“Quick! Get out of your tings! Don’t ask questions!” Her tall frame tense with impatience, tapping her foot, waiting for them to peel off their winter layers, finally, unable to wait any longer, she grabbed Jane’s hand, pulled her down the hall, calling to the others to follow quick!
“Look!” Hannah pointed to the wall next to the door leading down to the cellar and there, in all its glory, hung the oaken box and apparatus of a talking telephone! “Fritz, he gave me! Like a lady millionaire I am! Everybody, vatch! He show me how. First, you crank de handle couple of times—just like mit a flivver, den quick you lift off de important ting—for de hearing—den you crank again—den you shout nice and clear into dis, de speaking piece, tell de special number of de far away udder person you want to have speak wit you—to a smart nice lady who knows where to plug exactly de cables into de right holes so you get connected all the way to ring-a-ling anudder talking machine far away. All de way across town even, if you want!”
John put his arm around her, kissed her cheek. “If I had known a telephone would make you this happy, I would have gotten you one myself!”
“My Fritz, he knew. Anyway, only husband allowed to give expensive present like dis—so no smarty ideas from you, my Baby Boy!”
“You haven’t called me that in years!” John hugged her some more.
“Dat’s because you now a big grown-up papa. Where is my Bubbeleh? You forget him on de doorstep?” Hearing Hannah’s special name for him, Michael ran to hug her skirts. Smiling, she bent down, picked him up. “Merry Christmas, little one. Now—first we go light all de candle—make de tree special—den we sing de carols, drink de Schnapps—you get milk! Don’t make a face—it’s good for you! Den, I have a big surprise I make for you and before your Mama and Papa take you home to sleep, you know what we do? I will turn de handle—let you listen to de ring-a-ling of my special Christmas present!”
Without Ebbely to tickle its ivories, the piano remained silent, but they sang the carols, remembered how Jimmy used to insist on singing the endless lyrics of those partridges sitting in that pear tree. All were enchanted by the fairy-tale gingerbread house and Michael’s joy breaking sugar icicles off its roof to stuff his mouth with, drank the precious Schnapps, contented in the warm glow of the candlelight, watching it flicker. Michael, heeding his father’s warning to be very, very careful, played with the carved figures of shepherds and kings, gently regrouping them around the baby lying in the manger. With Hannah, a Christmas Eve, even with so many missing, was complete, somehow.
After everyone had gone, Fritz put the Schnapps back in the cabinet, turned the key, blew out the candles on the little tree, made sure the lit menorah was well enough away from the curtains so nothing could catch fire during the night, called to Hannah in German. “Hannahchen, now I am going up. You are coming?”
Her happy voice reached him from the kitchen. “Go up, Liebling! Only a little bit still I got, den I come!” Listening for it, the instant she heard him open their bedroom door, Hannah scurried into the hall carrying a kitchen stool, sat herself down before the wall that held her wonderful Christmas present—just to gaze at it. With Missus Adams, once the owner of a talking machine, no longer in Highland Park having immigrated to Canada, Hannah knew no one who had a talking telephone. But she was sure she would some day and, when that glorious moment arrived, she would know how to ring-a-ling someone whole streets away and maybe even a someone would someday do her the great honor of ring-a-linging Missus Hannah Geiger, proud possessor of a talking telephone, in return.
Having made her usual quantity of Christmas gingerbread, Hannah had so much left over, the next day she packed it into one of her Glory Day picnic baskets, took it with her to the pond, handed it out to anyone who skated past her. This festive gesture was such a success, so appreciated, she told Fritz she planned to do it again next year, even if it meant having to do double batches.
Alone on the bench, Jane watched John skating with Michael perched on his shoulders, arms wrapped around his father’s throat, holding on for dear life—scared stiff—loving every minute of it. By next Christmas, he would be old enough to skate on his own. Where had the year gone? She felt the baby move inside her, wished Rumpelstiltskin were there to ask her for a waltz.
14
As a New Year’s treat, Mr. Henry actually stopped, one mittened paw waving a letter addressed to Jane. “Here, I got one!” His warm breath steamed. “Again this one was sent to the Geigers’! Doesn’t anyone know where you live?” As though chiding a forgetful youngster his voice held a smile. Before she could tempt him to come inside, warm himself by the stove, the mailman turned, waved farewell, hurried off to his duties. Holding her letter like the precious gift it was, Jane returned to the kitchen before opening it.
In carefully formed words, placed neatly on lines drawn with a ruler, Megan had at last put pencil to paper.
Dear Giovanna,
Surprise, surprise it’s meself, Megan, your shipboard mate, the Irish one. I hope you still remember me. Sure you’re knowing how to read in English after so long is sure a welcome relief for me. So here I am writin’ to say hello and give you our address so if you have a mind to answer, you can. Never did make it to where I thought I was goin’. Me Patrick havin’ thought the better of it followed more advantageous opportunities up North. So here we are, still in the grand city of New York, livin’ in rooms, boardin’ in a house with other Irish folk just like us. Times have been hard. Oh, it’s not that me Patrick isn’t ever willing to work, no matter what is—alright with him but, no fine horses now to look after he follows the ponies. Never know from one day to the next what will be, but as me dad used to say “You can’t have coal, peat will do as well.” We manage. Me Patrick is away a good deal, his so numerous business connections take him out of town. So I have taken day employment in one of the fine houses on the 5th Avenue—just to keep from sittin’ home all alone twiddlin’ me thumbs, mind. Here we hear all sorts of talk about that Mr. Henry Ford and then I always think of you. Hopin’ this finds you well and you will answer in kind, I remain yours.
Sincerely, your friend,
Megan Flanningan
Jane let the letter rest in her lap. How long ago it all seemed. The four of them, so different, who had forsaken familiarity to follow their men, so sure a better life awaited them in a far-off land.