1873
I did not think of myself as callous, and Wash’s comment, though said in jest, made me bristle. In fact, I was greatly concerned with the welfare of the workers and, in concert with Dr. Smith, sought ways to prevent the injuries and ailments befalling the men, especially caisson disease.
We met in his small, cluttered office near the construction site. I had previously shared my experience with slowly releasing pressure while in the vault and that it didn’t seem to be successful.
Dr. Smith scratched the top of his balding head, a fringe of hair encircling it like the laurel wreaths of the ancient Greeks. “Your symptoms were mild and resolved quickly. At that pressure, they would have been even worse if you had come up quickly.” He spread a set of diagrams of a device similar to a tube-shaped coffin with gauges and air vents. “The air lock pressure can’t be precisely controlled through a slow decompression. My idea is to build a chamber—something akin to a miniature caisson—but above ground. When workers come out of the caisson, they will rest in this chamber where air is pumped in until it matches the pressure of the caisson. Then, the air pressure would be gradually decreased.”
“It seems worth a try.” I handed back the drawings.
He proposed the idea to the board. His work was for naught, however, as the Manhattan caisson would be complete before we received the necessary approvals.
After laboratories performed chemical analysis, compressive strength, and other tests on samples, my theory on glacial bedrock was substantiated: the naturally formed concrete was strong enough to hold the massive tower. Accordingly, Wash agreed we would fill the caisson at seventy-eight feet of depth rather than risk more lives by digging deeper.
With both towers growing at a rapid rate, I hoped Wash would steadily improve as well. However, he rarely left the house. There were days he couldn’t get out of bed, his head too painful to lift from the pillow. Dr. Smith consulted with Dr. Walter Reed, a promising young doctor at Brooklyn Hospital, who had taken an interest in caisson disease.
Dr. Reed was kind to both of us and diagnosed Wash with “contractures and neurological sequelae of the caisson disease, including headache, nystagmus, and tremor.” Dr. Reed prescribed a tincture for pain and stiffness and morphine as needed. But he had no magic cure and offered few answers with regard to how long it would be before Wash could return to work or walk without a cane. We didn’t ask about the marital bed situation.
Wash suffered from a range of complaints besides the headaches, limb pains, and visual disturbances, which seemed to wax and wane like phases of the moon. But something less tangible was taking hold as well: a nervous unsteadiness, vexing in its nebulous nature and persistence. He was irritable most of the time, losing interest in his pets, keeping up with the news, or even playing with Johnny. He complained of a burning feeling in his skin and couldn’t tolerate being touched.
One morning in March, I woke at 4:00 a.m. to the smell of frying pork roll and an absent husband. Wash also suffered from insomnia, so this was not surprising. Inclined to provide whatever support my presence could bring, I slipped on my robe and joined him at the kitchen stove.
“Taylor ham?” I plucked a piece of the pinkish meat from the draining towel.
He playfully slapped away my thieving hand and nodded toward the small table and two stools. “Have a seat.” He cut more slices from the large roll, right through the muslin casing. Chaucer, a large yellow retriever he had brought back from Trenton, licked his chops and caught tidbits Wash let drop.
“Is your headache any better?” I scraped the stool over to the cookstove and continued my uninvited intrusion. I held my hands toward the soothing heat.
He answered with a small shrug as he cut slits from the edge to near the center of the round, thin slices, using his fingers as guides.
“Can I help with that?” I was fearful his poor vision would lead to a bloody breakfast.
No answer.
“Wash, this will all be over someday. Dr. Reed says you will improve over time.” The ham hissed as it met the frying pan. “Why won’t you let me help you with these simple things?”
“Three slits per slice are traditional, to help it lie flat. I find that five give a more pleasant pinwheel shape.”
Smoke curled from the pan, the room filling with a tangy aroma as the meat cooked. Wash placed the heaping plate on the table. I poured tea as he repositioned the stool. We ate in silence, the salty, crispy ham slices a treat, my unanswered question hanging in air.
Wash cleared his throat. “I’m going back to Trenton tomorrow.”
“Oh? Getting low on precious commodities?” I held up my fork with a triangle of ham. The pressed meat was a specialty of his hometown, and he could scarcely be without it.
He cracked a smile, fumbling for his teacup. “True enough. I think being around my family will help with—well, will make me feel better. And it’s time I attended to Roebling’s Sons again. My brothers outvoted me. Yours truly is now president.”
“I’ll come with you, then. And congratulations.”
“While I appreciate the offer, no thank you, dear.” He dismissed me with a wave of his hand, then looped a forefinger into the ear of the cup handle. His teacup jittered against its saucer, sounding like seashells rubbing together. “You’re needed here.”
“I guess we can get along without each other for a few days.” I rose to clear the dishes, pushing aside a pang of hurt.
“It’ll be a few months at least. Perhaps a year.” When I spun toward him, he held up his palm. “You can visit as you wish.”
“You mean, I have no say? No discussion? When you’re running back to Trenton without me?”
“Em, it’s not like that. You and Martin have things well under control here, and it’s better I go where I’m needed.”
“What have I done to deserve this?” A mixture of hurt and rage bubbled up inside me, and I struggled to maintain a level voice. “Am I not working as hard as I can to keep your world together? What do you want from me?” I crashed a plate into the sink.
“You’re taking this all out of proportion. It’s merely business.”
“What use is a family business if it tears a family apart?”
Wash winced at my comment. I should have known better than to question the very soul of what it meant to be a Roebling.
I forced words through clenched teeth. “Fine. Go. The bridge will be built, and we will start over. This is not the rest of our lives.”
He tapped his spoon calmly, carefully. There had been no hesitation in his words, no glances my way as he shared his plan. Wash had thought this all through and calculated my reaction with the same skill he did trigonometry, which infuriated me all the more. I wanted to grab the spoon and hurl it at his head.
* * *
Wash’s absence dragged on, but I made scant effort to visit him. It was convenient to blame the burdens of bridge supervision, running a home, and raising a son. Johnny was now five years old and desperately missed his father. He constantly begged to go to Trenton where he also had oodles of cousins to play with. But the guilty truth was that I rather despised Trenton, with its slow pace and nosy relatives. Furthermore, when I did visit, my time was spent not doing things together as a family but transcribing hundreds of pages Wash dictated, my hand cramping from the effort.
He had me write each step in the bridge-building process in excruciating detail, and after I returned to New York, he mailed the instructions for each step in the process as needed. The letters gave the appearance of him being in full control, with me by his side, even as we remained apart. While the bridge soared into the sky, our marriage was at its lowest point, glacier bedrock.
* * *
I tried to put myself in Wash’s place, working to keep the family business alive for future generations. After all, the bridge would be completed one day, and I secretly hoped this would be the last Roebling bridge. Letters and the occasional telegram were no replacement for simple physical presence. Despite Wash’s ailments and frailties, I missed the warmth of his body next to mine at night, the soothing sound of his voice, and the humor that would pop up at the most unexpected moment.
That summer, Wash had requested Johnny come stay with him in order to visit family, as he was too busy to come back to New York. Thus, I was stunned to receive a letter postmarked from Maine.
Dear Em,
Johnny and I are enjoying the spectacular scenery and enjoying lobster, a true delight. I can’t imagine why they believe it suited only for criminals. The waves crashing on the rocks bring our son such joy! I’ve been dabbling in oils, trying to capture the sunlight shining through waves, but the vision proves too ephemeral for my talents. Do join us when you see fit.
W
I imagined them eating lobster and painting by the sea while I labored on alone. My arms ached to hold my son, feel the salt air against his soft cheek. I crumpled the letter and fed it to the fire.
The next morning, I awoke with my arm outstretched over the cool spot in the bed Wash had abandoned. I curled my knees to my chest and wrapped my arms around them. What else could I have done or not done?
As I dressed, I ticked off the tasks I needed to accomplish. Things to do not because of my husband’s instructions but because I had determined they were necessary. I sat on my bed, wiggled my toe into a stocking, stopping midcalf. Was living happily without him simply a choice I could make? I pulled on my other stocking and my new bloomer costume, tailored by a willing seamstress.
Why should my existence, my worth, be attached to Wash?