Children of Liberty

by Paullina Simons

  “That treaty will never happen,” said Ellen and Elmore in unison. Ellen had found a lone supporter in the mosquito expert! It was a devil’s alliance. Harry stayed out of it.

  “Oh, I assure you,” Herman intervened. “That treaty will happen. Your son is entirely correct, Ellen. I know this for a fact, because a fine man and a very good friend of mine, Secretary of State John Hay, has been negotiating that treaty.”

  “Imperialism—naked and unabashed!”

  “Mother, but the language of the treaty is explicit,” Ben said. “The canal will be neutral and free to all nations. Just like the Suez.”

  Ellen showed supreme indifference to Ben’s “facts.” “So we build it, we use our money and then you think we will just allow anyone to pass through it? It will never happen.”

  “Your mother is right,” said Elmore. “Sorry, Mr. Barrington. Congress will never ratify that treaty.”

  Ben chafed most when forced to reply to Esther’s unsuitable suitor. “They will ratify,” said Ben, “because the whole world will benefit.”

  “But none more so than America, right?” Ellen said.

  “Does that make you unhappy, Ellen, my friend?” Herman asked. “Is there something wrong with our country benefiting from its honest labor?”

  “We don’t need it,” Ellen said adamantly. “We don’t need bananas. We don’t need tea from China. We don’t need sugar from Cuba. We don’t need any of these things.”

  The table was quiet as they digested their pies and breads and swallowed their tea.

  “Tell me again, Mother, why our business interests in Costa Rica must be cut off,” said Ben. “But do have another bite of fried plantain first.”

  “Ellen, have you been in contact with Eugene Debs?” Herman asked. “He thinks like you.”

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “He is coming to speak at our next week’s meeting. Will you be joining us, Herman?”

  Herman smiled benevolently. “I’m having lunch at the Porcellian Club with Mr. Wendell Holmes,” he said. “But thank you. Perhaps Harry will attend. Seems right up his alley.”

  “No, no, Harry is coming to a charity ball with me next Thursday,” said Alice, with a fiery gaze at her mother.

  Harry touched her hand as he reached for a white napkin.

  “You know, Herman, it would behoove you to come,” said Ellen. “So many women come to our meetings. Even young girls who are quite interested in progressive ideas.” Ellen smiled. “They might not grow up to be bankers and merchants like you, but then they also won’t go to war …”

  “Like Uncle Robert, Mother?” Ben asked sharply.

  Herman laughed. “Your son has a point, Ellen. To rail against war when your own brother was martyred in one seems unsuitable somehow.”

  “No,” she said staunchly. “I rail against unjust war.”

  “There was a lot of protest against our Civil War also,” Herman reminded her. “A president lost his life because of it.”

  The table became a little quieter.

  “I don’t know what that war has to do with what we’re talking about here,” Ellen said. “The right to keep within our own borders.” She turned her gaze back to her son. “Have you asked your young friends what they think of your Panama Canal? Perhaps they can go to Panama with you.”

  “Perhaps they might.”

  “The tall one especially. Variety, is that her name?”

  “Verity,” Ben corrected.

  “Right. She is enormously talented. Grasps concepts quickly, is fascinated by every speaker we have—and has her heart in the right place. The other one …” Ellen shrugged, kept going. “Frankly I don’t have much hope for her. She has a vacant look about her, as if she understands nothing.”

  “She doesn’t speak English well, Ellen,” said Harry.

  “Oh, she speaks just fine. Why does she come then?”

  “Who are we talking about?” asked Alice.

  Ben looked down into his sweet potatoes and corn.

  “Just some ladies who come to the meetings on Thursdays. Though I haven’t seen them in a while. Perhaps they lost interest?”

  “Perhaps.” Ben didn’t look at his mother.

  “They’re funny birds, those two,” Ellen went on. “Even the indifferent one. Do you remember her trying to quote from John Quincy Adams?” She laughed in mockery. “I never heard anyone mangle Adams quite so. She was trying to reproduce his anti-imperialism quote. Oh, how she butchered it. ‘Doctor’ instead of ‘dictator’ indeed!”

  Harry and Ben exchanged a darkening quizzical look, as if both were surprised that a seemingly innocent conversation could suddenly get so churlish.

  “Give the girl a break, Ellen,” said Harry who saw that Ben couldn’t say the things he was thinking of saying to his mother. “You should be pleased that at least it was an anti-imperialism quote.”

  “I can’t understand why she comes, that’s all.”

  “Well, she’s not coming anymore, is she, Mother?” Ben said, throwing down his napkin onto his half-empty plate and standing up. “Thank you for dinner, Mr. Barrington. Happy Thanksgiving, sir. But we’re late. Aunt Effie has been invited to the Cabots in Beacon Hill for seven-thirty, and it’s well past.”

  They left soon thereafter, and Elmore left too, with his family. No one stayed for after-supper brandy in the library, not even the Porters, who feigned exhaustion before hastily departing. Herman thanked Louis for a lovely meal and went to bed. Only Harry and Esther remained in the library, nursing their drinks and their small sharp wounds.

  “Alice is so fond of you, Harry.”

  “And I of her.”

  “So why don’t you ask the girl to marry you? Make an honest woman out of her.”

  “Where’s the fire? I haven’t graduated. I don’t know what I’m doing. Alice’s father should never have said that. It just made poor Alice uncomfortable.”

  “Why do parents never fail to embarrass their children?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “He had too much to drink.”

  “An hour into the evening?”

  “He didn’t mean it. But what do you mean, you don’t know what you’re doing? What do you see as your options? Going to Costa Rica with Ben to grow bananas?” Esther gave a small scornful chuckle.

  They sipped their cordials. The fire was lit. It was quiet.

  “Do you want to marry Alice?”

  “The question is, dear sister, does Alice want to marry me?”

  “Who wouldn’t?” she said, taking her brother’s hand for a moment.

  “Don’t be a silly goose. Who wouldn’t? Most of the respectable girls in Boston, that’s who. All I do is read and think. And drink. You think that’s appealing to beautiful society girls like Alice?”

  “Yes,” she said quietly. And then, even more quietly, “But what about the non-respectable girls?”

  He glanced at her, frowning. “I don’t know any of those, do I?”

  “No?”

  “What are you talking about, Esther?”

  She said nothing. “Why are you so oblivious?” she whispered.

  “To what?”

  “Nothing, nothing.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Nothing, I said.”

  He let his drink go, but not the subject matter. “Everybody’s oblivious, Esther. Have you noticed? No one sees what’s under his very nose.”

  She assented with the deepest of sighs. Usually they stopped speaking here, stopping just short of confessions, of intimacies. But tonight was quiet and the fire was still going, gradually burning out, the evening didn’t seem as long as the years in between, and so Esther poured her and Harry another brandy cordial and sat back down by his side. She eyed him, appraised him, delighted in him for a moment, touching his tousled head with affection. Then she spoke after the liquor had warmed her throat and made it easier for her to say what she had never said. “He doesn’t see me,” she said so quietly as if almost to herself, “because he doesn
’t love me.”

  Harry chewed his lip. “He is just oblivious, Esther. All he thinks about is bananas.”

  “Are you saying it because you want to ease my heartache or because you’re defending your friend?”

  Harry thought about it. “I don’t know.”

  She nodded. “Of course you don’t. I’ll tell you. He’s oblivious because I’m invisible to him. I know this to be true.”

  “He doesn’t know how you feel. You’re three years older. You’ve known him since we were kids. He thinks you’re his sister too.”

  “But I’m not.”

  “So hint to him how you feel.”

  “If he knew I’d never see him again. He would stop coming.”

  “He grew up with you, Esther. He can’t look at you any other way. You’re my sister. It’s wrong.”

  She shook her head. “It’s wrong only because he doesn’t feel it.”

  Harry said nothing.

  Esther lowered her voice a notch further. “But one of these days, Harry, you might want to tell your closest friend the truth. Let him down gently, the way you’ve let me down gently, and Father, and Mother, and everyone else who’s known you, tell him in your inimitable delicate detached way, Harry, that she doesn’t see him either, that she is oblivious to him for the same reason he doesn’t see me.”

  “Who?” said Harry, but even as he spoke, cold color came to his face. He looked away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  They sat. She spoke again. “You know who that girl is not oblivious to, though?”

  Harry jumped up. He spilled his drink.

  “Eventually, do you think you, Harold Barrington, could let Ben know if you’re oblivious to her?”

  “I really have no earthly idea what you’re talking about. But it’s getting late, Esther. I’m quite tired. Good night. Happy Thanksgiving.”

  He was about to leave the library. “Are you coming up?”

  “I’ll sit here for a little while and finish my drink. Good night.” She turned away.

  Soon 1899 became 1900.

  Chapter Ten

  IN THE BOSTON WINTER

  1

  AT the start of the new century, Gina wrote Harry a letter. She didn’t ask Salvo about it, she didn’t ask her mother, and she didn’t ask Angela. She didn’t even ask Verity about it, who was busy with church and school. Gina tried to leave the letter mysterious, yet impersonal enough that if it were intercepted, she could defend sending it by the sheer professional dullness of its content. She remembered glancing at only one or two worthwhile tidbits in that 1838 tome of nonsense she had tossed aside. One said, never, ever, write to a man. But if you absolutely must write to a man, never ever commit to paper anything you would not want published in the evening tabloid with your name above it.

  Dear Harry,

  I hope this letter finds you well. I have a proposal of a business nature I would like to discuss with you on behalf of my family. Is there an opportunity for us to meet sometime in the near future so I can present to you my idea of a business venture?

  I look forward to hearing from you.

  Yours sincerely,

  Gina Attaviano

  She kept it as formal as she could, hoping he would respond in kind.

  “Harry, who in the world is sending you letters?” Esther wanted to know after he finished reading it.

  “A man about a horse,” replied Harry, stuffing the missive into his breast pocket.

  She waved him off. “Seriously, who is it from?”

  “Do you feel strongly that this concerns you?”

  “I feel strongly that it does, yes.”

  “Well, do you want to know what concerns me?”

  “Not until you answer my question.”

  “What concerns me,” Harry continued, “is Elmore, whom I find all too frequently at the front door of this house, pretending to make house calls.”

  Esther flushed. “He is not pretending to make house calls.”

  “Oh? Is someone actually sick then?”

  “He is just visiting. Who is the letter from?”

  “It’s from a man who wants to sell me a horse, Esther,” Harry replied, going on without pause, “because you’re aware, aren’t you, that residency students who are not yet certified by the board are not allowed by law to make house calls?”

  “He is not making house calls! This conversation is over,” Esther said, bustling out, even the crinoline in her smart skirt starchly prickling.

  Harry laughed. But he was aware that he didn’t tell her who the letter was from. He didn’t want to unpack the reasons why. Harry suspected Esther would think it was untoward to meet Gina to discuss anything, and Harry didn’t feel like defending himself or explaining. He spent enough time explaining himself to his father in ways big and small; he didn’t want to be flanked by his sister as well, who tended for all her propriety to blow things out of all proportion, perhaps because her outward life was so still and calm.

  But also—and it was a small but significant also—Harry was afraid that Esther might mention it to Ben, as a mere aside, the way she casually mentioned the worst of things at Sunday dinners—it was a genetic family flaw—and what if Ben didn’t think it was quite so insignificant? Harry didn’t want to explain himself to Ben either, nor to hurt his friend’s feelings for a silly trifle. If it was important, he would of course tell him, but because it was superficial but potentially hurtful, he kept the letter to himself, first in his breast pocket and then locked in his personal cabinet in his room.

  Dear Gina,

  I don’t know if I can help you with your business proposal, I am tied up in personal and professional projects that take up the bulk of my time. However, not wanting to thwart a successful idea, would it be possible for you to come to Boston in the next two weeks? I have some time on Tuesdays between two and four, and Wednesdays between four and seven. I can meet your train at the North Street station if you can let me know what time you will be arriving.

  Yours sincerely,

  Harry Barrington

  Dear Harry,

  Can we meet next Wednesday? I will take the 4:15 and be at North Station by 6:00 in the evening.

  Gina

  2

  She sat at her lessons on Wednesday paying even less attention than usual, if that were possible. She faked not feeling well, and at the end of her classes, stepped into St. Vincent’s, and immediately informed the nuns that she was feeling faint and would not be able to spin tonight. She was going to go home and lie down. She changed out of her school uniform in the closet in the vestibule, stuffed the uniform into her ragtag bag, and ran down Haverhill and across Broadway to the train station.

  The thirty-mile journey to Boston took eighty minutes—the longest eighty minutes of her life. The oceanic crossing from Naples to Boston felt like a summer night compared to the endless clang of the crawling caboose. She was jittery, mostly because she knew she had to stay calm to get Harry to take her seriously and, being Italian and always gesticulating with her hands and being overly expressive with her face, she didn’t know if she could do that, stay calm enough for him to take her seriously. She was dressed deliberately dowdy: she wore her hair up in a severe bun, like Ben’s widowed aunt, whom she had met a few times at Old South. She had on a dark, puritanical skirt that covered a foot of ground around her shoes, and a long-sleeved, high-necked, no-frills dark blouse—a monastic uniform. From the nuns she learned, at least outwardly, how to keep the mask of decorum. She wanted to appear businesslike, not too lively. Her shoes were sensible and low-heeled and in any case invisible. She didn’t borrow anything shiny from Angela, not like last summer when she served lemonade and procured signatures for clearing tropical swampland while jangling silvery bracelets from her tanned slender wrists in front of Harry’s perspiring face. She scrubbed her skin and nails. If someone were to see them on the street, she wanted to remain without reproach. Not a sm
idgen of impropriety must pass between them. She tried to comport herself like his sister Esther, like Mother Grace. She debated whether to bring a rosary, but decided against it. Harry, being of a nebulous religion, wouldn’t understand the significance of prayer beads, might think them peculiar. What if he was some kind of Protestant?

  She was walking down the length of the platform, being careful not to trip over her skirt, when she spotted Harry standing under the massive clock. When he saw her, he took off his hat and held it in his hands. She walked up to him, all practical and solemn, allowing herself the smallest of all polite smiles. “Hello, Harry.”

  “Hello, Gina. How was your ride in?”

  “It was fine. Thank you for asking.”

  “You’re welcome.” He was bundled up in a coat, a gray wool scarf and a smart bowler hat. He carried an umbrella like a walking stick.

  She tried not to admire his freshly pressed double-breasted long overcoat, tailored, thick, beautifully made and draped. His shoes were black and shined despite the weather. Only his hair was rumpled and slightly too long, and his face looked as if he had not shaved very recently, perhaps late last evening, if then. She tried so hard not to look at him, and at the same time she needed to look at him, to maintain the businesslike aspect of the purpose of her visit.

  She didn’t know where to go from there. Were they going to stand and chat in the middle of the station? She hadn’t thought out that part.

  “Have you been waiting long?” she asked. “The train was a few minutes late.”

  “No, I’m always early. Unfortunately I’ve picked up my father’s worst habits. Are you comfortable? It’s miserable outside.”

  So they were going to go somewhere else. She was also dressed in a coat and hat, but drab not elegant like his. “This is my first cold winter. I’m not used to this weather,” she said, suddenly flushed from their scandalous inequality. “It was never like this in Belpasso.”

  “No, I don’t imagine it was.”

  “Should we … go sit somewhere?” she carefully suggested. “Verity and I used to pass a tea house when we walked to Old South, on Valenti Way … why are you smiling?” She was trying to be so proper. What now?