“More to the point,” Herman interrupted, “you don’t need a canal to sail a boat on the Caribbean. Ben, I wonder if your mother is right about this one.”
“I am always right,” said Ellen.
“With all respect, my mother is wrong on this one most of all,” said Ben. “Tell them the real reason you’re against it, Mother. Despite your budding friendship with Mr. Preston—”
“I am set against the looming war with Spain,” Ellen declared. “Spain has deep colonial interests in Cuba and the Philippines.”
“And most important to me, Colombia,” Ben added, “which is about to go to war with Panama. America has no choice but to defend Panama with whom they have a treaty. Naturally, Mother is on the side against America.”
“America must stay out of it!”
“They can’t.”
Ellen threw up her hands.
“Now, now. Many people are against the war, Benjamin,” Herman said diplomatically. Everyone knew he wasn’t one of them. “Mark Twain for one. Why give your poor mother a hard time?”
“He lives and breathes for nothing else, Herman,” said Ellen.
“I know what you mean, Ellen,” said Herman without so much as a glance at Harry.
“But it doesn’t matter,” Ellen continued. “Because Ben knows his Aunt Josephine and I, along with the esteemed Erving Winslow, are heading the newly chartered Anti-Imperialist League to protest U.S. involvement precisely in places like Panama.”
“I wish impatiently for the opportunity to hear your side of things,” said Ben. “When and where will your little society meet? I’ll bring Harry. Maybe Esther too.”
“Thursday evenings. Old South Meeting House,” she added nobly. “A perfect place for dissent and open debate for people like us. Seven o’clock.”
“You’re quite the revolutionary, Mother,” Ben said. “I’ll be sure to make my appearance.”
“Ben,” said Ellen, “you may come, but you’re absolutely forbidden to collect even one of the five thousand signatures you need for the canal exploratory commission to reopen their research.”
Harry was utterly delighted. “Benji, you’re joining your mother’s newly minted league against the development of the canal to collect signatures to help build the canal?”
Ben looked tremendously pleased with himself.
“Not even one signature, Benjamin,” Ellen repeated. “Not even your own.”
It was Elmore who burst Ben’s balloon. “You’ll never get enough signatures,” he said in his high-horse voice. “Because the canal is a terrible idea. It’s a waste of our resources.”
Ben tilted his head in fake deference. “Yes, I am well aware that many people hold this opinion.”
“It’s the Henry Ford fiasco,” Ellen said. “Did you hear that the man just formed an automobile company in Detroit?”
“I heard, Mother, yes. Everybody’s heard.”
“Well, Ford thinks his horseless carriages are going to catch on with the general public,” Ellen went on, her shoulders squaring with derision. “There’s been no evidence of that. It will never be as popular as the modern bicycle.”
“I completely agree with you, Mrs. Shaw,” concurred the medical student.
“It’s another folly, if you ask me,” Ellen said. “Pure vain folly.”
“Just like the canal,” Elmore underscored.
Ben would not be provoked into being insulting. “From an engineering perspective alone, a successfully built canal will be a man-made wonder of the modern world,” he said. “Perhaps like Henry Ford’s horseless carriage?”
“And if it’s not successful?”
Ben shrugged. “If we don’t build it, it will definitely not be successful.”
Elmore shook his head. “You’ll all die—like the French. You won’t be able to get rid of the mosquitoes.”
“Elmore is right, Ben,” said Esther.
“No, he isn’t. We’ll put up nets to keep them out.”
“You’ll have to put the nets up all around Panama,” Elmore said.
“If that’s what it takes,” said Ben.
Herman shook his head in amazement at Ben and got up. “Ellen, your son is astounding,” he said. “But I must bid you all a good night. My day starts early tomorrow.” He kissed Ellen’s hand before he left.
The long evening ended shortly thereafter. Harry, with Ben at the open door of the horse carriage, said to his friend, “There are no superlatives left for you. How did you do it?” Ellen was already inside and waiting for her son.
Ben smiled. “Anything to entertain your father.” He patted Harry on the shoulder. “Don’t forget to remind him about Old Wells House.” He held on to Harry’s arm for a moment. “However, old friend, since I’ve just helped you out …”
“Name it.”
Ben lowered his voice so his mother wouldn’t hear. “Come with me to Lawrence next Saturday.”
“Except that.”
“Harry!”
“I’m serious. Anything else. You know how much I hate to agree with my father …”
“Yes, Mr. Objection Maker, we all know this, including your father.”
“Yes, because you and your mother see eye to eye on everything. But in this one narrow circumstance, my father happens to be right about the girl. And you didn’t even tell him the main reason why. But I know. Ben, it’s ruinous.”
“Don’t be so melodramatic,” Ben said, dragging Harry away from the coach. “You’re not writing a book. We’re going to hop on a train and take a little ride north into the country. We’re going to explore and research Lawrence for your father. To see if there are any real estate investment opportunities there.” Ben adopted a businesslike tone. “Also, and this is critical, I absolutely must get five thousand signatures in order to bring this Panama Canal study before the Commission.”
“Now you’re going to Lawrence to get canal signatures?”
“We. Come on, you can’t spend the entire summer reading in your chair.”
“I also work, remember? And Saturdays I have a seminar on the economic history of the United States. At the pleasure of Dr. Callender. I can’t miss it.”
Ben waved him away. “Seminar ends at eleven. And you have many a time missed it. No excuses.” He hopped inside the carriage, closed the door and stuck his head out. “Also, you have it all wrong,” he said quietly to his friend. “We have business to conduct. Afterward, if there is time, we may pay a brief visit to the Attaviano family.”
“We don’t know where they live.”
“Oh yes, we do.” Ear to ear was Ben’s smile. “We helped them send the telegram to announce their arrival, remember?”
“Why don’t we just drive this carriage off a cliff instead?” said Harry, slamming shut the door as the horse clopped away, and faint in the night he heard Ben’s tenor voice singing, “My wild Italian rose, the sweetest flower that grows …”
When Harry turned around, Esther was standing rigidly behind him on the portico, waving goodbye.
Chapter Seven
IMMIGRANTS, DEBUTANTES, STUDENTS
1
“WHERE in the world did you get this?” Salvo asked. “You must have stolen it.”
They were looking at the suit Gina was holding out for her brother. “What are you complaining about?” she said. “You think God would help you find work in a stolen suit? You’d be trampled by a horse before you got to the end of Canal Street.”
Salvo examined the wool trousers, the finely made jacket, the waistcoat. She had even got him a worn white shirt, a gray tie and some used shoes. He dressed while she watched and then they both stood in front of the mirror and appraised him.
“You should trim your hair,” she said. “It’s too wild.”
“You’re a fine one to speak.”
“I’m not a man in a suit.”
“Where did you get it?”
“Society of St. Vincent de Paul,” she replied.
“I don’t know what that is
.”
“A mission to help the poor. Yesterday I was asking around …”
“I thought you were looking for a job.”
“I was. For you.”
“Sciocca ragazza. I can look for my own work, thank you.”
“You were out yesterday in the clothes you sailed in on. How did that go?”
“I don’t see you having a job either,” he muttered.
“Yes, but today you have a suit.”
Salvo smiled. “I look quite dashing, don’t I?”
“Yes. If you cut your hair you’d look almost American.”
“I didn’t see that vagabond you were so keen on with a haircut.”
Stepping away, Gina busied herself with a sudden need to rid the sewing machine of loose thread. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said. “But listen, don’t waste your time applying to be a machinist at the Pacific Mill.”
“Okay. Why would I? And why not?”
“Their ‘jobs offered’ signs are everywhere,” she said. “But they only hire skilled union men.”
“And I’m neither.”
“Right. But perhaps at the glaziers? Or the shoemakers?”
“I don’t know how to cobble shoes, Gia,” Salvo said. “Why do you keep mentioning all the things I can’t do? Why don’t you get work as a plumber? No, I’m going to apply at the restaurants. They must need cooks.”
Gina said nothing.
“What?”
“They pay poorly.”
“How do you know this?”
“I asked.”
“Who could you possibly ask? We got here five minutes ago.”
“We got here four days ago, and what do you think I was doing yesterday?”
“Looking for work—or did you also sin not only by your indolence but by lying to our mother?”
“I asked at St. Vincent’s.”
“It’s like the Boston Public Library, this St. Vincent’s,” said Salvo. “Maybe they have work too as well as information?”
“Oh, they do.” She sighed. “Not paid work, though.”
Salvo laughed. “That’s not work. That’s a hobby.”
“Okay, Mr. Clever. But in the meantime I found out what jobs you shouldn’t bother with.”
He put his palm over her mouth. “You think you’re the only clever one? I know what I’m doing. I’ll find some day work.”
“Day labor is neither stable, nor well-paying. Don’t you want to move out of this boarding house? I saw such nice houses near the Common. They have porches and big windows, and the streets are lovely and lined with trees.”
“Prima le cose,” he said. “First work, then a house. And don’t get all fancy on me. You know we can’t live in the nice areas.”
“It’s not that nice. It’s for people like us.”
“Mimoo asked you to find us a different church,” Salvo said, trying in vain to slick back his unruly hair. “Did you? She didn’t like the priest on Sunday.”
“Mimoo is full of opinions. It’s the only Italian church in town.”
“She said Italian is not a must. Proper Catholic is a must.”
Gina whistled in surprise. “St. Mary’s of the Assumption that runs St. Vincent’s is some church. Father O’Reilly is the priest there. He’s famous around these parts.”
“Where could you possibly hear that? No, don’t tell me …”
“St. Vincent’s,” she confirmed, pausing. “I hope to hear from the mill today,” she said.
“About what?”
“A job as a wool sorter.”
“So you did look for a job!” Salvo scoffed. “I thought we agreed you wouldn’t work at the mills?”
“It’s skilled labor, Salvo,” she said. “Many people crave those jobs.”
“What in the world could you possibly know about wool?”
“Clearly something.” She shrugged. “The manager at Washington told me I apparently have a gift of hand sensitivity.” She smiled. “I can tell the difference in the quality of the fleece just from touching it. I’m fast too. He gave me a pound of fleece to separate, based on curl, length, softness. He said he’d never seen anyone do it so quickly. So he wants me to interview with his boss.”
“What are you going to wear?”
She flared her dress with her hands.
“Should’ve gotten yourself a dress instead of me a suit, sister,” Salvo said, looking over her drab rags. “It’s okay. You don’t want to be a fleece sorter anyway.”
“Oh, really? Angela gets paid three dollars a week for over fifty hours of work. You want to know how much they will pay me if I get this job?”
“How much?”
“Twelve dollars.”
Now it was Salvo’s turn to whistle. “Oh, how badly you need to be a sorter,” he said, hugging her.
“That’s what I thought. Go kill ’em, Salvo. And stay away from carpenters.”
Don’t count me out, Salvo whispered into the mirror as he adjusted his tie and hid the frayed collar under the jacket before leaving.
He came back late that night, his suit dusty and soiled. They had already eaten and Mimoo and Pippa—who had cleaned three large houses together, working over sixteen hours—were exhausted and asleep. Angela was upstairs visiting with a girlfriend. Gina dutifully waited for Salvo on his couch, nodding off with an English book on her lap.
“How did it go?” she said as soon as she heard him open the door. “Are you hungry?”
“Starved,” he said, sitting at the table, crossing himself, and gulping down the bread with salt and olive oil before he could speak. “I did all right. I have work for tomorrow. I found work for a week as a grinder.” He almost smiled but was too tired. “Don’t need a suit for that.”
“No,” she said sitting with him, putting her head on the table.
“How did you do? Why do you smell of sheep?”
“I washed in the river. What, didn’t help?” She shrugged. “I must get a new dress at the mission.”
“Did you get the job?”
“Sort of.” She said it without enthusiasm. “They hired me, Salvo, but they didn’t want to pay me the going rate. They said other women would get extremely upset to see a young kid like me taking away the job they spend years trying to get promoted into. It’s union work. So they said they could hire me but pay me only five dollars as non-union.”
“I hope you told them in perfect Italian what they could do with their sheep sorting.”
“Except I really want to move to a different house,” Gina said. “What I told them was I’d work part-time for five dollars. If they wanted to give me half the pay, I’d only work half the time. Then no one could complain.”
“Did they agree to this?”
“Reluctantly. The manager liked me. He thought I was productive.” She was too tired for inflection. She showed Salvo her hands, dried and abraded from the thorns and burrs, from rough wet and dry work. Hives were forming on her fingers from the sheep grease.
“Gia!”
“Well, I know. It’s not great. It’s better than being a skirter and wool washer, don’t you think? Tagging off manure-filled fleece. Yuk. And Washington has the nicest mending room in Lawrence, Salvo. That’s where I want to get promoted to. Ladies work there, and they sit behind a table and the room is sunny with big windows. I would get to dress up. So I took this, hoping in time for that.” She pulled out a large shopping bag from under the table, stuffed to the brim with clean pale fleece. “I got four more just like this. Almost a pound total.”
“You stole from your new employer?” Salvo couldn’t believe it.
“Why do you attribute the worst motives to me? I didn’t steal it, I took it.”
“Oh! Fine difference.”
“They told me I could take it. It’s the discard pile. Downrights and abbs and breech.” She shrugged. “Don’t worry, it’s been thoroughly washed.”
Salvo inhaled the bean soup, the half block of mozzarella and fell away from the tab
le, wiping his mouth. “What are we going to do with your sheep hiding under the table?”
“First thing I have to do is pay St. Vincent’s back for your suit,” she said. “Then buy me a dress. After that I have a plan. You’ll see.”
“You and your plans.”
They fell asleep on Salvo’s couch, sitting up, leaning against each other.
2
Alice stood in front of her closet and waited for Trieste, her lady’s maid. Trieste was late and Alice was already running behind a carefully constructed schedule, though it was barely eight in the morning. She decided on a dark blue wool skirt and a white lace blouse. She kept her jewelry simple and was already putting on light makeup—by herself. She thought her face looked swollen from having slept too long on one side, having been in bed since nine the night before. She made a mental note not to sleep on her side, because it creased her cheeks, made her look puffy. But she needed her beauty sleep. She worked hard during the day and she needed to get proper rest at night. Mother said so, and it made perfect sense. Ever since she had been a little girl she loved to sleep, though the opportunities for unabashed rest were lessening with the years. Once she turned eighteen, and had gone to forty balls and functions, she just got busier and busier.
After a short knock on the door, Trieste came in with a tray of tea and soft biscuits with jam. She apologized for running late, but they couldn’t get the stove to turn on, to heat up the water for the tea. Trieste thought an engineer needed to be called in. Alice said she didn’t care about the silly old tea, “but what I do care about, Trieste,” she continued, “is that a shipment of six thousand logs is waiting for me at Roxbury, and do you know where I am? Not at Roxbury. That is my problem. I’m going to be late for all my appointments.”
“I apologize, Miss Alice. I know you like your hot tea in the morning.”
“Not more than I enjoy being on time, Trieste.”
Trieste apologized again, while quickly spreading jam and clotted cream on the scones.
“Where is your day journal, Miss Alice? Would you like to go over your schedule?”
Irritated, Alice pointed to her bedside. She had looked at the schedule the night before, but she couldn’t remember anything past the sawmill. She continued applying her makeup while Trieste read aloud the day’s events.
Children of Liberty Page 7
