The Engineer's Wife

by Tracey Enerson Wood

  I set back my shoulders and straightened my stack of pamphlets. This was an opportunity to capture the interest of the papers. If being arrested shed light on my bribery, was that such a bad thing? I swallowed hard, ready to push forward, when Wash’s voice ghosted through my mind.

  This is not the right time.

  As much as I wanted to support this cause, as much as I believed it was the cause for which I was born to fight, there was simply too much at stake. It couldn’t be me, not at this moment. My efforts had to align with my husband’s work. Our livelihood, his dream, the city’s future, all depended on the bridge, and its political and financial support could all come tumbling down.

  Deflated, I handed over my remaining literature. “Mother, I can’t—”

  “I know. Go.”

  I embraced each of my friends and headed home, my ears ringing with the shouts and jeers of the crowd, regret and chestnut smoke stifling my lungs.

  * * *

  When I arrived back in Brooklyn, there was an unfamiliar horse tied up outside our home. Glistening from a careful brushing, the bay mare only flicked her ears as I approached. A small emblem embroidered on the saddle blanket caught my eye: Metropolitan Police.

  I halted in the middle of the street, the relief at having escaped the protest in Manhattan melted away, and the familiar twirl in my stomach became accompanied by a weakness of the knees.

  There was a quiet café down the street where I might secrete myself. It seemed a logical choice, but then I imagined Wash inside the house being blindsided by whatever news or threats the officer might be offering. I had to go in.

  As I made my way up the few steps of our stoop, I considered what my answers would be to Wash’s inevitable questions. I hadn’t precisely gone against his wishes, hadn’t gotten arrested, or captured the attention of the press. Taking a great breath, I steadied myself, for surely, he wouldn’t see it quite that way.

  As I reached for the knob, the door flew away from me. Filling the space was the police officer I was quite familiar with. Apparently, my bribes were no longer enough.

  “Good afternoon, Officer.” I managed what I hoped was a carefree smile. “Can I help—”

  “Ma’am.” The officer avoided my eyes, tipped his hat, and hurried down the stoop.

  It was tempting to try to gain a clue from him as to what had transpired inside, but I didn’t want yet another confrontation. I pushed through the front door.

  Smoke curled into the hallway from the library, the scent of cigar smoke soon hitting me. From one smoker? Two? More? No conversation could be heard, and certainly the smoke seemed to be from Wash’s favorite tobacco.

  Wash was alone, seated in his favorite leather chair. He lightly stubbed out a cigar, saving the rest for another day. I tried to read his countenance. He wasn’t the pacing bear I had feared, but Wash’s worst anger usually hid behind a veil of calm.

  Without looking up, he said, “So, interesting day in the city?”

  “One could say that.”

  “One could say many things.” His voice was rising, giving the first hint of his emotional state.

  “Why was that policeman here?” I set down my day bag.

  “I’d rather hear your explanation first.”

  Of course he would. But I wasn’t going to show my hand sooner than I had to. I wondered what, if anything, my bribed officer knew about the protest in Manhattan. Why conflate that with the more probable explanation of his visit, which was to increase his take? “A police officer just left the house without a word to me. I think I have a right to know why. Where is Johnny? Is he all right?”

  “He’s fine. But I’ll respect your request. Sit down.”

  I resisted the temptation to pace, sat down, and picked up my knitting.

  “It seems you’ve missed a payment.”

  “Oh?” The needles clicked. I counted stitches.

  “Don’t pretend to be ignorant of this.”

  “I’m not pretending any such thing. Perhaps you can advise me on the extent of your knowledge, and I’ll fill in details of how I’ve managed to keep the project going and both of us out of jail.”

  “God damn it, Emily, I told you not to cross the line.”

  “What would you have me do? Would you care to battle the whole corrupt system?”

  “You could have come to me.”

  “I thought it best to keep you out of it. They wouldn’t hesitate to shut the operation down, throw you in jail for some made-up offense. But me? I didn’t think they would risk the image of police brutality against a delicate, innocent woman. And it would have taken brutality to get me into custody.”

  He surprised me by laughing.

  “So what of it, then?” I put down my knitting. “Do we continue the…um…payments?”

  “No, Emily. I have friends in city hall. Your police protector will be replaced.”

  “That easily? Incredible. All this time…”

  “Not so easily. There will be a cost.”

  My heart, having soared for the briefest moment, started to sail back to the murky depths. “I’m afraid to hear it.”

  “I’m not upset at you going to the protest, even if it was without my knowledge or consent.”

  Oh God. He knew about that as well. I counted the stitches on my knitting needle. Counted again, the numbers not taking hold in my brain. I was startled when I looked up and saw Wash looming over me. I rubbed my face, tears starting to well up. Now, more than fearing his anger at me, I feared his disappointment. “You told me not to get arrested. And I didn’t. I left so that I wouldn’t.”

  He held out a hand to me. “Come here, my love.”

  Could it be that he wasn’t angry, or worse, disappointed? I stood and fell into his arms, tears now running down my cheeks. “I’m so sorry, Wash. I’m trying to do what is right, but I don’t even know what that is.”

  “Listen. It will work itself out. No permanent damage was done. But there is one thing that will have to change, at least for now.”

  “I’m quite willing to step away from the project. We can surely hire a man for the office work now, it’s running so smoothly.”

  “No.” Wash lifted my chin as he had years ago at the ballroom dance. But this time, I didn’t see stars dancing in crystal-blue eyes, didn’t tingle everywhere he touched. Instead, I felt the strength in his arms, saw the earnest care in his face.

  “What then?”

  “The agreement is that the harassment and payments will stop. In return, you must refrain from participating in protests against the government.”

  “I don’t see—do I have any say in this?”

  “I suppose you do.”

  So I had to make a choice. Did I follow my heart and protest against this ridiculous agreement that made a mockery of my rights as an American? Or did I follow my brain, which told me to consider the greater good of quietly working behind the scenes in the bridge project in an effort that might far outweigh what I could otherwise accomplish? Which path would lead to the ultimate goal—women’s right to vote?

  * * *

  Frustrated with my shortcomings as a suffragist, I threw myself into the bloomer costume project. One afternoon, Johnny played amid the pile of discarded lace and fabric in the parlor as I took scissors to an old cotton skirt. I had just slipped on pantaloons and the raggedy skirt when there was a thump at the front door as it opened.

  “Emily?” Wash called in a weak voice. He waved his hat at the coat hook but missed, and it fell to the floor.

  I rushed to him as he shuffled into the parlor, grabbing furniture for support. He swayed, and I wrapped his arm over my shoulders and guided him to the settee. Taking a breath to steel my nerves, I lifted his legs so he could recline. He’d be better once he rested, I reassured myself.

  Johnny scrambled onto his lap, causing him to
gasp in pain. I picked up our son, who kicked in protest, and enticed him with his toy elephant.

  “Thank you.” Wash held out his hand for mine.

  “That was an awfully long day.” With my fingertips, I assessed the amount of quiver in his hand. Was it worse than yesterday? Afraid he’d note my dampening palm, I pulled it away.

  “Sartorial triumph.” His mouth twisted into a smile.

  “Pardon?”

  He gestured toward the odd handiwork I wore.

  I smoothed the rumpled skirt, smiled to conceal my concern. “Mon Dieu, this is the latest in Brooklyn fashion.”

  He patted the settee, and I sat next to him.

  “Fascinating.” He raised his arms, twisted and turned. “The numbness and weakness is gone, just like that. Now there’s a sensation of pins and needles, like when you lie on your arm too long.”

  I only hoped it was that simple.

  “Hold on to your petticoat. Or whatever that is you’re wearing.” He took some shallow breaths. “I have some news.” He clapped his hand on mine with a weak squeeze. “The caisson has stopped dropping. We’ve hit bedrock.”

  “Thank God!” I threw my arms around Wash as Johnny grabbed our legs. I scooped him up as well, my eyes brimming with tears. Everything was going to be fine. Wash wouldn’t have to be down in the caisson any longer. “Honestly, I don’t think you can spend another day down there.”

  Johnny dabbed his finger on my wet cheek. “Mama crying?”

  “Happy tears, darling.”

  Wash patted Johnny’s curls. “Now we can start the Manhattan caisson while we build the rest of the Brooklyn tower.”

  It felt as if the floor had dropped from underneath me. Of course, they had the Manhattan side yet to do.

  “The tower will grow quickly and will be more exciting above water. And the crowds will come to watch. It will be a show bigger than Barnum’s old museum.” He coughed, his voice as rough as sandpaper.

  Wash traced his finger down my crooked button placket. “You’ll need a more fashionable dress. We’ll be on the front page of the Brooklyn Eagle.”

  “With this caisson finally at rest, will Johnny and I see more of you?”

  “Haven’t you had enough of me already?” He gave me a lopsided grin.

  “I’m serious. Let’s take Johnny to the menagerie in Central Park.” Afraid Johnny’s bouncing would could Wash discomfort, I set the boy down.

  “I haven’t really the time, Em. You and Miss Mann should take him.”

  “Again?” My face fell. “Wash, this can’t be all there is to family life. There’s a world out there to share with our son. He needs—”

  “Whatever you say, dear.” Wash eyed a stack of documents a messenger had brought over earlier, covering the tea table.

  “Here.” I slapped the stack of papers on his lap.

  He picked them up and thumbed through them while I stood before him, hands on hips, waiting for him to acknowledge the existence of his wife and son. My first gray hair sprouted in the time it took him to notice.

  “Oh yes, thank you.” He tapped the papers, then waved absently. “Of course, take him to the menagerie. He’ll enjoy that.”

  My insides crumbled. He devoted every moment to his father’s dream, but what about mine? I wanted to share how this made me feel, but clearly, I had been dismissed. If there was one thing I had learned about marriage, it was to wait until a receptive moment to express feelings such as this if I wanted any action on his part.

  I went to bed alone after Wash fell asleep with his paper wives.

  Sixteen

  Wash’s joy upon hitting bedrock was premature. For the next few weeks, he still had to descend into the caisson as brick pilings were constructed to support the roof under the tremendous weight of the stones above. Not until that was done could concrete be poured down the chute and the caisson sealed.

  Meanwhile, I was beginning to enjoy my bloomer project. Wash had presented me with a sewing machine, and operating the treadle with my feet gave me a sense of accomplishment, even if what I was producing was not in the least wearable. A few unladylike words slipped through the straight pins in my mouth as I tried to free the machine from a beehive of thread and fabric.

  The first time I heard the alarm bells on the street outside, they barely broke my awareness. The leather belt on the machine had broken and was flapping like a serpent until the gears ground to a halt. My creation nearly finished, I donned the skirt. My feet negotiated through the leggings, the twisted seams making an awkward fit.

  Twirling for Johnny’s entertainment had turned into a game of ring-around-the-rosy until we were interrupted by outside commotion. Clanging bells and the galloping of horses drew me to the window. Horses pulled a fire wagon through swirling snow, heading toward the river. A crowd hastened behind the wagon, sending a shiver of dread down my spine.

  “Miss Mann!” I yelled.

  She hurried over and picked up Johnny as I grabbed my cloak and flew out the door.

  A neighbor advised me there was a problem at the bridge site and offered a ride in his carriage. I was in no mood for small talk, and we rode in silence. Noting his occasional glances at the leggings peeking out from under my cloak, I tugged it closed.

  When I arrived, firemen were running hoses from the river to pumps as soot-covered and coughing workers stumbled from the work site. I approached O’Brien, who occupied Einar’s usual station at the caisson entrance, and asked him what had happened.

  “A wee fire, that’s all, ma’am. A few minor injuries.” He brushed ash and snowflakes from his coat.

  “And everyone is accounted for?”

  “Colonel Roebling is fine.”

  Farrington joined us. Coatless, in clean and crisply pressed clothes, it was apparent he hadn’t been inside the caisson.

  “Good evening, Mr. Farrington. I’m told everything is well under control.” The augers of varying lengths and other tools slung over his wiry shoulders suggested otherwise.

  He tipped his hat. “A pleasure, Mrs. Roebling. Just need to drill a few holes.” He smiled his toothy grin. “You got some fruit for me?”

  The hatch opened, and Young stepped out.

  “Are you all right, Mr. Young?” I asked. “How are conditions down there?”

  Before he could answer, his eyes bulged and he bent over, gasping for air. Farrington and O’Brien helped him to the ground. Blood trickled from his ears, and I cradled his head, staring at his pale, pitted cheeks. O’Brien dashed off for a stretcher.

  After Young was attended to and Farrington had descended, I peppered O’Brien with so many questions, he finally sent a messenger down to investigate. I had neither hat nor gloves, and I huddled into my cloak, pacing for what seemed like hours. The long wait gave me too much time to imagine fire resurging, the men with no means of escape.

  It wasn’t the messenger who appeared at the hatch opening but Farrington, bringing a waft of smoke. Brushing cinders from his shirt, he frowned at the black streaks they left. He cracked a half smile for me. “Mr. Roebling sends regrets for his tardiness.”

  “He’s not coming up?”

  “He says you should go home. He’ll be along shortly.”

  A chill raced down my spine, but as my ears and fingers were already numb with cold, I trudged home through the snow to wait.

  * * *

  Hours later, a horse and carriage approached, and voices drifted in from the street. A blast of frigid air hit me as I opened the door. The light of the streetlamp fell on three men carrying Wash down the front walk on a stretcher. He was very pale but lifted his hand. The men—O’Brien, Luciano, and Dunn—struggled through several inches of fresh snow up the steps to the foyer. I had them take him to the parlor.

  “I’m fine, dear. No pain this time,” Wash rasped.

  “Was it the smoke?”


  “No. A bit of a problem with paralysis.”

  Dunn pulled off a woolen blanket covering Wash’s legs. His legs, mottled white and gray with blotches of pink, were exposed by rolled-up trousers. The men massaged them with sea salts and whiskey.

  “I tried to get him to leave earlier, ma’am,” said O’Brien.

  “That will be all, fellas.” Wash dismissed them with a weak wave.

  The workers stopped rubbing and met my eyes with question.

  Dunn spoke. “He’s got the Grecian bends real bad, ma’am. The doc told us to keep rubbing till he moves his legs.”

  “I know the procedure,” Wash said. “You’re dismissed.”

  I nodded in agreement and escorted the men to the door, giving each a bit of money, although they tried to refuse it, before sending them on their way. Despite their concern and good intentions, Wash couldn’t tolerate anyone but me around him when he was feeling poorly.

  O’Brien stopped and turned back before I closed the door. “Ma’am, I shouldn’a mean to add to your troubles, but...”

  “What is it, Mr. O’Brien?”

  He spoke softly. “There’s been workers in the caisson who…uh…weren’t nigh as bad off as the colonel.”

  “Go on.”

  “I mean, they didn’t lose use of their legs or nothing. They had some problems taking a breath.”

  I glanced back at Wash, then nudged the door a bit more closed. “Well, please tell them I’m glad they’re getting along. It’s difficult work, I understand.”

  “No, ma’am, that’s just it.” He flattened his hand against the outside of the door. “They blame it on all sorts of things, spinal meningitis, bad kidneys, accidents. But these were all healthy men, working in the caisson. There’s”—he rolled his eyes up—“five men now dead.”