“See! So what happens mit all dat if Mr. Ford make me close?”
“Dear lady, am I not a relative? Some sister’s husband, perhaps? Cousin? Brother-in-law? … All quite possible categories, perfectly legitimately acceptable to the Master of Highland Park. Do not worry—mum shall be the word and cleverness the game. We manipulate whenever possible, resign only when impossible! By dawn tomorrow, I shall move in, lock-stock and ladies’ underwear.”
Hannah could have kissed him again but he scurried out of the kitchen before she got a hold on him.
Having been given the idea that relatives would be acceptable as paying boarders, Hannah decided to grant her sister’s wish for her eldest to immigrate to America, there to make his fortune under the protective eye of his affluent aunt. Never having been overly fond of him even as a child, Hannah had been putting her insistent sister off by the rightful claim of having no room. But now, with her house emptying at an alarming rate, she relented—hoping the intervening years had changed her nephew sufficiently so she wouldn’t have to regret having changed her mind.
Now most Sunday suppers became small reunions, as those who had left returned, brought wives and sweethearts, sat around the big table, once again enjoyed Hannah’s cooking, feeling at home—as though nothing had changed. Hannah gloried in these evenings, fussing all week preparing for them, hoping as many who could would show up—their ravenous appetites intact. Johann’s family fitted into these congenial times, as did Carl’s Rosie and Peter’s Dora; even Serafina, whenever Stan brought her, only Rudy’s Frederika remained the aloof stranger visiting another’s home. But then, being such a rare bird, most places, most people seemed too foreign for her to feel comfortable with. This did not seem to bother Rudy, not even Frederika—only their friends.
The baby sleeping contentedly in his cradle under the kitchen table, Jane helped serve, carrying in the sauceboats of onion gravy for Hannah’s Sunday Special.
“Pot roast! My God! How I’ve missed Hannah’s magic!” Johann cheered, then, catching himself quickly added, “Henrietta, you are such an excellent cook yourself, you must get Hannah to give you her recipe!”
His wife, busy tying bibs around their children’s necks, smiled, “Even with it, mine would never come out so perfect!” And she meant it.
“Ach! Only trick is de right black iron pot, den de slow, slow, long time smallest simmering, den you got it! A little bay leaf and de sweet paprika maybe also, den noting to it, Dolly.” As Vifey had been given Jane, so Henrietta was now a dominative doll, Hannah’s concession to her possible embarrassment leaving off the China that belonged to it. “Mashed potatoes, glazed carrots, and de coleslaw on de way also got gherkins.” Hannah bustled back into the kitchen, as Jane arrived with the beer.
“John,” Zoltan looked up from his plate, “this latest innovation at the plant—what do you think of it?”
“Which one?” John asked, not trying to make a joke.
“He’s talking about the Boss’s Moving Pictures Department,” Rudy answered. “Can you believe it! Now we are going to make moving picture shows?”
“For an automobile?” Stan passed the potatoes to Johann.
“Our Lizzie is going to be in the flicks,” Rudy laughed.
“Ja,” Fritz helped himself to gherkins. “That little Mary Pickford better watch her curls!”
“Starting up a whole moving pictures operation, right inside a manufacturing plant—no one has ever done that before! Whatever is that man going to think of next?” Zoltan was impressed.
“Well, I tell you, if they put on celluloid the assembly lines—it’s going to revolutionize how we sell in the future!” John helped himself to carrots. “If the Boss plans to use this new device to advertise, those seven thousand Ford dealers across the country …”
“We’ve got that many now?” Fritz interrupted.
“Yes. Evangeline just got the latest count.” Jane noticed that at the mention of this ever-reoccurring name, the women grouped at the end of the table became interested. John continued, “When those dealerships can see our production in actual motion, their eyes will pop out!”
“Damn right they will!!” Rudy agreed.
“You swearing in front of your lady wife and the others?” Fritz reprimanded.
“Sorry, ladies.”
Rosie giggled, Henrietta smiled forgiveness. Serafina, always bored by Ford Talk, hadn’t understood a word, ate in stony silence, helped herself to more pot roast, while Frederika wiped an imaginary smudge off the rim of her glass, causing Hannah to look in her direction, which she ignored, repeating the action. Jane, engrossed in the men’s conversation, blurted, “Pictures that move? How is that done?” and opened the floodgates to their enthusiasm.
Tumbling over themselves, each one trying to explain this relatively new phenomenon before another might do it better, strange words flew around the table like spitballs. From out of the jumble of peepshow, penny arcade, nickelodeon, loop, reel, celluloid, projection, only one—Edison—Jane recognized. It seemed to her that he had a way of cropping up in anything exciting as often as Henry Ford.
Rudy held up his hand. “Hold everything! I’ve got an idea! Next Sunday, I’m taking Jane and Hannah to see a real moving picture show—my treat!”
“Aha! Now de big time rich chassis man!” Hannah shook a finger at him. “No! No reason spending now you got it just to go see floozies in de dark!” But the look of saddest disappointment on Jane’s face broke through Hannah’s frugal nature, not to mention the one of censure on Frederika’s because of her husband’s extravagant gesture; so Hannah relented, promised that the subject of such an unusual outing could be discussed further at another time and left to refill the coleslaw bowl.
“Anybody know how the building is going out in Dearborn?” asked Fritz.
“I hear the Boss has already built himself a power house. A real marvel.” Peter poured himself more beer.
“That’s going to be some mansion when they finally get it finished.”
“Limestone, I hear,” observed Fritz as Hannah returned.
“Missus Schneider …”
“Eight-Blocks-Over!!” chorused the men in unison.
“Ach! You boys making de fun of me!” complained Hannah, loving every minute of their familiar banter. “But dat lady, whose name I will not repeat, so dere! She said she heard say Missus Clara Ford will get a boat of her own to go sailing down dat River Rouge, like for de finest lady, she is!”
“I can see it now—Missus Henry Ford, drifting down the river … our very own Cleopatra!” Stan jeered, buttering a thick slice of bread.
“And why not, Mr. All-de-time-Smarty? De queen of Detroit, she is—so? She can go drifting down any river her so important husband gives her! She don’t need no Marc Antony—she’s got a Henry Ford!” and, as though punctuating her proclamation, Hannah sat, and served herself some of her own pot roast.