Having not far to go, Johann and John were the last to leave. Locking the door behind them, Fritz began turning off lights in the hall. Rumpelstiltskin, standing on the third step in order to reach Hannah’s cheek, gave it a fleeting kiss.
“Dear Lady, I’m exhausted! Simply drained. Never again shall I be so foolhardy as to venture into the frozen tundras of this land. How Indians ever survived that climate covered only in deerskin, I shall never understand. Even wrapped in buffalo hide, one can freeze one’s you know what off!” Fritz, passing, gave him a stern look. “Sorry, my dear. The master of the house objects …”
“De Mistress—she doesn’t, so dere!”
Forgiven, Ebbely blew her a kiss and, calling, “Good night,” scampered up the stairs to bed.
He slept for days, finally emerging from what he christened his personal hibernation, to play innumerable renditions of “In the Hall of the Mountain King” with such Nordic gusto, the piano groaned. When Hannah showed him her wonderful Christmas present, Ebbely sought out Fritz, bowed low before him, shook his hand, congratulated him not only on his generosity, but his “about time” acceptance of a modern miracle that for once had absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with the mighty automobile.
Of course, the little man knew many people who could be spoken to because they too possessed a talking telephone. Hannah placed a footstool so he could reach the apparatus, then watched in awe as her Ebbely made his connections, spoke with authority, conducted his business, ever the efficient knowledgeable salesman. Later Fritz built him a special step that was the perfect height so he could reach the mouthpiece more easily and hung a small coin box next to the telephone for payment purposes.
Each time the Ford men came over, Ebbely waxed rhapsodic, calling the talking telephone the “Marvel of the Age.” Jane had the impression he did it on purpose for the fun of it, just to get them riled.
Especially John, who would rise to the bait every time.
“The Marvel of the Age? That contraption that needs another, a receiver, to make its existence worthwhile? Never!”
“Ja, Ebberhart,” Fritz would agree. “And all those big ugly poles it needs—with all those wires all over going everywhere!”
“And don’t forget about all those poor girls, who have to sit before those consoles all day, trying to figure out which holes to poke their cables into!” Often, Stan joined in for the fun of stirring the pot further.
John nodded in agreement. “Yes—it’s dependent!” Certain there was more rhetoric to come, John’s friends waited, resigned. “It is the automobile, and especially the Model T, that has offered the common man his individual freedom, to go where he wants, when he wants wholly independent, free to choose. Don’t forget, it is individual freedom that defines this country!”
A look of mock wonder on his little face, Ebbely looked about the room.
“Isn’t he marvelous when he gets going like this? Give John a soapbox and he could run for mayor. And, it takes so little to set him off!”
“You devil!” John was laughing. “You were having me on!”
“Forgive me, I couldn’t resist! Calling forth your ever-ready oratory on your mania of the ‘Liberation of the Common Man’ is such a temptation!”
“But I’m right, Ebbely. You have to admit I’m right!”
“Yes! Now are you satisfied? I have great affection for you, John, but you can be—exhausting! Let’s eat!”
Jane’s second pregnancy, now in its final stages, was one of lethargic boredom. Having to repeat an act no more welcome than the first seemed redundant. What is the matter with you, woman? she would ask herself, deeply concerned by her unnatural reaction to something normal women accepted, if not always with total joy, at least with some resemblance of anticipation.
Both expecting to be delivered around the same time, Jane sometimes stopped off to visit Serafina on her way home from her Watcher duties within the Italian sections of Detroit. Her precious winter coat voluminous enough to hide her condition, she could still move about without causing embarrassment to others, whereas Serafina preferred to wait out her time in the privacy of her home. The two women, so very different in every way, now fashioned baby clothes together, united by their mutual status of approaching motherhood.
When Serafina’s twin sister joined them, Jane would feel the disturbing strangeness in the presence of two beings so astoundingly alike, they seemed but one image split in two. Morgana did not prophesy as often as her twin, yet she too had a way of darkly smoldering, giving one the impression that any moment she would erupt, mouth what others might not want to hear. Morgana blind since birth, this did not seem to bother her unduly and, as her blindness was open-eyed, at first people did not notice, captivated as they were by her wide-eyed beauty. Jane often wondered what would have happened if these two strange and sensuous women had followed the ancient tradition of their origin, taken the veil, joined a Holy Order of nuns; what havoc these unholy twins might have wrought amidst a bevy of innocent virgins, their treasured chastity spoken for.
Crocheting baby bootees, Morgana holding the wool while her reflected image wound it off into a ball, Jane conjured up visions of them as Holy Sisters running, their heavy rosaries flying, as lightning was about to strike them down; breaking into laughter—when she realized that she was having visions in the presence of the two who believed these were their exclusive gift.
“Why are you laughing, Jane?” Morgana asked.
“Nothing, really. That’s a pretty color of blue, Serafina. What are you planning to make with it?”
“A jacket with matching cap. Salvatore will look handsome in blue.”
“I see you’re still convinced your baby will be a boy.”
“Of course. Morgana, put your hand on Jane’s belly—tell her what hers will be.” Imperceptibly, Jane recoiled. “She won’t hurt you—she too has the Touch.” As though she could see, the twin’s hand found Jane’s body, rested a feather-light moment, then returned to holding the wool.
“Well?” Serafina asked her twin in Sicilian.
Without expression, Morgana answered in the same dialect Jane could not understand. Feeling foolish to even be interested in their mystic covenant, Jane looked questioningly at Serafina, who replied, “You too will have a son.”
“And?” It was obvious she had more to say but was reluctant to. “Serafina, don’t be silly—tell me. Whatever it is, I won’t believe it anyway!”
“He does not belong to you.”
“Of course he does! Sometimes you two can really be—outrageous!” Jane tied off the toe of one white bootee, began the other.
Serafina patted her sister’s knee reassuringly, turning to Jane, murmured, “You will nourish, he will feed but, as the cuckoo does, so will he be.”