The Engineer's Wife

by Tracey Enerson Wood

  One of my favorite routes took me past a line of Chinese butcher shops. Plucked whole ducks and chickens were displayed in the windows, their sad heads drooping from nooses, their wrinkly feet dangling in midair. If I lingered too long, a shopkeeper would swipe a cleaver across its neck and present the bird to me for purchase.

  The smells of frying garlic and onion along with melodic conversations and lively music pouring from the shops on the Italian streets were a treat. How bland my own culture seemed by comparison. I wandered into a market, enticed by a woman in the window, kneading pasta dough.

  The shopkeeper waved me over with a floury towel and demonstrated rolling the dough into one-inch-thick logs on a butcher block. She dusted my hands with flour, then plopped a dense ball of dough into them. As I rolled it into a log with flattened palms, she sliced hers into thin chunks. Next, she curled my fingers and pressed my thumb into one small chunk. “Orecchiette.” She tugged on her ear.

  I looked at the squashed circle of dough, then at her, confused.

  She laughed, lined up the pasta chunks, then pressed her thumb into each one with a flourish, creating little cups that resembled tiny ears. “Orecchiette, yes?”

  “Yes!” I tried the maneuver, but mine remained more flat circles than sweet little ears. After thanking her for the lesson, I purchased a sack of dried orecchiette to bring home.

  Wandering the fragrant and colorful streets, I fancied myself some sort of goodwill ambassador, bringing the cultures together, making the city better for everyone. So far, my diplomatic pouch contained one condemned chicken and a hundred little ears. Quite a start for a hopeful ambassador and abominable cook.

  * * *

  In Trenton, the Roebling family was nearly as foreign to me as the immigrants streaming in from Castle Garden. Wash was the eldest, and his seven siblings adored him, clambering all over him like barnacles on a ship the moment he walked in the door. Although my family was affectionate, the Roeblings made the Warrens seem positively prickly by comparison. I suspected that two of his sisters married men from Staten Island just so they could be near Wash.

  Wash hugged his father, his sisters, his brothers, every day, any time of day. He was so given to hugging that I called him my Washbear. The little sisters giggled at that, and Wash advised that I was calling him a raccoon in German. A lump caught in my throat, remembering him emerging from the river, pulling off his goggles, revealing two black eyes.

  * * *

  Wash purchased for us a three-story, redbrick home with a rooftop garden on Columbia Heights in Brooklyn. We had a magnificent view of the river and future site of the East River bridge.

  As soon as he signed the papers, we raced over for a tour of the empty house. While Wash used field glasses to test his new perspective from every window, I gleefully let water flow out of the kitchen tap. No more running outside and manually pumping, nor barrels needing to be filled from the public tap—water came from city pipes buried deep underground. Our coal boiler produced steam to warm the house and powered water pumps, which filled a cistern on the rooftop. The previous owners had converted an upstairs bedroom into a bath. I was up there, imagining luxuriating in the large cast iron tub, when Wash called from below.

  “Em, come see this.”

  With one arm cradling Johnny, the other firmly gripping the banister, I hurried down the long, curving staircase and found Wash in the parlor.

  “Prepare for the unveiling.” He unlatched the center panels of the back wall and pushed until they folded like a mahogany accordion, opening to the large dining room. “Et voilà!”

  “How lovely!” I twirled into the empty space, my voice echoing on the bare walls and floors. “Imagine the entertaining we can do.” The previous owners’ cook, praise God, was staying on with us.

  He took my hand and spun me around, humming a tune while Johnny sat on his quilt, clapping and cooing his approval. We danced and laughed and dreamed of all the joy we would have in our new home.

  There was also an indoor privy. “We’re darned lucky to have it,” Wash said.

  I was not convinced, as the sewer stench wafting through the house was most unpleasant. I refused to use it, preferring the outhouse instead. Wash muttered something about improper venting and had his brothers make custom iron pipe at the factory, tearing up walls and ceilings installing it. For months, our lovely new home gaped with exposed pipes.

  Thankfully, our library was left intact. The floor-to-ceiling walnut bookshelves and the carved fireplace with a marble mantel made up for its small size. I envisioned curling up on an overstuffed divan with Wash, reading Dickens and Oliphant, or following Alice down the rabbit hole with Johnny.

  But my husband got to it first. His favorite books and texts from Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute, carefully arranged by subject and year studied, took up three of the walls; his maps and plans filled every drawer. Conceding his need for office space, I created a reading nook in the parlor and lined every inch with my own books and favorite art. What I lost in privacy, I gained with my view of the comings and goings at the front door.

  Wash had little time for social events, but I was invited to teas, needlepoint circles, and such. I soon grew weary of these gatherings. Endlessly pulling thread through muslin seemed pointless; I wanted to see more, do more. It was time to revisit my dream of joining the women’s movement, time to meet people pushing in new directions.

  One muggy day in late June, I hired a minder for Johnny, then accompanied Papa and Wash on the ferry to Manhattan. The men needed to sample the soil structure at the proposed bridge site, and I needed to sample some new adventures.

  Upon arrival, Wash offered his arm as I disembarked, and the three of us gathered on the wharf. The air hung thick with humidity, so I removed my gloves and fanned myself with them.

  Wash rummaged in his satchel and pulled out some rolled-up papers. “Em, please give these to GK and my regards to Millie.”

  “What is this?” Papa asked. He regarded the rolls with a furrowed brow as Wash tucked them into my day bag.

  “The old plans.”

  “I told you to destroy them.”

  “They are pieces of art and history, Papa. GK may appreciate them or destroy them if he doesn’t.”

  “As long as they are not around to remind me of that foolish committee.”

  “What committee?” I asked.

  “The Bridge Committee that voted to scrap the trains on the bridge in an effort to save money,” Wash said.

  “Shortsighted fools,” Papa grumbled.

  “One more thing, Em.” Wash extracted a folded note from his pocket. “Here’s an address I want you to ride by. An elaborate building is going up. C. C. Martin tells me this fellow is creating quite the stir in social circles. He may be someone we want onboard.”

  “I’ve got my orders.” I slipped the note in my bag and gave him a kiss.

  “Be careful now. No talking to strangers.” Wash waved a stick of his favorite cinnamon chewing gum at me before popping it into his mouth.

  I laughed. “Who, me?”

  “I mean it this time.” He put his hands on my shoulders, the warm, spicy scent overriding the salty, fishy air. “This isn’t Brooklyn. I had better walk you to the coach.” He checked his timepiece.

  “Why don’t you come with me? GK and Millie would love to see you. And he will be heading back to Iowa soon. It’s been forever since we’ve done something just for fun.”

  “As far as the coach is all I have time for, I’m afraid.”

  His answer didn’t surprise me. Work time was precious to him. “It’s only a few blocks. I’ll be fine on my own.”

  I stepped up the hill as fast as I could without hiking up my dress, a bit disappointed Wash wouldn’t join me but still gleeful for the freedom to explore.

  Handing the carriage driver Wash’s note, I said, “Take Park Avenu
e, please.” It wasn’t the shortest route, but I was in no hurry, and I wanted to see the beautiful homes that had escaped demolition. In the ever-changing city, commercial enterprises were sprouting up, replacing many residential neighborhoods.

  The carriage halted at a large corner lot where an extraordinary building was under construction. Elaborate stone underpinnings nearly filled the parcel of land. Rounded arches reached skyward, similar to the ones in Papa’s bridge towers in Cincinnati. Workmen swarmed the site, sawing and hammering and employing all sorts of steam-powered machinery. Although an iron fence surrounded the property, the gate was wide open.

  Inside the gate, a tall man studied architectural drawings. His top hat, black coattails, and white cravat and gloves hardly befit the sweltering afternoon, yet not a drop of sweat formed on his brow as he provided instructions to a gaggle of workers.

  The section closest to the street was nearly complete. A muscular mason carried hammers and chisels up a tall ladder, then gracefully leapt upon a stone ledge. The heavy tools seemed an extension of himself as he chipped at a gable. He mopped his sweat-beaded face with a rag and gestured toward his handiwork for my approval. I smiled and gave a wave of appreciation, which he rewarded with a hoot and a feigned kiss.

  Instead of turning away as my mother had taught me a lady should, I walked straight toward him. He laughed, waggled his eyebrows, and made more kissing noises, then feigned losing his balance.

  This tomfoolery alerted the gentleman in the coattails, who rolled up his drawings and started over to investigate. Perhaps fifteen years my senior, he was clean-shaven except for bushy sideburns, with slightly graying hair and an engaging smile.

  “I’m off at six, bella signora,” said the mason in a thick accent from high up on his ledge.

  Both men’s stares bore down on me as I walked to the heavy wooden ladder. With all my strength, I lifted and bumped it over three feet, just out of the mason’s reach. My formerly pristine white cotton gloves now resembled a chimney sweep’s, so I plucked them off, then turned away.

  “Ciao, bella, you’re a strong one. Put that back.”

  The elegantly dressed gentleman tucked the plans under his arm and adjusted the diamond pin on his puffy cravat before he approached me, obstructing a path of escape. He lifted his hat, which shone of fine silk.

  “Well, now. Whom do we have here?” he shouted over the construction noise. “If you weren’t such a fine specimen, I should have to charge you admission.” He smiled, rubbing his thumb and fingers together for the phantom payment.

  “Good afternoon, sir. This worker and I encountered a bit of a problem.”

  The well-dressed man side-eyed the ladder. “It seems you have solved it.”

  The mason above crossed his beefy arms and glared down at me.

  “This is an extraordinary structure. Are you the architect?”

  The gentleman guffawed, removed his hat, and bowed deeply. “Phineas Taylor Barnum, at your service. Entrepreneur, philosopher, and philanthropist. Master of ceremonies and entertainer of kings. I dream of grand mansions, hire architects to design them and scurrilous chaps like him to build them.”

  “Mrs. Washington Roebling.” I offered my ungloved hand and glanced up at the stranded mason. “Forgive me. I have an eye for beauty but an intolerance for disrespect.”

  “Delighted to make your acquaintance.” Mr. Barnum made a rather elaborate show of removing his right glove and bringing my hand to his lips. He held it a moment too long, making me squirm, but his twinkling gaze never left mine, drawing me in. “We are of a mind. You have earned my respect, as I rather enjoy a spunky woman.

  “Allow me to be your tour guide to the magnificent new American Museum, madam.” He placed his hand ever so lightly on the small of my back. “You shall be the first of many millions destined to cross its threshold.”

  His voice was soothing, low, and melodic, his face hypnotic with his earnest, deep-blue eyes and easy smile. I was entranced, as a schoolgirl might admire her instructor.

  A thought edged into my trance, and I remembered Wash’s stern warning. “While your offer is most generous, Mr. Barnum, perhaps I should make the tour while in the company of my husband?”

  “Nonsense. You’re quite safe with me, and we’ll remain in clear view of all. Won’t we, Luciano?” Mr. Barnum shouted this last bit up to the mason as he squired me toward the entrance.

  My curiosity overwhelmed my sense of propriety; I accepted his arm and accompanied him, much to the distress of the marooned Luciano.

  Mr. Barnum and I climbed the wide marble staircase to the flat roof, some five stories from the ground. I halted on the landing, breathless from the climb and dizzied by the height. My corset seemed to have shrunk two inches, pinching my waist and taking my air. I fished in my day bag for a fan.

  A spectacular view of the river unfolded, but I kept my distance from the edge.

  “Are you quite all right?” His eyes flicked to my heaving bosom.

  “Fine, thank you.” If I could loosen my corset. “Pray continue.”

  “It’s still a shell of course, but when complete, there will be twenty rooms of exhibits. Astonishing flora and fauna from around the world, some living, some preserved.” He bubbled with enthusiasm, all his gestures grander than necessary. “Researchers—anthropologists, biologists, historians—will come, along with the merely curious.” He raised his arms to the sky. “New York will become a destination. The Paris of the Americas.”

  “C’est magnifique, Mr. Barnum.”

  “Ah, you speak French? Then I have something very special to show you. But you mustn’t breathe a word of it.” He dug his hand into his trouser pocket. “Do you promise?”

  “I do.”

  “This is something never seen in this country, presented to me by King Louis Philippe.”

  I crossed my arms, my lips pouting with disbelief.

  “Truly. He was quite entertained by my General Tom Thumb and bestowed this bauble in appreciation.” Mr. Barnum held out his fist, then opened it to reveal a crystal sphere, about two inches in diameter. Inside the sphere was a tiny replica of Notre Dame de Paris Cathedral. “Would you like to hold it?”

  Much heavier than it appeared, the crystal was flawless, the tiny cathedral suspended in solution, which magnified the model’s exquisite detail.

  “We’ve attempted to replicate it in my glass-blowing shop. Sadly, we’ve accomplished mostly gooey gobs, although we have managed a few wine glasses.” He gestured toward the center of the rooftop. In between piles of lumber, a waiter was setting fine china and crystal on a small table with two chairs side by side.

  “It seems you are expecting guests?” I handed back the bauble. “I should take my leave.”

  Two balding, Asian men strode up the stairs, arguing in a foreign language. Identical in every respect, including manner and formal dress, they marched past us to the table. My eyes widened; the men were attached to one another from chest to waist. The two sat side by side, arms crisscrossing their backs, adding the clatter of dishes and cutlery to their argument.

  “No need to leave. They’ll ignore us.” Mr. Barnum’s eyes twinkled with delight at my evident surprise. “You’ve not seen the Siamese twins Chang and Eng?”

  I shook my head.

  “You would have been very young during their working days.”

  “I believe my…um…husband has seen them,” I stuttered.

  “Ah yes, a husband. Such a shame I didn’t find you first.” He winked. It was an outrageous thing to say, but he said it with such impish charm, I could barely take offense.

  “You tread the line of impropriety, sir. Do you not care what others think?”

  “When I can control what people think, I shall truly be able to perform magic. My own wife wouldn’t waste the bat of an eye, but it seems the opinions of others is of concern to you?”<
br />
  “I wish I cared less, but it’s something ingrained in me.”

  “Things ingrained sometimes have to be pried out, like a splinter.” He waggled his eyebrows, making me laugh. “I do welcome your opinion, however.”

  My opinion was that he worked twice as hard and had twice as much fun in the bargain. Unlike my Wash, who seemed too often stumped by the second half of the equation.

  Mr. Barnum conjured a lit match from thin air and held it to a cigar that appeared in the same fashion. “What calls you to me, Mrs. Roebling?”

  I fumbled in my bag for Wash’s note. “My husband and his father are to build a bridge to Brooklyn.” I glanced toward the river. “They’re taking soil samples this very moment. Word of your enterprise has spread and—”

  “Excellent! Apart from enjoying your charms, I should like to know more about this bridge. Will be useful for my businesses.” He popped the still-burning match into his mouth. “Now, let us dispense with this Mr. Barnum nonsense, shall we? Call me PT.”

  My throat constricted. “How do you do that?”

  “Dispense with my surname?”

  “No, eat a lit match.”

  He winked, tucked his cigar in his mouth, and hid both hands behind his back. Then he winged his arms to his front, fists forward. “Choose one,” he mumbled past his cigar.

  I tapped his right fist. He turned it over and flattened his palm to reveal the crystal sphere. But this time, it was snowing inside the globe. Tiny white flakes swirled around Notre Dame, transforming it into a breathtaking winter scene.

  “The world is full of magic, my dear. You just have to know where to find it.”

  Nine

  Niagara Falls, New York

  1869

  Despite the years of planning and great need for the bridge, there were naysayers. The East River was one of the busiest shipping lanes in the world; the bridge would need to be higher and longer than any other. Even so, there were sailing ships that would not fit under the planned bridge. The New York Council of Reform predicted the bridge would seriously damage commerce in the harbor, tax the financial abilities of the two cities, and be taken down by action of the courts, or demolished by the wind.