Suspension (27 page)
Authors: Richard E. Crabbe
Sullivan swayed in the cables as a gust caught him daydreaming. He tied a length of marlin about the junction of two cables, snugging it down after each turn. They'd be back up here soon, replacing these temporary knots with steel U-bolts, but that was after they “let down” the bridge. There was no way to be certain of the precise length each cable needed to be to account for the loads, grade of roadway, and elasticity of the wire. Roebling had designed a system to adjust each one of the cable suspenders individually, by attaching the end of each suspender to a cast-iron yolk that held two long bolts. The bolts were attached to the roadway beams. By turning the bolts the roadway grade and cable tension could be adjusted. That probably would be the last work he'd have as a rigger.
Another gust grabbed at his bowler, nearly snatching it off his head. If he hadn't wrapped his scarf over it and under his chin, it'd be floating down the river by now. Sullivan remembered how Farrington had doffed his hat and waved it to the crowd, back in '76. That was a man who had balls of solid brass. To take the ride Farrington had, it was a positive requirement. Once the traveler had been strung, it had been planned, as a public relations gesture, to have someone cross on it. Master Mechanic Farrington was an obvious choice, but at nearly sixty, everyone would have understood if he had declined the honor. But that wasn't Farrington. On August 25 a boatswain's chair had been attached to the traveler and preparations made for the historic journey. The
wire looked mighty thin, Sullivan recalled. It didn't seem strong enough to hold much more than a flock of pigeons. Looking out over the river, it disappeared in the distance. With nothing below but air and water, it took an extra helping of courage to consider trusting your life to it. Farrington knew the wire could support many times his weight, but this was still the first go at a crossing, and it was his ass on the line.
wire looked mighty thin, Sullivan recalled. It didn't seem strong enough to hold much more than a flock of pigeons. Looking out over the river, it disappeared in the distance. With nothing below but air and water, it took an extra helping of courage to consider trusting your life to it. Farrington knew the wire could support many times his weight, but this was still the first go at a crossing, and it was his ass on the line.
Patrick had watched, craning with the others, as Farrington swung out from the Brooklyn anchorage and started to slowly make the ascent to the top of the tower. The crowds cheered as the master mechanic rode his little seat, much like the seat Sullivan used now. If he had been afraid, it didn't show. In fact, he actually had the nerve to loose his safety ropes and stand up on the swinging board, like some sort of highwire act. It was the hat waving that Sullivan remembered. The crowds cheered themselves hoarse. Farrington became an instant celebrity.
Sullivan hadn't really appreciated just how brave an act it was until he got his job in the cables about two weeks later. At first, just being up on the anchorage made him nervous, and he didn't like to go too near the edge. The anchorage was taller than any of the buildings in Brooklyn. Looking down chimneys was something that took a little getting used to. He had seen Farrington up close that first day, and he stopped his work to look at him. He remembered thinking that maybe there was something about the man that marked him for his courage, the set of his jaw or the tone of his voice. He couldn't be sure he saw any evidence of it, but he had gone over to the master mechanic and shook his hand, saying “Hell of a ride you took, sir. My hat's off to you.”
Farrington had smiled with almost an aw-shucks kind of shrug. “Made me kind of famous in a little way. Never thought to see my picture in
Harper's.
Wasn't that grand a thing,” he said modestly.
Harper's.
Wasn't that grand a thing,” he said modestly.
“Not to my way of thinking. Anyway, just wanted to say I shook with you. You're a man's got sand, and I respect that. How'd it look from up there, anyhow?”
“Well, if you're working cable, you'll see soon enough, ah ⦠?”
Patrick had introduced himself shyly.
“Well, you'll see, Sullivan. It's a sight. From Coney Island to Jersey, it's all at your feet from the top. Nothing like it on the continent,” Farrington had said with great satisfaction. As Patrick Sullivan sat in his boson's chair high above the city, he had to admit it was a sight indeed. A gull lighted on the main cable, just a few feet away, its feathers ruffled with the wind. It turned a glassy, black eye at him, head canted to one side.
“Didn't think to see me up here, did ya?” he asked the bird. The bird said
nothing, just shifted from one foot to the other, all the while regarding him with a shining pitiless eye. “If I was you, I'd stay clear of here in a couple of months. Just one bird to another, ya understand. Might not be healthy.” Patrick looked down to his work for a moment. When he looked back the gull was gone.
nothing, just shifted from one foot to the other, all the while regarding him with a shining pitiless eye. “If I was you, I'd stay clear of here in a couple of months. Just one bird to another, ya understand. Might not be healthy.” Patrick looked down to his work for a moment. When he looked back the gull was gone.
B
roadway was crowded with carriages. Their fine teams and fancy equipage dueled for the attention of the shoppers on the Ladies Mile. The day, though a little blustery, had turned brilliant, with a sun that Tom could feel on his face and the backs of his hands. It was Mary's idea to get him out for a stroll. Though he didn't care for shopping as recreation, he enjoyed the crowds, carriages, and life of this part of Broadway. Gentlemen in top hats, starched collars, and cravats with gold and diamond pins escorted ladies in full bloom. Tight-cinched waists and wide-brimmed hats in white, peach, rose, and lavender reminded Tom of a movable garden, its flowers having slipped their roots to parade down the avenue. The sidewalks, especially on the slightly more fashionable west side of the street, were alive with strollers. They stopped to look in the windows of Lord & Taylor, Arnold Constable, J & C Johnston, and at the southern end of the Ladies Mile, A. T. Stewarts on Tenth Street. From there to Twenty-third Street was gathered the very finest collection of retail establishments in the city. With Union Square anchoring one end, Madison Square park and the incomparable Fifth Avenue Hotel the other, this was the most pleasant and fashionable place in the city to shop, stroll, and be seen.
roadway was crowded with carriages. Their fine teams and fancy equipage dueled for the attention of the shoppers on the Ladies Mile. The day, though a little blustery, had turned brilliant, with a sun that Tom could feel on his face and the backs of his hands. It was Mary's idea to get him out for a stroll. Though he didn't care for shopping as recreation, he enjoyed the crowds, carriages, and life of this part of Broadway. Gentlemen in top hats, starched collars, and cravats with gold and diamond pins escorted ladies in full bloom. Tight-cinched waists and wide-brimmed hats in white, peach, rose, and lavender reminded Tom of a movable garden, its flowers having slipped their roots to parade down the avenue. The sidewalks, especially on the slightly more fashionable west side of the street, were alive with strollers. They stopped to look in the windows of Lord & Taylor, Arnold Constable, J & C Johnston, and at the southern end of the Ladies Mile, A. T. Stewarts on Tenth Street. From there to Twenty-third Street was gathered the very finest collection of retail establishments in the city. With Union Square anchoring one end, Madison Square park and the incomparable Fifth Avenue Hotel the other, this was the most pleasant and fashionable place in the city to shop, stroll, and be seen.
Tom, still a bit unsteady, enjoyed the show, but mostly he enjoyed being with Mary. Their relationship had been an almost unnatural nocturnal affair. Between Tom's unpredictable hours and Mary's virtual round-the-clock business, they usually only found time for each other in the evenings. They had gone out, of course, to the theater and dinner. Being out in the day, with the sun and the wind and beautiful people, was a thing almost unknown to them. Tom felt as if they were somehow coming out of seclusion. Having Mary on his arm, in public, on the most fashionable street in the city, taking the air like any other couple was an unexpected joy. Though his head still had a small bandage and he favored his left side, he was surprised at how good he felt. Maybe it was just being with Mary.
He noticed how people looked at her. The women, at least those who didn't know who she was, could sometimes be caught casting an appraising eye. Tom could see the curiosity. She was beautiful. She dressed well, she obviously had money. Who might she be? Others who seemed to know exactly who she was, did their best to look right through her. Some even made a small
show of turning at strategic moments or sniffing as they passed. Tom figured their husbands were clients. He wrote them off for hypocrites, scorning the woman who provides what their husbands can't get at home. Tom didn't give it much thought, he just held Mary's arm a little tighter and smiled to the world.
show of turning at strategic moments or sniffing as they passed. Tom figured their husbands were clients. He wrote them off for hypocrites, scorning the woman who provides what their husbands can't get at home. Tom didn't give it much thought, he just held Mary's arm a little tighter and smiled to the world.
They were almost down to Union Square when Tom started to feel a little tired and more than a little dizzy.
“I think maybe it's time to turn back home,” he said with a tinge of uncertainty in his voice, as if maybe they'd come too far already. It scared him some that he was still wobbly. His old wound throbbed, setting his temple to aching dully.
“You all right? Do you need to sit for a minute?” Mary asked with a small frown.
“I'll be fine. Let's just stop, take in a store window. The head's a bit wobbly is all.” As it turned out, they had stopped in front of a children's store. The window was full of clothes on one side, toys on the other. There was an army of tiny lead soldiers, parading off to bloodless nursery battles, their uniforms shiny with new paint, their rifles not yet bent by careless little hands. Tom thought he wouldn't mind having a set of those himself, they were that beautiful. He thought for a moment of all the parading he had done during the war. Every time some general or congressman took a notion of visiting the corps, they all trotted out for a review. The bands would play, the battle flags would wave, thousands of feet would tramp together, pounding the earth with measured tread, and afterward the bigwigs would retire to brandy and cigars, feeling very pleased indeed. Tom didn't have many fond memories of parading, except at the very beginning and the very end of the war. Those parades were different; like bookends, they bracketed the experience for him, brash exuberance on one end, tearful accomplishment at the other. Real marching was like neither.
He focused again on the store window. There was a hobbyhorse, with a real horsehair mane and tail, there were cast-iron wagons, fire engines, banks, and carriages with prancing teams. There were even a few clockwork toys from Germany. Tom forgot his woozy head and marveled at the display. The child in him stole across his face, lighting his eyes and painting a grin under his broad mustache.
“Never had anything this fine when I was a kid,” Tom said wistfully. “Hell, I thought I was lucky to have an India-rubber ball.”
“I had a doll for a while,” Mary said. “She had real glass eyes, real hair too. It was red. She used to sleep with me every night.” The memory softened her words. “Even after my father started ⦠well ⦠she always slept with me.
Her name was Amanda. Wish I still had her.” Tom saw his old enemy flit across Mary's face: He tried to think of something to say.
Her name was Amanda. Wish I still had her.” Tom saw his old enemy flit across Mary's face: He tried to think of something to say.
A family appeared behind them, reflected in the glass of the window. They were a beautiful family, a perfect family, with a boy of maybe eight or ten and a girl of perhaps six. The parents beamed patiently as the children charged the window, pointing and laughing. Small noses pressed the glass. They giggled about some whispered secret and debated on which toy they each would have if they could have only one. Tom watched them from the corner of his eye. A smile crept across his face. He thought of dirty-faced Mike Bucklin.
“You know, we've never talked about children, Mary. Do you like children?” Tom asked brightly. The question seemed to catch her off guard for a moment. She had been staring into the glass at the parents behind them. Now she looked at Tom as if just hearing what he'd asked. Small wrinkles creased her forehead and were around her eyes. It was a strange look, one Tom hadn't seen before.
“Haven't given it much thought,” she said too quickly. “I don't have the luxury. I mean, with the house and all, I haven't ⦔ She paused for a moment. “There's that ⦠and then ⦠well, then there's what I am.”
“What do you mean, âwhat I am'?” Tom asked, knowing what she meant but challenging her notions.
“You know very well. My ⦠profession,” Mary said, as if any fool would know, and he was a fool for asking.
“What's that got to do with liking children? I mean, you either like them or you don't,” Tom said, not giving it up, part out of stubbornness, part from the resentment of her tone. He never did care for anyone using that tone with him, not even Mary.
“Tommy, for a smart fella, sometimes you can be so thick,” she said, shaking her head at him, exasperation clear in her tone. “You sure that knock on the head didn't shake something loose?”
“Pretty sure. Still don't see what your ⦠job has to do with liking kids or not,” Tom said, not realizing how deep this was cutting.
“Tommy, I'm a whore and a madame,” Mary said, too loudly. “I sell sex for money. That's why I can't even think about children. It's not that I ⦠well I'm just
not â¦
”
not â¦
”
Tom looked at her, surprised at the sudden play of emotion, swirling and eddying about her eyes and mouth.
“Jesus, Tommy, I
want
to but I
can't,
” she said, her words part exasperation, part plea. It was a hopeless, sorrowful tone that sank into him, fanning out like a shot of cheap whiskey, except it wasn't warm, not warm at all. The family, he noticed, was suddenly gone.
want
to but I
can't,
” she said, her words part exasperation, part plea. It was a hopeless, sorrowful tone that sank into him, fanning out like a shot of cheap whiskey, except it wasn't warm, not warm at all. The family, he noticed, was suddenly gone.
Tom looked at the glass, seeing nothing, not even their reflections. He knew this was a turning point, a fork in the road. But these sorts of things never came when he was ready. He wanted to shout at whatever fates had conspired to bring them to this. It wasn't time. His head hurt. The sidewalk moved when he walked. What was he supposed to do? He needed time but there was none. He had to do something, and he knew that what he did right now, right this instant, would ripple through his life in sunlight or darkness.
“Mary,” Tom said, reaching for her hand. He turned to face her. The crowds on the sidewalks, the clatter of the carriages on Broadway, the sunny, blustery world around them, faded, growing quiet as if the world listened.
“Mary.” He saw the dampness on her cheek, the sadness around her eyes, his old enemy. He reckoned then that he wouldn't mind whipping that old ghost through all the years that would be.
“Mary?” He pulled her to him, and for an awful instant he thought she would resist. But she came to his arms on Broadway, on a sunny guster of a day, this April of '83. People stared. It wasn't proper to embrace so close, nor so long in public, not even in the park at Madison Square.
“Mary,” he whispered in her hair. “I'd make a life with you, for the rest of my days, if I thought you'd have me.” She tensed and pulled back from him. He was afraid to let her go, afraid of her eyes. But when he looked in them, he was afraid no longer.
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