“I have mine, Peter. I’ll take you in.”
The Riot, as it became known, once discussed, dissected, evaluated by the senior Ford men, was never referred to again. Like a deep splinter once removed, after a while the place it had entered became nondiscernable, yet remained ever tender to the touch. To retain their loyalty to the company and its founder, it was best left alone.
But neither riots nor rumors could dampen the nation’s enthusiasm for their new hero. Every day brought new accolades for the man who now symbolized the reality of the American Dream. When Henry Ford was quoted as having told a New York reporter that he believed dying rich was a sin, the nation’s newspapers had another field day. The man who was about to bring mass production into the industrial workplace so suited legend that at times even truth seemed it must be pure invention. Humble farm boy, childhood repairer of watches, youthful wage earner, trusted employee of the great Alva Edison, skilled mechanic, brilliant engineer, tireless dreamer, inspired inventor, champion of the common man, the self-made millionaire! Even Ford’s appearance suited the mold of an American icon. His gaunt frame, those slightly haggard features, the eagle gaze hinting melancholy, conjured an uncanny resemblance to Lincoln.
John, devouring the newspapers that each day found something new, exciting and exhilarating about the man and his company, preened as though he alone had been aware of true greatness, long before others had discovered it. Mr. Ford this and Mr. Ford that became the basis of most of his conversation. Sometimes, when her husband spoke of his idol, Jane was reminded of Father Innocente giving his most fatuous Lenten sermon. No matter how great and glorious Henry Ford might be, God he was not! But Jane had the impression that John didn’t quite realize the truth of that and, if ever confronted, wouldn’t be able to accept it. It was in one of these moods of rebellion that she decided to put a halt, once and for all on the constant, irritating supply of McGuffey readers. She was trying to think of a way to broach this delicate subject when, while getting dressed one morning, John did it for her.
“How are you getting on with your new McGuffey reader?”
“I just finished ‘Don’t Kill the Birds.’”
“That’s one of Mr. Ford’s favorite lessons. He is very partial to birds,” adding, as he pulled on his trousers, “he’s a very keen bird-watcher, you know.”
Jane, plaiting her hair, was relieved he didn’t ask her opinion of the lesson she had found excruciatingly boring. Feeling it was now or never, she plunged, “John, please do not bring me any more McGuffeys.” John, stuffing in his shirttail, stopped and stared. “Really, I can read English very well now, so they are no longer necessary.” She hoped that would do.
“Very well, Ninnie, if you are so certain you are really that advanced, I’ll bring you one of Mr. Ralph Waldo Emerson’s. Mr. Ford admires him greatly as well.”
She thanked her husband for his continued interest in her education in a tone so glacial, John stopped what he was doing, and watched as his wife left their room. Deciding he had married a most confusing woman he rarely understood, he resumed tying his tie, not overly concerned.
“Ach, dere you are, Vifey!” Hannah handed Jane a bowl of eggs. “Here, please beat!” Jane attacked the yolks as though they could do her harm. “Enough, enough already! I ask you beat—not kill!” Hannah retrieved her bowl, spooned sugar onto the still quivering mass, gave it a very gentle stir. “My, my … storm clouds around here heavy dis morning … de trouble, I should know about?”
“Mr. Ford this and Mr. Ford that …”
“What? You angry with de Boss?” Sheer disbelief made Hannah’s voice rise an octave higher.
“No! Not really. It’s John. Oh, it’s everybody! Every time somebody opens their mouth, it’s ‘how wonderful, how great, how perfect.’ Everybody behaves like Henry Ford is God Almighty!”
“Well, not really—but close.”
“You see! Even you! What gets into people?” Jane wasn’t really expecting an answer but Hannah gave her one anyway. “Sure me! De poor eggs you just beat de stuffing out of, Mr. Henry Ford—he got dem. Dis nice warm kitchen we are in—he give us. De house, a safe roof over our head, he make it possible—and why? Because he have a special brain dat gives him great ideas—so he can build a company big as a whole country where many people like my Fritz and your John can work, be proud. And now, even going to get highest pay ever in de whole state of Michigan, even whole East and West! So, you tell me, why not ‘hooray Mr. Henry Ford’?”
“I’m sorry, Hannah. You’re right. I was just … how do you say it … fed up?”
Hannah wiped flour off her hands with her apron. “Dat’s okay—expecting makes cranky. And mit your John, I tink you got maybe a point. Sometimes when he talks, he sounds like one of de twelve Apostles and Mr. Ford his Holy Man. But don’t worry, your man know de difference between de one up in Heaven and de one on de Earth he work for.” Hannah slid her cake into the oven, secured the latch of its iron door. “Boys will like dis cake … now we are rich, I put in currants. Now I start de meatloaf—you scrape de carrots.” On her way to the back porch to get the meat from the icebox that now it was winter was referred to as “keeping box,” she called back over her shoulder, “Vifey—you know, it is better have a husband in love mit his work den mit another woman instead of you.” Reentering the kitchen, she gave Jane a look, see if her words had sunk in. Then, satisfied that they had, got busy chopping onions, pleased by the beginning signs of jealousy she had detected in this untried wife in her care.
7
Naked to the waist, dressed only in his trousers, John was shaving. Already dressed, Jane was making the bed. Outside their window, pale February sun seemed to be trying its best to give the impression of a sunny day.
“Ninnie,” John stopped to sharpen his razor along the worn strap. Jane waited for him to continue. “If the weather holds, I thought being Sunday, we might walk over to the plant. I remember I promised to show it to you one day. Would you like to go?”
“Oh, yes! Please!”
“Hannah said a mile is not too far, would even do you good.” John went back to shaving his upper lip.
Feeling the dragging weight of her pregnancy, secretly Jane would have welcomed a shorter distance but her eagerness to finally see where all the wonders were taking place outweighed her physical discomfort.