The Eaton

by John K. Addis

  The following day, Jonathan had lunch with his occasional assistant Clem Bevans, telling him of the invitation and asking him to come along. He was glad to discover Clem also had no prior knowledge of the secret hotel, which reassured Jon that he wasn’t out of the gossip loop. A young man, unmarried and without substantial hobbies or outside interests, Clem said he’d be delighted to come, as he quite literally had nothing else to do. Jon smiled at this, as it was precisely Clem’s lack of any social obligations that made him such a dependable assistant, though in truth Jon would have respected the man more if he had shown an interest in building a life for himself. Jon had always supposed that some men become great, some try and fail, and others have no particular interest in greatness at all; Clem was clearly of this final type. Jon couldn’t honestly say that he cared for Clem, but one didn’t have to be friends with one’s colleagues, and in fact, it was often preferable not to be.

  On the Tuesday preceding the weekend, Jon and Niamh received printed train tickets in the post, including a third ticket for Clem, whose address Jon had not provided and the hotel staff did not know. Curiously, there was no accompanying itinerary or directions from the train station to the hotel. Just tickets. Under normal circumstances, Jon may have assumed there had been an oversight, and perhaps been concerned that they wouldn’t know where to go. But as everything else about this event had been planned with such care, Jon figured that there must be a reason to maintain the secrecy of the hotel’s exact location, and reasoned that transportation from the station to the hotel must have been arranged as well. “I’m sure they’ll be sending a carriage,” Niamh had said, and Jon agreed.

  Clem met them at the Lansing depot Friday morning. He was dressed more casually than the occasion warranted, but didn’t seem to notice when Niamh cast him a disapproving glance. The train was on time, and they were pleased at their good fortune of sitting next to a wealthy couple who was also attending The Eaton’s opening night.

  “Oh my,” the wife had declared after revealing their shared destination. “I suppose I was supposed to keep that secret, wasn’t I?”

  “It’s alright, madam,” replied Jon. “I suspect that they won’t be able to keep it a secret after this weekend. And why would they want to? The best publicity is free publicity. When we return home and describe our experiences, everyone will want to see what the fuss is about.”

  “Presuming it’s as impressive as they’ve hinted,” the woman teased. “Maybe it’s secret because there won’t be much to tell.”

  “I’m anticipating,” Niamh interjected, “that they will have the finest mineral baths in the city.”

  Jon turned to his wife with curiosity. “Whyever do you say that? The invitation mentioned no such thing.”

  “Come now, Jonathan,” she teased. “Why else would they bother to build the place underground?”

  Jon thought about it, and realized she had a point. He had been so preoccupied with wondering why the Indian carvings had been underground that he hadn’t taken the time to seriously consider why the hotel had desired to be underground as well. Access to Eaton Rapids’ famed mineral springs was indeed a compelling reason.

  “Niamh, my dear, I truthfully hadn’t thought of that, and I believe you may be right.”

  She beamed. A compliment from Jon was rare enough, but one coupled with an admission of his own shortcomings was rather exceptional.

  “Neeve?” inquired the woman across from them. “How do you spell that my dear?”

  “My wife is Irish,” Jon answered for her. “It’s the traditional spelling of N-I-A-M-H. But you’re correct that it’s pronounced ‘neeve.’”

  The posh woman chuckled. “My, my. You’d think an immigrant to our nation would modernize the spelling so good English-speaking Christians would have a fair chance. Or are you Catholic, my dear?”

  Niamh bristled. “I am Catholic, which also makes me a Christian.”

  “Of course it does,” the woman replied, turning her attention to the window to end the conversation.

  They exited the train at the small depot and, seeing no arranged transportation, entered the station and had a seat. Both the man and woman they had sat with were also looking around expectantly, finding nothing. After several moments, a young gentleman in a dark tail coat approached them.

  “You’re waiting for The Eaton,” the man inquired by way of a statement.

  “Yes, that’s right,” said Jon.

  “We’re just waiting for some of the other travelers to leave the station,” he explained. “Then we’ll close up and take you down.” He smiled, gave a slight bow, and walked across the room to deliver the same message to several others.

  Clem looked puzzled. “Take us down? Is The Eaton here?” He instinctively looked at the floorboards by his feet, as if he had the ability to see through solid wood.

  “That can’t be right,” Jon replied. “This station’s been here for decades. How could they have excavated twelve stories of dirt from a standing structure?”

  “What if they came in from the side,” offered Clem, miming the procedure with his hands. “Reinforced the foundation, then tunneled in from one side and kept digging down?” Jon was irritated that Clem had thought of this before he had.

  “But why would they do that,” Jon protested.

  “To keep it secret,” Niamh reminded them. “Besides, if I’m right about the springs, then they had to dig where the springs were. It couldn’t have been just anywhere. And they couldn’t very well tear down the village’s only train depot in the process, now could they?”

  Again, his smart, Irish Catholic wife had a point. Jon hoped the bigoted woman from earlier was listening.

  As the station began to clear out, Jon counted those remaining. It seemed about thirty relatively well-dressed individuals were sitting with their luggage, looking around as he was, waiting for the next move by The Eaton's staff. At last, the final uninvited train passenger departed the station, and two staff members closed and locked the station doors. One of the men, whom Jon had spoken to earlier, cleared his throat and commanded the crowd's attention.

  “Thank you all for your patience and patronage,” he said. “My name is Oliver Stanton. I'm the hotel manager here, and am excited to formally welcome you to our inaugural weekend. As some of you have undoubtedly surmised, The Eaton is indeed an underground hotel, underneath this very station. It took four years of careful planning and secret construction to bring us to this point, and you will be the first to experience these new facilities. Indeed, you in this room are the only ones outside the builders and staff who even know of its existence. After a memorable stay with us, our hope is that you will share your excitement with your friends and families, and let them know of our grand opening in just four weeks’ time.”

  “But who financed this project,” a man interjected from a few seats over from Jon. “Who were the investors?”

  Oliver smiled. “I am also the Oliver Stanton.”

  There were some excited utterances from the crowd, and a few murmurs of disbelief. Oliver Stanton was the name of a well-known but reclusive financier who had helped with several high-profile projects in Eaton and Ingham counties, but who preferred to do business almost exclusively by mail. Few, if any, had ever met the man, and most would have assumed him to be a rich old millionaire, not a kid in his mid-thirties.

  “Yet you said you're the hotel manager,” someone protested.

  “This is true,” Oliver replied. “I am the owner and manager. This has been my dream since the single-room schoolhouse of my youth. Now, I see a few of you are looking concerned, such as you, Mr. Barclay.” Oliver stepped closer to his acquaintance. “But I assure you that I am still committed to funding your mill, sir.” He turned to his left, addressing an elderly woman traveling alone. “And you, Mrs. Miller. Your husband’s restaurant will open on time and on budget.” This seemed to ease some of the tension in the room, as the crowd began to accept that the man wa
s indeed who he claimed to be.

  Jonathan was about to speak up, to ask about the cave carvings, but thought better of it. It was possible that Oliver and his staff had hoped he’d keep the matter secret, even from the other guests, as not to detract from the glory of the hotel itself. Still, he smiled at Oliver when he found his eyes upon him, and Oliver smiled and nodded back, acknowledging he knew who Jonathan was.

  “Now,” Oliver said with pride, “please gather your things and follow me.”

  The invited guests followed Oliver and another employee to a back office which had no apparent exits, staircase, or elevator of any kind. Oliver only allowed a few inside, as not to crowd the space, as he and the other gentleman walked toward opposite sides of a pattern in the floor. It was a large square surrounded by wooden inlays resembling lower case letter e’s. Oliver directed a few of the guests to stand further back against the wall, “outside the square,” and once they had complied, he directed his associate to kneel down beside him along one edge. They each removed a small metal cube from their pockets, pressed them together against one of the inlay panels, and the large square section of the floor shook and moved upward at an angle, along some sort of hinge. Several in the crowd gasped as the staircase became apparent, and Oliver and the other gentleman walked around to the front to be the first to descend. Cautiously, a few of the braver guests followed them, and soon more than half of the crowd was staring at the lit elevator in front of them.

  “The elevator can take eight people at a time, plus luggage and the attendant,” Oliver explained, motioning toward his silent assistant. “Matthew will take you down in groups to the main lobby, whereupon you will check in, receive your room keys, and have the opportunity to relax and freshen up. It’s just after one o’clock at present, so feel free to explore the baths, the Gameroom, and the bar, all of which are open for your enjoyment this afternoon. At six o’clock sharp, we invite you all to join us in the ballroom for champagne and a four-course meal prepared by our executive chef. It is there we will be giving a brief presentation of how the hotel was constructed, more of what makes it unique, and where we expect to be in the future. If you have any questions, please seek me out, and feel free to address me as Oliver. Now, may I have the first volunteers to venture into The Eaton?”

  There was a moment of brief, anxious mumbling, followed by a few affirmations and excited acceptances of Oliver’s offer. Four couples joined Matthew in the electric elevator (which itself was exciting,) the gate was closed, and they shared nervous smiles with those on the other side as they began their descent. Jonathan, Niamh and Clem watched the first guests enter, but positioned themselves closer to the gate so that they could be in the next group. Oliver stepped forward to formally introduce himself to Jonathan, kissed Niamh’s right hand in a chivalrous greeting, and gave a smart but courteous nod to Clem upon Jon’s introduction of him.

  “If you wouldn’t mind, sir,” began Oliver in a somewhat conspiratorial tone, “I wonder if you and your assistant could join me on the tenth floor after checking yourself in. I assure you that you’ll have plenty of time to explore the hotel’s amenities this weekend, but I would love to get your eyes on the artwork as soon as possible.”

  “That would be fine,” replied Jonathan. “You do believe it is artwork, then? Not a message?”

  Oliver was hesitant. “I actually am not certain of anything, which is why you are here. I can only hope it is artwork, I guess I’ll say.”

  Before Jonathan could ask a follow-up question, the elevator returned, empty except for a smiling Matthew.

  “You seem quite pleased with yourself,” Oliver remarked with his own smile.

  “The guests are impressed so far,” replied Matthew. He did not add that one of the guests had given him a ten dollar tip, a value which exceeded the wages he was due to receive for the entire weekend’s labor.

  “Well, then.” Oliver turned to the crowd. “Who’s next?”

  Jonathan and his wife held hands with excitement as the elevator gate closed and the descent began. Niamh smiled bravely at Jon, though she was masking a touch of nervousness as well. She could count the number of times she’d ridden an elevator on a single hand, and all had been up to a higher level, not down into the earth.

  “I once stayed at a hotel with electric lights in every room,” said a man in the back of the elevator car. “The Prospect House, up in the Adirondacks. Jay Gould was there on the same night I was. Though I suspect he had a larger suite.”

  “A better view, too,” remarked another passenger. There were a few chuckles at this.

  “We do have electric lights in every room as well,” observed Matthew. “Modeled after the Grand Hotel in Florence. Somewhat of a practical necessity in a basement establishment, I suppose. They have to run at all times, or there’s no light at all.”

  “Do you get your electricity from the city?” asked Jonathan.

  “Actually, no,” Matthew replied proudly. “We generate our own through water wheels and steam power. A benefit of being this close to the mineral springs.”

  The elevator car arrived at the lobby, and Matthew opened the gate. As they stepped into the beautiful space, Jonathan could not believe they were still underground. The ceilings were high, the lighting was bright and plentiful, and the air was clean and fresh. Jon observed the tile and woodwork to be exquisite, and the furnishings ornate but tasteful. It may not have been the finest hotel lobby he had ever seen, as its compact size prohibited any sense of true grandeur, but it held its own against the most impressive hotels in the state, and that was truly something for a small town like Eaton Rapids.

  Niamh clutched his arm as they walked toward the front desk. “Oh Jon, this is so lovely!”

  Jon turned to his wife and smiled. He was proud to have been invited to such an elite affair, even if it was for his knowledge, not his social stature. “We seem to be part of a rather historic event,” he mused.

  “Yes, historic,” Niamh agreed. “And you get to be a part of it this time. Isn't it nice to be a part of something new, rather than always researching the past? Living the history, not just observing after the fact?”

  Jon understood she was teasing. It was not the first time she had accused him of being an observer of life, rather than living in the moment. But this time, it was in good humor.

  “I suppose,” he said. “If this type of underground hotel takes off, we can say we were guests of the first one, on the first night.”

  Niamh smiled. “But will anyone believe us?”

  “Maybe we can pilfer an embroidered bath towel,” he chuckled.

  They approached the front desk, checked in, and were invited to have a glass of wine at the bar, on the house. Jon declined, as he had to get to work, and Niamh rarely imbibed, but Clem was excited at the prospect, and asked permission from Jon to have a glass before they had to meet Oliver. Jon agreed, as it would give himself and his wife time to see their own room, and so they walked back to the elevator with the room key in hand. The last of the upstairs guests had just arrived, so the elevator was free. They joined two other couples on the way to their own rooms, and marveled together at the amazing space.

  When Jon and Niamh arrived at their suite, the pair was giddy with excitement, as if they were a young couple again. They explored the beautiful space together, unpacked some clothes, and Jon changed into a work shirt so as to not spoil his good jacket, which he planned on wearing that evening. He kissed his wife before he left, which made her blush, and told her to feel free to explore without him. She agreed that she would, Jon grabbed his journal from the end table by the door, and she closed the door behind him.

  Clem was already at the 10th floor station when Jon arrived. Oliver was talking to a construction worker, but acknowledged them both with a nod and a raised hand indicating he'd be with them in a moment. Jon took the opportunity to study the beautiful tile of the subway station, marveling at the attention to detail in every inch.

/>   Jon turned to Clem, and asked, “where exactly is this station supposed to connect to? Above ground? Does it connect to a train line?”

  Clem shook his head. “No, at least not yet. It's pneumatic, Jon. Something new. They're building the tunnel to Charlotte now, which will be ready in just under a year. That's why this floor is so grand. To many visitors of The Eaton, they'll arrive by pneumatic rail, and this will be the first of the hotel they'll experience.” Clem leaned closer, and Jon could smell red wine on his breath. “The thing is, Jon, no one's ever tried a pneumatic transit system of this size. A lot of the tunnel was already in existence, part of the cave network and underground stream system, and the team that hollowed out the tunnel and has begun laying the track doesn’t even know about the hotel or the pneumatic mechanism. They're just told to…well, dig, I suppose.”

  “But why Charlotte?” Jon didn't find Charlotte particularly interesting, and couldn't imagine the considerable expense it would take to build an underground train system to a modestly populated village.

  “Well, remember, they're the county seat, and expanding. A lot of money going in. You know J. L. Dolson?”

  “Sure, he started the Dolson automobile company last year, right?”

  “That’s right,” Clem explained. “He's ramping up his Charlotte production lines in the next year or so, to compete with Olds Motor Works in Lansing. But he's got more money and better ideas. He’s developing a ‘mile-a-minute’ touring car that’s better than anything on the market. Oliver’s seen the prototype. And did you hear about the estates people are building out there? Some of the grandest homes in Michigan. Charlotte will be as big as Detroit by mid-century.”

  Jon nodded. “So Oliver's no fool. He can build a direct line to the center of Michigan industry, if he's right.”

  “That's the idea.”

  “And what if it doesn't happen? What if Lansing keeps growing and Charlotte stays small?”

  Oliver approached them, smiling. “Then I guess I'll have built a tunnel to nowhere.”