The Engineer's Wife

by Tracey Enerson Wood

  “So you clobbered him?” Johnny punched the air, delighting in his father’s somewhat edited recounting of that awful evening.

  I glared at Wash in warning.

  “Not proud of it,” he lied, “but yes, I did.”

  “Can’t wait to tell my friends,” Johnny said, stabbing at his meatball.

  “You’ll do nothing of the sort.” I twirled pasta onto my fork. “This family has had quite enough publicity. And don’t talk with your mouth full.”

  “You listen to your mama now, Mr. Johnny.” Muriel appeared in the dining room doorway. Her hair now dusted with gray, she was considerably slower-moving these days. “Mr. Roebling, you have a guest.”

  Standing next to her, C. C. Martin was smiling, a rare event.

  “Sorry to disturb you, but I thought you would want to know right away.”

  He handed documents to Wash, who riffled through them.

  “The bridge has been thoroughly inspected. The board and city have declared it safe.” The normally stoic Martin cheered. He nodded toward me. “Mrs. Roebling’s performance won them over.”

  I was on my feet in an instant, hugging Wash, Johnny, Muriel, and even Martin. “Hooray! Hooray!” Pop went the cork from a champagne bottle Muriel opened, and we laughed at the geyser it produced.

  Wash remained calm, barely cracking a smile. “Of course the bridge is safe. When will it open?”

  * * *

  There was one more obstacle, at least as far as the bridge was concerned. We calculated that if crowds were allowed unlimited access to the bridge, it was possible to exceed its weight limit. Wash dictated a note to the board:

  I will not be responsible for the consequences if people are allowed to crowd on as they like. It would be possible for one hundred thousand people to crowd the main span of the bridge and cover every available foot of space, cables, and tops of trusses. This would make a load three times greater than the live load calculated for. In addition, the stairway from the footpaths on both sides—Brooklyn and Manhattan—are not wide enough to accommodate more than a few pedestrians at a time. Accordingly, provisions for orderly access and egress must be implemented immediately.

  The trustees, for once, were quick to act. Proper crowd control was implemented, with a system of tickets for the event set up. Finally, we could be assured that another crowding disaster would not occur.

  Thirty-Nine

  We planned to host a large reception to celebrate the completion of the bridge, and invited the mayors of New York and Brooklyn, the bridge committee, family, friends, and some influential guests. Rumors circulated that the president of the United States might attend.

  Thrown into the unfamiliar role of grand hostess, the first thing I did was to consult Mother. She was in her glory as she and her circle advised me concerning invitations, refreshments, and music. For weeks, they delved into planning the party as their raison d’être.

  My relationship with PT had yet to be sorted out, but I decided to invite him to the event, as I longed to see him. The risk of another altercation at so public an event seemed slight, and the number of guests ensured he and Wash need not run into each other.

  Banners, flags, and coats of arms of both cities adorned the front of our home. The streets leading up to it were lined with elaborate posters and banners.

  Bronze likenesses of both Papa and Wash were delivered and set up on pedestals in our parlor. The sculptor had done a fine job, capturing much of Papa’s intensity in the cold, hard metal. Wash’s likeness was stunning. Even in sculpture, his handsome features showed strength and compassion. Wash shook his head at these, mortified. All the attention rather embarrassed him, but I was proud.

  Finally, the day of the reception arrived. Wash was having a particularly difficult time with his suit buttons and bow tie. As I retied the knot, I was suddenly taken aback by the crinkles around his eyes. Though only in his midforties, he had aged tremendously in the last decade, his once deep-golden hair now faded. The pine scent of his shaving soap stirred long-buried feelings of walks in the woods and of dancing three feet off the ground.

  “You smell nice,” he said as if reading my thoughts. His hands on my waist, it seemed he wanted a kiss.

  “Thank you. I better get downstairs.”

  I gathered with Mother, Henrietta, Eleanor, and Carrie in our formal gowns for photographs. My favorite dressmaker had created a gorgeous black silk gown. When it arrived, I discovered the ladies had added a little detail. Fastened to the waist was a cluster of silk violets. A small thing, perhaps, but to me, it symbolized my acceptance into their world just as I was.

  “We have another little surprise for you.” Mother took my hand, and her friends followed us into the library. It had become a staging area for the event, with caterer’s supplies, flower cuttings, boxes, and crates everywhere. “Close your eyes.”

  I did as she asked, there was a rustle of boxes and paper, and in a moment, she said, “Now open them.”

  Henrietta and Eleanor held aloft a quilt. A very special quilt.

  “Oh my word!” My hand clapped to my mouth. The quilt was composed of many squares, each with brown or blue or gray embroidery. The squares pieced together to create a beautiful image of the bridge.

  Mother rested her arm on my shoulder. “I used a drawing John Senior gave me long ago to make a pattern for each square, and we all worked on it.”

  “Me as well.” Johnny entered the room, kissed my cheek. “Here’s the best square of all.” He pointed to a spot toward the bottom. It pictured a sailing ship.

  “The Cutty Sark. Thank you, John.” My whole body warmed with love and joy. “Thank you all. I will treasure this always.”

  “Pa did the border.” The quilt was framed in golden-yellow fabric, and violets were sewn within it. “He told me violets mean ‘forever faithful.’”

  My heart skipped a beat, and I searched his eyes for any hint of scorn but found none.

  Mother patted my hand. “Thank you, my dear. But speaking of Washington, you better see if he’s ready. It’s almost time.”

  I hurried upstairs where Wash waited for me at our bedroom door, elegant in his black coattails, white shirt, and bow tie.

  “There you are, my lovely. I have a little something for you.” He presented me with a small velvet box.

  “Oh my, another present? I’m overwhelmed by the quilt, Wash. How did you keep that a secret?”

  “We’re devious.” He tapped the velvet box in my hand. “It’s more of a peace offering than a present. Open it.”

  I opened the box, expecting a bracelet that I had longed for at Tiffany’s. But inside were cameo earrings. The same pair he had given to me after our wedding so long ago. My breath caught.

  His eyes flicked from the earrings to me. “Do you remember?”

  “From the war…you gave them to me on the train” was all I was able to say through the lump in my throat.

  “You never wore them. I found them in a box in the attic years ago and wondered why you didn’t like them. Then I realized that I wasn’t ready for them. You were right to tuck them away.” He lifted my chin, met my eyes with his, focused and tender. “You saved me. Twice.”

  I touched the delicate white silhouettes against the coral background. I had long since forgotten about them. “They weren’t taken off some dead person, were they?”

  He smiled and shook his head.

  It warmed my heart that he understood the reason I never wore them. “Are you ready for them now?”

  “I am.” He clipped them on my earlobes. “Do you have a hug left for an old bridge builder?”

  I held out my arms, and he hugged me, hard and steady, as if he never wanted to let go.

  He spoke softly in my ear. “I’m sorry for these long years of putting up with me and my dreams, and I promise to make it up to you. Will you take one more tra
in ride to Trenton with me?”

  I was still angry with him, but the power of his physical presence was making me melt once again. I pushed my palm against his chest. “Let’s get through tonight. Our guests await.”

  He opened our bedroom door for me, and below us was a ten-piece band. The dark-blue uniforms, gold braids, and gleaming instruments were a breathtaking sight. Simultaneously, they lifted their instruments, our appearance apparently their cue. We stood at the top of the staircase, admiring the gathering. The band played a rousing Sousa march, and the crowd cheered as we descended, hand in hand.

  The panels between the parlor and dining room were folded away and most of the furniture removed, creating a grand space. Flower arrangements perfumed the room. Several were displayed on stands and connected with white ribbons to delineate the dance floor.

  President Arthur was indeed coming. One of the many assistants who suddenly materialized instructed us to stand inside our front door at the appointed time. After the shootings of Presidents Lincoln and Garfield, men were dispatched ahead of time to orchestrate the exact movements of all who would come into contact with the president.

  We welcomed the many more guests lining the walk and all the way down the street. It seemed our home would never contain them all.

  The band played “Hail to the Chief,” and the guests cheered. They parted for the entrance of President Arthur, Governor Cleveland, and their entourages. The president shook Wash’s hand and gave him a hearty pat on the shoulder. The photographs I had seen in the newspapers showed a robust, even portly man, but in person, he was drawn and sallow. He took my hand in both of his with a firm grip, his rough skin rasping against my glove. “Thank you, Mrs. Roebling. I understand we would not be here today if it weren’t for your tremendous efforts.”

  “I’m happy to have helped.”

  President Arthur stayed for about an hour, shaking hands and thrilling the guests with his attention, then slipping out a side door without much fanfare. “The party is not in our honor but yours,” he said as he more or less pushed three hundred pounds of Governor Cleveland out the door ahead of him.

  Poor Wash was already tired and uncomfortable by that point. He settled on a divan in a quiet corner.

  I flitted like a bumblebee between the guests (even the naysayers were now effusive with praise for the bridge), the wait staff, and Wash. I was on my way to check on the band, which had taken a long pause, when I ran, quite literally, into PT at the edge of the dance floor.

  “Congratulations, my dear.” He took my hand much more gently than the president had, pressing his lips to my glove. “You look stunning tonight.”

  The band started up again, playing a waltz.

  “Shall we dance?” He offered his arm, then swirled me around with his hand on the small of my back. Noting the bouquet at my waistband, he said, “I see the violets have progressed to your formal wear.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Barnum.” I hesitated. I had so much to tell him, but this was neither the time nor the place. “We’re so grateful for your assistance. I’m not sure we could have gotten through this without you.”

  “We’re back to Mr. Barnum, are we? Ah yes, you do have a bit of company.” He was an exquisite dancer, light on his feet and able to lead me effortlessly through the crowd to a more open space. He leaned close and lowered his voice. “Now that the bridge is finally open, I’m curious where that leaves us.”

  I touched his slightly crooked nose. “You deserved this, you know.”

  He shrugged. “Surely, you know my feelings.”

  “About me? Oh, PT.” I laughed derisively. “I’m an old married woman. And although it seems to be a well-kept secret, you are a married man.”

  He glanced around to see if anyone was watching, then his cheek grazed mine, sending a tingle down my spine.

  The band finished the piece, and I backed away. “I really must get back.”

  “The party awaits its gracious hostess.” He bowed and blew a kiss as I broke away.

  I nervously cast about and was relieved to see Johnny conferring with the conductor of the band. Wash had left his corner, working his way through the crowd toward me with his short, halting steps. As he reached me, a pianist began the lush opening notes of Liszt’s “Liebestraum No. 3 (Love’s Dream),” the song we danced to on the night we met.

  I glanced toward the piano. Johnny answered my suspicion with a big grin as he played it himself.

  “Little plotter.” I laughed, accepting Wash’s hand, imagining the ball so long ago, the crowd younger, my burdens lighter, the same crystal-blue eyes gazing at me. Only now they reflected not only the trauma of the war he had kept hidden from me then and physical pain he had suffered since but also the hurt I had caused him as well.

  Wash pulled me close. The crowd cheered and cleared space for us.

  “Your ultimatum?” I said.

  “Still flapping in the breeze like so much laundry.”

  “I chose you eighteen years ago, now and forever. I am even more flawed than I was when you met me, with a need for companionship that you can’t meet. Can you live with that?”

  “I have no issue with you seeking female companionship.” He nodded toward the hundred or so women in the room.

  “I should be able to commiserate with anyone I choose. You have to trust me. I shouldn’t have to limit friendship to women.”

  He stopped dancing. “You push boundaries by nature, I understand that. If that were not so, you couldn’t have accomplished all that you have.” He led me away from the dance floor. “I love you, Emily. That will never change. But while you can spread your affection like morning dew on grass, I have no such ability.”

  “I don’t ask that of you.”

  “No, you are strong of heart. But you must consider the wreckage in the hearts you leave behind.” Wash was clear in his ultimatum: himself or PT, with none of the middle ground I sought.

  He hobbled away, leaving me alone in the crowded room.

  Forty

  Henri let me into the museum. It was after hours, but I knew PT would still be in his office.

  “How are things with Miss Mann?” I asked.

  “Just fine, Mrs. Roebling, just fine.” He escorted me past the Cardiff Giant to the office door. “Turns out her family wasn’t upset with her leaving the mountain for good. Got you to thank for that.”

  I smiled and patted his hand. At least there was one thing I managed not to destroy.

  PT was on the floor, playing with a monkey. The familiar spicy aroma mixed with animal musk filled the air. He greeted me with his usual gusto, and we settled in to discuss our project at hand.

  “Have you had time to complete the plan?” I asked.

  “My dear, for you, I have planned a most spectacular event.” He picked up a schedule from his desk. “What you are experiencing is something we in the business refer to as a public relations problem. And the cure for that is to create excitement!”

  “Haven’t we had quite enough of that?” I reconsidered the wisdom of requesting his services for this particular project.

  “We’ll provide a distraction from what the people believe—or have been falsely led to believe—they should be worried about.” He handed me the schedule. Using his ringleader voice, he called out, “Put on a show! An exhibition at the bridge, a grand parade! Entertainers, bands, horses with grand carriages! Acrobats, cannons!” He paced the room, pumping his arms with each attraction.

  I ran my finger down the detailed schedule. “Marvelous. An event families will enjoy on the promenade.”

  “Oh no, not the promenade.” He flipped to the next page in my hand. “Right down the roadway.”

  “We would have to close the bridge.”

  “Exactly. Serving to underscore its necessity.”

  “Seems a bit contrived.”

  “I haven’
t told you the best part. You’ve heard of Jumbo?”

  “Of course.”

  “Jumbo, the greatest elephant on earth, is at my disposal.”

  “An elephant?”

  “A score of them.”

  “A herd of elephants stampeding the bridge.” I chortled. “John Roebling will be rolling over in his grave.”

  “A magnificent parade with you in the lead. Then Jumbo and twenty more elephants thundering across the bridge! Crowds will love it!” He returned to his desk throne.

  “A larger scale than I envisioned, but I think it will work.” I was already picturing the spectacle.

  “It will work? It’s pure genius! With all that weight, there will be no doubt about the strength of the bridge. And everyone knows an elephant won’t step where it’s not safe.”

  “Then they have more brains than I.”

  He laughed and shook his head.

  “And what do you expect from this?”

  “My outrageous fee, you mean?”

  “That is what I have learned to expect.”

  “Quite so.” He lit a cigar, his cheeks sucking in, then puffing out a cloud of smoke. “Did I mention that I would love for you to lead the parade?”

  “I gather as part of your scheme to rehabilitate my reputation—”

  “Why not? Make an exuberant appearance. Defy the scuttlebutt.”

  “While that’s tempting, I plan to fade from the spotlight and enjoy a more conventional life. You haven’t answered my question.”

  He leaned forward. “I have never given up on a certain quest. As dear as he is, I’m sure Mr. Roebling’s…condition presents some limitations.”

  “Certainly none of your concern.”

  He touched his nose as if it were still sore. “I beg your pardon. That was boorish and not even the point.”

  “Apology accepted. And although I tremble to hear it, what is your quest?”

  “You want me to spell it out. As you wish. Peanut, I am offering my heart. Tell me, what are you going to do with it?” He put down his cigar. “Shall we remain supportive friends, or is there something else in our future?”