In addition to his trapped foot, the spyglass strap around Papa’s neck was caught on a broken board. Ignoring Young’s warning, I dropped to my hands and knees and crawled across the mangled pier, avoiding the holes and broken planks. Papa turned his head to me, his eyes strangely calm, and hooked a thumb under the strap tight against his neck. I pried the strap loose of the board.
“Get back,” Papa gasped, and I scurried back to safety. Wash and Young pried away jagged boards quickly but calmly despite the screams of the passengers and the sound of wood and metal clashing.
“Wash!” I screamed, the ferry now inches away from his head. With a shout of anguish, he grabbed Papa’s boot and pulled mightily, the boat narrowly missing Wash as he tumbled backward. He held up his empty hands, helpless, as the ferry crushed into his father.
* * *
Three weeks later, Papa lay in our guest bed, his swollen leg elevated on a mound of pillows. Over and over, I relived the moment, wondering if I had gotten there a moment sooner, had not frozen, statue-like, at the critical time, I could have made a difference. Were it Wash or Johnny, would I have hesitated?
Guilt squeezed my chest like a too-tight corset. I had failed Elizabeth. I had failed Papa. I sensed my own gentle father’s presence, consoling me as he had so many years ago. I longed to have myself a good cry, to fall apart utterly and have someone else pick up the pieces as my father did then.
But I kept my qualms to myself; there was nothing to do about that. Only the task at hand, trying to save Papa’s leg and possibly his life. So I sniffed back tears and literally rolled up my sleeves. Abiding his emphatic instructions, I poured water over his mangled, toeless foot, a task I had kept up night and day since the accident. Exhaustion gradually consumed me as I numbly poured my regrets and sorrow over the angry red stump of his foot.
“It does no good,” Wash whispered in my ear as I refilled a pitcher at the kitchen tap. “But I adore you for doing it all the same.” He wrapped his arms around my waist, rested his chin on the top of my head.
It would have been unkind to say at least it keeps the stench of rotting flesh at bay. Instead, I nodded, resting my arm over his for a moment of comfort.
Wash’s sisters took Johnny to their home in Staten Island, and I was ever grateful for their help. Our home was not a fit place for a young child at the time. Workers visited, hats in hand, gathering instructions and assuring themselves that John Roebling was still in charge. While we worried we might lose Papa, they worried that the whole bridge project—and their jobs—were jeopardized. Every day, Dunn, a tall, ruddy laborer, came by to ask if he still had a job.
Mr. Young, tears streaming down his face, barely left Papa’s side. He offered some comfort, a welcome relief from the selfishness of the others. “The old man’s still got it, I tell you. Tough ol’ coot was still barking orders as they hauled him away.”
Dunn replied, “God, I hope so.” I hoped Papa didn’t hear when he added, possibly to disguise his anguish, “I need this job.”
Wash, never one to enjoy a fuss, much less a crowd, shooed them down the hall. “All right, fellas. Conference is over. I’ll see you at the work site shortly.”
Papa’s face was frozen in an unnatural grimace, his lips in an uncontrollable contraction away from his teeth. He hadn’t uttered a word in two days. Lockjaw, the doctor had told us. While Papa was by nature overbearing, he had always been kinder to me than to most, and I would have given anything to hear him bark some orders.
I carefully parted and combed his hair, just as he would have, and held up a mirror for him. When I saw the startle in his eyes at the reflection of his contorted face, I quickly tucked away the mirror. How he must have felt, a man accustomed to being in control of many men and machines, reduced to having someone comb his hair.
Wash wiped the drool from his father’s chin. “You don’t have to meet the men here. I’ll take your messages to them.”
Papa was suffering from near total paralysis and groaned with pain, but his mind was clear, and with great difficulty, he could move one arm. Picking up a scrap of paper and clenching a pencil like a bird’s foot around a branch, he wrote You can do it.
Wash read the note, still clenched in his father’s hand, and assured him, “Of course, Papa. I’ll keep you up-to-date. Every detail. I’ll run back here a hundred times a day if I have to.”
Papa added a word to the note.
“‘No’? What do you mean?”
Papa underlined you, impatiently stabbing the pencil.
Wash paused, his face crinkling. “No, Papa, I can’t do it without you.”
Papa’s eyes grew fierce, and he moaned. With his one good arm, he banged against the bed.
“Calm down. You’ll give yourself another spell. Emily—help me!”
Papa moaned loudly through his grimace and grew more agitated, as if a convulsion was imminent. He grabbed my arm.
I stroked his hand and spoke quietly to him. “Papa, stop. We’re listening.”
He calmed and motioned toward a drawing of the bridge, which I gave him. He stared at it a long while, then planted it on Wash’s chest, holding it in place with a stiff finger. Wash clasped his hands around Papa’s, his head and shoulders sagging.
“Yes, Father. I’ll build your bridge.”
* * *
Papa rested peacefully for a few hours until he was hit by a seizure so violent, it knocked him to the floor. I helped Wash and Young put him back in bed, pillowing his rigid frame as best we could. At long last, his vast store of energy consumed, he slipped away.
Wash and I sat for hours, holding hands. I recounted memories of my own father, reliving boat trips and picnics and running through meadows, hoping to help Wash remember that his father would live in his heart forever. He shared memories of running around the farm as a small child and of later chasing his siblings around the wire rope factory. He told of working with his father, building aqueducts and bridges, all wonderful adventures now come to an end. When the tears finally came, he rested his head on my shoulder, and I held him, heaving and inconsolable as never before. The only thing I could do was be with him, my own tears a steady stream.
Later that evening, we stood arm in arm as undertakers carried out the sheet-covered body of his father. One of them came back and handed the bridge drawing to Wash, departing with a little salute of farewell.
“My orders from the general.” Wash dabbed at his eyes with a handkerchief.
The room seemed as though a storm had whipped through and left us desolate. I couldn’t imagine how I could hold my darling together while falling to pieces myself. I pushed the dark grief down into a gaping, swirling tunnel beneath me. I could address that later. For now, I had to be a sturdy rock for Wash to cling to.
“Can you build it without him?” I traced the lines on the drawing.
But I needn’t have worried about Wash. While Papa’s scent still lingered in the room, my husband held on to his father’s presence by donning it like a mantle. “I made a promise I intend to keep.” He took my hand, his lips caressed my fingers. “And I have you.”
My insides somersaulted with grief and trepidation. He had just turned thirty-two, and I was but twenty-five years old and no replacement for his father. How would I be of any use? I twined my fingers with his. “Sehr gut.”
Thirteen
Contrary to Wash’s intimation that he would rely more heavily upon me, I found myself consigned to running our home, feeding him at odd hours, and patiently listening to the travails of a man possessed. He seemed to go through the motions of mourning Papa’s death as if he had no place for his grief. Instead, he masked it with overwork and refused to speak of it. Did he have the same feeling of emptiness that I felt? Sometimes, it seemed I existed as an outer shell, my innards torn away like the horseshoe crabs stranded on the beach.
I longed for my life in Europe or
even Cincinnati. There, Wash kept regular, even if long, hours. It had seemed I was of some use to him, and I enjoyed the role of travel companion. Of course, part of that longing was for Papa, for the time we were all together, father and son working, building, arguing.
But in New York, we fell into the same expectations I had always resented. For some women, the pleasures of home and hearth, the daily tasks of creating an atmosphere of domestic tranquility, are paramount. Although I adored little Johnny and enjoyed all my time with him, it shamed me to admit that it wasn’t quite enough. I rankled at the thought that my sole purpose in life was to amuse a baby and keep a respectable home. How could I fully enjoy his sweet scent if I spent half the day changing and boiling diapers? Wasn’t it better to seek fulfillment of my desire to make a difference in the world, however tiny, and then return to my beloved son, content with accomplishment?
But Mother was of a mind, and I agreed: Wash and I could both benefit from more domestic help.
“Do what you wish,” Wash told me.
* * *
Those words echoed in my ears a few days later when a letter arrived from PT. He had agreed to financial support of the bridge project but insisted he be kept informed of its progress, a welcome task for me.
My heart skipped about at the sight of his elaborate script upon the missive. It was an invitation to a private tour of his latest adventure: the building of a circus in midtown Manhattan. If by “do what you wish” Wash meant to include visiting a man unaccompanied was a question I neglected to ask. After all, his mild contempt for PT was understood, and our son would love the excitement nearly as much as I needed it.
We traveled to Manhattan on the despised ferry, Johnny delighting in the spray on his face and fascinated by the action of the paddle wheel. A happy moment to cherish, even when it entwined tragedy like a green vine growing on a dead, hollowed tree. I turned my face to the wind and relished the salty spray on my own face. It was good to be out of Brooklyn.
I hired a hansom cab to take us to Barnum’s Circus, a cluster of huge tents, animal housing, and some small buildings, nestled in the middle of Manhattan.
PT greeted us, opening the scrolled-iron gate himself, arms wide open, a look of elation on his face. I could feel my spirits rising as if a hot air balloon had captured me and was lifting me away from ordinary life. A capuchin monkey rode on his shoulder, sometimes hiding its tiny face in its master’s hair, the salt-and-pepper coloring providing excellent camouflage.
Having four daughters of his own, PT fussed over Johnny with an ease I found charming. He bent low and inquired, “Do you want to see the elephants?”
At Johnny’s shy nod, he hoisted him onto his shoulders as the monkey scrambled down and ran ahead.
We stopped at a supply bin and scooped peanuts into a big burlap sack. The monkey screeched. PT tossed a peanut to quiet him. We made our way to a large animal barn, followed by a trail of chickens, ducks, and the occasional kitten.
The smell of hay and animal dung hit me first, ahead of trumpeting calls that announced we had reached the elephants. PT set Johnny down, and my little boy raced down the row of stalls as fast as his little legs could carry him. I smiled, and my sore heart felt some healing as joy leaked into it once again.
As we walked past each stall in turn, Johnny helped fill the troughs with peanuts for the enormous beasts. Johnny’s eyes widened, and he covered his ears with chubby hands when they trumpeted their thanks. An elephant nudged me with its trunk. Johnny laughed, and I picked him up so he could pat its forehead.
“You know, they’re quite delicious,” PT said.
“The elephants?” I gasped.
He chuckled and pointed to the trough, bristling with peanuts.
“You eat the animals’ feed?” Nothing surprised me about this man. I had seen my first peanut not long before, delivered for horse feed. They were a recent arrival from the southern states.
PT grabbed a handful and opened his palm to me. “Try one.”
I scowled but bit into one, then promptly spit it out. It was horrid—powdery, dry, and tasteless. I grabbed the one Johnny was about to put in his mouth.
PT bellowed. “No, like this.” He shelled the peanut and brushed the nutmeat across my clamped lips. “Mmm. Be brave.”
Gooseflesh prickled my arms. It was hard to imagine PT doing such a thing if Wash were present, so it seemed we were teetering on the line of improper behavior. That, of course, was where he most enjoyed being, and I felt a tingle of excitement. I pinched the nut from his fingers, parted my lips, and popped it into my mouth, watching and enjoying the amusement on his face. He was right—it was tasty, chewy, and mellow.
We walked between tents, the corridor lined with posters of circus attractions: bearded ladies, dwarfs, and contortionists. I couldn’t imagine making a living by being on public display. I’d had enough difficulty making a speech on my mother’s lawn. “Do they choose this life, or do their circumstances offer no better choice?”
His eyes narrowed. “I’ve rescued them all, human and animal alike, from much worse fates.”
My grip on Johnny’s hand tightened instinctively at his tone. “Of course, I mean no offense to your work.”
His face brightened, his mood changing with the quickness of lightning, and I struggled to keep up. “The noblest art is that of making others happy.” He parted a sumptuous gold velvet curtain to reveal a circus ring. The high-topped tent was as big as a three-story house. Cabling, ropes, and swings hung from the ceiling like an enormous spiderweb. Acrobats practiced their routines, walking tightropes and swinging from trapezes. A man coaxed small, bouncy dogs through rings of fire. Johnny bounced with glee and clapped his hands.
A bucket of animal feed gave me an idea. “PT, why don’t you sell peanuts to your audience? A new treat to enjoy while watching the show.” I plucked a circus flyer from a stack, rolled it into a cone, filled it with peanuts, and handed it to PT with a flourish. “That will be five cents, please.”
“Hmm. Excellent profit margin. You’ve quite the mind for business.” His smile sent a warm rush up my face.
“Roast them like chestnuts and add some salt,” I suggested as I helped myself to another nut.
He led us to a swing large enough for four adults. It consisted of a wooden platform suspended on four iron pistons. The pistons were attached to a twenty-foot-high circular iron frame. He gave the platform a push, and it traveled in an arc, remaining flat as the pistons did their work.
“My performers will take this full circle, but that may be a bit too high for the baby. At least his first time.” He lifted Johnny onto the platform.
PT stepped on, then held out his hand to help me on as well. Johnny giggled as he wobbled on the unsteady floor. PT pumped higher and higher. I screamed and we all laughed heartily. With Johnny safely in the middle, I went to the opposite side from PT, and together, we pumped it into a great arc, reaching ten feet into the air. My spirits soared as we sailed high, then were sucked down by gravity, then up, breaking free again, like a bird on the wing.
“High enough?” he yelled over Johnny’s squeals.
“Yes!” I laughed, and we stopped pumping. As the swing slowed to a lazy back-and-forth, an acrobat climbed a rope, catlike, all the way to the peak of the tent. He hung from one arm, securing a trapeze.
“Supple,” PT said.
“He certainly is,” I agreed.
“No, that’s his name. Harry Supple. A ship rigger until I rescued him.”
Johnny rolled on his belly, resisting PT’s efforts to pull him off the swing.
“Sailors make wonderful performers, having no fear as they climb around masts and ropes a hundred feet in the air.”
I remembered the dozens of cable spinners performing their own tightrope act as they built the bridge in Cincinnati. We would need those skills, and there were several shipyards in New
York City. A fine labor pool and untethered to the price-gouging of our current labor contractor, Kingsley.
He handed Johnny to me, squirming and kicking in protest.
“PT, you mentioned that you had a wonderful nanny in your employ?” I had written to him about my frustrations.
“Ah, yes. I believe you’ll find Miss Mann an excellent candidate.” PT produced a peanut from behind Johnny’s ear and amused him by making it appear in his opposite hand, already shelled. “My children were quite fond of her. She’s seeking a new position, as my youngest is no longer in need.”
“Mr. Barnum, sir?” The disembodied voice of his assistant seemed to float in. “Mr. Otis is waiting to see you.” I could see no one. Nothing was ever normal in his world.
“We should leave you to your work. Thank you for the tour.” It saddened me to leave, and as I took Johnny’s hand, he resisted, two feet planted firmly on the ground, just as I wished to do.
“What’s this?” PT pulled a toy elephant from Johnny’s collar and gave it to the wide-eyed child. He plucked a pink rose from his sleeve for me.
I nodded my appreciation as I sniffed its fragrance while Johnny stroked the tiny carved elephant.
“What do you say, Johnny?”
“Thank you,” said my little cherub.
“The addition of Miss Mann to our household would be a godsend. The bridge construction requires all of Mr. Roebling’s time—” I paused, cringing at my own criticism of my husband. “Perhaps I shall soon be able to assist him more directly. We are in your debt.”
“Nonsense, Peanut. It’s my pleasure.”
Before I could work my first glove over my fingers, PT lifted my hand and kissed it full on, his lips hot against my skin. A shiver ran down my spine. He raised his eyes to mine, and I yearned to kiss him. I slipped my hand away from his. Slowly, too slowly. What is wrong with me? I loved my husband and would never intentionally hurt him. Yet I knew if he had a sense of what I was feeling at that moment, he would be most disturbed.
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