Sometimes, Jane couldn’t get out of Stan’s house fast enough, reprimanding herself for ever going there in the first place.
This time, no endless up and down, not even time for comforting chatter, Hannah arriving for her usual morning visit, took one look and ran. Having decided anyone with even a little experience in child birthing preferable to the callousness of Missus O’ Reilly, she headed for the house of new Missus Tashner, who was rumored to have healing hands and, as her mother was a midwife back in the old country, one could safely assume she must know at least the rudiments of birthing. Swift, yet gentle, not given to ecclesiastical utterances, nor self-righteous fussing. New Missus Tashner delivered Jane of a healthy male child. His first cry, its anger controlled as though already a matured resentment, announced what he was to be. Hannah, cradling him as she had Jane’s first, looked for a likeness to his brother and found none. There was a bland remoteness about him that resembled no one—as though an opinionated old man had been transformed into a newborn, his mental age intact.
“Well, that was a real easy one!” Missus Tashner exclaimed in quite passable German. “You did very fine, my mother would say you’re made for having many children. It is still early—so—you can rest until it is time to get up and cook your husband’s supper. Frau Geiger, I am finished here, so I will go now.” Noticing Michael peeking around the door, she smiled. “And here is the big brother!”
Hannah placed the baby by Jane’s side, beckoned to him. “Come, Bubbeleh, come in, see your new brodder—den we let your Mama sleep a little.” Michael stood by the bed looking at his mother, captivated by her long hair lying open on the pillow. He had never seen it unpinned, it made her look so different, so soft, nearly a stranger. Jane folded back the shawl to let him see the baby and Michael was very, very disappointed. For months, everybody had been telling him how lucky he was, that soon he would have a brother or sister to play with—but this? This funny-looking thing? This was much too small to come out to play ball with him right now. He wished grown-ups wouldn’t do that all the time, forget to explain things the way they really would be, it made life very confusing. Seeing Michael’s disappointment, Hannah took his hand, bent to kiss Jane’s cheek.
“I take Michael wit me. You sleep till John comes—and no getting up till de morning. After John see de baby, he eat his supper at my house, den bring Michael home.” Expecting it might be a girl, John was very pleased Jane had produced another son. He kissed her tenderly, murmured, “Grazie, Ninnie,” and, closing the bedroom door gently behind him, left to have supper at the Geigers’. Her body disencumbered, once more her own, Jane slept. The new life by her side stared into the darkness, as though it was familiar.
Because neither could think of a name that pleased them both, they named the baby John. Throughout his life, he was referred to by that name. Never a Johnny or Jack, even when a small boy, never held a nickname. It suited his character to be—a dour, impregnable John. Michael tried to adore his new brother but was not permitted to by the object of his affection. As with most, the baby shunned whatever contained human warmth as though mistrusting it. John was a child one remembered by the confusion one felt in his presence. His speculative gaze made most people uncomfortable, as though he knew their secrets and was willing to tell. Hannah, who schooled herself to love Jane’s sons equally, found the effort this required unnerving.
Daylight had darkened, the threat of approaching thunder heavy in the summer air when, after a lazy labor aided by Morgana’s infusion of sage leaves steeped in laudanum, Serafina gave birth to Stan’s son. Overly large, already handsome, he resembled those chubby cherubs depicted on ceilings of ornate Italian churches. While her boisterous family celebrated, toasted the new father, stomped joyously about to the music supplied by happy uncles, Serafina, freshly washed and cologned, examined her child for signs of the Devil. Satisfied that he was neither marked by a clubfoot, nor a discoloration upon his flesh, she handed him over to Morgana, turned on her side to enjoy the still lingering effects of her potion and slept.
Believing it was his idea, Stan named his son Salvatore, after his father-in-law, earning that man’s benevolence for relinquishing his Rumanian heritage in order to do honor to his. When Fritz and John spoke of this, they both agreed it was certainly a diplomatic move, but that Stan believed he needed to flatter, they found disquieting. At the musical uncles’ insistence, the boy was given a second name in honor of the greatest living tenor and fellow Italian—Enrico Caruso and, just to make sure at least one saint was in his corner, they also added Anthony.
The boy’s formative years were ones of confusion, his identity continuously disrupted. His grandfather called him Salvatore, his uncles Enrico, his father and those of his friends, Tony, his mother and aunt, having decided from the moment of birth that he was too perfect to be anything but an angel come to earth, called him Angelo. In later years, Tony, as he thought of himself, could switch names with rapid ease whenever the need arose for him to stay one jump ahead of the law.
Flimsy peignoirs and lace-trimmed unmentionables restocked, Ebbely was ready, once more, to return to his Southern Route, explaining that only there, frail females still practiced the true art of delicate manipulation of their men with style.
“Give me a Southern belle and I’ll show you a woman who knows how to entice a man, show him no mercy, while making him rapturously oblivious to his fate! I’d rather face a horde of Bengal tigers who haven’t eaten a man in months, than one of those dainty damsels from South of the Mason-Dixon Line!”
“Den why in Himmel you go all dat way down dere, you silly?” Hannah challenged.
“Why my dear? Because those vixens are forever in need of new ammunition and, yours truly is just the man to supply them with it. Do with it what they will—I sell—they buy and let those that can, save themselves! Farewell! I’ll be back in time to Trick or Treat.”
“So long? It isn’t even real summer yet?”
“I must. I have pretties to sell, places to see—you know me—the open road beckons and I must follow where it leads me! My God! I sound like John! Kiss his new babe for me and tell our Michael, no jealousy of new brothers allowed. I shall return sated with corn pone, hush puppies, and collard greens, ravenous for all you have to offer and I don’t just mean your cooking! Adieu, Stalwart Guardian at the Gate—pretty postcards I shall send!” and Rumpelstiltskin was gone once more.