PT interjected, “He found a lovely marble bust. A likeness of Martha Washington, was it not? Quite a treasure!” He laughed and slapped his thigh.
The ladies laughed too, but Wash glared at him, then at me, no doubt realizing I had shared the story with PT.
Later, PT and the ladies having departed, I tidied up and packed my work satchel. Wash, still propped on his pillows, handed me the daily journal. Unable to write, he dictated his orders. Although no longer necessary for ordinary planning, I hewed to the ritual to keep him involved.
“A productive day?” he asked.
“Somewhat.” I yawned, tapping my pen on the journal.
“Phineas is helpful to you?”
“He gives good advice and provides comic relief.”
Wash answered with a grunt.
“What?” I sighed.
“His humor escapes me.”
I shrugged and picked up diagrams. “Have you made up your mind?”
“About what?”
“About officially turning over responsibility for the bridge.”
“You seem to have things well in control.” He waved at the diagrams in my hand. “Finally recognize you don’t need me?”
“That’s not what I meant. Martin can—”
“This is my father’s bridge!” He thumped his fist on the divan.
“As you remind me every day. No one’s forgetting that.”
“He designed it, but he isn’t here. Still, it is being built. Because I am here for him.”
“You’re here for him? You sit around drinking whiskey and telling stories while I feed the circling sharks!”
“Perhaps if you stop feeding him, he’ll go away.”
His face had fallen in defeat. I bit my tongue before I said something hurtful.
As I tucked the journal in my satchel, a wave of realization swept over me. Wash would neither return to work nor relinquish responsibility to another chief engineer. I was not just a messenger, filling a momentary need. Building this bridge would be my cross to bear—for him. My own goals and dreams, of nobly advancing women’s causes or riding a horse through rolling hills of Kentucky, vanished like pebbles thrown into the sea.
I tossed and turned all that night. The responsibility was far too great. I had not the education nor the experience to accept it. I had to find someone else. But then I realized I wasn’t alone; there were capable assistant engineers with whom to consult. Papa’s design was said to be a work of genius. This was a matter of ensuring a plan was followed. Then again, how was I to know if it was?
The next morning, I went downstairs to the library to collect Papa’s original plans. The room echoed with PT’s laughter and GK’s warnings. I smelled whiskey and tobacco, GK’s hair balm, and Wash’s minty liniment. I slumped into Wash’s chair and closed my eyes, rubbed the walnut roundels, conjuring a genie to appear with answers. Upon opening them, there was nothing but Wash’s neat rows of books. Books. All his texts were right here. I had perused the most basic ones in Cincinnati, but now I had more framework in which to understand them. I went to the stack labeled Year One, climbed the ladder, and slipped out the first of a thousand books.
Twenty-Two
No one wanted the Brooklyn caisson filled with concrete and sealed forever more than I. But the reports from foreman Young were worrying. While in the caisson, supervising the flowing of concrete down wooden chutes, he noticed signs of more widespread fire damage. It was a huge decision whether or not to cease the work, one that could only be done by the chief engineer.
I needed to enter the caisson to see the damage for myself, then try to get Wash to make a decision. Both were dreaded and risky tasks. Without consulting Wash, I steeled my resolve, donned my bloomer costume, and headed to the work site.
I spoke with no one, merely waved greetings at the workers on the tower top as I headed to the now unguarded hatch. Reviewing the posted safety precautions didn’t dampen my resolve. After all, I had written most of them.
I opened the hatch, climbed down a few steps into the air lock chamber, then sealed the door after me. Then I stepped down the long ladder, through the narrow passageway between courses and courses of cold stone, to the lower hatch. After opening a valve to equalize the air pressure, I unlatched and pushed open the hatch door. The caisson greeted me with the rotten-egg stench of sulfur and the musk of sweat.
I heard voices in the far corner and followed them. As Wash had described, sounds transmitted in unexpected ways—the rattle of wheelbarrows and ting of hammers melded into a hodgepodge that seemed to bounce from wall to wall.
I had imagined a cave-like atmosphere, but it was more like a very large, damp cellar. Great piers of bricks stood from floor to ceiling in a grid pattern, giving a sense of stability. The limelights cast deep shadows, disguising whether an object was two or twenty feet away.
Foreman Young, his dark hair fringing from his slouchy cap, approached me. “Mrs. Roebling, I didn’t expect you.”
“Mr. Roebling needs his rest. I’m a trusted set of eyes and ears by now. Let me see the fire damage.”
He guided me to the area of concern. “This is where the fire started.”
The wood ceiling was pockmarked with concrete patches and drill holes.
I craned my neck at ceiling beams in various states of repair, some charred, other, lighter-colored ones that were replacements. “I think we need to replace this beam.”
“Right. I’ll see to it. But that isn’t what most concerns me. Look over here.” He led me another twelve feet, closer to the caisson corner.
Wispy curls of smoke emanated from the drill holes on the ceiling. My heart sank. Despite thoroughly drenching the roof structure with hoses, something in its layers was still burning.
I looked at other areas of the ceiling to see if there were other signs of smoke. But it hardly mattered. The complex roof structure was a maze of wood; flames could trickle up and down it like a game of Jacob’s ladder.
“We have to flood the caisson,” I said.
Young planted his hands on his hips. “By whose authority?”
“Mine.”
“I disagree. We should speed up the concrete process. That will put the fire out, once and for all.”
I vacillated for a moment. But if I was to be in charge, I had to make decisions, and this one was pretty clear. In fact, Wash and I had already discussed doing it if necessary. “If you want to run back and inform Mr. Roebling, by all means do so. Be certain to advise him how this was somehow overlooked.” I found an iron bar and a ladder, which I dragged under one of the smoking holes. Teetering on the fourth rung, I hammered with the bar until I bashed through a good piece of patched ceiling. “Tell him the fire’s not quite out and that it’s been smoldering for weeks and you want a little reassurance—” I punched a hole big enough to poke my head through. “But while you’re experiencing one of the world’s worst tempers, I’ll be here, flooding the goddamned caisson.”
* * *
After evacuating all the workers from the caisson, Young and I sloshed in waist-high muck as river water gushed in through hoses.
“Should have flooded it in the first place,” Young said.
I smiled to myself. One small battle won.
Creaks and squeaks filled the air, followed ominously by a loud groaning noise. Nails popped from the outer walls and sang past us. I checked a gauge. The hoses were allowing air to escape around them, and the air pressure was dropping.
“I know why you didn’t. It’s risky,” I said.
Maintaining enough air pressure to keep the caisson from collapsing and the humans inside it alive was a delicate balance. Even a small opening, such as the ones caused by the hoses passing through, caused a vacuum effect, with the air flowing from an area of high density to lower density.
The side walls bulged. I turned a valve han
dle to increase the air pressure, but the needle on the gauge continued to fall. “We need more pressure! Go topside, and turn on the standby compressor,” I yelled. “And turn all the water pumps full on.”
“You have to come. I’m not leaving you alone down here!” Young tugged at my arm.
“I’ve got to open all the air valves. Go. Now!” I ordered as bricks tumbled from the piers and the walls trembled. My vision started to darken around the edges. I took several deep breaths. Thankfully, much of the caisson was filled with concrete, and it shouldn’t take too long to regain pressure in the smaller open area. But I had to remain conscious. Pushing aside feelings of panic, I opened my mouth wide and breathed as deeply as I could.
The extra compressor rumbled on above; it had to be done now. I took a deep breath and held it, then dove down into the water. The cold bit into my flesh, the water turbid and grating on my eyes. Blindly, I turned the valves to raise the air pressure, their usual squeaks a hollow bellow under the water.
Coming back up for a breath, there was a welcome whoosh from the air supply duct. As I sucked in oxygen, the band of terror around my chest loosened. But then the waist-deep water started swirling and rising rapidly. My mind spun with an image of Elizabeth thrashing in the rippling current. The panic I had successfully tamped down returned like a lion for the kill. It wasn’t too late; I could get out now. Let Young do this or someone—anyone—else. I felt myself sucked into the river, heard Elizabeth’s terrified screams.
No! I fought back. Felt Wash’s arms around me in France, my white dress floating in the calm river, his words caressing my ears. “It’s all right. I’ve got you.” My panic subsided, and my thoughts cleared once again.
Soon, the creaking and moaning of the walls stopped. But the water was now up to my chest and advancing steadily. I spit out grit and the taste of metal. I had only a few minutes to get out.
I dove down to the exit hatch, turning the wheel for the latch as far as I could before coming up for another deep breath. Descending a second time, I turned the wheel to full open and yanked with all my strength, but the hatch door didn’t budge. Another trip up for a gulp of air. I was running out of time as the water sloshed in waves against the ceiling.
I dove again, trying to force open the hatch, but the pressure of the water in the caisson was higher than the air pressure in the hatch. Bracing my legs against the sides of the hatch chute, I strained against it with all my might. The hatch cracked open but quickly slammed shut again. I pushed myself back up for air. My head bumped against the ceiling as I drew in what I feared might be my last breath. I paddled furiously to keep my head above the water, gagging and choking. My muscles were rapidly tiring, and another wave of panic clouded my thinking.
A pipe hung from the ceiling just a few feet away. I kicked and stroked my way over to it with what seemed like my last ounces of strength. I grabbed on to it and forced my mind and body to calm, taking shaky, shuddering breaths. I considered diving down again to adjust the valves letting in river water, but I wasn’t sure I had the strength.
The water-muted sound of a sledgehammer clanged at the hatch. Then I heard water rushing into the air lock chamber. Mr. Young must be filling it to equalize the pressure. More creaking, valves opening. He was forcing in both air and water. Good. Faster, faster, I urged as the top of my head brushed the ceiling and the water reached my neck.
When I thought enough pressure had equalized to get the hatch open, I took some deep breaths and filled my lungs to capacity. Then I pushed off the ceiling and kicked down through eight feet of water. I repeated the pull and push maneuver with my legs until the door cracked open. My lungs burned as I pried open the hatch.
The sledgehammer clanged against the opposite side. A hazy shape appeared through the crack: Young, pushing the door from the air lock chamber. We overcame the pressure on the door as I pulled from my side until, at last, it swung open. Water gushed through the opening, shooting me through with it.
Young grabbed me under my arms and lifted me to the surface where I took a great gasp of air. Dark spots mottled my vision, and I worked my arm through a ladder rung to keep from slipping off.
“Have to close the hatch door!” Young dove back under the water.
I huffed breaths during the eternity that he was down there. I counted. Thirty seconds. Forty. What was taking him so long? My vision clearing, I slipped my arm from the ladder, preparing to rescue him. My arms and legs were dead weights. Did I even have the strength?
But while I tried to muster strength and courage, Young popped out of the water. He took a huge gulp of air before shouting, “We did it!”
I pulled myself up the ladder of the air lock, buoyed by relief. My clothes shed river water, its power over me diminished like a hurricane gone back to the sea.
* * *
Arriving home that evening after the tumult of the day, my muscles ached as they would after the first saddle ride in spring. I dripped up the stairs to the landing on the second floor. Wash sat at his desk at our bedroom window, reading Carrie’s Violets with a magnifying glass. He rubbed his eyes, tossed the manuscript aside, and picked up a pair of dumbbells. Even with a body devastated by caisson disease, he affected an air of normalcy as he lifted the weights, while I affected every inch of river rat.
Not caring to explain my appearance or recount the day, I quietly slipped down the hall to the bath. I opened the hot water tap and filled the tub, allowing billows of steam into the room, then luxuriated in the big claw-footed tub. Each time the horror of being trapped underwater crept into my mind, I gripped the rolled top of the tub, took deep breaths, and forced the thoughts away.
Wash limped in and pulled up a chair. “I thought I heard you sneak in.”
“You were concentrating so hard, I didn’t want to disturb you. How is Johnny?” I played with the lavender-scented bubbles. Heaven.
“Asleep.” He picked up a sponge, leaned over, and washed my back. I could only hope he didn’t discover seaweed.
“I’ve missed yet another day with him.” With horror, I realized I hadn’t thought about him the entire day. “Was he a good boy?”
“As always.”
I needn’t have worried about Wash finding evidence of my misadventure unless the seaweed was enormous. His eyes were unfocused and jerky. A new bloomer costume embroidered with a violet hung near the window, the warm, moist air helping to smooth wrinkles.
“What? No peonies?”
“A single, lonely violet, I’m afraid. Close work is hard on my eyes.” He squeezed out the sponge. “In honor of your friend’s book. Have you read it?” He handed me a robe as I climbed out of the tub. I tried to catch a glimpse into his eyes, but he turned away.
“Not yet. Mother said there was a character I’d be interested in.” We returned to our bedroom. I unwrapped the towel from my hair, then picked up the manuscript while Wash lifted his dumbbells. “Violets, by Carrie Beebe,” I read aloud. “Mrs. Hamilton was a woman of indomitable energy and ambition. She was not ambitious of fame in a literary way, for her early education would hardly admit of that; and, though a professed Christian, she was not particularly ‘zealous of good works.’”
He chuckled. “But in order to outshine her neighbors, especially in the matter of dress, she worked with a zest and energy worthy of a better cause.”
“Do you think she’s writing about me?”
“Perhaps. But I think Carrie’s aim is to send all women a message.”
“Who knew you were so intuitive?” I stood behind him and stroked his shoulders and arms. His muscles were as thick and smooth as ever, and he didn’t flinch from my touch. “You seem to be improving.”
“Now if I could get my bottom half to cooperate.”
I kissed his neck and wriggled onto his lap. We kissed long and deeply as his hands found my breasts under my robe. The horror of the day faded as I let his warmt
h sink into me, let the power of his arms comfort me.
He whispered in my ear, “Carrie says all women should be like you.”
A rush of warmth spread down my plexus. “Violets. Strong and faithful.” I removed his shirt, ran my hand across the rough golden hairs of his chest. “You can trample them, but they’ll find a way to spring back up.” I shrugged off my robe.
He cleared his throat. “I know my flowers.” He gave me a gentle nudge off his lap. “I’m sorry, dear. Another time?”
Stumbling away from him, I wrapped my robe around me, crushed worse than any violet.
“So, where are we? Progress report: is the fire damage repaired?” His eyes zigzagged.
I swallowed my disappointment and replied evenly, “In process. We found a bit more, but we’re preparing to fill the rest of the caisson with concrete.”
He handed me a pile of journals and a pencil. “Excellent. It should be done in a certain order. Make note of this…”
A chill began at my sodden head and worked its way down to my toes.
Twenty-Three
Wash was fortunate to spend much more time with Johnny, and I meant to show my son what took me away from him so frequently. We were enjoying unusually warm weather for early summer, and I chose a brilliant Sunday morning when the work site would be relatively quiet.
I was unwilling to subject Johnny to hazardous conditions or the coarse language of workers, so we boarded a huge supply barge anchored to a pier next to the tower. Here, blocks of stone created a maze in which we played hide-and-seek. The tower, now rising over twenty feet above the water, taller than most of the buildings in Brooklyn, cast its shadow on us.
After our game, I settled Johnny with a slate and piece of chalk so I could do a bit of work. I had explained to the bridge committee that since the color of the granite stones varied slightly, coming as they did from twenty different quarries, they should be mixed in their placement to lessen the chance of the tower appearing mottled when complete. This suggestion was met with enthusiasm but had the unfortunate consequence of the task falling to me to categorize the stone. I was noting the location of a particularly dark batch when I called to Johnny, “Almost done, sweetie. Such a good boy…” I turned to where I had left him, but he was gone.
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