One Sunday, Will invites Hertha to his house.
In the parlor, she admires a painting of sheep.
My wife, may she rest in peace, chose that. Will talks
about her brief career as a doctor before her death.
They walk to the kitchen, where he praises his housekeeper,
says, Women won’t be so housebound once we figure out
how to use electricity to run machines
to clean floors and dishes, wash or sew clothes.
My mother would save much time with a machine
that makes a needle move quickly, she says. But even
sewing machines powered by hands and feet cost a lot.
Electricity must not be just for the rich. Mr. Edison
is looking for ways to make a good and inexpensive
lightbulb and bury wires underground
so the power can go anywhere. That would mean a lot of jobs.
Many should go to women, she says.
Anyone nimble with needles can knit electrical wire.
They talk some more about the possibilities,
before Will asks, Would you like to see where I work?
He carries a lantern to the attic. A pine table
is covered with levers, coils, magnets, beakers, and scales.
Tacked to the slanted ceiling
are two prints of swans in flight.
As Will kisses her neck, she sees the wide wings spread.
When he asks, Will you marry me?
Hertha thinks of her mother, almost always
with a baby in her arms or near her feet,
children running in or out of the house.
Hertha has so much to do already. Can she risk
her life changing? Will gently touches
her rippling hair. She says, Yes.