“Don’t interrupt! Go on, John.”
… Now that we are at war, with some ingenious redesigning, some of our Model Ts may be converted into ambulances. Let us hope they won’t be needed too often or for too long. But, can’t you just see our brave Lizzie, bouncing into battle, never getting mired in the abominable terrain of Flanders in winter, carrying our lads to safety across battlefields under fire, while the Huns, in their big heavy Mercedes are stuck in the mud, utterly helpless? Watch the newspapers for news of Lizzie’s exploits. I am convinced if she is ever used, she will prove herself once again, the best, the most dependable automobile that exists, be a real heroine, make Ford even prouder of her than he is already. Actually I am looking forward to seeing her in action, for I am off to teach the Hun a lesson he’ll never forget. My regiment is awaiting momentary orders. So, it may be some time before I can write again. Tell Hannah not to worry and that I look quite spiffy in my uniform. Remember me to our friends—there have been moments when I thought perhaps I should not have returned to England, but then, I would have missed this war and that would have been a pity. It is going to be a jolly great show. As you say, ‘Arriverderci!’
Jimmy
For a while, no one spoke—then Johann asked, “When was it mailed?”
“Three and a half weeks ago.”
“He could be fighting by now …”
“Ja,” Fritz sighed, “we better not tell Hannah … wait a little till we hear further, okay?”
John nodded as the women arrived, announcing it was late, time to go home.
In time for Thanksgiving, Jane finished the parlor drapes. Up on the ladder, John waited for her to approve the height of the rod he had put up. Jane stepped back to admire her handiwork.
“Well? Are they hanging straight now?” John was getting impatient.
“Yes, thank you. It does require two to hang drapes properly, you’re right.”
“I want to take a look.” He came down and stood beside her. “Ninnie, these are beautiful! How did you ever match the colors? And those folds—how they hang—as though they have weights!”
“They do! I found an old bicycle chain in Fritz’s basement. He cut it in half for me and Hannah helped me boil it in Sal soda and vinegar to get the oil off. I sewed the lengths into the bottom hems.”
“Great idea. It works. I’m proud of you, Ninnie! Beautiful work—just beautiful!” And he went to put the ladder away.
Jane stood where he left her, feeling very satisfied.
As their home took shape, so did their relationship. Imperceptibly, John began the delicate process of loving his wife. As Jane became accustomed to loving him for what he was, he loved her for what he needed her to be or thought she was. As with most such marriages, theirs resulted in benign comfort. Occasionally, he would make love to her—but not so often as to disturb. Actually, Jane found the term making love a strange misnomer for an act not in need of it to function. For sexual enjoyment, John looked elsewhere. It did not occur to him that this might be a breach of faith. He was a virile man in his prime, from a culture that made great distinction between the sanctity of the home, the wife’s domain, and the relaxation to be found in the domain of an accommodating woman. America might change an immigrant’s language, work ethic, and monetary stature but most likely not the accepted, approved behavior of his original culture. Happiness being dependent on individual perception of it, John and Jane were happy. That neither needed the other’s happiness to achieve their own, this state as yet was a void they both were completely unaware of. Hannah, wanting, at least for their son, a home of discernible love to grow within, watched, worried it might never be.
11
It was nearly Christmas, when Mr. Henry, his Casanova attractiveness once again hidden behind layers of wool, sounded his knock, smiled with his seductive eyes at Jane’s eager expectation, handed her a letter from out of a woolen paw.
“Missus Jane, although sent to Hannah’s, I have brought you joy at last! Now, I must run!” and disappeared in a swirl of fresh snow.
Chere Giovanna,
Do not faint from surprise. This is Eugenie, your French shipboard acquaintance. What a relief! What delirious joy it is to write once again my mother tongue, you cannot in your wildest dreams imagine. Why is it that Americans are still such barbarians as this pertains to the finer accomplishments of civilized life? Not once, since our arrival to these shores, have I encountered someone who has acquired the grace, the culture of speaking French. Oh, well, what one cannot alter, one must learn to accept. Though I find this a strain, I endeavor to follow my belle Maman’s schooling and remain ever conscious that being a lady born, one must not be seen to complain, that being a weakness of the masses.
Oh, how I waited and waited that anguished day upon the quay and to no avail. Deserted, forgotten, poor little Eugenie me, abandoned, by one if not entrusted with my whole heart exactly, at least in possession of this pure maiden’s trust. So, there I was. Well, you can imagine, quelle horreur, the utter tragedy of it. Me, in my beautiful rose-trimmed hat, forlorn, tears wetting my pale cheeks, not knowing what to do, where to turn, when suddenly, from out of the gathering dusk, a voice, a gentleman’s voice asked my name and, looking up, I beheld an older man seemingly much concerned about my welfare. By the cut of his suit, he wore spats that were immaculate, carried a silver handled walking stick, it was obvious he was a gentleman of distinction and an affluent one at that. His advanced age added to my confidence to reply a soft “yes” to his question if he could be of service. We have been together ever since. I have my own apartment, two spacious rooms which I have decorated in palest pink with touches of lavender accents. I don’t do much. I mostly wait. I would so like to journey to a place called New Orleans. Do you know it? They say there everyone speaks French, is very gay and devil-may-care. Perhaps some day, who knows.
If this reaches you, please if you wish, answer me to the name and address below. Here in Charleston, the newspapers talk of a Famous Henry Ford of Detroit. Is he the same man you told us employed your husband? If so, how nice for you. Money is so very important for a splendid existence.
Cordially yours,
Eugenie de la Rochemont