The Engineer's Wife

by Tracey Enerson Wood

  The president of the academy introduced me, and I took my place on the podium. What seemed like a million faces stared back at me. Having practiced and imagined the moment so many times, I separated my terror from the various muscles that controlled my speech. First, I focused on my breathing. I had learned to concentrate on what can be controlled: one needs a steady breath to bring words to life. I saw the audience not as a mob bent on humiliating me but as individuals who I would converse with one by one.

  I began the speech I had committed to memory. “Thank you for the honor of being the first woman to address this great organization. I hope to assuage your concerns—” The words rolled off my tongue too tightly. The men sat back in their chairs, regarded their fingernails, checked timepieces.

  My cheeks warmed, and my insides tumbled. No matter. Let my face burn with the passion of my message. Let my gut protest. I sought out one member of the audience, captured his gaze, spoke to him directly. He responded with a nod. Then I moved to the man next to him, and behind, and just in front of me. I spoke words not memorized like a child’s catechism but etched into my soul, given life by my work.

  They leaned forward in their chairs, listening as I ticked off our accomplishments. I stood tall, as if lifted from the ground. Perhaps this victorious rush of excitement coursing through my veins was what PT so enjoyed about the stage.

  “Therefore, gentlemen, you can rest assured in my husband’s mental acuity and technical brilliance as an engineer. I am deeply grateful for your efforts and concern.” I paused for effect, scanning the entire audience. “But if, despite the lack of any evidence of mechanical flaw or wrongdoing on my or my husband’s part, you still believe in your minds and hearts that he should be removed from this great effort, then I shall see in it the hand of God, which all my care could neither direct nor change.”

  I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, then opened them to see the audience on its feet, applause filling the auditorium and my heart. And there, in the front row, was PT. He held up his arms, hands clenched together in victory. I nodded, forgiving him for extracting payment with my honor. But I could not absolve myself.

  Nineteen

  After the speech to the American Society of Civil Engineers, there was still the matter of the bridge company and their threat to remove Wash from the project. That spring, Benjamin Stone made frequent and increasingly harassing visits to the office, demanding documentation of Wash’s health and my qualifications.

  After several weeks, Wash’s symptoms had abated, and he was able to walk short distances using a cane. He agreed to make an appearance at the work site while I made a visit to Stone’s office.

  “One last time, to get Stone off our backs. You can check the fire damage yourself.”

  Wash, always a gentleman, had insisted on carrying one of the satchels full of documents. “It’s unnecessary, but I’ll do it for you, dear.”

  We stopped in front of Stone’s brownstone office building. Wash handed me the satchel, then frowned at me struggling with the extra load. “I’ll go in with you.”

  “No. It won’t do any good for him to see you—” I stopped. “Stone needs to know you’re at the work site.”

  He shifted his weight from one leg to the other.

  A pang of guilt ran through me. I was pushing him too hard. We should have taken a carriage. “Do you understand the power he has?”

  “He doesn’t concern me.” He gave me a peck on the cheek before limping down the street.

  I couldn’t say the same about my nemesis. “Don’t stay in the caisson too long, no more than five minutes at a time,” I yelled after Wash. Then I gripped the heavy bundles and climbed up the steps to Stone’s office.

  * * *

  Benjamin Stone sat behind his massive desk in the elegantly appointed office. To his right were tall windows, columns of light slipping between the thick green velvet curtains. He faced an ornate marble fireplace across the large room, above which hung a painting in an elaborately carved and gilded frame. Volumes of books were stacked neatly on shelves that extended all the way to a fourteen-foot ceiling.

  I ignored the imposing surroundings and used a bit of PT’s showmanship as I emptied the two satchels into a foot-high pile of documents on his desk. They appeared most impressive, especially with the mote-filled beams of light that shone from the window on them like treasures. PT would be proud. “My credentials, sir. No doubt you will find a lack of explicit certifications. Regrettably, they are not available to women in this country.”

  Despite all his earlier caterwauling and threats, he seemed stricken with a sudden lethargy and ignored my comments as well as the pile of paper. Instead, he simply nodded, rubbing the curious deep scar on his palm while he stared at something behind me. I followed his gaze to a painting over the fireplace. A woman with brown curls graced the portrait, alongside a little girl with similar ringlets.

  “You should be very happy to learn that you can find Mr. Roebling at the work site should you wish to consult him.” I gathered back my satchels.

  Again, he nodded, his gaze still upon the painting. “My wife and child.”

  “They’re lovely. How old is your daughter?”

  His eyes darted at me, his face twisted in anger. “Don’t you know?”

  “No, I—”

  “Sit down.”

  It was more of a command than a request, so I took a seat on the green velvet chair facing his desk. I clasped my hands together in my lap and set my jaw to receive another lecture.

  He paced the Persian rug, stopping at the large window. “I find it despicable that you come here, professing your knowledge and competence, when you don’t know pertinent history. Does the River Dee mean anything to you?” He stomped toward me, his face beet red.

  I squeezed my eyes shut, his bearlike body looming above me not helping my concentration.

  “A bridge failed, twenty, thirty years ago,” I said. “Quite a different sort of bridge if memory serves me.” I looked at him, seeing a face contorted in not just anger but grief. I glanced back at the portrait. A hole opened inside me, and empathy settled in where my hubris had vanished. “I’m sorry. Was your family involved?”

  “It was 1847.” He wiped his eyes and spectacles with a handkerchief. “I was an inspector, and railroads were expanding all over the continent. England, Scotland, Wales—my team had to cover every inch of track, approve every new engine, ensure every bridge was sound.

  “It was too much, too fast, I kept telling them. They approved changes in original plans without proper thought to safety. We had a new route, to Ruabon, Wales. I had my wife and daughter join me for the first passenger trip, having missed them so. It was a gray, drizzly spring day. Hmph. Jolly ol’ England and all that. But the railcar was a delight. Carved mahogany walls, velvet seats.” He made circle motions with his hand in the air. “My little girl wiped the window so her rag doll could see out. Then she held it up, saying, ‘Kiss Gertrude for me,’ and I feigned a smooch on the grotty thing.”

  “That was sweet of you.” How on earth this pertained to my credentials was utterly lost on me. It seemed a warning, the distant thunder before a storm.

  “Hmph. As we crossed the bridge, a vibration began and moved toward us, building to a tremble. Then a wave motion rippled across the bridge like an earthquake, the iron struts shaking violently, working loose from the pilings. I heard pings as the twisting force strained the fasteners and rivets ricocheted like bullets. One shot straight through my palm.” He massaged his scar with his thumb.

  “We were thrown forward, then across the car. A huge crack sounded as bridge timbers gave way. We were tossed apart, just as I wanted to cradle them in my arms and keep them safe.”

  “Did you get to them? Did everyone get out of the car safely?”

  “I punched through the window, hoping to create an escape. But the railcar plunged into the
river. A shock of cold, gray water blasted me away from the windows. I fought the torrent and the desperate need for air, trying to reach my family. But they were too far, and roaring water overcame me. Shock faded to numbness as I sank into dark, frigid water. I swirled down, crushed and useless.” He leaned back in his chair, eyes closed, defeated and empty as a rubber balloon. “I awaited my final relief, to be carried away in the swift current with the others.”

  I wrapped my arms about myself, my own horror of near drowning returning like a rushing river. “But you survived. And your wife and daughter?”

  He shook his head.

  “What a tragedy. I know of sorrow.” In the portrait over the fireplace, the young subjects seemed more real now, the young mother having some resemblance to myself. I told him briefly about the loss of my sister at a tender age. We had a moment of mutual respect for each other and for forces of nature that man could not always tame. But his tender side disappeared with the speed of lightning.

  “I understand the bridge committee once again intends for trains to be accommodated,” he barked. “Tell me, young lady, do you know the weight of a train?”

  “Well, I’m not—” I stammered.

  “You have no idea. What is the added tensile and compressive strength required? How will the approaches be configured so the trains don’t collide with other vehicles?” Stone glared at me.

  “We—”

  My mind raced to come up with answers to his rapid-fire questions when he thundered, “Don’t answer! Fools! You think this is some game you are playing? It’s high time the board put a stop to this before we endanger the lives of everyone who steps foot on that colossal disaster!”

  “You insult the fine minds of the engineers who designed this, the skill of the workmen who are building it.” I breathed slowly, in control. “All schematics are available for your review. I will consult with the engineers if you have specific concerns. In the meantime, your threats have served only to hamper the vital work taking place. And it will take place, whether you choose to cooperate or not.”

  I gathered my satchels. Despite my confident words, the new plan to incorporate trains had blindsided me. Notice of that was probably amid the pile of correspondence on my desk. “I’m terribly sorry about the loss of your wife and daughter. But past accidents should inform the science of engineering, not impede the progress of today.” With shoulders straight and my head held high, I marched out of his office. But my heart was breaking once again as Elizabeth swirled away from me, now with two others floating with her.

  Twenty

  The incident with Stone was all but forgotten as Miss Mann, Johnny, and I walked down the street to meet Mother at the ferry terminal. It seemed she enjoyed seeing Johnny more, unconcerned that she might be called into child care service now that we had a nanny.

  Miss Mann placed Johnny in a cart as he dawdled and stopped every few feet to stare in wonderment at trees, dogs, organ grinders, and other children. “Do you think you can spare me this evening, Mrs. Roebling?”

  “Gentleman caller? Named Henri?” I smiled. It was none of my affair, of course, but I did play a hand in their romance.

  “Yes, ma’am. But don’t tell no one.”

  “Why on earth not?” My curiosity leapfrogged over my respect for her privacy. Was Henri too old for her? Married? The approaching ferry trilled its whistle as we reached the waterfront.

  “You may call me Muriel, Mrs. Roebling.”

  “As soon as you call me Emily. But I’d rather you answer my question,” I said with a smile, hoping to convey a kindliness behind my prying.

  “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Why is that?” I picked up Johnny, affording him a better view of the boat being secured in the slip. “When did you become such a big, heavy boy?” I bounced to seat him more comfortably on my hip.

  “Allow me.” Miss Mann held out her arms for Johnny. I didn’t relinquish him but tilted my head, waiting for an answer to my question.

  She lowered her eyes. “We keep to ourselves, we mountain people.”

  We pressed up to the railing as the passengers disembarked.

  “Mountain people?”

  “Ramapo Mountains in New Jersey. That’s where I’m from, Ringwood.”

  “I’ve been there. Lovely area.”

  “You haven’t been to my Ringwood.”

  “Perhaps not. But what does this have to do with you seeing Henri?”

  “You wouldn’t understand.”

  Mother erupted from the crowd, snapping her fingers in the air, her voice ringing out above the crowd. “Porter!”

  I waved, and she met my eyes, then peered behind us. “Where’s your carriage?”

  Miss Mann and I loaded her baggage in a teetering pile onto Johnny’s wagon.

  “Hardly worth the trouble for a few blocks, and I thought you’d like to stretch your legs after such a long ride.”

  After a couple of blocks, we stopped to rest before heading uphill, and Johnny joined some children playing hopscotch on a grid scratched into a patch of dirt. I plucked a thick volume, Violets, from the top of Mother’s tower of luggage. No doubt she believed she’d be the first to present Carrie’s newly published book. I thumbed through it without letting on that PT’s gift had preceded hers.

  “You can’t really pay proper attention that way,” Mother said.

  “I’m afraid skimming is how most of my reading is accomplished these days.”

  “No, don’t give it another thought.” She snatched the book from my grasp, her lips set in a thin line of disapproval.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “You know, Emily, it’s one thing to take an interest in your husband’s work and quite another to believe it your own.”

  “Et tu, Mater?” Barely a half hour into her visit, and already she had made me wince. I sighed with relief when Johnny came to my rescue.

  He grabbed my hand. “Let’s play, Mama.”

  “May I?” I asked a sweet-looking but shoeless girl in a dirty dress. She shyly handed me a small, flat stone. “Like this, Johnny.” I tossed the stone and hopped to the top of the hopscotch board and back.

  My lesson ended abruptly when we were stunned by an explosive blast. The children cried and held their ears as a wall of thick, heated air overwhelmed us. From the direction of the work site, a brown geyser spewed five hundred feet into the air.

  Glass tinkled from shattered windows. Another thunderous roar, and rocks, dirt, and debris dropped from the sky upon us. A horse whinnied and reared up on its hind legs, then galloped away, its rider clenching its mane to hang on.

  I pushed the children into a doorway. Some of them scattered, screaming. I checked those remaining for injuries, sighing with relief when I found none. Frantic mothers ran from their houses calling their children’s names.

  Horror hit me like a thunderclap. “Wash is down there!”

  Mother sheltered Johnny with her arm. “Go.”

  I ran toward the river as fast as I was able, picking through debris littering the street. An old woman crawled beside her toppled cart and vegetables, and I stopped to help her to her feet. When I was nearly to the work site, I twisted my ankle and tumbled to the street, my head crashing on a stone.

  Moments of blackness, the sound of horses galloping. I blinked my eyes open; two horses pulled a carriage straight toward me. The carriage halted and the driver alighted.

  “Mrs. Roebling!” Dunn, bleeding from several gashes on his face and hands, knelt beside me. He lifted me under my shoulders and helped me aboard, where I found Wash. O’Brien held Wash’s bandaged head in his lap. I blinked hard to clear my vision, my ankle and head throbbing.

  “Out cold now, but he’ll be fine soon,” O’Brien said.

  I picked up Wash’s stiff hand, held it in mine as the carriage bumped along. My heart ached for all
this to end. O’Brien explained the accident, but his words floated like jetsam on the sea. It was all meaningless, didn’t he see? I was losing my husband.

  * * *

  Hours later, Farrington arrived at our home to check on Wash and recounted the incident. “It was what we call a blowout. We heard a deafening roar, then bricks, tools, anything unattached got sucked up the supply shaft. I hit the ground to avoid becoming a flying object, saw two workers picked up and slammed into the shaft. The limelights flickered, and some flamed out, leaving us in near darkness.”

  Wash groaned, lying on the settee, his arm draped across his face.

  “Maybe we should leave him to rest,” I said.

  Wash pushed himself to sitting. “No. Need to review. Learn from it.”

  It didn’t seem to me that Wash was learning. At least not his own limitations. Why had he stayed? He knew he couldn’t tolerate being in the caisson that long, but he couldn’t stop himself.

  Farrington continued. “We figured out what happened. The hatch door got stuck open by a pile of bricks, and the pressure made the air rush out.”

  I heard but didn’t listen. It seemed important for Wash and Farrington to relive the moment, to sort it out. I peeled the heavy bandage from over his left eye. The two-inch gash no longer bled, but he would have a scar.

  “Young and Dunn helped us dig away bricks, debris pelting us all the while.”

  “That’s when I got this.” Wash pointed to his eye.

  “Finally, the path was cleared, and the hatch slammed shut. Dunn secured the latch, and it was over,” Farrington said.

  “What caused it?” I asked.

  “The guys up top, sending down a load of bricks, and the guys down below got their timing mixed up,” Wash said. “Both hatches were open at the same time.”