’s sarcasm filled the air.
Rudy rolled another cigarette. “Today we were timing the chassis. Big shots all over the floor, clicking stop watches, shaking their heads, running around … like crazy squirrels.” He was not amused.
“I told you it’s the uniform speed rate. The secret is all in the timing,” John murmured from behind his paper.
Carl disagreed, “It’s our standardization of parts that’s the key—without that, no newfangled idea of production would stand a chance!”
“Well, that was proven long ago, Carl!” Jimmy joined the discussion. “Every one of our assembly plants across the country couldn’t exist without our revolutionary system of fully interchangeable parts.”