Edison Effect, The: A Professor Bradshaw Mystery (The Edison Effect) (19 page)

He gasped, “Nah!” or something to that effect, and immediately the helmet was lifted off of him. Nothing was said as he breathed, and licked his lips, and told himself his fear was only in his mind, irrational, controllable.

He nodded, and the helmet was hefted above him again. It came down and he felt the weight on his collarbone as he stared out the small opening, like a drowning man, sucking air from a straw. He forced himself to count to ten, but when he felt them begin to bolt the helmet on, he barked, “Off!” The helmet came off again.

After the third failed attempt, the captain said, “There’s no shame in what you’re feeling. It’s unnatural to strap yourself inside a suit such as this and drop yourself into the sea.”

“You’re not helping,” Bradshaw growled.

The captain laughed. “You want to keep trying?”

“Slowly.”

“It’s your dime. Ready?”

“Yes, but don’t bolt it yet.”

“You just tell us when.”

This time, when the helmet went on, he bore it for an entire minute. His face grew clammy, his chest tightened, but he endured it. He took a break with the helmet off, and the captain had the weight belt removed, saying it wasn’t necessary to have it on while he adjusted to wearing the helmet.

An hour later, he could wear the helmet for minutes at a time with it bolted tightly in place. But only with the little window before him open. As soon as the signal was given to one of the cousins to begin pumping air, and Captain Donovan held the round plate to the opening so that he could twist it tight, Bradshaw felt himself being locked inside, buried alive. Pure terror filled him, and his reflexes slapped the captain’s hand away. Several attempts to seal the window sent Bradshaw backwards in progress, and he begged them to take the helmet off.

“You’ve given it a good effort, Professor. Let me see if I can find another diver for you. That way you’ll have three down searching.”

Hands on his knees, Bradshaw said nothing, too consumed with breathing and calming himself to even feel the shame of his defeat.

“Captain,” said Troy, still clad in diving dress. “Let me talk to him for a minute, huh?”

“All right.” He nodded to the crewmen. “Let’s get some lunch and let the professor gather his thoughts. Berto? Could you stay with them? I’ll bring something back for you.”

“Yes, I shall be pleased to stay.”

When they’d gone, Berto positioned himself patiently by the air compressor on the scow, and Troy quietly sat beside Bradshaw. Not rushing him. The whistle of an outbound train sounded long and piercing, like a cry from Bradshaw’s own soul.

“Professor, why all of a sudden do you feel the need to do this?”

“It’s rather complicated.”

“It’s more than just finding that cigar box, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it’s more than that.”

“Is it about a girl?”

“Yes and no.”

“You’re trying to prove something to her.”

Bradshaw turned to look at Troy, at his innocent young face, at the sympathy, the empathy, in his eyes. He was a young man who’d seen a few of life’s hardships but nothing yet so terrible that he’d become bitter or resigned. Or riddled with fears. Bradshaw had, without revealing its potential dangers, explained to him the importance of finding Daulton’s box. He’d understood, accepting payment for his diving services, willing to forego any chance at fortune should Bradshaw decide to do nothing with it. To this young man who felt he must financially succeed in order to win the girl he loved, his understanding revealed an unselfish heart.

Bradshaw said honestly, “I need to do this for myself.”

Troy nodded solemnly. “If you can do this, overcome your fears and do this, then you can do anything?”

“That’s about it.”

“Then you’ll do it. I’ll help you do it. I don’t care if we’re here until midnight, we’ll get you fully into that suit and into the water.”

“Whatever I offered you to dive for me, consider it doubled.”

“I’ll take it. I wouldn’t, as a rule, because I don’t like to take advantage, but you know I’ve got my own girl trouble and every dollar helps. Now, how about we sit here and I put the helmet on you, not bolted, and we simply practice opening and closing the face piece?”

By the time the captain and his crew returned from lunch, Bradshaw could tolerate having the face piece closed for several seconds at a time, even with the helmet securely bolted. It was a horrible sensation, to be locked inside the helmet, unable to touch his face, or scratch an itch. It made him feel as if he were choking. The worst of it was being trapped. He could not remove the helmet by himself. He was trapped inside, at the mercy of others, with Berto pumping air to him. But Troy sat patiently, very near, looking at him through the glass, saying encouraging things, and unscrewing the little window at the first sign of Bradshaw’s panic.

On his return, Captain Donovan witnessed a demonstration of Bradshaw’s progress and said, “Well done, Professor. Take a break, we’ve brought you two sustenance.”

Bradshaw couldn’t eat, but he did gratefully drink the water provided while Troy ate, and they sat quietly, watching Captain Donovan and crew go about their work, preparing for tomorrow’s dive. The tight bands around Bradshaw’s wrists, meant to keep water out and air in, had begun to hurt, but there was nothing he could do about it except shake his hands to keep the blood flowing.

After a quarter hour, the captain called out, “Berto, let’s pump some air to the Professor while he learns the signals.”

The weight belt was once more strapped securely to Bradshaw, and Berto and one of his cousins boarded the diving scow. Berto stood ready, holding both the air hose and lifeline, while the cousin manned the pump, ready to turn the iron wheel that would supply the air. The captain hunkered down before Bradshaw to peer inside the open window. “Professor, Troy will close this light, and you signal to him if you want it reopened, right? Just breathe normally. There’s a valve on the side of the helmet that lets the used air out. When you’re down below, that used air will leave as bubbles. If you feel like you’re getting too much air, give one tug on the hose. If you need more air, give two tugs. Got it? We’re going to practice signaling for awhile, OK?”

“One for less, two for more.”

“Those will be the same signals you give below. The helmet can hold about eight gallons of air. About five minutes’ worth. Maybe more. The suit holds reserve air, too. As you’ve noticed, five minutes can be quite a long time. Enough for a man to get himself back to the surface if he’s not too deep.”

“Is sixty feet too deep?” He glanced up at the city’s skyline. Several nearby buildings stood five and six stories tall. About as far up as the divers were going down tomorrow.

“Five minutes of air will get you back to the surface from sixty feet.”

“Am I not supposed to come up slowly from depth? I’ve read about the change in pressure causing problems, pain and sickness.” He’d seen the dive charts. At sixty feet he’d be subjected to more than forty pounds per square inch of pressure. Nearly three times more pressure than what one experienced on the surface. With only the air pressure pumped into the helmet to protect him from the crushing force. There were times when scientific knowledge was not his friend.

“We call that the bends, Professor, and yes, coming up more slowly is the usual way to avoid them. But if the air in your helmet stops flowing, that is a bigger problem. If you can stay calm and take the full five minutes to return to the surface, you’ll arrive with less pain.”

The air began to flow once more into Bradshaw’s helmet, and Troy screwed on the faceplate, locking him inside. The cool air smelled of rubber and the sea and all the mingled scents of the waterfront. Troy sat before him, diligently watching him through the glass plate.

How could he tell what was too little air? Or too much? The air flowed down his neck and into the rubber-lined suit, plumping him slightly. He tugged the air hose twice, both to practice signaling to Berto and to see what more air felt like. He soon felt the air pressure increase, a subtle but distinct sensation in his skull and ears, and his suit grew fatter. He tugged the hose once, and the pressure eased.

“OK?” asked Troy, his voice muted by the helmet and air.

Bradshaw nodded.

The rest of the afternoon continued in the same fashion, with Bradshaw spending increasingly longer intervals sealed inside the suit breathing pumped air between lectures from the captain, Berto, Troy, and the diver Charlie. A seasoned veteran, Charlie was built much like Henry, and of similar temperament. He’d only come by to pick up his pay but he stayed to participate in Bradshaw’s introduction to the science and practical knowledge of deep-sea diving.

As Bradshaw practiced the tugging signals for both the air hose and the lifeline, which was a rope with a diameter of a nickel that was securely attached by means of an eyelet on the breastplate, he sensed he’d become a project to the Seattle Salvage Company. A goal to accomplish. A prize to be won. He was encouraged in both English and Portuguese, and Berto never once lost patience with him as he practiced the signals. He knew by heart that three slow tugs on the lifeline meant they were to pull him up.

At half past two, the captain announced it was time to get wet. The announcement sent a flash of cold dread through Bradshaw, but Berto looked through the open window of the helmet and said, “Berto is here, Berto will send you air, Berto will pull you up. Then we celebrate.”

And Troy’s face appeared beside Berto’s. “I’ll go down first and be waiting for you at the foot of the ladder. I won’t leave you alone for a second, OK?”

He watched as Troy’s weight belt and helmet were attached, his hoses checked, his faceplate screwed tight. Alfonso, who had been assigned as Troy’s tender, signaled a cousin, who was already turning the wheel of a pump, and Troy disappeared down the ladder into the cold water.

And then it was Bradshaw’s turn. He clomped to the ladder with his leaden feet, the air hose and lifeline trailing behind him. The captain screwed on the faceplate, locking Bradshaw inside the helmet. Then Bradshaw turned around to descend facing the dock. A few steps down, he stopped, gripping tightly to the rails.

The captain stared soberly through the small window and said with a raised voice to be heard through the helmet, “It will get very loud as soon as your helmet goes under. That’s normal. The weight belt will pull you down. That’s good. When you get to the foot of the ladder, let go. Berto will slowly lower you down. It’s about thirty-five feet to the bottom.”

“Thirty-five feet?” He hadn’t thought it would be so deep. But of course it made sense. These piers were designed for large ships.

“The tide is coming in. The depth, including the ladder, is now about forty feet. When you get down a few feet, you need to pop your ears. The pressure begins to build quickly. At thirty feet, your ears will get mighty painful if you haven’t managed to relieve them. If they pop that deep, it’s a terrible loud crack. But don’t worry. It’s normal. As you descend, yawn and swallow to relieve them and you’ll be fine. Troy is down there waiting for you. Are you ready?”

“No.”

“In diving, Professor, we take men at their word. Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

“Breathe normally. That’s the secret to diving. Relax and breathe. I’ll give you a rap on the head when it’s time to go down.”

Bradshaw stared out the little window at the ladder rung, felt hands check his air hose and the lifeline, and then before he was ready, he felt and heard a single hard rap on his helmet.

He didn’t give himself time to think. He began slowly chanting. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. He moved his trembling weighted foot down another rung, and he felt the water rise to his knees. Then another to his thighs, and the air flowed into his helmet and down into his suit, puffing him out. He stepped down again, clumsy both from the weight and his trembling. He stepped down again, breathing, chanting, and the water rose up to his neck, then up to the windows of his helmet, and then with the bravest step of his life, he was under.

A roaring filled his ears, and as he breathed out, musical bubbling joined the roar. He had a flash of memory of another time in which he’d heard such sounds, when he’d been underwater, fighting for his life. He’d been without diving gear, wearing a wool suit purchased at the Bon Marché, in fact, tumbling in churning water. That had been Oscar Daulton’s fault, too.

He stayed in place, gripping the ladder, trembling head to toe, until he had his thoughts back under control and could focus again. There was sufficient light to see. He was only a foot under the surface. A tug on the lifeline from Berto asked him if he were OK. He loosened the grip of one hand, groped for the lifeline, tugged his reply, then continued down.

Then his foot groped for the next rung only to learn it was not there. He was out of rungs. It was time to let go.

With a whispered, “Hail Mary,” he let go.

The weight belt and lead boots pulled him down slowly and softly, and he felt the gentle, guided resistance of the lifeline, which told him Berto was controlling his descent. The noise distracted him. The roaring quality changed as he felt the pressure in his ears build. He worked his jaw and swallowed hard, trying to relieve the pressure, and just when he thought it might become painful, he heard a crack, just as the captain predicted, and his hearing cleared. Before he could blink, he touched bottom and found himself staring out his little window at Troy’s little window. Bubbles flowed up from their helmets.

Troy waved, and Bradshaw waved.

He could hardly believe it. He’d done it. He was down below the surface, breathing, anxious and excited, trembling with nerves, but not panicking. The air kept coming, and he kept breathing. He felt buoyant, literally and figuratively.

Troy tugged on his own lifeline, signaling for tools to be lowered, and Bradshaw tilted back his helmeted head as best he could to gaze up through the greenish water to the light above. Down came two long prods on a rope. They each untied one, and as they planned, Bradshaw followed Troy for a stroll. Walking proved to be easy, a bouncing, almost weightless sensation. As the captain had said, the lead weights were as nothing now. Indeed, he did sense that without them, he would bob to the surface like a cork.