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.”
“So you were in the caisson much too long. What happened when you got out?” I applied a new dressing, then rolled gauze around his head to keep it in place.
“Pain seared up my legs, and they fell out from under me. What felt like fire ripped through my torso and exploded in my lungs.”
The iron weight of guilt returned to the pit of my stomach. This was my responsibility. And I had failed my beloved.
* * *
Days later, Wash had grown worse. He rested in bed, pillows propping his bent and motionless limbs, knees and elbows twice their normal size, his eyes slits in his swollen and bruised face. He mumbled unrelated words from thickened lips. I held a lamp close as Dr. Smith examined him.
The doctor listened to Wash’s chest with an ear horn. “His lungs are quite wet.”
I bit my lips, my eyes burning with tears I wouldn’t allow.
“Bring that closer.” Dr. Smith indicated the lamp. He lifted each of Wash’s eyelids with his thumb and inspected his vacant stare. “I consulted with a Dr. Reed at Brooklyn Hospital.”
“Yes? What does he say? What can we do?”
Dr. Smith retrieved a syringe and vials of white powder and liquid from his black bag. “Mrs. Roebling—”
My vision narrowed; I saw nothing but Wash’s still form on the bed.
“I don’t wish to alarm you, but there’s a chance he has swelling of the brain.”
Alarm coursed through me despite his calm demeanor. I grasped the bedpost to steady myself, the blood running from my brain. “What does that mean?” I watched Wash’s chest rise and fall, the rhythm slow but steady.
“It’s impossible to say now.” He mixed a potion and drew it into the syringe. “Morphine will help him rest while his body recovers.”
While. Not if. “So he will recover? If he has this…swelling on the brain…what will happen?”
“The only thing we know for sure is that he won’t be able to work for quite some time, and certainly not in the caisson. But the worst is over. Now we wait.” He packed his bag. “I’ll stay the night with him if you wish, but there isn’t anything more I can do.”
“Thank you, Doctor. I’ll keep watch on my own.” I rubbed Wash’s puffy hand. He would want only me with him.
I lay awake next to him all night, listening to the steady rasp of his breathing. Just before dawn, his breaths slowed, then stopped. I counted. Ten seconds. Twenty. I jiggled his hand, but he remained still.
“Wash.” I tapped his cheek, with no response. “Wash!” I shook his shoulder, pounded his chest. Why had I let the doctor go? My mind whirled above me, distant, useless, but my hands worked feverishly. I tore off his blankets and shook him some more. Finally, I reached under his sleep shirt, found his nipple, and twisted it, hard. He gurgled, then coughed. After a large gasp, he resumed breathing. And I fell back next to him, my body shaking, my heartbeat thundering in my ears.
At 7:00 a.m., the doctor returned. Wash slept on, having not moved a muscle all night. Dr. Smith took his temperature, then placed the ear horn on Wash’s chest. “Good news. It’s not pneumonia. His lungs are clearing.”
“But what about…his brain?”
“Too soon to tell about that, but we have reason for optimism. I’m cutting back on his morphine. He should start to awaken.”
“Will he be in terrible pain?”
“If he is, we’ll give him a bit more morphine.”
“What can I do?”
“Speak to him. Chat about anything, really. Make him want to wake up.”
I told Wash stories about picnics and moonlit carriage rides. I spoke of our adventures in Europe and Cincinnati and Trenton. But still he slept. I spoke of the bridge, his father’s bridge, and how they dreamed of it on a ferry. “Too bad Papa won’t see it.” In a moment of cruel kindness, I added, “And perhaps you won’t either.”
Wash moaned, his eyes slit open. He looked at me, and the tiniest smile crossed his lips.
“You’re awake.” I held up his head and offered him some water.
He sipped, then pushed the glass away. “My head hurts.”
“You gave us quite the scare, but the doctor says you’ll be fine. No more caisson for you. Martin can take over.”
He pulled at his blanket and writhed as if the bed had captured him and he needed to escape.
“Wash, calm down.”
“No! Never give up!” He raised a shaky fist. “We pushed the cannon up that damn hill!”
“That’s over, Wash. I’m here with you.”
His brilliant blue eyes widened, delirious. He focused on me with frightening intensity and clawed at the front of my dress. “You don’t care…caisson…does to me.”
If a horse had kicked me, it would have hurt less. Indeed, I had urged him to go to the work site but had expected he’d stay in the caisson only a short time, if at all. I remembered his hesitance the day of the blowout, how he had looked at me oddly, as if I prized work over safety, before hobbling down to the work site. But it was worse than that; he doubted my devotion to him. His eyes darted around the room, a froth on his lips as he worked to form words.
I wrung out a washrag, wiped his face and his poor wrecked body. How did those who care for invalids do this every day? The tremble of his hand, the stiffness of his arm as I lifted it, the wild roving of his eyes, all made me tremble as well. But nurses weren’t wiping lips they had kissed, lips that accused, guided by a temporarily unstable mind. They weren’t watching the love of their lives being torn away, bit by bit.