Now it appeared as though only she had found a security worthy of their adventure. Sitting in her warm kitchen, Jane recognized her good fortune, at the same moment aware that the self-satisfaction this should bring eluded her. Once again, she chided herself for always being so hard to please, when all the basics for pleasure surrounded her, and felt confused with herself. As with most bereft children, never having experienced the dependability of love, Jane yearned for what she imagined it must be. Her birdlike eyes forever focused on far horizons, Jane rarely saw what lay at her feet waiting to be perceived.
During supper that evening, Jane mentioned Megan’s letter and its contents to John, who replied that her cabin-mate’s circumstances did not surprise him.
“When I saw that flashy automobile of his, I told you he was certainly no groom. So—he turns out to be a no-good gambler, doesn’t surprise me in the least.”
“Poor Megan, she had such lofty dreams—living in a great mansion, serving a fine Southern lady.”
“All immigrants have dreams.”
“But not all are disappointed.” Clearing her husband’s plate, Jane was struck by the thought that they were actually having a conversation.
“No, not if their original dreams, as you call them, were based on some reality.”
Wanting to prolong this rare exchange, Jane asked, “Exactly what reality?”
“Hard work, determination, sacrifice, self-discipline, a passion, a true sense of purpose—not necessarily in that order but all of them necessary to achieve one’s goal.”
“You didn’t include freedom, John.”
“Freedom is the result of the others!”
“Is it really that hard? Was it for you?”
“Of course! Fritz, Rudy, Zoltan—all of us. The one thing about immigrants that unites all of us is our need, our initial courage to search for a better life. You are lucky you didn’t have to do it alone, it was already done for you.”
Although this was beginning to enter channels perhaps dangerous, Jane persisted. “Could marriage be considered a form of immigration?”
“Marriage?” John looked startled.
“Yes. Would you say it too needs all the things you mentioned to achieve its goal?”
Intrigued despite himself, John challenged, “Its goal being?”
“Success?”
“Don’t be silly! A woman’s success already lies in just being married. After that all that is left for her to do is live within its … boundaries to have what she wants.”
“She may not always know what she really wants.”
“Women as a whole don’t know what they want! They blow like the wind—they need a man to give them direction!”
“Really.”
Having noticed for some time that his wife seemed meeker, less argumentative when speaking a foreign language she had learned, John switched from Italian to English—his tone demanding. “Well? Are we having dessert tonight or not?”
Wishing she could, yet knowing she should go no further, Jane went to fetch the apple cobbler.
On Valentine’s Day, Rumpelstiltskin returned, shed his winter coverings, grabbed Hannah’s hand, pulled her into the parlor, positioned her by the piano, did his twirling trick with the stool and, smiling up at the object of his affection, launched into a buoyant rendition of “Oh, You Beautiful Doll,” stressing the second line, YOU GREAT-BIG BEAUTIFUL DOLL! finishing his amorous performance with a delighted giggle. “When I heard it, I knew! Immediately! This song was written with you in mind. Bought the sheet music, learned it on the spot and have been waiting, fretting for months to serenade you with it! What’s for supper? Whatever, smells delicious!” Hannah hugged him so hard, he squealed, “Enough! I’m delicate!”
“Ach, my Ebbely! Why you stay away so long?”
“Never again, dear lady! Never again! Barbaric, absolutely barbaric! But, they adored the bloomers and those latkes!? Ambrosia!”
“Latkes? You like dere latkes? Better den my German pancakes? So—I make you latkes!” Not having meant to make her jealous, Ebbely quickly kissed her hand and escaped upstairs to the safety of his room.
Though it was a weeknight, having heard their favorite shrimp was back, his friends came to welcome him home; picked him up, kissed the top of his head, chased him through the house, then, their game done, settled down in the parlor to listen to his stories, ask about the conditions of the roads, farther than many of them had ever been.
“Deplorable, my friends—still deplorable. Think of a freshly plowed field after a cloudburst and you get a good idea. Sometimes even a Model T can’t get through and that’s a shocking statement, as you will all agree. Have any of you ever heard of the idea they call ‘seeding’?” Some of the men looked blank. Ebbely continued, “Sometimes, as you are approaching a town—the muck, rocks and ruts suddenly stop, and then, as though by magic, suddenly you are gliding on smoothest heaven! And you realize you’re rolling along on a surface that has been paved! By the time you get over the shock, your aching bones just beginning to enjoy this astonishing sensation—BANG! You’re back in the muck! … And you know why? You’ve just done a mile. Exactly one mile, of what is called a ‘seeded road.’ Some crafty bureaucrat has sold the idea of surfacing roads—one mile at a time, like planting flower beds, hoping these little seedlings will beget state funding and grow into long stretches of surfaced roadways. This scheme may not be as idiotic as it sounds—certainly something has to be done to wake up the legislators, convince those boobs that the horseless carriage is here to stay! Still, as of now, I can tell you—when you hit one of those seeded miles? It’s a real shock—at both ends! But, I must tell you what I came across in Wisconsin. One bitter cold morning, driving through the town of Madison, I passed one of your dealerships—which I must tell you are springing up like mushrooms all over the country—when what do I see? With a great big For Sale sign? A Model T Two Seater!” Pausing a split second for effect, Ebbely intoned, “A secondhand Model T, my friends!”
Stunned silence filled the room. In those days, when things were built to last, fickleness to what served you well was nonexistent, and no one ever got rid of their beloved Lizzie.
“Aha—I see you are as stunned as I was by such an unusual sight. So, naturally, I had no choice but to stop and inquire the circumstances that brought this unique tragedy to pass.”
“And?” the Ford men asked in unison.
“Hark. Well, my friends, for it is a sad, sad tale of loss and fickle fate. It seems there was an ambitious man of the cloth who, being convinced that the Lord had singled him out to spread the Word beyond his humble pulpit, go forth, search for his erring flock, roam the far reaches of Wisconsin to herd them back amongst the righteous—sold a pair of silver candlesticks and with the proceeds bought himself a Model T to do so in high style. By night, by day, through rain, sleet and snow, he toiled in the service of His Maker until, one dark and stormy night, he struck a large rock, his flivver bucked, he catapulted, struck his head on said rock and expired on the spot! The next day they found him, stiff as a board, his trusty T grazing by his side, still running!”
Hannah asked from the doorway, “Dis going to take long still?”