“Oh, yeah? Who?”
“If you’ve got so many, maybe I can borrow one. Who’ve you been seeing, then?”
Mae cleared her throat. “Danny?”
“Foye? What’cha been doing with him?”
“I like Danny Foye! Anyway, he’s nice to me.”
“Of course he is—he thinks you’re easy!”
Mae hefted a plaster cherub and hurled it in her direction, to be followed by one humpbacked camel and then another. For her part, even as she was avoiding projectiles, Josie immediately regretted the inference. Not so much an inference, even, as slander. If Danny enjoyed Mae’s company, if he thought that she was pretty or kind, who better to empathize than Josie? But once a thing had been said, it couldn’t be unsaid.
“So what if he does?” Mae shouted, after exhausting her arsenal. “At least it’s not unnatural!”
“Yeah? What’s so natural about being groped?”
“You know what I mean,” she hissed. “At least it’s not a sin.”
“Oh, so you’re a nun now? Tell me, Mother Superior—when do you plan on being wed? Because if it’s sin you’re after—”
“What if we did? Huh? What if we did wed? Then I’d be Mrs. Danny Foye—and you’d still be an abomination!”
More words had been spoken after that, more accusations levied, but Josie couldn’t recall the details. After being labeled a miscreant, she’d found herself trapped in the moment. Since then, she’d replayed their altercation many times, and it never improved, nor had they been able to remedy their friendship. Perhaps, had they remained on speaking terms, she might’ve reconsidered her decision that morning on the quay. Perhaps the lure of America wouldn’t have seemed so great—the eccentric uncle and the chance to reinvent herself. Or perhaps not; it was unfair to speculate and impossible to know.
Either way, Josie hadn’t been welcome at home anymore. If her row with Mae had been traumatizing, there weren’t words for the schism between her and her mum. For some reason, Josie had never worried about her parents finding out. Maybe she’d been too heartsick to care, or else she’d been in denial. It had been a Tuesday afternoon; she could remember because she’d just got back from the chemist, renewing her da’s prescription. When she’d walked though the door, angling for a hot cup of tea, she’d seen her mum standing inside the living room, her hands knotted tight. How long had she been there, staring at the door? Josie’s first thought had been mistaken—that she’d been expecting her da, who must’ve done something wrong. But when her mum had barreled straight toward her, swinging her fists like mallets, her intent had been clear.
“Harlot!” she keened. “Strumpet!”
“Ow, Mum, you’re hurting!” Josie shouted back, trying to protect her head. The coat and scarf she’d yet to remove provided some cushioning. “What’re you on about? What’s all this?”
“I just hosted Father Quinn, who got an earful from Moira Canby. I’m sure I’m the last to hear, save for your poor father—he’s still down the pub. Would that he’d stay all night, and spare himself the trip back.”
“What, Mum?”
By this time, Josie had escaped the narrow confines of the parlor and had placed the dining room table between them. Both women had been red-faced and breathless, standing before their respective table settings.
“Mae confided. She was scared to bits, Moira said—scared that Danny wouldn’t have her. Can you imagine that? A little s—t like Danny Foye, saying no to someone? Moira would’ve said as much, I’m sure. But she’s got blinders when it comes to our Mae.” Impersonating Mrs. Canby’s nasal inflection, Josie’s mum whined, “Won’t have you? Why not? What makes him so high and mighty, that you’re not good enough?”
In retrospect, it should’ve been obvious. But Josie seized on previous misdemeanors, instead—novelties that she and Mae had stolen, and petty lies they’d told. The painful reality of their falling out was like an abscess on her memory.
They’d been stationary for long enough that her mum got a second wind. Slowly, like a jungle cat, she began to circle the table, and Josie matched her step for step, always keeping its full diameter between them. With each slow revolution, they passed the assigned seatbacks for their Sunday dinner: Mum, Da, Josie, Father Quinn; Mum, Da, Josie, Father Quinn.
“Corrupted,” her mum sneered. “Interfered with. Can you imagine those words in the mouth of a priest? Moira told Father Quinn, and he told me. You preyed on Mae—not once, but habitually. He said the Devil makes you do it. He’s seen it before—when he was assigned to the Carlisle parish, and Dumfries. Young girls who’d fall sway, and spread their defilement one at a time.”
Her fury had reached its pinnacle, white blotches appearing on her otherwise tomato face. Meanwhile, her eyes were as black as coal. Without question, she would’ve caused Josie lasting harm, had she drifted within reach.
Lucky, then, that Josie continued to move, even while a general numbness pervaded her body. For Mae to have said those things to Mrs. Canby she must’ve been protecting her interests. She would’ve received the same tongue-lashing, if not the lick of the belt—and who could have guessed what Father Quinn would require, by way of penance? All this for Danny Foye. What a sad, strange consolation he made.
“A man of the cloth!” Josie’s mum thundered. “Sitting in my house, at my table—saying these things about my daughter! I wish I’d died, Jo—that Jesus could’ve delivered me then. But no, I won’t be spared so easily.”
“Mum—” she said, but that was all.
“Go—get out. I don’t care where, but I won’t have you here. I’m liable to commit an even greater sin.”
Finally she stopped moving. Staring down at the cherrywood table, the candles all herded together in its center, her mum made an effort to collect the stray wisps of her hair—her complexion slowly returning to normal, with the exception of her lips, still puckered and white as a polar bear’s arse. At that image, Josie snickered. Sweet, blessed Mae. Even now, her voice in Josie’s ear.
“Get out! Out!”
And so she’d gone from that place. Josie had already grown accustomed to wandering the streets of Edinburgh, though the circus procession still remained in her future. Now, when it occurred to her that she couldn’t go home, she’d quashed the thought down—walking, always walking, with her hands buried deep in her pockets.
It had been past suppertime when she’d found herself at The Hog in the Pound. Just as her mum predicted, her da had still been there, though he’d been oblivious to any turmoil at home. Nor had any of the regulars been wise to her plight. Making way, they brought Josie a glass of bitters when she slumped at his table. Who could’ve guessed what would become of her, had she not lied? A convent, perhaps, or a one-way ticket to London. Rather, she inveighed herself on her da’s sympathy—his poor, stricken daughter, betrayed by her best and only friend in the world, all for the love of a boy. She’d even invoked Danny’s name without vomiting.
On the beach, Josie pressed the heel of her palm against her eye. Her da, of course, was still in Edinburgh. So was her mum, and Mae—even Danny Foye, she presumed, would be living the life that he’d previously known. Everyone of consequence had stayed behind, while she, Josie, had been exiled. But whose fault was that? She hadn’t been banished, so much as she’d fled. Looking back on her decision, she experienced a frustration so great that it bordered on mania.
Like a rambunctious pet, the Pacific wind pawed at her, and whipped the sea foam into a froth. Holding her stockings away from her body, Josie watched as they wriggled. It made her think of her once-capricious spirit—like the night of the Saint Andrew’s dance, the last time she’d felt happy. Somehow, that memory remained pristine, unsullied by all else to follow. When released from her grip, her stockings made a quick escape, frolicking down the beach more carefree than Josie had ever been. C’mon, Jo! they seemed to say. Come and be merry! Skipping and traipsing, only grazing the sand, they hastened away. Hastened toward the Logging Camp.
>
Chapter 11
Morning had become afternoon, and the day brutally hot.
How long had they tarried on that road to the coast? Minutes? Hours? No other traffic had chanced upon them. Eventually, the driver had started to collect flies, and the horse had grown skittish. Even then, Gordy and Gak had failed to rouse themselves, neither acknowledging their surroundings nor each other.
For his part, Gordy was thinking of the letter that Gak had produced—the envelope from Colorado. What news had it contained, he wondered? Had its sender made a successful life for himself in that virgin territory, or was he burdened by unpardonable crimes? The letter itself lay somewhere among the others—past the inconvenient body in the road, and the terrible mess they’d created.
They might’ve lingered indefinitely were it not for the sound of the church bell. Upon hearing the chimes, they both raised their heads and made inadvertent eye contact. The sound was distant, but distinct; on and on it went, like a summons to judgment. Without uttering a word, Gordy and Gak stood. Pointedly, they didn’t look at the driver, nor did they borrow his horse and carriage. All they carried with them was Gak’s bag of provisions: the rock candy, taffy, and jerky.
Thus, they shambled along, remaining at arm’s length and hardly ever speaking. In short order they arrived at a town, laid out on opposite sides of a wide thoroughfare. The first thing Gordy observed (aside from the passing resemblance to Boxboro) was the preponderance of flat land. Clearly, they’d left the forest behind, as the continent now gently inclined toward the sea. Second, he noticed that it was eerily quiet. Even the insects were hushed.
“Where’s all the people?” Gak asked, plunging her fist into the bag of preserved goods. Her voice sounded hoarse from lack of use.
When Gordy ignored her, preferring to walk in silence rather than maintain the illusion of comity, Gak answered her own question: “Is it Sunday? Maybe they’re in church.”
Even in 1871, after statehood, gold, and Indian sequestration, it wasn’t uncommon to find deserted towns. Whole communities could collapse with little or no warning. But here, all the buildings were pristine, and the boardwalk had been swept of animal tracks. Also, there was the sound of the church bells to explain, still ringing in their ears. As they walked past an all-too-familiar Myers & Co. Store, the road hooked sharply to the right.
Rounding the bend, Gordy was startled by a loud crashing noise. Gak raised her eyebrows. “That didn’t come from no church.”
Then they heard it again—not quite as momentous as before, but still an awful din. Continuing along the loping curve of the road, they ultimately arrived at a cul-de-sac. There, to their left, was the town’s church, big enough to receive an entire congregation. (Indeed, from inside they could discern the cadence of a sermon.) Though the air was oppressively hot, its doors remained closed. Standing adjacent to the church was another building, equally large, but without any signage to designate its purpose. Its doors stood open.
“I guess—”
This time, the crash was so loud that they both leaped with fright. It came from the second edifice and was accompanied by a manic shouting: a single voice, though the words were unintelligible.
No sooner had Gak and Gordy landed on their feet than a man came out the door and striding toward them—the owner of the voice, slight of build, with curly red hair and pale skin. He was wearing pants and suspenders to match Gordy’s own, though the man’s cuffs reached comfortably past his ankles, with a high polish to his shoes.
“You!” he cried. “Lad! May I solicit your assistance?”
Gordy touched his sternum. “Me?”
“Yes, you!” With a smile, the man turned to Gak and apologized, “It’s heavy lifting I require—I’m sure you’re twice as sharp. I say, is that taffy you’re eating?”
“What?”
“Saltwater taffy—is it taffy in your bag?”
“Maybe?” she replied, clutching her sack. “So?”
“So, it must’ve been purchased at a Myers & Co. Store. No one else stocks it north of Sacramento.”
Taking note of the man’s accent, Gordy asked, “Is someone in trouble? Do they need help?”
“That depends on your meaning,” the curly-haired gentleman replied. “How do you define trouble? Or help? And whosoever constitutes someone?” Failing to explain himself any further, he spun around and stalked back inside. Though they waited for another crashing sound, the tumult (and cursing) seemed to have stopped.
“We don’t have to go in,” Gak said, the aforementioned taffy now plugged in her cheek.
“Do you know who that was?” Gordy murmured. “It’s Francis Myers.”
“You’re sure?”
Without further comment, he started toward the building. A not-small part of him wished he could proceed alone—that Gak would stay behind, or find her own way. Every time he looked at her, he could feel the weight of the bludgeon, as if it were still in his hands. But he hadn’t walked five feet when he could hear her in tow: the dry-leaf sound of her sack, and her jaw furiously working.
Once inside, they were initially disoriented by the waxed floor, like stepping onto an icy pond. The hall itself was long and high-ceilinged, with a half dozen lanterns strung together at the end.
“If I may be so bold,” Myers inquired of Gak, calling over his shoulder, “where did you make your purchase? Was it here, in town?”
“Purchase?” She frowned. Then, remembering her saltwater taffy, she answered him, “Huntsville.”
“Huntsville—I see. And how would you rate your experience there?”
“My what?”
Pausing halfway across the long hall, he turned to face her. Frank Myers didn’t look like the richest man in Oregon, Gordy thought, but what would that look like? Proprietor of all the Myers & Co. stores, as well as Myers & Co., what he didn’t outright own had been constructed with his lumber. Here was someone who could speak to fame and wealth, and he only seemed interested in Gak’s snack.
“Did you find everything you were looking for?” Myers continued. “Was the Huntsville counterman courteous and polite? How about the aisles—would you call them orderly and clean? Would you go back a second time? Or is it already your Myers & Co. Store of choice?”
“It’s a store,” Gak firmly stated. “It was fine.”
Myers snorted. “Better than fine, I hope. I’d like to think that when a person enters a Myers & Co. Store he—or she—can expect a rewarding experience, and that that expectation will be honored, whether in Bend, Salem, or even Huntsville!”
“What is this place?” Gordy asked, trying to insert himself into their conversation.
“We tried playing by natural light,” Myers commented, turning away again. “But the shadows made a muck of it. Also, we were constrained by daylight hours. I’d like to have lamps installed—incandescent, like I saw last year on a visit to France. Truly awe-inspiring. And you—do you have a name?”
“Gordy,” he said.
Glancing down at Gordy’s feet, Myers observed, “You’re not wearing any shoes.”
It was a rather odd comment to make, like acknowledging one’s forward-facing head. At a loss for words, Gordy simply shrugged.
“No bother!” Myers declared. “I can loan you a pair.”
The opposite side of the hall had the benefit of being better illuminated. (Gordy could see where windows had been boarded shut, both cut into the walls and high above them on the ceiling.) The air was more acrid here, closer to the ambient glow, but they were better able to scrutinize their surroundings. The floor had been divided into two lanes, each one roughly three feet by sixty. At the terminus of each lane, where the lantern light was brightest, were two ghostly wedges, each formed by ten pegs and overseen by an attendant.
“What is this place?” Gordy asked a second time.
Handing him a pair of shoes, Myers gestured at the lanes. “Have you never bowled before? It’s a game—for sport! The object is to knock down as many pins as yo
u can.”
“But … why?”
“For sport!” he repeated, grinning like a shill. “I had the alley built last winter—before that, they used the space for cattle auctions. Lord knows, I’ve tried to get the townspeople interested, but there’s no luring them away from church and industry. Those two I hire by the hour,” he said, indicating two Chinamen, who stood motionless in the shadows. “But they won’t play against me, either.”
“You called us here … for a game?”
“What could be more natural? What say you, Gordy—join me in a contest?”
The novelty of this proposition caught him off guard. Inhaling the gas lamp’s poisonous fumes, and with sweat trickling down his back, he was stunned by the frivolity of Myers’s offer. Not more than an hour ago, Gordy had killed a man, all thanks to Gak. And now he was being invited to bowl? What sort of grotesquery was this? Homicide in the morning and sport in the afternoon?
“Sure,” he said, succumbing to the strangeness of it all. With some effort, he squished his feet into Myers’s proffered shoes. Gordy hadn’t worn loafers since the occasion of Harald’s funeral, and the feeling was akin to a horse being shod.
“Those look a mite small,” the Scotsman commented, after Gordy had taken a mincing step. “Still, it’s better than falling on your arse. We can share a ball. Hopefully, your fingers will fit.”
“My fingers?”
“I had it custom made—I have fine digits, you see. Young lady, may I suggest that you sit over there?”
At that, Gordy and Gak both froze. Gordy’s hands, already slick from heat, began to sweat even more profusely. Would he be required to murder Myers, too? And what about the Chinamen in Myers’s employ—must he dispatch them, as witnesses to a crime? He couldn’t spend the rest of his life protecting Gak—who, even now, was staring at him, her eyes wide, the weight of her secret a burden between them.
Seemingly oblivious to their discomfort, Myers directed Gak to a wooden bench, then selected a bowling ball from a nearby shelf. The orb was dark as shale and the size of a person’s head. Observing Myers’s tensed arm and the strain upon his face, all Gordy could think of was wielding his bludgeon.
Froelich's Ladder Page 9
