Authors: Richard E. Crabbe
Suspension (24 page)
Tom was about as puzzled as he had ever been. Mary had a way of doing that to him.
“Tommy, I've watched you when you don't know I'm watching. I've seen you sitting in the moonlight with Grant on your lap. I know how you are with your friends. I know how you are with women. Remember that squirrel you nursed when it fell from its nest in front of your house?”
Tom nodded with a small childish kind of smile.
“A squirrel, for God's sake. You're a gentle man ⦠a man that wouldn't hurt anyone if it could be helped. I know you're no saint, and I know you can be hard when you have to be, but you're not a bad man. You're not a murderer. You aren't capable of that. I may as well ask you to live at the bottom of the ocean and breathe like the fishes. You couldn't do it.”
Tom was surprised that in some ways she knew him better than he knew himself.
“I just wanted to be sure you knew,” Tom said softly. “I needed to tell you ⦠how it happened, so you didn't hear it from someone else. And how I felt ⦠you know ⦠about what happened.”
Looking at his hand held in hers, Mary said simply, “I know.”
Ah, how skillful is the hand,
That obeyeth Love's command!
It is the heart, and not the brain,
That to the highest doth attain,
And he who followeth Love's behest
Far excelleth all the rest
That obeyeth Love's command!
It is the heart, and not the brain,
That to the highest doth attain,
And he who followeth Love's behest
Far excelleth all the rest
âHENRY WADSWORTH
LONGFELLOW
LONGFELLOW
W
ashington Roebling's study was cluttered. Piles of documents, plans, and correspondence littered his desk. Emily was starting to pack things away. Most of it wasn't needed, now that the work was nearing completion. She was sorting through the correspondence, when she suddenly remembered.
ashington Roebling's study was cluttered. Piles of documents, plans, and correspondence littered his desk. Emily was starting to pack things away. Most of it wasn't needed, now that the work was nearing completion. She was sorting through the correspondence, when she suddenly remembered.
“Oh, I forgot to tell you, Wash, I met the most interesting man the other day on the bridge.”
“Huh? Ah ⦠what was that, darling?” Washington had been bent low over the plans for the Brooklyn train terminal. Even though he had not designed it, he still insisted on an intimate knowledge of everything connected with his bridge. His poor eyesight made it difficult to make anything out of the plans before him. For years Emily had done all his reading for him. Though it seemed he could hardly breathe without her, that didn't stop him from trying to do things on his own.
“I said I met an interesting man on the bridge, a New York City detective by the name of Braddock.”
“What was a detective doing on our bridge?” Wash asked, looking up from his plans with a frown.
“Well ⦠it seems that one of the laborers was murdered,” Emily said with the hint of an apology for not having remembered to tell him sooner.
“Oh? Wouldn't think there was anything extraordinary about that,” Wash
said, turning back to his work. “Thousands of men have worked on the bridge over the years. Most have been from poorer circumstances, from neighborhoods where crime is epidemic. This can't be the first time one of our men has met with foul play.”
said, turning back to his work. “Thousands of men have worked on the bridge over the years. Most have been from poorer circumstances, from neighborhoods where crime is epidemic. This can't be the first time one of our men has met with foul play.”
“I'm sure you're right, dear, but this had a peculiar aspect to it. It seems the family of this man claims that there's something not right with the bridge.”
That got her husband's attention, and his head snapped up to stare at Emily. “Something not right?” His brows knit. “Whatever can he mean by that? The bridge is as sound as the U.S. Treasury.”
“Well, he really wasn't sure himself,” Emily said with a deprecating gesture. “It's just that this man died under somewhat unusual circumstances. With the father of the dead man telling him there was something untoward going on at the bridge, he felt he should investigate.”
More dubious than ever, Roebling scratched his head with the end of his pencil. “This detective, you mean. That's it? On the strength of some rumor? Seems a little thin. He wasn't disrupting things, was he?” Wash was more concerned with keeping to his schedule than with some far-fetched rumors of anything not being right about the bridge. He was the chief engineer. If anything wasn't right with the bridge, he'd know it, and what he knew was that the East River Bridge was perfection itself.
“Not that I could see,” she lied. Of course Braddock had disrupted things, but not in the way her husband meant. “Charles invited him to lunch with us at the Astor House. We had a lively discussion of the criminal mind. He seemed quite capable.”
“Hm. So you were rather taken with him then,” Washington said with a knowing look. Emily started to protest, but her husband stopped her. “Em. It's all right. You're a beautiful woman. It's only natural.”
“Wash, it's not like that,” she said, blushing slightly. “You know I'm totally devoted to you.”
Her husband smiled warmly. “Oh, I know that Em.” His tone told her she was being silly. He came to her and wrapped her in his arms. “I'm a believer in you, you see, a truster as well,” he murmured. “I know I haven't been a husband to you in the ⦠well ⦠in the way we'd like. It's just that I can understand if you were attracted to this man, that's all. It's natural, all things considered, and I'm stunned it hasn't happened sooner.”
Emily opened her mouth to say something, but shut it again without a word. Color rose in her cheeks.
“Don't worry about it, Em. Not another word on the subject. And as to his investigation, I don't think he'll find anything going on here except bridge-building.” With that Wash turned back to his work.
Emily wanted to say more. A part of her felt very guilty for finding Tom attractive. She knew it was bad to think that way. Even thinking that way was a betrayal, and she felt the dirt of it on her like sand in her shoes. No matter how she tried to shake the sand out, it seemed to stick, a gritty reminder of her innermost desires.
“If you see this detective again,” Wash said, looking up, “tell him we'll cooperate in any way we can, but if he has any information of malfeasance or fraud, or anything unsavory for that matter, he's to come to you first.” Wash shook a finger at her. “I don't want to hear about it in the papers, or from the board.”
Emily rolled her eyes in agreement.
“That bunch of political vultures have been circling my corpse for years. If anything is going on, I want to know about it before them. No point getting them in another dither at this late date.”
“Couldn't agree more, darling.” Emily knew very well the politics of the board. It was only because of her work and influence that her husband was still the chief engineer. “Even now I think some of them would grasp at any straw to erase the name of Roebling from the bridge. Don't worry, I'll be sure to tell him if I see him.”
M
att Emmons and Jus Lincoln were walking together up South Street. It was getting late. They had just left their meeting and thought they'd get an ale before going home. The bridge loomed in front of them, just three blocks north.
att Emmons and Jus Lincoln were walking together up South Street. It was getting late. They had just left their meeting and thought they'd get an ale before going home. The bridge loomed in front of them, just three blocks north.
“Ah dunno, Jus. You think we're on the right track with this plan?”
“Hell, Matt, I dunno. âSides, we still got some other angles we all need to talk over. Nobody said nothin' yet about how we're supposed to git out of the city.”
“I heard the sergeant say we'd work that out later,” Matt said hopefully. “Not to worry; there won't be anything undone.” He paused for a bit. “You ever notice how it looks at night, Jus?” Matt was looking up at the looming presence of the bridge.
“What d'ya mean? Looks like a bridge I guess.” Justice shrugged. He had a feeling he knew what Matt was getting at. He'd come to admire the bridge himself over the years, perhaps more deeply than he'd admired anything before. It troubled him, though, and he'd been careful not to say what he felt to the others.
“No, it's kind of like it looks like something else in the dark,” Matt said, holding out his hands as if to frame it. “Like it changes with the light. As if it turns into a ghost ship or somethin'.”
“Ghost ship! That's a good one, Matthew.” Justice chuckled. “Where you come up with that?”
Matt shrugged, a little abashed at letting that notion spill out. “Don't know. Just thinkin' is all.”
The bridge towered over the ships, masts, and rigging of the waterfront. Little waves slapped unseen against hulls and docks in the moonlight. Rigging creaked, and a small chorus of squeaks and groans sang like wooden bullfrogs as hulls rubbed against pilings and bumpers. The moon was sliced by the masts and struck a shimmer off the arc of the bridge's main cables, glimmering ghostly down the stays. The granite of the towers, solid as the mountains they came from, was gray and blackâimmovable. But the bridge did seem to move in the dark. It swung across the blue-black waves that the moon had brushed with silver. It scudded across the heavens, sailing the clouds as the stars wheeled overhead. Matt recalled seeing an eagle once, perched at the top of a tree, stately in its potential, ready to row the air with massive wings and leave the earth behind. The bridge seemed like that to him now. For a moment, they both stopped and looked at the thing they had helped create.
“You know, sometimes I can't believe I helped build it,” Matt whispered almost reverently. A breeze blew in off the harbor, carrying the smell of salt and fish and tar. A piano tinkled somewhere back in the city. “It's been a long haul. Lotta water's run with the tides since we started. Just look what we done.”
“Gonna make one hell of a splash,” Jus said with a tone that Matt couldn't really identify. Was there some regret in it?
Matt Emmons glanced at his friend. The moon behind him made his face seem a black hole in the night. “Suppose it will.”
“That's gonna be a day to tell the grandkids about,” Lincoln said with a studied neutrality to his voice. “How we paid the Yankees back so's they'll never forget.”
“Ain't gonna be just the Yanks not forgetting, Justice,” Matt said with a touch of worry. “Gonna be the whole damn world. It'll be in the papers in Europe inside of a couple days. Hell, I bet it'd be in Chinese papers inside a week.”
“We're gonna be famous, Matthew. The world's gonna know who we are and what we did.” Lincoln sounded more pleased with the prospect than he really was.
“That's what scares me, Jus. No place to hide for the likes of us. They find out who we are, and we'll be runnin' our lives away. Ain't gonna be any rest for us after this.”
“Oh, I don' know, Matt. Could still go down South America. Got some
countries down there, so lost, you can't find yourself.” Lincoln didn't relish the thought. “Got some hellacious senoritas, boy ⦠make you forget the day you was born.” He dug an elbow into Matt's ribs. They both laughed but it was an uncertain, hollow laugh, from the mouth and not the heart.
countries down there, so lost, you can't find yourself.” Lincoln didn't relish the thought. “Got some hellacious senoritas, boy ⦠make you forget the day you was born.” He dug an elbow into Matt's ribs. They both laughed but it was an uncertain, hollow laugh, from the mouth and not the heart.
“Wouldn't mind forgetting some,” Matt said. He thought for a moment, scratching his head. “You know, we need to say something when we do this, Jus.”
“Say somethin'? What do ya mean?”
“The world, the North.” Matt spread his arms wide. “You know, tell why.” Their motives were so well known to them, almost a religion, that the notion of explaining why they blew the bridge hadn't even been considered. They had all just assumed that it would be as clear to the rest of the nation as it was to them, all except Matt.
“You mean ya don't think they'd know?” To Lincoln, who had lived with their motives all these years, it was crystal clear.
“Justice ⦠think about it. The war's been gone for eighteen years, an' Gettysburg was near twenty years ago. There's lots of folks that never knew what we know. You think they teach in schools up here what a tyrant Lincoln was? You think they care that our rights were spat on by the federals? You think they teach how our rights to property and liberty was ground under heel? Hell no! You figure they teach their kids how they stole our slaves an' turned âem against us, stole our property, burned our farms, killed our stock, and fired our crops?” Matt looked at his friend. He could see the understanding in his crooked face. “I don't think so. No, they've been busy rewriting the past. The victors write the history, Jus, an' we're on the short end of that stick. We got to say somehow why we did it. They need to understand. Ain't gonna do any good without the world knowing. Sure it'll hurt Roebling, but it ain't enough.”
Lincoln and Emmons walked on in silence for a moment, Jus chewing over the idea as they walked. Finally he said, “You talk to any of the others about this, Matt? 'Cause I think maybe you should.”
“I guess. Won't nothin' come out of it. All that work and risk, an' everything, and the world will just think we're crazy is all. And you know something? If I was them, that's what I'd think too. I'll bring it up at the next meeting, see what everybody thinks. You with me, Justice?”
They had turned from South Street, up Peck Slip, but by word unspoken hadn't gone toward Paddy's. Instead they went right at Water and up the short block lined with small warehouses to the clapboard building at the next corner. The Dover Street Bar, as everyone called it, was near a hundred years old, and the building was showing its age. Years of settling had canted the windows
this way and that, and the clapboards waved and buckled, their dark red paint flaking with the salt air. The ale and porter were good here, though, and the liquor wasn't watered too much. It did a pretty brisk business. They were just about to go in the front door when Matt hesitated. From this angle, the bridge soared almost over their heads, and the towers stood tall in the river like dominoes in the darkness.
this way and that, and the clapboards waved and buckled, their dark red paint flaking with the salt air. The ale and porter were good here, though, and the liquor wasn't watered too much. It did a pretty brisk business. They were just about to go in the front door when Matt hesitated. From this angle, the bridge soared almost over their heads, and the towers stood tall in the river like dominoes in the darkness.
“I'm gonna be a little sad when she goes, Jus.”
“Know what ya mean. Ain't gonna be another.”
They stood at the corner, looking up. The noise from inside the bar suddenly washed over them as someone came out the door, releasing a welcoming blast of smoke, laughter, and stale hops. Justice looked over at Matt and with a grim grin said, “Hell, let's go have a beer.”
M
ary ran a discreet but active business. Through the small hours of the morning, Tom would wake to the sounds of sex. Giggles, moans, grunts, and rhythmic noises filtered up from the rooms below on an hourly basis. Sleep was difficult. Tom had slept and dozed on and off for two days and pretty much had his fill of sleep anyway, but sleeping while hearing the things he did was next to impossible. His imagination was working overtime. Tom found himself trying to picture Mary's girls and guess which one it was who made that little-girl squeal, or the quiet whimper, or the sultry moan. His thoughts turned to Mary and when he finally fell asleep at 4:00 A.M., it was she who slipped into his dreams, languid and yielding.
ary ran a discreet but active business. Through the small hours of the morning, Tom would wake to the sounds of sex. Giggles, moans, grunts, and rhythmic noises filtered up from the rooms below on an hourly basis. Sleep was difficult. Tom had slept and dozed on and off for two days and pretty much had his fill of sleep anyway, but sleeping while hearing the things he did was next to impossible. His imagination was working overtime. Tom found himself trying to picture Mary's girls and guess which one it was who made that little-girl squeal, or the quiet whimper, or the sultry moan. His thoughts turned to Mary and when he finally fell asleep at 4:00 A.M., it was she who slipped into his dreams, languid and yielding.
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