The Engineer's Wife

by Tracey Enerson Wood

  “Not now.” I buried my face in my hands, wishing to be somewhere, anywhere but here. A few workers were already telling stories of the irascible Luciano. I wanted to make them hush. In fact, I wanted to slap their faces. But this was their way of dealing with the shock and loss. A tap on my shoulder—above me was the kindly face of Farrington. He offered his hand for me to stand.

  “Come.” Farrington laid a gentle hand on my back and led me to Luciano’s body, covered with a blanket, on a stretcher.

  Farrington recounted the incident and asked if I had anything to add. I shook my head, dabbing my eyes with a handkerchief.

  “Don’t take it so hard, Mrs. Roebling. It was an accident, none of your doing.”

  I only wished I could believe him. I signed the papers and handed them to Martin. Workers, hats in hand, formed a circle in respect.

  Martin pocketed the papers and confirmed my suspicions. “Your presence here, ma’am, is a hazard.”

  * * *

  It was several days before I could discuss the accident with Wash. He’d gone to Trenton to discuss the wire rope business with his brothers. Keeping John A. Roebling’s Sons Company running smoothly was an ongoing challenge for Wash and his brothers, Ferdinand and Charles—more so for Wash, as he had inherited the bridge project as well.

  My relief at his return soon turned to concern and a bit of annoyance. He took short, shuffling steps through the front door and headed straight to his favorite spot in the library.

  “Why are these here?” He flung a stack of papers to the floor before flopping into his leather armchair. Its tufted back was canted at a comfortable angle, and its padded arms offered cushioning for his palsies. He rubbed his hands over the walnut roundels that fronted each arm. More than a chair, it was a command post where he dictated orders for others to carry out.

  “And I’m glad to see you too.” I picked up after him.

  “Sorry, dear. A bit out of sorts.” He pulled up his trouser leg, exposing a red knee swollen to twice its normal size. “Doc said it’s a recurrence of caisson disease.”

  I stifled a gasp. “But you haven’t been in the caisson for months.”

  Johnny tumbled into the room. “Pa!”

  Our toddler presented his favorite storybook, but Wash glanced at me for interference. I grabbed Johnny before he could climb onto Wash’s lap.

  “What can we do?” I tried to keep my voice steady while I poured him a glass of whiskey. The damage was so deep, his symptoms recurred without even stepping foot in the caisson. Guilt stabbed at me, as part of me didn’t care how tired and grumpy he was or what difficulties were brewing at the factory. I wanted out of the impossible situation.

  “Just rest.”

  As he recovered over the next few days, I thought about what needed to be said. It was late in the evening, and we were preparing for bed when I broached the subject. “This is no longer working. We have to make some changes.”

  “What exactly is it you want?” He unlaced the brace that kept his back pain under control.

  I was prepared for this and would not yield when faced with his physical infirmity. Waving a newspaper with the headline “Death on the Bridge,” which recounted the accident that killed Luciano, I answered, “Your support. I can’t do this alone.”

  “Do you think I’m happy about this? Do you think it’s easy for me to work at a distance and keep the rest of the family afloat while you build my bridge?”

  “Your bridge? Do you realize how long it’s been since you set foot on the site? Why don’t you let Martin take over?”

  “Look at me! I haven’t a joint I can untwist. I’m living in the shell of a goddamn crab!”

  We both turned at a knock on our bedroom door, falling silent as we realized our voices would have carried beyond our bedroom. “Come in.”

  Miss Mann poked her head in. “I’m sorry to disturb you. Johnny has had his bath and is ready for bed.”

  “Give us a moment, then bring him, please.” After she departed, I softened my tone. “Please come to the site. I’ll help you. Not the caisson, mind you, but up top. It would put so many minds at ease.”

  He sat on the bed, his back curled into a C, hands resting on still-swollen knees. “Do you really think it would ease minds to see this?” He scanned the newspaper article. “How did this happen?”

  “So many things. I can’t—I’m not trained for this, Wash. Decisions need to be made, right on the spot. Sometimes, I try to imagine what you would decide. If I’m wrong, someone gets killed. Dozens could get killed by one tiny misstep.”

  Miss Mann returned with Johnny, and I breathed in his freshly bathed scent. “Thank you, Miss Mann. I’ll see him to bed.” I took his hand and led him to the platform rocker. “I’m a hazard.”

  “What do you mean?” Wash got up and took the few halting steps over to us and kissed Johnny on the head.

  “A B C.” Johnny selected a book and climbed on my lap.

  The rocker groaned, and its springs twanged under our weight. I ran my fingers through the silk of his curls, which were growing darker each day. I tried to memorize the heft of him, his scent, the softness of his cheeks. I had so little time with my baby, now three years old.

  “I’m quite the odd sight at a construction site, and distractions are dangerous.” I nodded toward the newspaper.

  “Em, the men can’t help but admire you. Give them time. They’ll learn better. But no matter what you do, accidents will happen. Yes, even fatal ones. There’s no guarantee of safety in anything in life.” He brushed a wisp of hair from my face. “You both could have been killed falling down a staircase.”

  “That’s not the same at all.”

  “It is. We take all precautions, but sometimes things happen, and it’s not your fault.” He rubbed his knuckles. “You are my eyes and ears for now. You’ll have to make decisions the same as I. Sometimes quickly and with less information than we’d like. Listen to what your gut says, make the decision, and carry on.”

  “A B C, Mama.”

  “All right, darling. ‘A is for alligator.’”

  After we finished the picture book, we tucked Johnny into bed. Wash sang a song:

  “The Star that watched you in your sleep

  Has just put out his light.

  ‘Good-day, to you on earth,’ he said,

  ‘Is here in heaven Good-night.

  But tell the Baby when he wakes

  To watch for my return;

  For I’ll hang out my lamp again

  When his begins to burn.’”

  Wash extinguished Johnny’s lamp, and we tiptoed back to our room.

  “Where did you learn that song?” My eyes heavy, I shrugged out of my dress.

  “Oddly enough, from the Confederate prisoner who wrote the poem. I made up the tune myself.” Wash assumed his crouched position on the bed and rubbed his knees.

  “Is there anything I can do?” I lightly touched his shoulder.

  He flinched as if my fingers had sparked him.

  “No, dear. Just leave me be.”

  * * *

  We hired a maid and help in the office as I struggled to run a home, supervise a work site, and attend to Wash’s needs, all while managing the business side of the project. On the bright side, I spent less time riding back home for instructions, having learned to do most of the calculations myself. The science of the construction intrigued me, keeping my mind nimble and giving me a sense of accomplishment I had never before experienced.

  As my expertise and interest in the project grew, Wash’s waned. Many evenings, I returned home to find him painting landscapes—“therapy,” he called it—or attending to his rock collection and growing menagerie of pets. Mostly dogs but the occasional cat or rabbit also wriggled its way into our household.

  Johnny had developed a fascination with sail
ing ships, and together, they built several clippers inside bottles.

  “He has the Roebling mind and more nimble fingers.” Wash tapped his own temple.

  I admired their handiwork. “Johnny, you built the Cutty Sark!”

  Wash rarely left the house. Although walking had become less difficult, his legs would sometimes give way without warning, sending him crashing to the floor if he had nothing with which to steady himself. A cane, sometimes one for each hand, became his constant companion.

  Consumed with work, I grew weary of his growing list of aches and pains. Sometimes, I wished he could take a good dose of laudanum and sleep for a week. He’d be ever so much better. I had to be careful not to startle him with a touch, sudden movement, or even by speaking without clearing my throat in warning. All of these made him flinch and become even more irritable. Living with him became a tightrope walk over a pit of alligators.

  “Could I have your attention for a moment, dear?” I asked after a particularly difficult workday.

  “Whatever it is, I’m sure you have the good sense to solve it.” Wash searched on his hands and knees for the rat snake that had once again escaped its habitat. The creature was black as coal with yellow eyes that reminded me of the devil in my Sunday school books. Its unnerving habit of showing up in unusual places caused me no end of fright.

  Later that evening, as I used my good sense to luxuriate in a warm bath, the creature’s head suddenly appeared above the bubbles. My shrieks could undoubtedly be heard clear down the street as I clambered out of the tub, then slid clear across the slippery bathroom floor in an effort to escape. After a bit of research, Wash discovered the beast had been misidentified; it was a water snake, “attempting to find a proper home.”

  I learned that better than discussing a concern with my husband was to bring a drawing, map, or the actual object and place it in his lap for further inspection. He seemed to enjoy the puzzle of it more than my attempted explanation. He would then describe in great detail his analysis and the simplest solution to eliminate the problem. He didn’t use this method when it came to the snake, unfortunately, as the snake remained.

  * * *

  After an extended countrywide tour of his show, PT expanded his circus and moved it to Brooklyn, gaining much needed space at a lower cost. This also placed him closer to his customers, including Johnny and me. Sometimes, I was able to escape for a few hours to enter his world of outrageousness: the curiosities of nature, contortionists, and acrobats. But still he came to see me, always bringing a little gift for Johnny. I didn’t ponder other reasons for his interest in Brooklyn. Alas, wisdom is often gained after we first have need of it.

  PT sauntered into my office as I worked against deadlines of all sorts with towers of paperwork obscuring my desk. I held up a forefinger, and he studied the maps and diagrams lining the walls. After I cleared the most pressing tasks, I called him over.

  He helped himself to jelly beans from the jar on my desk. “Your timely tip on the Madison Avenue property has been acted upon.”

  With Henrietta’s permission, I had let slip information on the impending departure of the train station.

  “I’m going to lease the property from the Vanderbilts, and my grand hippodrome will soon entertain tens of thousands. You have given me wonderful inspiration, Peanut.”

  “How so?”

  “I specialize in family entertainment. Nothing offensive to woman or child. So why not take measures to assure their comfort and safety should they wish to visit without their gentlemen?” He leaned forward in the chair. “I’ve hired a legion of guards, one for each doorway, hall, and room.”

  “That seems a bit overwhelming. Your patrons may feel they are suspected of thievery.”

  “Hmm. Perhaps some should be dressed as patrons and roam about, offering to open doors and such. Or waiters with trays of libations.”

  “I’d have no quarrel with that.” My eyes drifted to the pile of unfinished paperwork. “Your hippodrome sounds wonderful, PT.”

  “I won’t keep you but a moment more. I’ve a most interesting proposition for you.” He grinned mischievously.

  “If it entails you shepherding the bridge project, allowing me to resume some semblance of normalcy, then I eagerly await your plan.”

  “Heavens no! I couldn’t fathom a more taxing endeavor. In fact, I believe it my duty to brighten your circumstances with more exciting activities.” He held out two hands, palms down, “Choose one.”

  I tapped the left, and he turned it over, revealing a small ivory envelope. It contained a lovely engraved invitation.

  “A little soiree my wife, Charity, is hosting for the women’s temperance movement.”

  “Hmm, what’s in your other hand?”

  He laughed and showed his other hand—empty.

  I opened the candy jar as he reached for it. “What on earth is a Wife Charity? It sounds perfectly scandalous.”

  He grabbed a fistful of the rainbow-colored jelly beans, tapped his fists together, then opened them to reveal dozens of only the yellow and purple beans. “My wife, Charity, insists you come.”

  My hand flew to my forehead in chagrin. “So sorry. Your wife, of course. Please give her my regrets.” My pile of invoices was not growing smaller, and I tapped my pen on them. “PT, it’s been lovely to see you. Perhaps the four of us can get together another time?”

  “Oh, but it will be fun.” He rose, emptying his stash of jelly beans on my desk in two neat piles: one yellow, the other purple, the colors of my dress. “Music? Dancing.” He twirled around, waltzing with himself. “The soiree will follow a rambunctious temperance protest right outside my museum. Think of it, Peanut! All the excitement and hubbub!” PT rubbed his hands gleefully. “Lots of the elite will be there. Leaders of the women’s movement, the Reverend Beecher, probably mayors, congressmen. This is your chance to—”

  “I’m afraid my protesting days are over for now.” I filled my ink pen, considering whether to advise my friend of the agreement Wash had made with the police.

  PT stepped back as Mr. Stone barged in, followed by ten sycophantic men in oily suits.

  “Mrs. Roebling.” A snake couldn’t have hissed any smoother. He planted two beefy palms on my desk, a star-shaped scar denting the back of his left hand. “And where might Mr. Roebling be?”

  “Good morning, Mr. Stone, gentlemen.” I smiled with gritted teeth.

  Behind and between the men, PT smirked and tipped his hat as he headed for the door.

  I wished I were going with him. “In what way may I be of assistance?”

  “I thought our directive was clear. And so I ask you again, where is Mr. Roebling?”

  Stone shot a suspicious glance after PT.

  “As you know, he is following his physician’s orders and working from home.”

  “Then I shall visit him there. I have news from the Society of Civil Engineers,” he said, holding aloft a small parcel.

  “He’s not taking visitors. I will see that he is informed.”

  “The deadline has long expired, and yet the chief engineer has not returned to work.”

  “I disagree. He is very much at work. Have you not seen the recent progress?”

  “Indeed. We will not be put off much longer, but I’ll allow two more weeks.” He leaned a little closer. Spittle collected in the corners of his thin lips. “The board has requested a written record of your credentials and certifications, young lady. See to it they are made available.”

  * * *

  Whatever else happened, I had always taken comfort in my relationship with my husband, both in and out of bed. That evening, I gave him a passionate good-night kiss and ran my finger down his chest. To my surprise, he pushed my hand away.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  I tried to guess what was bothering him. “I’ve not been the best company.”
I caressed his cheek, his beard soft against my hand.

  He clasped my wrist. “Please stop. If you don’t mind.”

  I did mind. When had he ever refused me? Never. “Have I done something to anger you?”

  “It’s not that. Good night, dear.” He gave me a chaste kiss on the cheek. His hand quaked as he reached to extinguish the lamp.

  My hurt and worry made what I said next harsher than I intended. “There are rumors about your absence from the work site—as if you’re not involved at all, or worse.”

  Wash sighed as he pulled back from the lamp, leaving it burning.

  “Some say you’re an invalid—that you’ve lost your mental faculties and that physically, you’re ruined.” My voice was controlled, as I was treading dangerous waters. I reached for his hand, but then retreated, unwanted. “Your instructions appear in my handwriting, giving them even more fodder for their imaginations. Why are you pulling away from them—and from me?”

  “Physically, I am ruined. I can’t even be a proper husband.” He dismissively waved his hand across his body.

  “That’s not true.”

  “It is true. You’re just too busy to notice.”

  * * *

  Our grand dining room, once predicted to entertain dozens, echoed with only our two strained voices the next morning.

  Wash dipped his toast in a runny yolk. “I’ve decided I’ll visit the site, not that it will do any good.”

  “A prestigious institution calls for you to be replaced.” I tapped the large envelope on the table, which he had studiously ignored.

  “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

  I sipped my tea while trying to divine his true feelings on the seriousness of the issue. “It’s from the American Society of Civil Engineers.”

  Wash opened it, scanned the papers, and tossed them aside. “It’s not the society’s fault—just a few jackasses on the board.”

  “Stone.”

  He nodded. “For one. He sits on the ASCE and the bridge boards. Seems to entertain a grudge against me.”

  “Why?”

  He shrugged. “It makes sense to create doubt and cause delays. Stone and Kingsley are making huge profits.”