Читать книгу Children of Liberty - Paullina Simons - Страница 15

“BARRINGTON is the heart of the American way of life,” Ben Shaw would add after he had introduced his friend Harry as the son of the man who founded and built a town entire. It was the way he had introduced him to Alice, a few years back, whom they both wanted to impress and were even more impressed when she wasn’t, and it was the way he had introduced him to Gina, whom they both wanted to impress and were even more impressed when she was.

And what a small town Barrington was. By train or stagecoach, close to Boston, the thriving hub of the Northeast, Barrington nested in sloping oaks and bushy maples on hilly roads. From the top of the town square on a clear night you could see Boston’s downtown lights twinkling in the distance. This Sunday the deep green of the trees and the startling white of the houses and the church steeples were sleek with fog and rain. Herman Barrington could’ve built his homestead anywhere, on a thousand acres with a mile-long winding driveway, like his brother Henry, but he chose instead to live four blocks from Main Street, in a stately but traditional colonial estate right off the sidewalk, from which passersby could glance into his bay windows. And when the family and their friends gathered in the drawing room or the library, sipping their drinks, fire crackling, amiably chatting, they could also see all the way down the wet and winding street.

This Sunday afternoon, as every other, Esther Barrington waited with her brother in the library, adjacent to the drawing room. Harry only pretended to wait. He was reading. The fire was on, their drinks were at their sides. She sat in the wingback, staring out the window.

“Is that staring out the window longingly?” asked Harry from the Chesterfield without raising his head. “Waiting for Alice, are we?”

Esther primly folded her arms. “I will not be mocked by you.”

“No?” He smiled.

“Oh, you’re brave now.”

“I’m not that brave.”

“Harry, I need to speak with you.”

“No.”

“You have to stand up to him.”

“No.”

“Ben and I can’t keep defending you.”

“You call what you do defending?”

“Don’t let him talk to you like that—and in front of Alice!”

“She finds him charming.”

“She finds everyone charming. That’s her gift. And soon she won’t. He’s planning to put you into quite a spot during dinner.”

“Just during dinner?”

“I’m giving you fair warning, brother. He is growing impatient.”

“Busy men are always impatient. What is it now?”

She took a breath. “Is Ben coming today?”

Harry glanced at her, amused. “Not just Ben but also his mother. Are you going to try to get on her good side?”

“Why would I need to? Stop being cheeky. Oh, Harry, you have to defend yourself.”

Getting up, he took his books and walked over to where Esther was sitting by the window in the leather armchair. He sat on the low footstool by her side, and, looking up at her, said, “But it’s so much more fun when you come to my Pyrrhic rescue, Esther. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Patting his head, Esther laughed. She had a good, hearty laugh, like a man’s—though she herself was nothing like a man. She was subdued and proper, never flirtatious or coquettish, but what reduced her occasional severity and gave her an ephemeral air was her skin: it was the color of parchment because she never went in the sun without a parasol, even on Revere Beach. Her translucence made her seem fragile, but despite her narrow bone structure, her thin face and nose, her slender slits of eyes, Esther was tough and strong. Her voice was the genteel voice of a well-born woman who was aware of her position, and yet its alto pitch made it sound as if she could swear like the sailors on the Long Wharf. She didn’t swear, of course. But Harry knew what she was capable of, should she so choose. “Let’s have it, Esther. What will it be about today? My future?”

“Yes, and no. Your and Alice’s future.”

“Ugh.”

Alice was the only child of Orville Porter who owned the Massachusetts East Timber Company, which supplied Herman Barrington with lumber for most of his construction projects. Alice was sporadically enrolled at the Society for the Collegiate Instruction of Women, which had a few years earlier begun offering university-level instruction to women, though without the attendant Bachelor of Arts degree. It had also renamed itself Radcliffe College, after Ann Radcliffe, a colonial philanthropist. When they first met, Ben had mentioned to Alice that Harry’s family were also colonial philanthropists, to which Harry said, how philanthropic could they have been? They still have all of their money. This made Alice laugh. So though Alice wasn’t swayed by Harry’s position in life, she was swayed by Harry.

They started dating, cautiously. That was two years ago when he was a sophomore; now he was entering his fourth and final year, and it occurred to him that they were still dating, cautiously. They were both still young, he reasoned, Alice barely twenty-one. Also, he had a few poorly developed concerns about their mutual suitability. He was bookish, while she was very much her father’s daughter, going on river drives up north to inspect lumber, walking in her thigh-high waterproof Wellingtons on the logs, wielding her branding axe and searching for imperfections. Did Harry really want Alice searching as assiduously for his? The fallen trees had no chance under her stern boots. She was known for limbing and debarking them herself. Mostly he felt he was not good enough for her, and it was only a matter of time before she discovered it.

“Don’t worry,” Harry said to his sister. “I have everything in hand.” He looked down at the books on his lap, one of them a book he was thinking of doing his senior thesis on next year, a short story by Edward Everett Hale. Under it was volume four of the ten-volume History of the United States by George Bancroft, which he was supposed to be reading for his advanced seminar, but wasn’t.

Harry didn’t tell Esther how just last week he overheard from the open bedroom window his father and Orville and Irma Porter below on the lawn discussing the topic of their children. They talked of the proper way to do things in Boston: a family heirloom ring, a formal announcement, a modest but well-publicized engagement dinner, followed by a long, productive period during which Harry graduated and settled on a career, while Alice methodically planned their extravagant and very public nuptials. A high society ball, a fancy affair, the wedding of the new century. The way the three parents extolled the romance of it, Harry himself was drawn in.

Esther leaned into him. “He plans to ask you point blank when you intend to honor him with grandchildren.”

Harry whistled. “Isn’t that putting the cart before the horse?”

“He will ask you to put the horse before the cart.”

“At Sunday dinner? Well, better perhaps than the usual.”

“If by better you mean more mortifying, then yes. Why put poor Alice on the spot like that?”

Harry rubbed her hand. “Don’t fret, Esther. Look forward to the plank walk. I do.” They sat side by side for a few minutes. Esther seemed restless. “What’s the matter with you today?”

She shrugged. “Do I look nice?”

“As always.” And she did, with a bow in her ruffled peach blouse, a camel-colored skirt, subdued beige high-heeled pumps. Her fingernails were buffed and shiny, her makeup was light, she even wore lipstick. Esther always tried to look especially attractive on Sundays. She just seemed more anxious than usual today. “What? Tell me.”

“Nothing.” She sighed. “I think Father might be bringing someone for dinner. He told me to dress up a little.” She waved Harry off. “I don’t want to talk about it. How was your week? What are you reading? For school?”

“Yes, because you know me, school’s the only time I crack a book.”

“You know what I mean.”

“It does happen to be for a seminar I’m taking. Colonial America. Visions and Dissertations.”

She was distracted. “Did you and Ben work last week?”

“All week. The boats never stopped coming. Father is going to have to do something, convert one of his other buildings perhaps. We’re out of room. We rented the last two apartments Friday.”

“Talk to him about it at dinner. How is Ben?”

“Ben is, as always, fine. Soon you will see for yourself how he is.”

She stared out the window.

Presently a carriage pulled up and a youngish man popped out, not Ben. Esther sat up straight, emitted a small sound of distress and got up. “Put away your book, Harry. Someone’s here to see you.”

He glanced outside. “To see me?”

“Well, who is that man?”

The young clean-shaven gentleman was nervous and portly as he lumbered through the gate and to the portico.

“He looks as if he hasn’t started shaving yet,” Harry remarked.

The doorbell rang. “Louis, the door!”

Louis Jones, their butler, the man who ran the house, had been with the Barringtons since before the Civil War. They were supposed to call him Jones, but throughout their childhood they called him by his first name because that was what his mother had called him, and they couldn’t alter this when they got older. Louis and Leola were escaped slaves who made it to Boston in the late 1850s. They were hired by Harry’s grandfather and lived in the back of the house in the servants’ quarters, working for three generations of Barringtons. Leola died at eighty-seven a few years ago. Seventy-two-year-old Louis was almost completely deaf but pretended he wasn’t. “I hear the doorbell, you impertinent children. I’m right here.” He moved slowly, hobbled by arthritis and cataracts, but still retained his sharp tongue, his sharper memory and his shock of white hair. Esther and Harry joked that if he weren’t careful, the rest of Louis would soon turn white too. “I’ll drop dead before that happens,” Louis would retort.

“Who do you think that is?” Harry said to Esther with a glint in his eye as they stood in the doorway studying the young man at the front door.

“How should I know?” Under her breath she tutted.

At the back of the house, a heavy door creaked open and Herman Barrington’s firm footsteps echoed down the hardwood, darkly paneled center hall. “Elmore!” they heard him say. “Come in! How are you? Thank you, Jones. Would you please fix the creak in my office door, it’s getting worse. Do you not hear it? Come in, Elmore. Let me introduce you to my children.” As Herman walked by, he appraised them—Esther briefly, Harry longer, his son’s frockcoat, his pressed herringbone trousers, his starched white shirt and gray vest. Harry slowly took his hands out of his pockets. He knew his father found that habit obnoxious.

The sister and brother exchanged a mute look. Elmore? they mouthed.

Fumbling with his umbrella, the plump man awkwardly removed his coat and hat and then dropped them all, one by one. Louis helped him pick everything up, as the three Barringtons stood and watched. Herman was tall, gray, stately, impeccably groomed and crisply dressed in a chocolate sports coat and tan slacks. He looked like a male, more elegant version of Esther.

Elmore was dwarfed by Herman.

“Elmore Lassiter, I’d like you to meet my daughter, Esther, and my son, Harold.”

Harry shook Elmore’s soft hand. “Please call me Harry.”

“Yes, thank you,” the young man said. “Please call me Elmore.”

With great amusement, Harry glanced at an exasperated Esther.

“When is everyone due to arrive?” Herman asked. “They’re running late.” His punctuality was legendary.

“Not for another thirty minutes,” Harry replied. But he didn’t carry a watch on Sundays.

“Shall we take our drinks in the drawing room? No, let’s go outside. It’s a beautiful day. Jones!”

“I’m right here, sir.”

“Ah,” Herman said. “There you are. Please tell Bernard to hold dinner so it doesn’t burn.”

“Dinner won’t be ready for another ninety minutes, sir.”

“Well, let’s hope the tardy guests get here before then. Otherwise, Elmore, we’ll just have to eat the entire feast. Bernard is a wonderful cook. Would you like a refreshing mint julep? Esther, come, please. Would you like a tour of the house? Esther will be glad to show you around. Perhaps there’s time for a walk. Have you been to our little town before? No? Well, it’s a fine place.” Herman’s hand went soothingly around Elmore’s tense shoulder as he led him down the enormous high-ceilinged hall to the French doors that opened into the yard. “Esther, Elmore is a resident at Mass General … surgical unit, is that right?”

“That’s correct. I’ve got another two years of residency.”

“It’s a good thing you’re at Mass General and not City Hospital,” Herman said to Elmore as they exited the house onto the rolling and manicured lawn. “I hear they’ve closed five or six wards there, including the men’s surgical unit.”

“Oh, yes,” said Elmore. “You’re quite right. The men’s, the women’s, the medical beds, even the gynecological ward.”

Harry and Esther were following close behind. Speechlessly they turned to each other. “Did he just say what I think he said?” Esther whispered.

Harry shook his head. “Get your mind out of the sailor’s gutter, Esther,” he said. “Honestly. What kind of gentleman would he be, saying something like that in the presence of a lady the first time he meets her?”

“Or even the fiftieth. Father,” Esther called, pulling Harry to a stop. “I’m going to run back and get my shawl.”

“I’m going to help her,” said Harry, and turning, they hightailed it back inside through the open doors. He put his arm around his sister. “That’s what you get for gallivanting with medical students. I don’t know how you’ll be able to resist.”

“Who said I’m going to resist, Harry?” countered Esther as they ambled through the center hall, both having no intention of going back outside. Lightly she shoved her brother. “Father continues to make the vulgar error,” she said, “that to a woman, love is her whole existence.”

“Isn’t it?” said Harry, at the very moment Ben opened the front door and walked in unannounced, followed by his mother and the three chattering Porters.

“Mrs. Shaw, hello, how good of you to come today,” said Harry to Ben’s mother. Ellen Shaw was the epitome of deceptive appearances. She was tiny and round, had a pleasant nondescript face, an unfashionably short, austere hairstyle, was friendly to strangers and carried a benevolent smile. Yet she was Harry’s brother-in-arms when it came to unpopular political notions and a lot less silent about them at the dinner table.

Carrying a bunch of yellow bananas like flowers, Ben headed straight for Esther. “Est! Look what I have.”

“Oh, no. Not bananas again.”

“Esther, you simply must develop a taste for them.” Ben pulled off one of the bananas like a rose and handed it to a reluctant but smiling Esther.

“You mean a distaste,” said Esther, taking one from his hands. Her entire demeanor changed. She became soft like chiffon, almost girlish.

A pristine Alice approached Harry.

“Hello, darling,” she said, raising her face for a kiss.

“Hello, dear.” He kissed her cheek. “What have you been up to today?”

“I played tennis after church, and then went riding, as always.”

“You look so fresh, you don’t look as if you’ve been playing tennis and riding.” His hand went to her back.

“I cleaned up, darling, before I arrived at your father’s house.”

“And you clean up quite nicely,” purred Harry. “Oh, hello, Mrs. Porter, Mr. Porter, sir. How are you this afternoon?”

Alice didn’t look like anyone’s idea of a girl who managed lumberyards and sawmills, and this is what appealed to Harry. She was petite, blonde and a debutante. A few years before she met Harry, she had been one of the most sought-after young ladies in Boston, bejeweled, dazzlingly dressed, spending the entire of her eighteenth year dancing and glad-handing at coming-out balls and social functions. By the time Harry had met her, she had already been courted by all the Lowells and the Cabots, and he wasn’t forced to compete. As if he would have. He deemed her out of his league, and it took several slight breaches of etiquette by Alice herself to show Harry she was interested before he invited her and her best friend Belinda for a stroll along the Charles with him and Ben. Belinda wasn’t what Ben was looking for, but Alice was what Harry had been looking for. Alice, whose clothes were crisp, her blonde hair ironed, her makeup flawless—and yet who rode horses and canoes, played tennis and golf, was a senior member of four different charities, arranging fundraisers, cookie bakes, plant sales, old book swaps to raise money for hospitals for the poor. She read history and loved poetry. She was bright and indefatigable, and it was she who chose Harry over the swarm of other eligible Boston men and now stood confidently and silently by his side, while Ben fraternized with Esther.

“Are you going to eat one, or aren’t you?” Ben said to her. “They are the future.”

“If I eat one, will you promise to stop bringing them?” Esther said, peeling down the skin. “Bananas are the future?”

“Your brother’s friend is not entirely wrong, Esther,” said Elmore in the banquet-hall dining room that afternoon. “Tropical fruits are the future.” He was seated to the right of Herman, the most honored place at the table. Even Ellen Shaw, usually Herman’s most welcome guest, today sat one demoted place over. Herman’s two children did not sit by their father. Ever. Ben sat there once, after he had been accepted at Harvard (“On a scholarship, no less!” pointed out a delighted Herman. “Didn’t cost his sainted mother a penny.”). Alice sat there half a handful of times, because Herman was quite fond of her. Often Alice’s father sat there, because they were friends and business partners. But not today. Alice sat between her mother and father. Ben sat between Harry and Esther, who was seated mutely next to the verbose Elmore.

“I know I’m not wrong,” Ben said, casting a sideways look at Esther, as if to say, I need this person to approve of my bananas?

“Benjamin is soon starting his last year at Harvard,” Herman explained to Elmore. “He has just changed his concentration to engineering. He is thinking about his future.”

“Giving bananas to my sister is engineering his future?” asked Harry. “See,” he said, “while Ben is concentrating on tropical fruit, I, who am also, inter alia, starting my last year at Harvard, am writing my senior thesis on the Civil War. I thought you’d be impressed, Father. I’m writing it about Ben’s relatives.”

“Why would that impress me?” Herman wanted to know. “You’re always writing about one war or another. You’re consumed with other people’s conflicts.”

“Be that as it may,” Harry said, “my main topic is a juxtaposition between Robert Gould Shaw and Philip Nolan.”

“Not again!” Herman exclaimed. “Didn’t you do an essay on Nolan in secondary school? Philip Nolan, the man without a country?”

“I wrote a five-page paper on him in Andover,” said Harry. “Hardly the same as a university dissertation.”

“But, son, Nolan’s story is only about five pages.”

Everyone laughed.

“Thirty-nine, sir.”

“I beg your pardon. You can read it in its entirety while waiting for Jones to serve the second course.” Herman steadied his gaze on Harry. “You know this story by heart. Why are you taking the easy way out?”

“It’s never easy, sir,” Harry said.

“Be that as it may,” Herman said, “what I’m interested in is whether you’ve heard from the Porcellians.”

“Not yet.” Harry looked into his bowl. “But fall semester doesn’t begin for almost two months. There is time.”

Porcellian was the final club at Harvard, the club of all clubs, members of which included the governor of New York, Teddy Roosevelt, chief justice of the Massachusetts Supreme Court, Oliver Wendell Holmes, oh, and Herman Barrington. But not yet Harold Barrington. This was Harry’s last chance, and everybody knew it.

“The potato soup is delicious, Herman,” Ellen said, intruding to change the subject. “Bernard has outdone himself.”

“I’d like my butler to bring the second course. We’re having cod today. And then pork chops with roast potatoes.”

“The scallops wrapped in bacon were also wonderful,” Ellen continued, giving Harry a sharp look as if to say, stop talking.

“I’m working to graduate first in my class, Father,” Harry continued unheeding. “That counts for something, no?”

“Can’t make a living from books, son,” Herman said, ringing for Louis.

“Can’t make a living from the Porcellian either,” Harry countered quietly.

“Oh, but I heard,” said jolly Orville, “that the legend goes that if a member of the Porcellian doesn’t make his first million by the time he is forty, the club gives it to him. Is that true, Herman?”

“I wouldn’t know, Orville. Perhaps Harry will be given a chance to find out.”

In front of Alice’s parents! Harry looked across the table at Orville who, as if on cue, without even bothering to clear his throat, opened his mouth and, buttering another piece of crusty bread, said what he said nearly every week at Sunday dinner: “You know, I’m grooming Alice to take over the family business upon my retirement.”

And then there would be an awkward silence while the guests scraped the last of their salads and soup bowls. Just like today.

Harry ate all of his cod before he filled the silence with his stock reply to Orville, steady and ready as the hour chime.

“Fortunately,” Harry said, “my father is not even close to retiring. Are you, Father?” In his precise syntax, Harry inserted the same two sentences into the same pause after the same Porter preamble Sunday after Sunday.

Herman, who often said nothing, today was clearly feeling objectionable himself.

“No, I’m not close to retiring,” he agreed, but didn’t stop there. “How can I retire? I’ve got no one to take over the family business.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Alice. “Could you pass the biscuits, please?”

Esther refused to keep her mouth shut. “Alice, darling,” she said, passing the bread basket across the table. “Perhaps you can also take over our father’s business? Father has such high regard for you.”

Harry laughed. Alice chuckled uncomfortably into her napkin. Before anyone else could take a breath, Esther calmly continued. “He loves you, Alice, like a daughter he never had.”

Everyone got feverishly busy cutting up their meat—everyone except Ben.

“Mr. Barrington, sir,” Ben said, putting down his knife and fork, “I don’t know if Harry mentioned it, but our Lime Alley buildings are full.”

“Harry didn’t mention it,” said Herman. “Harry was busy telling me we were charging too much rent to the immigrants.”

“We are,” Harry said.

“Why don’t we just let them stay there for free then?”

“I don’t know. Why don’t we?”

Herman put down his own fork. “Because of the Sherman Act of 1890, son. Also, do you really feel that able-bodied human beings should not have to pay rent on their dwellings or are you just being contrary? Residences that someone’s money renovated, upgraded, painted, put water and plumbing in, ran electricity into?”

“Not just someone’s money, Herman,” said a rotund and robust Orville Porter. “Yours.”

“Harold, answer me, do you feel all that should be received gratis?”

Ben kicked Harry under the table and hastily continued. “Harry is just joking with you, sir—”

“Actually, I—”

Ben kicked him again, harder. “The next liner is due in on Tuesday, and we’re out of room. Three full ships are coming in week after next. What do we do? We have nowhere to put anyone.”

Herman went back to buttering his bread and pouring himself a drink. “Benjamin, I’m taking care of it. We have four more buildings nearly ready on Charter and Unity; almost two hundred apartments.”

“Will they be ready by Monday?”

Looking Ben over with admiration, Herman smiled. “Probably not by Monday, but very soon. You boys have done a fine job managing the buildings for me. Too good a job. I don’t know what I’m going to do when you go back to school.”

“Well, next year your son will graduate,” Ben said. “He can manage Lime Alley for you full time.”

Now it was Harry’s turn to kick Ben under the table.

“I’m not holding my breath,” said Herman. “In the meantime, Unity and Charter just need painting and some furniture.”

“By Monday?”

“Ben, have them move in, give them a discount on the rent, and tell them we’ll paint and furnish in the next week or so and as a bonus keep their rent the same.”

“Good idea. Perhaps we can also convert the back of Old Wells House, sir? I know there are at least eleven apartments we could put back there.”

Herman nodded his approval. “Good thinking. I’ll talk to my man first thing Monday morning.”

“We have one apartment available on Lime Alley,” Harry interjected. “The family decided not to stay. Left after one night.”

“Ah, yes.” Ben said that so dramatically that everyone’s ears perked up. “I’m being facetious,” he assured them, seeing their curious expressions. “Really, Mother.”

“Not entirely, um, facetious,” said Harry.

“Harry’s right,” Ben said, hand on his heart. “Truth is, I have been hit by a raven-haired thunderbolt.”

Everyone smiled in delight, except Harry, and Esther, who became paler if that were possible, lost another shade of herself, and squeezed her suddenly tense white fingers around the tines of the fork, as if trying to stab herself with them.

Herman followed his delight with advice. “Benjamin, I hope it’s just an infatuation.”

“No, sir,” said Ben. “It’s more than that, I’m afraid.”

“Ben, stop it,” said Harry.

“Yes, Ben, stop it,” echoed Esther, wilting noticeably by dessert, rum cake with coffee, shoulders sunk with maidenhood.

“Where is the family from?”

“Sicily. They got tired of living under a mountain that kept vomiting fire.”

Herman shook his head. “Do yourself a favor, Ben, stay away from unsuitable Sicilian females. They’re trouble.”

“For more reasons, Father, than you can possibly imagine,” Harry muttered under his breath, but loud enough for everyone to hear.

“I know them all,” said Herman.

“Not this one.”

“Son, why do you think you’re the only one who knows everything?” Herman’s attention turned back to Ben. “You should stay away from things in which there is no future,” he went on.

“Oh, I agree, sir. The bananas are the future. I’m sticking with them.”

“There’s no future in them either. They’re a funny little fruit that will never catch on. But I’m pleased they amuse you.”

“Mark my words, sir,” said Ben. “They will absolutely catch on. We’ve got a businessman here in Boston, Andrew Preston, who started the United Fruit Company. He is one of the reasons I switched to engineering.”

“A man who runs a banana company,” Elmore asked, “is the reason you’re studying engineering?”

“Ben,” asked Harry, “isn’t Andrew Preston your mother’s friend?”

“Oh?” said Herman with a sly smile at Ellen. “That’s disappointing.”

While Ellen blushed, a nodding Ben was all infectious smiles. Even Esther didn’t look quite so pale anymore: they had stopped talking about Italian girls in North End.

“He’s a brilliant man,” Ben said, “this Preston fellow. A true visionary.”

“Ellen, do you agree with your son?”

“I reserve all comment.”

“Is he a handsome man?” Herman pressed on.

“I really reserve all comment,” said Ellen.

“Well, that is truly disappointing.”

Everyone laughed and the tension lifted. Louis served raspberry sherbet to cleanse the palate. Raspberries were in season and Bernard had made the sherbet from scratch earlier that afternoon. Harry smiled to himself as he asked Louis for second helpings. How did Ben do it? Make all situations lighter, better?

But for Ben, the bananas were not just a conversational play at the dinner table to help his friend. Later, by the fire in the library, sipping some brandy, he continued to extol the virtues of the export business to a relaxed Herman, an attentive Esther, and a delightfully disagreeable Elmore. “I really am thinking of going into exports, sir,” Ben said to Herman. “The bananas are not going to walk to Boston by themselves.”

“Perhaps it’s best they don’t,” said Esther.

Ben bowed to her comically. “They need to be grown. That requires development of not only the most efficient farming techniques, but also construction of housing for the workers. The bananas need to be collected, appraised, counted, packaged and crated. Someone has to do all this.”

“And someone has to make the crates,” Herman said, seeing the nails because all he carried was a hammer.

“First they have to procure the lumber to make the crates,” Orville cut in, seeing the nails because all he carried was a hammer.

“Absolutely,” Ben agreed, who carried a number of tools with him. “Even lumber has to be delivered and processed into an end-product for the crate-making. The crates should be made locally, in Costa Rica. Which means someone there has to be taught to make them.”

“How difficult could that be?” asked Harry.

“Well, and someone has to be sent there to teach them,” said Irma Porter, who had once been a teacher.

“Right, Mrs. Porter,” Ben agreed. “And then the bananas have to travel eight thousand miles by ship or by land to Boston where I can offer them to an underwhelmed Esther.”

“No, no,” Esther said, straight-faced. “I enjoy them very much. Have you got any more?”

Ben gave her an exaggerated glare, but the Porters didn’t stay and partake of the conversation further. It was getting late and their carriage had to travel quite a way south across the Charles, to Brookline.

After they left and Herman came back inside the library, he resumed the conversation as if no time had passed. “I still don’t see how this is an engineering problem, Benjamin,” he said.

“It’s nothing but,” said Ben, happy to keep talking about it. “From beginning to end. What complicates matters is that bananas do not stay fresh for long. Mercilessly they continue to ripen until they rot. Refrigeration has been shown to stave off spoilage. So now there is one more thing to think of, to build, to generate. The fruit needs to be picked while still green and transported from Costa Rica to California, then across our entire country. Railroad tracks must be built through Central America, an unwelcoming terrain if ever there was one. And now, to answer your question, sir, this is the part where the engineering comes in.” Ben grinned. “This is also the part my sainted mother, as you call her, is least happy about.”

“Oh, no,” Ellen said from the couch when she overheard. “Don’t start that again. And why are you all standing there like giraffes?”

They finally got off their feet, and made themselves comfortable on the sofas and chairs. Louis poured more brandy and relit Herman’s cigar.

Ben continued excitedly. “I’m writing several detailed proposals to the Isthmian Exploration Commission to reopen the research into the efficacy question of building a canal that cuts straight across Central America, either in Nicaragua, which is close to Costa Rica and my bananas, or Panama, which happens to be geologically better suited for a canal.”

“Lunacy!” Ellen exclaimed. “He wants to build a canal in Panama.” For a moment there was silence in the library, even the crackling fire quiet.

Elmore spoke. “Mr. Shaw, how can you say a canal would be geographically better in Panama?”

“I didn’t say geographically.”

“Perhaps like your friend Harry, you ought to study history instead of engineering.”

“I have studied history,” Ben said. “Also geology. Which is why I know for a fact Panama is the best place.”

“Have you read what happened to the French ten years ago?” asked Elmore with polite disdain. “During their botched national attempt to build a canal in Panama?”

“Elmore is right, Ben,” said Esther. “I don’t know what you’re thinking. Panama is too far away.”

“It’s close to the bananas, Est.”

“This isn’t about distance,” Elmore said. “It’s about the French losing over 20,000 men chasing this supreme folly.”

“Not to the canal,” said Ben. “To influenza.”

“It wasn’t influenza,” Elmore returned. “It was malaria. And the reasons for the malaria are not going to go away by the time you send Americans to Panama.”

“Ben isn’t going there himself,” Esther said quickly. “He’s just writing a report.”

Ben frowned. “I thought a virus killed the French?”

Elmore nodded. “Yes, but spread by what means?”

“How should I know?” Ben was irritated to veer so off topic. “Sneezing?”

“Mosquitoes,” Elmore replied. “Perhaps if you get rid of those, you can build your canal.”

“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.