Many people changed their names after the crossing. Many names were changed for them. Jon had to fight to maintain his name. Jon had no haitch in it. “But how can you be a Johnny come lately without an H?” the recorders jeered. But my friend held firm. He was a Jon with no haitch, and that was that.
We didn’t have to find housing as it was promised to us. What we didn’t know was that we’d be living in the bowels of the building with barely the skeleton of the house to protect us from the elements as we worked. Still, the wage was good, and the food was provided. The foreman frowned when we rowed over to the town to refresh ourselves, but it kept us pretty much docile during the six-and-a-half days we worked.
Jon and I worked in the building that would eventually house the cars of the family. We worked amongst the sawdust, enjoying the temporary extraction from the odors of the others. Washing wasn’t a priority, and the cellars of Walnut Grove House stank. I blame the quickness of my mam for bringing out the tub when I returned from my boyhood adventures for my aversion to body odor. The other artisans weren’t bothered by odors, just by lack of light. These men needed the unfiltered sun to see the veins in the marble and the lines in the limestone in which they carved beautiful fireplace surrounds. The plasterers needed good weather to dry their walls and fancy cornices. I learned a lot from observing these men, but only when there was a stiff breeze blowing their sour sweat away from my tender nose.
Our boss learned his craft from the Bassos. He showed us the intricate walnut leaf and nut design he wanted carved into the balusters of the grand staircase. Walnut leaves are not pretty as the oak and maple are, and walnut is harder to carve, but this is why we were getting paid the wages promised. We would make such a grand staircase that all seeing it would drop their mouths open in awe.
We were working on the second-floor landing when the Italian workers began to grumble. They dug beneath their vests and kissed the crosses which hung from their necks. Jon managed to get a gist of what was going on. Evidently, a group of workers from Spain had arrived with flooring they were going to install. The Italian craftsmen crossed themselves and spit when they were passed by the solemn procession of floorers.
“What has them upset?” I asked Jon.
He shook his head and mumbled, “Something about evil tasks done by evil workers. But I could have the translation wrong. You really must teach me more Latin.”
“Why? Do you want to become a priest?”
“Latin is the root of all language,” Jon argued.
“Father Mathew would argue that Greek is.”
“You are blessed to have such an education.”
“The way I see it, my eyes were ruined by books, and my childhood was rot.”
From our position on the landing, we could see partway into the large west room. This room already had beautiful carved limestone walls, and the fireplace was one of which to be proud. It was connected to the floor above by a circular stairway that was tucked into a recess in the wall. Our boss produced a beautiful carved floor-to-ceiling panel that would hide the stairs from the rest of the room. We assumed the floor would be made of expensive marble, but when we saw them lay the wood, we were disappointed. It was not much better than the hardwoods that were laid in the lesser bedrooms. It wasn’t until they unwrapped the cherry did this all make sense. It was a wood inlay of some kind. Jon had said he’d seen drawings of old ballrooms and state rooms where the family’s coat of arms was embossed in the center of the room.
Not long after the flooring was completed, we workers were presented with a reward for the work we had accomplished thus far. The lot of us were given transportation to New Orleans where we were to enjoy ourselves for one month. Our accommodations were paid for, and we received an allowance for the time we were there. Our boss warned us that if we got into trouble or gambled away our allowance, we would not be welcomed back.
I spent my days listening to tales of the merchant marines and reading books I had found in the bookshops. Jon asked my help in finding books that would help him to improve himself. He said my education was a gateway to riches. I didn’t want to crush his hopes. While the other workers drank their allowances and enjoyed the free women of the night, I tutored Jon in Latin and Euclidean geometry.
Soon, our holiday was finished, and we traveled back to Walnut Grove House. The west sitting room and the suite above it was locked and made off limits to we workers. At night, we could hear footsteps pacing above us, but no one knew who was living in those rooms.
Sally yawned. It was difficult reading between the printed lines of H. G. Wells’s masterpiece. She looked at the clock and decided she’d better call it a night so she could be awake to serve the contractors a
