Edison Effect, The: A Professor Bradshaw Mystery (The Edison Effect)

by Bernadette Pajer

  “Then get me into it before I change my mind.”

  The captain called over the crewmen whose job it was to dress and tend to the divers, as well as maintain equipment and serve as deckhands. Six young men of slight build and with dark hair and dark eyes, lined up for orders. Captain Donovan spoke to them in a language that sounded similar to French with hints of Spanish. As he spoke, the men nodded and shot Bradshaw a few curious glances before hurrying off to carry out their orders.

  “Portuguese?” Bradshaw asked.

  “Yes. The best crew I’ve ever had. All cousins. I’ve assigned Berto to you. He’s the most experienced and will look after you like you’re his firstborn. He speaks fluent English.”

  From aboard the Beverlee B, three of the crew had fetched a crate with a dolly and wheeled it down the dock to Bradshaw. Inside was a diving outfit, all two hundred pounds of it, neatly patched, cleaned, and stored. The pieces were respectfully removed and arranged on deck in the order in which they were to be donned. The care and soberness with which the very unpacking was done sent a high-pitched ringing in Bradshaw’s ears from the clenching of his jaw. This was serious business.

  One of the crewmen approached him, gave a respectful nod of greeting, and said, “Strip down to trousers and shirtsleeves, Professor.”

  “Are you Berto?”

  “Yes, sir. I am Berto.”

  “A pleasure to make your acquaintance. Did the captain tell you about my fear of doing this?”

  Berto’s face grew somber. “Berto will take the utmost care, Professor. Berto will let no harm come to you.”

  “Thank you, Berto.”

  And so the bold, the ridiculous, the lunatic idea was put into play. As he removed coat, jacket, tie, and shoes, they were taken from him by the efficient Berto and passed to his cousins.

  “Wet your hands up to the wrist, Professor,” said Berto, as one of brothers placed a bucket of sudsy water beside him. Bradshaw removed his cuffs and pulled up his sleeves, then dunked his hands into the warm, soapy water.

  “Now rub,” said Berto, demonstrating. Bradshaw rubbed, getting his hands slick.

  Two of the brothers then held the canvas suit for him to step into, and he did so, steadying himself with his forearms on their backs as they eased the suit up around his legs and up over his torso. He was directed to press his hands through the tight wrist holes, and he was glad for the slippery soap lubricating his skin. The suit was soon encasing his chest, the heavy collar on his shoulders and up to his chin. He felt as if his head was poking up through the top of a mason jar. He swallowed hard and breathed through his nose.

  Berto asked, “All right, Professor?”

  He nodded, not trusting his voice. The air hose and the thick rope of lifeline were unreeled and attached to the suit.

  “It’s time to sit.”

  He was directed to a large upturned crate where he sat down. Brass straps, held down by wing nuts, clamped the heavy rubber collar to the breastplate, forming a gasket that would, he was assured, seal out the chill waters of the sound. Lead-soled shoes with brass toes were set with a thud before him, and he slid his encased feet into them. He couldn’t easily bend to see, and so he only felt them being secured about his ankles and calves with leather straps.

  “Professor,” said Captain Donovan. “We usually add the weight belt and helmet just before we move you to the ladder. That way you don’t have to bear their weight for so long before going down. But I don’t think you’re ready for water yet. What say we simply get you into the full costume and let you get the feel of it?”

  Bradshaw wondered if the captain could hear the pounding of his heart over the constant din of the waterfront. He could hardly hear anything else. Just the pounding in his ears. He said abruptly, for he was short of breath, “Yes. Good.”

  They told him to stand, and he was aware of the exchange of looks between the men as they lifted the wide belt with its burden of lead bars and wrapped it around his waist. Attached to the belt were straps, and these were pulled up, crossed in front and back, over the breastplate and over his shoulders. A final belt secured him as if he wore a jockstrap, and indeed, that’s what the captain called it.

  “The straps keep the weight belt, your diving dress, and your helmet in place once the air begins to pump. You don’t want your suit rising up or your helmet trying to lift off your head.”

  “No, I don’t,” said Bradshaw. “I don’t want that.” Nor did he want to see the image now struggling in his imagination. Buckled in securely, the full eighty pounds pulled his shoulders toward his toes. He gladly sat down again when instructed.

  “Breathe, Professor. Draw the air through your nose and down to your belly. It’s only on land you’ll feel the weight. Down below, when we’re pumping your suit and helmet full of air, you’ll float like a rubber ducky.”

  Bradshaw tried to chuckle, but it came out as a grunt. He did as instructed, breathing in as deeply as he could.

  “The weights are your friends underwater. So don’t worry about how they feel now. Got it? The weights help you go down, and they keep you vertical and safe.”

  He nodded again.

  They gave him a minute of breathing freedom before lifting the copper helmet with its three round, glass goggle-eyes, which the men called “lights.” In his world, in his mind, “lights” were entirely different things. Lights were bright, glowing things you did not submerge in water. When the captain and his men said “lights,” Bradshaw thought “window.” The front window had a removable glass plate and it was off now as the helmet was hefted above his head and slowly lowered onto the copper collar, pressing him down further. Immediately, the sounds of the waterfront were stifled, his own breathing accentuated in the enclosed space. His air access was restricted to the small round window. A surge of panic assailed him.

  He gasped, “Nah!” or something to that effect, and immediately the helmet was lifted off of him. Nothing was said as he breathed, and licked his lips, and told himself his fear was only in his mind, irrational, controllable.

  He nodded, and the helmet was hefted above him again. It came down and he felt the weight on his collarbone as he stared out the small opening, like a drowning man, sucking air from a straw. He forced himself to count to ten, but when he felt them begin to bolt the helmet on, he barked, “Off!” The helmet came off again.

  After the third failed attempt, the captain said, “There’s no shame in what you’re feeling. It’s unnatural to strap yourself inside a suit such as this and drop yourself into the sea.”

  “You’re not helping,” Bradshaw growled.

  The captain laughed. “You want to keep trying?”

  “Slowly.”

  “It’s your dime. Ready?”

  “Yes, but don’t bolt it yet.”

  “You just tell us when.”

  This time, when the helmet went on, he bore it for an entire minute. His face grew clammy, his chest tightened, but he endured it. He took a break with the helmet off, and the captain had the weight belt removed, saying it wasn’t necessary to have it on while he adjusted to wearing the helmet.

  An hour later, he could wear the helmet for minutes at a time with it bolted tightly in place. But only with the little window before him open. As soon as the signal was given to one of the cousins to begin pumping air, and Captain Donovan held the round plate to the opening so that he could twist it tight, Bradshaw felt himself being locked inside, buried alive. Pure terror filled him, and his reflexes slapped the captain’s hand away. Several attempts to seal the window sent Bradshaw backwards in progress, and he begged them to take the helmet off.

  “You’ve given it a good effort, Professor. Let me see if I can find another diver for you. That way you’ll have three down searching.”

  Hands on his knees, Bradshaw said nothing, too consumed with breathing and calming himself to even feel the sham
e of his defeat.

  “Captain,” said Troy, still clad in diving dress. “Let me talk to him for a minute, huh?”

  “All right.” He nodded to the crewmen. “Let’s get some lunch and let the professor gather his thoughts. Berto? Could you stay with them? I’ll bring something back for you.”

  “Yes, I shall be pleased to stay.”

  When they’d gone, Berto positioned himself patiently by the air compressor on the scow, and Troy quietly sat beside Bradshaw. Not rushing him. The whistle of an outbound train sounded long and piercing, like a cry from Bradshaw’s own soul.

  “Professor, why all of a sudden do you feel the need to do this?”

  “It’s rather complicated.”

  “It’s more than just finding that cigar box, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it’s more than that.”

  “Is it about a girl?”

  “Yes and no.”

  “You’re trying to prove something to her.”

  Bradshaw turned to look at Troy, at his innocent young face, at the sympathy, the empathy, in his eyes. He was a young man who’d seen a few of life’s hardships but nothing yet so terrible that he’d become bitter or resigned. Or riddled with fears. Bradshaw had, without revealing its potential dangers, explained to him the importance of finding Daulton’s box. He’d understood, accepting payment for his diving services, willing to forego any chance at fortune should Bradshaw decide to do nothing with it. To this young man who felt he must financially succeed in order to win the girl he loved, his understanding revealed an unselfish heart.

  Bradshaw said honestly, “I need to do this for myself.”

  Troy nodded solemnly. “If you can do this, overcome your fears and do this, then you can do anything?”

  “That’s about it.”

  “Then you’ll do it. I’ll help you do it. I don’t care if we’re here until midnight, we’ll get you fully into that suit and into the water.”

  “Whatever I offered you to dive for me, consider it doubled.”

  “I’ll take it. I wouldn’t, as a rule, because I don’t like to take advantage, but you know I’ve got my own girl trouble and every dollar helps. Now, how about we sit here and I put the helmet on you, not bolted, and we simply practice opening and closing the face piece?”

  By the time the captain and his crew returned from lunch, Bradshaw could tolerate having the face piece closed for several seconds at a time, even with the helmet securely bolted. It was a horrible sensation, to be locked inside the helmet, unable to touch his face, or scratch an itch. It made him feel as if he were choking. The worst of it was being trapped. He could not remove the helmet by himself. He was trapped inside, at the mercy of others, with Berto pumping air to him. But Troy sat patiently, very near, looking at him through the glass, saying encouraging things, and unscrewing the little window at the first sign of Bradshaw’s panic.

  On his return, Captain Donovan witnessed a demonstration of Bradshaw’s progress and said, “Well done, Professor. Take a break, we’ve brought you two sustenance.”

  Bradshaw couldn’t eat, but he did gratefully drink the water provided while Troy ate, and they sat quietly, watching Captain Donovan and crew go about their work, preparing for tomorrow’s dive. The tight bands around Bradshaw’s wrists, meant to keep water out and air in, had begun to hurt, but there was nothing he could do about it except shake his hands to keep the blood flowing.

  After a quarter hour, the captain called out, “Berto, let’s pump some air to the Professor while he learns the signals.”

  The weight belt was once more strapped securely to Bradshaw, and Berto and one of his cousins boarded the diving scow. Berto stood ready, holding both the air hose and lifeline, while the cousin manned the pump, ready to turn the iron wheel that would supply the air. The captain hunkered down before Bradshaw to peer inside the open window. “Professor, Troy will close this light, and you signal to him if you want it reopened, right? Just breathe normally. There’s a valve on the side of the helmet that lets the used air out. When you’re down below, that used air will leave as bubbles. If you feel like you’re getting too much air, give one tug on the hose. If you need more air, give two tugs. Got it? We’re going to practice signaling for awhile, OK?”

  “One for less, two for more.”

  “Those will be the same signals you give below. The helmet can hold about eight gallons of air. About five minutes’ worth. Maybe more. The suit holds reserve air, too. As you’ve noticed, five minutes can be quite a long time. Enough for a man to get himself back to the surface if he’s not too deep.”

  “Is sixty feet too deep?” He glanced up at the city’s skyline. Several nearby buildings stood five and six stories tall. About as far up as the divers were going down tomorrow.

  “Five minutes of air will get you back to the surface from sixty feet.”

  “Am I not supposed to come up slowly from depth? I’ve read about the change in pressure causing problems, pain and sickness.” He’d seen the dive charts. At sixty feet he’d be subjected to more than forty pounds per square inch of pressure. Nearly three times more pressure than what one experienced on the surface. With only the air pressure pumped into the helmet to protect him from the crushing force. There were times when scientific knowledge was not his friend.

  “We call that the bends, Professor, and yes, coming up more slowly is the usual way to avoid them. But if the air in your helmet stops flowing, that is a bigger problem. If you can stay calm and take the full five minutes to return to the surface, you’ll arrive with less pain.”

  The air began to flow once more into Bradshaw’s helmet, and Troy screwed on the faceplate, locking him inside. The cool air smelled of rubber and the sea and all the mingled scents of the waterfront. Troy sat before him, diligently watching him through the glass plate.

  How could he tell what was too little air? Or too much? The air flowed down his neck and into the rubber-lined suit, plumping him slightly. He tugged the air hose twice, both to practice signaling to Berto and to see what more air felt like. He soon felt the air pressure increase, a subtle but distinct sensation in his skull and ears, and his suit grew fatter. He tugged the hose once, and the pressure eased.

  “OK?” asked Troy, his voice muted by the helmet and air.

  Bradshaw nodded.

  The rest of the afternoon continued in the same fashion, with Bradshaw spending increasingly longer intervals sealed inside the suit breathing pumped air between lectures from the captain, Berto, Troy, and the diver Charlie. A seasoned veteran, Charlie was built much like Henry, and of similar temperament. He’d only come by to pick up his pay but he stayed to participate in Bradshaw’s introduction to the science and practical knowledge of deep-sea diving.

  As Bradshaw practiced the tugging signals for both the air hose and the lifeline, which was a rope with a diameter of a nickel that was securely attached by means of an eyelet on the breastplate, he sensed he’d become a project to the Seattle Salvage Company. A goal to accomplish. A prize to be won. He was encouraged in both English and Portuguese, and Berto never once lost patience with him as he practiced the signals. He knew by heart that three slow tugs on the lifeline meant they were to pull him up.

  At half past two, the captain announced it was time to get wet. The announcement sent a flash of cold dread through Bradshaw, but Berto looked through the open window of the helmet and said, “Berto is here, Berto will send you air, Berto will pull you up. Then we celebrate.”

  And Troy’s face appeared beside Berto’s. “I’ll go down first and be waiting for you at the foot of the ladder. I won’t leave you alone for a second, OK?”

  He watched as Troy’s weight belt and helmet were attached, his hoses checked, his faceplate screwed tight. Alfonso, who had been assigned as Troy’s tender, signaled a cousin, who was already turning the wheel of a pump, and Troy disappeared down the ladder into the cold w
ater.

  And then it was Bradshaw’s turn. He clomped to the ladder with his leaden feet, the air hose and lifeline trailing behind him. The captain screwed on the faceplate, locking Bradshaw inside the helmet. Then Bradshaw turned around to descend facing the dock. A few steps down, he stopped, gripping tightly to the rails.

  The captain stared soberly through the small window and said with a raised voice to be heard through the helmet, “It will get very loud as soon as your helmet goes under. That’s normal. The weight belt will pull you down. That’s good. When you get to the foot of the ladder, let go. Berto will slowly lower you down. It’s about thirty-five feet to the bottom.”

  “Thirty-five feet?” He hadn’t thought it would be so deep. But of course it made sense. These piers were designed for large ships.

  “The tide is coming in. The depth, including the ladder, is now about forty feet. When you get down a few feet, you need to pop your ears. The pressure begins to build quickly. At thirty feet, your ears will get mighty painful if you haven’t managed to relieve them. If they pop that deep, it’s a terrible loud crack. But don’t worry. It’s normal. As you descend, yawn and swallow to relieve them and you’ll be fine. Troy is down there waiting for you. Are you ready?”

  “No.”

  “In diving, Professor, we take men at their word. Are you ready?”

  “Yes.”

  “Breathe normally. That’s the secret to diving. Relax and breathe. I’ll give you a rap on the head when it’s time to go down.”

  Bradshaw stared out the little window at the ladder rung, felt hands check his air hose and the lifeline, and then before he was ready, he felt and heard a single hard rap on his helmet.

  He didn’t give himself time to think. He began slowly chanting. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. He moved his trembling weighted foot down another rung, and he felt the water rise to his knees. Then another to his thighs, and the air flowed into his helmet and down into his suit, puffing him out. He stepped down again, clumsy both from the weight and his trembling. He stepped down again, breathing, chanting, and the water rose up to his neck, then up to the windows of his helmet, and then with the bravest step of his life, he was under.