“There are doctors who think it has something to do with the shape of the skull, the bumps on the head.” Tom went on.
“Phrenology, I think it's called,” Martin said.
“Yes, I think that's it. Some think it has more to do with family background, your parents and grandparents ⦠the family tree, that sort of thing. Others think it has more to do with how a person was raised, and whether they had a stable home life, religion, and such things. I don't think it's any one of those things. It's all of those things ⦠and more. The fact is that if it were any one of those things, then we'd have a pretty easy time of it. Why, we'd just have to lock up all the people with certain kinds of bumps in their noggins and murders would drop to zero.” Emily chuckled at that. “You see my point? I've seen lots of murderers and all sorts of circumstances. What's sad is how normal they are.”
“Yes, but aren't there those whose entire life has gone over to crime and wickedness, for whom the taking of a life is as nothing at all?” Emily asked. “Don't tell me you see them as decent if misguided human beings.”
“You're right,” Tom admitted. “There are men, and some women I've come across too, who use violence like a coachman uses a whip. Murder is a tool for them.” Tom realized he was pointing with his knife for emphasis. He put it on his plate. “Life for them isn't worth very much. That includes their
own. Not too many men like that, thank God. I've run up against that sort. I don't like it. Anyone who doesn't value life scares me.”
“You surprise me, Detective. You don't appear to be a man of many fears.” Martin was eyeing him with a look of open appraisal.
Tom looked at him as if he'd said something remarkably foolish. “Fear is a healthy thing, Mr. Martin. You're confusing it with fortitude.”
Martin reddened just a bit but otherwise ignored the rebuke. “I see, so you're saying that the truly brave man is the one who conquers his fears.” He turned to Emily, saying, “I count your husband as such, Emily. I would believe you to be such a man as well, Mr. Braddock, unless I miss my guess.”
Tom flushed a bit, searching for something to say. Finally he raised his glass, saying, “A toast to Washington Roebling.” Emily smiled at him over the rim of her glass. “Whose bravery is well documented.”
“You know, it was very nice of you to ask me to lunch. The food here is good too. Do you like your squab, Emily?” Tom asked.
“Oh, yes it's delicious. The Astor House still has an excellent kitchen, although the hotel is a bit passé. Nobody builds Greek Revival anymore. I do love the interior courtyard though. There's nothing quite like it.”
Tom looked slowly around the courtyard. The slanting sun slashed across it from the roofline to just past the fountain, painting it by halves in shade and light. A couple strolled its paths, and an old gentleman, who looked to be rooted to a bench in the sun, soaked in what warmth he could from it while he read his
Times
. Shrubs and scattered splashes of flowers softened and perfumed the little oasis. The fountain splashed and gurgled in a most civilized manner.
“It really is. I had heard it was nice, but didn't think it would be quite this beautiful. But I'm no judge of these things.”
“But I think you are, Tom.” Emily caught herself. She didn't want to be flirtatious, but somehow she ended up sounding so. “What I mean is that it doesn't take an extraordinary judge of beauty to appreciate a courtyard, or a garden, or a great work of art for that matter. Such things are very subjective after all, not bound by rigid interpretations, don't you agree?” she said, looking at Martin, who appeared puzzled.
“Subjective? I'm not sure how you mean that, Emily,” he said, his eyebrows knitting. “Do you mean to say that a Michelangelo, for example, is not always to be admired as a great work of art?”
“No, not that at all. What I'm trying to say is that every one of us brings something different to their view of art and beauty. You'll agree that no two people see things precisely in the same way?”
Tom wasn't sure where this conversation was going, but somehow Emily made it seem interesting to him.
“That's perhaps the wrong question to ask an engineer,” Martin said. “The currency of my work is precision. Calculations, mechanical drawings, measurements, and specifications are my stock-in-trade, easily translatable one to the other.” The engineer's voice had taken on a touch of sarcasm.
“I know that, Martin. But the end result, the thing itself has a different impact on each person who sees it. It's as if all the prior experiences of our lives color how we see things ⦠how we react to them.” She looked to Tom for support, but he wasn't sure what to say just yet. “I can guarantee, for example, that my reaction to viewing the Brooklyn Bridge would be quite different from Mr. Braddock's here. Wouldn't you agree with that, Tom?”
Tom figured he had better start thinking of something to say, though this was a subject he had no experience with. Then it came to him. “You know, you bring to mind a conversation I had yesterday with a friend of mine. He had a very different impression of the bridge than I had.”
“Oh, how so?”
“Well, honestly, I haven't given the bridge much thought one way or the other. After all these years, it's like it's part of the landscape; sort of like a tree, growing so slow you hardly notice the changes year to year, then before you know it, it's towering over the house.”
Emily and Martin looked just a shade disappointed. “And how did that friend of yours see it, Tom?” Emily prompted.
“Well, that was the interesting part. Now, I have to tell you that Sam, my friend, is not a man of letters, not having got much past the sixth grade. Nor is he one to be going to art galleries and museums on his days off. Sam's a good man, who I'm proud to call my friend, but he's generally on the plain side, if you know what I mean,”
“Uh-huh.” Martin was obviously bored with Tom's preamble.
“Well, he surprised me yesterday with his views on your bridge,” Tom said. “He told me things about it I never took the time to know, like the miles of wire in the main cables, their strength, things like that. He even knew how much each of the anchorages weighed.”
“Really, how remarkable,” Emily said. “I doubt that Charles here knows that.”
Martin looked as if he were about to quote specifications, when Tom went on.
“He remarked on its grace and the way it seems to fly across the river.” He hesitated just a second before going on, not quite sure how to say what he
wanted to. “He told me, Emily, that your husband was a sort of personal hero to him.”
“Really? Well, then, would you do me the honor of conveying to your friend our appreciation? He's more than kind to think so.”
“I will. He'll be jealous to know I've met you. But that wasn't all he said. There was one other thing that really stuck.” Tom hesitated a moment, wanting to make sure he got the words right. “It is his opinion,” he said slowly, “that to build a bridge like that was to achieve in a way ⦠well, immortality.” He could see from the looks on their faces that they were both skeptical yet pleased at the same time. He went on quickly. “Well, âimmortal' was the word he used. I think he meant that to be known for something that's so important and so permanent, that's a kind of immortality.” Tom stopped to look from Emily to Martin, judging their reactions. “Your name lives on, forever tied to the thing you created. He got quite poetic about your bridge. It was a side of Sam I haven't seen before.”
“How very flattering,” Emily said, obviously meaning it. “You see, “Charles? This proves my point. Here we have two contemporariesâtwo men of similar backgrounds. Sam is on the police force, I assume?”
“Yes. He's a sergeant.”
“There, and both see the bridge quite differently. The fact is that their interpretations do vary, and quite markedly,” Emily said triumphantly.
“I've got to tell you, Emily, that after talking with him I have started to at least appreciate the bridge more deeply,” Tom said, perhaps a bit too anxiously.
“Bravo, Detective.” Tom thought that Martin's tone was just a tad dry.
I
t had been an interesting lunch. In some ways, Tom supposed it had changed his life. If change could be measured in a man's regard for a woman, then his life had changed indeed. Tom was still humming barroom ditties on his way uptown. He felt elevated. He searched for another word, but that one kept popping back into his head. Elevated was the word for it. He knew that he wasn't of her class, but she had accepted him all the same. Charles C. Martin had too, though certainly to a lesser degree. She had asked his opinions and was interested in the answers. She had given him the feeling that what he thought mattered. In police work, of course, he was used to being listened to. Outside his world, though, he was as much subject to the rules of class and society as anyone else. In fact, in some circles, being on the force was rather looked down upon, and definitely not a social advantage. But that hadn't seemed to matter to Emily. To Tom, her not mattering mattered a great deal.
E
mmons, Lebeau, and Watkins sat together on the edge of the Brooklyn approach, their legs dangling four stories above the street. As they ate lunch, they talked about Braddock.
“I don't know, he seemed all right to me. I think we had him goin',” Matt said. “What do you reckon, Earl?”
“I imagine. Didn't seem too interested in us. I don't think he knows shit.” Earl took a big bite from his sandwich, appearing unconcerned.
“See how he got all excited to meet Mrs. Roebling?” Watkins chuckled. “He was like a hound on the scent. What the hell he would want with her I don't know.”
“I guess he was just pleased to meet her is all,” Matt said. “She is sort of famous.” Looking around to see if anyone was in hearing distance, he said, “You know, she's one thing I'm gonna be sorry about when we ⦠you know. What I mean to say is we're not out to hurt her, and it's kind of a shame thatâ” Emmons lapsed into silence. He sat with the others, looking out over downtown New York. There were no answers in sight. “She's put more into the work than her husband did as far as I can see. Hell, she's on the site all the time. When's the last time any of you saw Roebling?”
“Never seen him, except once in the papers,” Earl mused.
“So, what are you saying, Matt? You feelin' like we shouldn't do this? We all swore, you know. We swore to go through with it no matter what.” Watkins looked at Matt closely. He hoped Matt didn't want to go through with it. Maybe it would get him off the hook with the captainâsink the whole show if both he and Matt went against it. On the other hand, Matt's reservations gave Watkins a chance to appear as if he were still with them all the way. Watkins had to be careful, he knew. “You ain't backin' out now?” He was unable to keep the hint of hope in his voice.
“No, Watkins, I'm not sayin' that. I'm with you boys all the way through, whatever comes. I'm just sayin' it's kind of sad to see such a nice lady get hurt. That's all.”
Lebeau, who had been pretty quiet finally said, “Gonna be a bunch o' folks hurt, Matthew.” He threw some trash over the edge. “We hurt folks before. Ought to be used to it.”
Earl had a point. This was hardly the first time they would be hurting the innocent. It hadn't been that way during the war. But afterâwhen they started on their campaign of terror, there were plenty of innocent victims.
“Remember the trains we wrecked?” Earl said softly. “How many folks
you figure we killed or hurt in them wrecks? Hundreds, I reckon.” They all remembered them clearly. “There was Angola in â67, Prospect, I think it was, in '72, and Ashtabula in '76.” Matt and Watkins nodded. “We killed a passel of Yankees with them wrecks, an' nobody the wiser neither. Ashtabula was my favorite, I reckon.”
“If favorite is a word that can fit a thing like that,” Matt muttered. Neither Earl nor Watkins seemed to notice.
“Me too, Earl,” Watkins exclaimed. “Remember how them coaches just all toppled into that ravine, one after t'other? That was somethin'. Kilt âround eighty, as I recall,” he said proudly, looking over his shoulder as he did. “Thing o' beauty the way we done it too. Damn near froze my pecker off in that blasted snowstorm though.”
“Up in the trestle sawin' for hours. Shit, I was so damn cold, I couldn't move my hands for days.”
“Yeah,” Matt said. “Snow covered for us though. Once the train went off, they couldn't figure what made the trestle let go.” He had to admire the way the thing was done, if not the effect. “The captain had that one figured. Just some cutting in the right places and down she went with the next train.”
They all sat quiet for a while, hearing the screams of the survivors as the fires swept through the passenger cars. The potbelly stoves at either end of the coaches had dumped hot coals, starting the cars blazing almost immediately. Most of the bodies were burned beyond recognition.