The Engineer's Wife

by Tracey Enerson Wood

  Soon, too soon, the driver turned to me. “Ma’am?”

  The New York entourage had gathered at the other side.

  “Thank you. I’m ready.”

  * * *

  Shaking the hand of the mayor of the greatest city on earth paled in comparison to the transcendent wonder of standing alone in the center of the bridge. Mayor Edson wrinkled his brow at the gift of the crowing rooster, but it certainly added a joyful noise to the festivities.

  Later, I reassured Wash that the bridge felt as steady as the street outside our door.

  “I’m so glad you were the first, my dear.” He smiled as he patted Chaucer’s broad head.

  A warm feeling filled me within. I had been the first person to both walk and ride across the bridge, and Wash had orchestrated both events. He had allowed those moments of triumph to be mine. Despite all my mistakes and setbacks, our misunderstandings and arguments, he did appreciate what I had done.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “Well deserved.”

  I kissed him tenderly, combing my fingers through his graying hair. “I love you.”

  He nodded and didn’t flinch at my touch. For a moment, the brilliance returned to his eyes, and the pain receded from his face. What sad irony, for a man who had taken such comfort in physical contact to have become unable to bear it. I hoped that time was healing this as well.

  * * *

  In April, crowds gathered daily at both ends of the bridge. By early May, people were sneaking onto the entire span. Additional police were retained to man barricades while the roadways were prepared for traffic, electric lights installed, and tracks laid for trains.

  On a sultry evening, I was in a hurry to get home and grew annoyed by the loitering throngs. I stepped down a stone alley to a hidden passageway. Little girls gathered flowers that had sprung up under the protective shield of the bridge—daisies with bright yellow faces straining toward the sun.

  One of the girls rubbed the top of her head and tilted her face up to the bridge. The other children stopped playing, watching in amazement as coins and other small objects fell around them. A parasol tumbled from the side of the bridge. We would have to expand safety measures, request even more police. Probably not a safe place to play anymore. I shooed the children away, then hurried home.

  Wash was examining his rock collection in the parlor. I picked up the Brooklyn Eagle and scanned the front page.

  “Nice to note your fondness and loyalty to my fashion design.” He nodded at my shabby bloomer costume. I had refused the sewing of any more for some time. “Now that the bridge is nearly finished, perhaps I should turn my talents to dressmaking. I believe I’m ready to conquer the bustle.”

  “I’ll be sad to give up my bloomer costume, but I’ll return to proper dress soon, dearest, not to worry.” Although a slight improvement over the voluminous dresses of the ’70s, the bustle was quite a ridiculous contraption.

  “That will be a welcome sight to my poor eyes.”

  The iceberg had been melting since the night I first rode across the bridge. “Thank you for the bloomer costumes. I’m not sure I ever told you that.”

  “Hell, making them is the most fun thing I’ve done in thirteen years.”

  “That’s sad. Perhaps if I didn’t fight it so hard, I could have enjoyed sewing.”

  “No, you were completely hopeless at it. This”—he tapped the newspaper in my hand—“this is what you were meant to do.”

  His words washed over me like a fresh breeze on a hot day. I cocked my head, craving to hear more.

  “What do the papers say?” he asked.

  Though his mind was already occupied with the news, I smiled inwardly. His simple comment was an enormous compliment.

  Reading remained difficult for him, and he relied on me or Johnny for his news. I helped him to the divan. Several dailies and monthlies were neatly stacked on a table beside it.

  “This is all about the bridge.” I showed him a wonderful photograph on the front page of Harper’s accompanied by a lengthy article with striking photographs of both Papa and Wash. “The Brooklyn Eagle says ‘Great anticipation for the grand opening next week’ and mentions problems keeping people off the bridge until then.”

  “I’m sure the novelty will pass.”

  “Don’t be. We need more police. People are coming from as far away as Chicago to see your bridge.”

  “Brooklyn’s bridge, dear. And your photograph should be in this article.”

  “You nearly lost your life.”

  “Ah, but here I am, still above ground.”

  I gave him a kiss and sat next to him. “Thank God. But I’ll never forgive myself for letting you back in that caisson.”

  He patted my hand. “We’ve been through a great deal, my darling. I look forward to less adventurous years to come.”

  “A goal anyone would envy.” Was it possible we’d get through this happy, whole, and together? I dared to hope. And I dared to approach him with an adventure he probably wasn’t anticipating. “Wash, I’ve been thinking I want to study law.”

  “Have you now. For what purpose?”

  “For the women’s movement. We need women trained in the law so that we may have a say in changing them.”

  “Your first hurdle would be to gain acceptance.” He rubbed his beard, a smile peeking from behind his whiskers. “But I have no doubt you could convince a school to accept you.”

  “Do you really think so? Is it not too late for me?”

  “If not you, then who? You have proven yourself quite a capable woman.”

  My spirits rose with fresh dreams. I planted a big kiss on his bristly cheek just as a knock at the door interrupted our discussion.

  “I hope it’s not reporters again,” I sighed.

  “Comes with the territory, I’m afraid.”

  I answered the door. PT and Martin rushed inside without exchanging pleasantries.

  “Gentlemen?” I trailed after them.

  “Huge problem at the bridge. A panic. People getting crushed. A nightmare,” blurted Martin.

  PT remained calm. “We have a coach ready for you should you wish a ride,” he said as serenely as if he were offering a trip to the park.

  Wash, unable to rise unaided from the low sofa, gestured for Martin to help him get to the window.

  PT took my elbow and led me to the foyer. His sanguine demeanor had disappeared, possibly an act for Wash’s benefit. “I’m so sorry, Emily.”

  “What caused the panic?”

  “That’s not clear at the moment. Some sort of protest going on. Perhaps someone started pushing or some demolition explosions went off in a nearby construction site. Many people were on the bridge.”

  I called to Martin and Wash. “Are you coming? Wash, let’s go!”

  “Perhaps it’s better for me to hold the fort here.”

  PT caught my arm as I grabbed my hat. “I should warn you,” he said.

  “I’ve seen horrible accidents and, yes, death before, PT.”

  “Of course. But prepare yourself—some are placing the blame on you.”

  Thirty-Six

  The horses struggled to draw PT’s coach through streets surging with people, some pushing toward the bridge, others fleeing. I feared the horses or carriage wheels would crush anyone who stumbled to the ground in their path. Hordes were shoving and hurtling over the bridge barricades. Some who fell were trampled by others. Men and women staggered by, streaks of blood on their faces, arms held against chests, eyes wild with fright.

  Silhouettes of bodies appeared against the darkening sky as they chose to jump or fell into the river. Oh no, oh no. A sea of thrashing bodies filled one of the entrances, a narrow stone stairwell. They climbed over each other to escape while more tumbled upon them from above. Two legs kicked inside an overturned hoop
skirt like an upside-down parasol.

  Siren bells pierced through the screaming of the mob, and police with shields and bobby sticks beat back the throngs. Along the edges of the crowd, protesters held signs declaring Bridge Unsafe! Built on Sand! Built by Imposter!

  The carriage stopped, the crowd too dense for us to proceed any farther. PT climbed out and whacked a path with his walking stick to get closer to the bridge. I followed with Martin, my heart hammering in my chest, fearing for our safety. Soon, PT was overpowered and in danger of being trampled. We linked arms and threaded our way back to the carriage.

  When the chaos subsided, Martin stepped out to speak to some police officers, and I pushed against the tide of escapers toward the bridge. It had no apparent impairment. What had caused the pandemonium? I tried to detain several of the fleeing pedestrians for an explanation, but they shook me off in their haste. At last, one disheveled woman, stopping to catch her breath, answered me.

  “I was up top, near the barricade. There were hundreds, maybe thousands of people on the bridge.” She took a deep, shuddering breath. “Everything was fine, then we heard screams. We got pushed first from the New York side, then from the Brooklyn. People were falling.”

  “Were you injured?”

  She shook her head. “I tried to stop and help, but they all kept on trampling them.”

  “But why?” I walked beside her.

  “Bridge isn’t safe. Best to get out of here ’less you want to get trampled as well.” She hustled away.

  I whirled around, hoping to find another person willing to talk, when a large woman ran smack into me. She gripped the hand of a little girl who held a small sign.

  “Mama, it’s her.” She pointed squarely at me.

  The mother glared at me, then spat. She tugged the little girl after her and they fled, but not before I saw a likeness of my face on the sign.

  Working my way back to the carriage, I received little more information. With its gaudy gold lettering illuminated by the glare of the new streetlamps, the coach was hard to miss. PT offered a hand to help me into the coach. Across from me, Martin examined a poster, another copy of the one the little girl had held. He took a quick glance, then crumpled it, his face contorted in anger.

  I took the wadded paper from his hand, flattened the wrinkles, and held it toward the gas lamp. It featured a large likeness of me and the words: IMPOSTER, BRIDGE UNSAFE, BUILT ON SAND, WOMAN TO BLAME, and WIRE SCANDAL!

  I handed PT the poster. The carriage rocked as the crowd tried to push against it, their hands thundering on the sides. We all cried out as the carriage tilted. PT rang a signal bell and banged on the roof with his palm. The horses pulled, and we crept forward.

  The scene repeated against my closed eyelids, my cheeks flaming with humiliation and horror. PT laid a comforting arm across my shoulder. I opened my eyes; Martin stared hot daggers at me, then at PT. The screams and sirens assaulted our ears like gunfire. Crimson splatters marked each of our clothes from contact with the fleeing crowd. A wave of nausea hit me at the warm, musky smell of blood.

  * * *

  Well into the next morning, I remained curled up in bed. Grief, the elephant on my chest, wouldn’t allow the stretching of arm or leg or even a deep sigh of resignation. Stubborn determination had led me into this state of horror, but no will of my own could lead me out.

  Wash sat at his desk under the window, writing bank checks and peering through his telescope at the bridge. One of the checks no doubt would be addressed to Patrick O’Brien. The thought of his father’s death made me want to curl tighter, the quilt my protective shell.

  “No workers on the bridge. Not even guards. Strange.” Wash licked a stamp.

  “Our world is collapsing, and you’re worried about guards?”

  “Our world isn’t collapsing. This is just a temporary setback.” He organized envelopes into a neat stack.

  “Twelve people crushed to death is hardly a minor setback.”

  “Many factors were involved, none which were under our control. The bridge is sound.”

  His unflappable attitude made me shudder. “Not true. My involvement was totally under our control.”

  He spun around in his wheeled chair and faced me. “You need to get out of bed.”

  “No.” I was done taking his orders.

  “I’ll make you.”

  I appraised him in his chair, gave a cruel laugh. “You can’t.” I wished him to go away and stay away this time. Guilt from my own thoughts punched my gut.

  “I will.”

  “Ha!”

  “Come on. Get up. We’ve a life to live.”

  “What life? You’re a wreck. I’m a disgrace. I’m almost glad GK didn’t live to see this.”

  He hobbled to the bed. Yanked away my quilt. “That’s an awful thing to say.”

  Although my recalcitrant body flopped like a dead fish, he pulled me up. I was surprised by his strength as he held me firmly but not without affection.

  “You would use your last ounce of strength to remove your wife from your bed?”

  “There’s more work to be done.”

  “So that’s the extent of wallowing allowed in the Roebling household.” I reached for the quilt. “For me of course. Present company excluded.”

  “Em, it’s by your strength alone we have gotten this far. We’re so close to the finish. Now you need to get up, move on, and be the heroine that I know you are.”

  So like the bridge, with iron determination and heart of stone, he confounded my efforts to escape his will.

  * * *

  Wash was correct: our work remained unfinished. PT was helpful during those difficult days, bringing bits of news to us—good or bad—so we might concentrate on our next steps. Late one afternoon, soon after the panic, he brought a newspaper with the bold headline: “Bridge Closed! Questions of Competence Create Panic.” Below it was the same photograph of me featured on those awful posters.

  “Godforsaken papers, promoting mass hysteria,” Wash grumbled. “Let’s throw the blame squarely where it should lie.”

  “They’re right. I had no business—”

  “Blame, blame. Who’s to blame?” PT said. “Stop beating yourself about the head. Not enough police for the size of the crowd. That’s it. Nothing else.”

  “There’s more involved.” I waved PT over and pointed to a picture of Stone in the newspaper. “I fell into his trap like everyone else.”

  “Whose trap?” Wash asked.

  “Benjamin Stone. He had something to do with it.”

  PT gave me a consoling pat on the shoulder. Wash glared at him.

  “I have an idea,” I said. “We could hold a demonstration to generate public attention while at the same time prove the bridge’s strength.”

  “Ooh.” PT perked up. “Now you are smack in my bailiwick.”

  He put a hand on my sleeve as he showed me his pocket watch—we had an appointment soon. I was to deliver yet another speech to the bridge board that evening.

  “Would you mind stepping away from my wife?” Wash said.

  “Pardon?” PT asked. “Emily, it’s almost time to go. We can talk about your idea on the way.”

  “Are you deaf? Get away from my wife!”

  My jaw dropped at Wash’s sudden anger.

  “Now, now, we’re all a bit on edge,” PT crooned as he helped me with my wrap.

  Wash was out of his chair, his face apoplectic with fury and…what? Jealousy? He shoved PT in the chest. I blinked with disbelief. Men! I headed for the door, relieved that it was time to leave.

  “Come along, PT.”

  But PT stood his ground, smirking. “Hmm. Someone has found his manhood.”

  Wash landed a fist on his nose.

  “Mr. Roebling!” I shouted.

  PT staggered back, his face blo
odied. I offered my handkerchief, but he straight-armed me away, his other hand cupping his nose. While nudging him toward the door, I glanced back at my husband. He patted the whimpering dog, which seemed more upset about the event than did Wash. He consoled his best friend as I did mine.

  It was probably not the best decision to leave with PT at that particular moment, but I wasn’t sure it was a decision at all. We were late, PT needed a talking-to, and I needed his support before a critical appearance before the board. I was carrying on with business, whatever the detritus left behind.

  Thirty-Seven

  PT held a handkerchief to his swollen nose, and I attempted to study my speech notes, but the bumpy carriage ride and my mental distraction prevented much progress. Although speaking to the bridge committee had become almost routine, I still didn’t enjoy public appearances.

  Adding to my worries, it seemed Wash suspected my friendship with PT had developed into something else. Why couldn’t Wash understand that I needed the showman’s exuberance? And why couldn’t PT be more compassionate regarding Wash’s limitations?

  PT pulled up my fallen wrap, leaving his arm resting on my shoulder. We needed to discuss his altercation with Wash and more, but my immediate task was more pressing.

  “You’re shaking. From cold or nerves?” he asked.

  “Both, I suppose.”

  “Do you want to rehearse your speech again?”

  “Was it worth it?” I whispered to him, to myself, to heaven above.

  “Pardon?”

  “Lord, give me your guidance and the strength. First Papa, then GK, now Wash. They’ve gone and left me alone.”

  “Don’t go down that road.” PT cupped my chin and eyed me with tenderness. “Buck up, Peanut. Say a prayer if you like, but I’m right here.”

  I patted his hand, the knots in my neck softening in the sweet comfort of his presence.