“Oh, Ebbely is worried about Heinz-Hermann. His attitude, his …”
“We all are. Fritz should insist he move. He’s a troublemaker. The other day, he called one of the blacks a coon! There is enough bad blood already without some greenhorn kid stirring things up just to see where it gets him! He’s got a vocabulary that he’s certainly not learning at English school! … Ready? … Let’s go.” John put on his gloves, picked up his son, and started home. Jane, carrying their skates, followed behind.
Rumpelstiltskin stayed long enough to savor George Washington’s sour cherry pies, then it was time, once again, to be on his way. His territory now included Louisiana and, having heard harrowing tales of dastardly ruffians lurking in the bayous, he bought himself a Colt Automatic Lady’s Special, saying that although he was sure an occasion would not arise to actually fire it, the presence if its nestling power beneath his left armpit made him feel six feet tall. Armed, his hot-cold box stocked with Hannah’s bounty, honking his horn, waving farewell, Ebbely and his Lizzie disappeared down the street.
The repetitive warnings that the Ford Motor Company would not approve men for profit sharing who herded themselves into overcrowded boardinghouses, or those whose wives rented out rooms to single men, became the topic for daily discussions. Apprehensive, Fritz told Hannah the time had come to close.
“But dey are talking of de bad houses! De ones where dey even got hanky-panky girls working!”
“I know, but …”
“Here, we never been crowded. Everybody always got personal bed … never we used same bed for different men on shifts. I don’t have no flophouse! Everyting I make nice and clean … eat off my floors you can!”
“Hannahchen, I know. But we can’t take the chance. Now, I tell you is the time to close!” Hannah looked as though he had slapped her. “Come, Liebchen, with all my profit sharing and the new pay, we don’t need the money.”
“I know …”
“So? Think of all the hard work you won’t have to do anymore!”
“Ja! Me a real Lady of Leisure. What I do wit all dat lazy time? Go buy hats?”
“And why not? You certainly deserve to enjoy yourself!”
“So? We close?” Hannah said it softly, as though not wanting Fritz to hear her.
“Yes! We close!”
Furniture, bedsteads, mattresses, all the extras, everything was shoved into the no-longer-needed rooms. When all was stored away, Hannah locked the doors, hung the keys by the postcards in the larder, sat in her kitchen, and cried.
She, who was used to cooking for a crowd, dragging home a hundred-pound sack of potatoes, found that now twenty pounds lasted through a whole week. Making chicken soup for two threw her completely off balance, decreasing her recipes became an ongoing trauma. Every pan was too large, every pot too big! Preparing for those special Sunday suppers became a weeklong preoccupation, depending on them, a near obsession. But Hannah’s Boys were men now, with homes and families of their own, their lives no longer inseparable, solely dependent on the roots formed in their first home in a strange, new land. They still came, but not as often and not always all together. Sometimes, even Hannah’s Sundays remained barren.
To wean herself from daily mothering when the need for it is finished, Hannah knew was a woman’s lot, yet the conscious effort that this required, she found somehow beyond her. She shuffled about the empty house as though it had become foreign territory, fell victim to vague afflictions, sometimes remaining in bed because of the severity of recurring headaches.
Worried, Fritz left his department, went down to the tool shop floor, where John was, to ask him what he thought he should do.
“Well, if you ask me,” John shouted, trying to make himself heard above the din, “let Jane handle this—you? You relax!”
“John, you tell her?” Fritz yelled.
“Sure! Don’t worry!” John yelled back, preoccupied.
“It’s important! I don’t know WHAT to do!”
“I’ll tell Jane as soon as I get home. Now, get out of here!” Relieved, Fritz hurried back to his building.
With the help of Henrietta, Jane took on the task of seeing to it that Hannah survived the mourning period of her emptied nest. They visited at all hours, brought their children, encouraged them to be noisy, even misbehave, filled the Geiger house with happy chaos. Searching through endless catalogs for items they had no intention of ever ordering, involving Hannah in serious decisions concerning color, style, measurements, and price, were forever famished, utterly distraught if there were no freshly baked treats awaiting their arrivals, lugged home gallons of chicken soup that they convinced Hannah she had to make for them or their husbands would never speak to them again.
Jane had the feeling Hannah knew exactly what they were up to, but needed the game they were playing too much to want to put an end to it.
By early spring, the Ford Company’s Sociological Department was a functioning reality, no longer to be taken lightly, casually dismissed as just another reformist’s overzealous crusade. This pet project of Henry Ford’s was now a well-run machine, consisting of precise components geared to doing its job efficiently, its charter duty the betterment of men and, consequently, the nation. Ford’s determination to lead his immigrant workers to a better life, give only unto those truly deserving a share of his company’s profits, strict adherence to the rules of hygiene, living habits and morality as set down by his Sociological Department, were tantamount to employment. To gather such information, the department employed inspectors who, with absolute autonomy granted them by the company, were free to question, interrogate, inspect, evaluate, make decisions concerning the household and its inhabitants of any Ford worker chosen for investigation.
As a worker’s qualification for the profit-sharing plan, in some cases his very employment, depended on what an inspector wrote in his report, all questions had to be answered without evasion.