Froelich's Ladder

by Jamie Duclos-Yourdon

  “Allow me to demonstrate the proper technique. As you can see, there are three holes, here.” Cradling the ball in the crook of his arm, Myers poked his thumb and middle fingers into the openings, balancing the ball with a look of intense concentration. “Employing an underhanded motion, the bowler rolls the ball toward the pins. I suggest that you aim for the head pin. Lad, are you listening?”

  “What?” Gordy blinked. “Yes—of course.”

  Facing his lane, Myers exhaled. With two broad strides, he approached the leftmost wedge, swinging his ball in a pendulous arc and releasing it no higher than his ankle. It glided down the lane at a predatory speed and met the pins with resounding force. The sound was so loud that Gak inhaled her taffy.

  “The two and seven pins remain standing,” Myers observed while thumping her on the back. “With my next bowl, I shall attempt to convert a spare.”

  As the attendants rushed to retrieve the pins, Gordy inquired, “Is it always so loud?”

  “A person gets used to it.”

  “Isn’t it dangerous?”

  Myers appeared confounded by this statement. “Oh,” he said, acknowledging the attendants. “You mean for them? Yes, I suppose so. But I’ve made them partial owners, in the event that we open to the public. Maybe you’ve heard the term sweat equity?”

  “No,” Gak scowled. “Maybe you’ve heard the term no-good huckster?”

  The younger of the two attendants fetched the ball—steering it with his feet, and rolling it back down the lane. When he caught Gordy’s eye, he gave a polite smile, then sprinted back to the remaining pins, where he assumed his position.

  “Now, on to unfinished business,” Myers decreed.

  Just as before, he took three long strides in the direction of the pins, released the ball, and admired its progress. This time, it whispered past the rightmost pin, which abruptly launched itself into the air and collided with its counterpart.

  “A baby split!” he shouted. Then, composing himself, he confided in Gordy, “I’d be even better with some practice—it’s so inelegant, having to rely on a spare. However, I did score ten points, plus the value of my next roll. Each turn consists of two rolls, ten turns total. Do as I do, and see if you can’t enjoy yourself!”

  Copying Myers’s grip (a wholly unnatural three-finger pinch), Gordy found the ball to be much lighter than he expected. Mindful of his longer gait, he took an additional step back from the release point, began his motion, and swung his arm—the ball coming loose in midair, resulting in thumb-popping pain.

  “Careful!” Myers scolded him. “You’ll hurt the finish!”

  “Sorry—it got stuck.”

  “Maybe don’t stick your finger so deep,” Gak said. “It ain’t plum pie—you ain’t Jack Horner.”

  “You could do better?”

  “I couldn’t do worse!”

  Stalking across the floor with the bowling ball still cradled in his arms, Gordy hissed at her, “You and me aren’t chummy, Gak, so why not keep your advice to yourself?”

  Scowling, he returned to the top of the lane and nodded to the attendant. This time, he used only his fingertips, guiding the ball in the direction of his target (rather than throwing it). The results were much improved: the ball went forward, though it failed to connect with any of the pins. Instead, it veered to the right and struck a protective cushion, producing a muffled thump.

  “Can I go again?”

  “Yes, of course. Take as much practice as you like.”

  “So, what?” Gak interrogated their host, finding her voice again. “You invite people over to bowl, then quiz them on their favorite Myers & Co. Store? What’re you doing here, anyway? Ain’t it a bit humble for a millionaire?”

  If he was offended by her glibness, Myers didn’t show it. “Oh, we don’t live here. We reside at Fort Brogue, courtesy of the Sergeant Major. I only come down here for sport.”

  “Fort Rogue, you mean—like the river?”

  He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “No, not like the river. Fort Brogue.”

  “You ever bowl with any famous people?” Gordy asked, trying his best to sound blasé. “How about Johnny Appleseed? You ever meet him?”

  “Chapman?” Myers sneered. “Before my time. A total buffoon, from what I’ve heard. Walked around in rags, preaching the gospel.”

  Gordy frowned, hugging his ball. “Johnny Appleseed. Most famous man in America? You can read about him in books.”

  “Let me tell you something,” Myers said, raising his reedy voice. “There’s little difference between fame and infamy. You know who I am—yes, you do, don’t pretend. But my name’s been in the papers only once, on the day I was born. It’ll appear a second time on the day I die, but not under different circumstances. Money means discretion—fame is the opposite of that. If you have to choose, take the money.”

  “So,” Gak said, after a lengthy silence. “Not a fan of apples, then?”

  “Hardly. The world’s a better place without him.”

  “Johnny Appleseed’s dead?” Gordy gasped.

  “In the ground these six and twenty years.” With a shooing gesture, Myers encouraged him to bowl again.

  Feeling appropriately chastened, Gordy concentrated on his next turn. With improved accuracy and force, he was able to strike the pins and subject the attendants to greater risk. And yet he wasn’t nearly as good as Myers. He hadn’t knocked down a plurality in a single try, and his aim was dubious at best. It seemed important that he impress his host—that he acquit himself well, if not actually win.

  “Remind me, again?” he said. By now, he was drenched in sweat, his narrow shoes squeezing the arches of his feet. “Two rolls per turn, ten turns total?”

  “That’s the gist of it,” Myers agreed.

  “All right, then, let’s go. Age before beauty, I always say.”

  Myers wiped his hands and retired to the lane, where the attendants were finished organizing the pins. Patiently, he waited for them to withdraw, or perhaps he was more focused on his impending bowl. When he did finally move, all the joints and levers of his body operated in harmony. The ball traversed the lane without making a sound, the pins dispersing like geese off a lake.

  “Huzzah!” he shouted, jumping up and down and thrusting his fist in the air. “A strike! Ten points, plus the value of my next two rolls! Your turn.”

  Gordy accepted the ball with grim determination, managing to knock down three pins on his first try. But before they’d even come to rest (the foremost pin still spinning in the lane), he was loping to where the attendants waited—waving them over and exchanging a few words. It only lasted a moment, after which he retrieved his ball and resumed his position.

  “One moment, lad,” Myers said. “They haven’t reset the pins yet.”

  “I told them not to.”

  Before he could object, Gordy went again. This time his ball collided with the foremost pin, horizontal on the floor, driving it into the wedge. The seven remaining pins were swept aside—aided, in no small part, by his first turn.

  In the resulting silence, Gak was the first to speak. “That’s a spare, ain’t it?”

  “It certainly is not!” Myers blustered. “The pins weren’t reset—the turn doesn’t count!”

  With the confidence of someone who’s checked his math twice, Gordy reminded him, “That’s not what you said. I asked, two rolls per turn, ten turns total? And you said, ‘That’s the gist of it.’ That’s what you said—you didn’t say anything about resetting the pins.”

  “Ten points,” Gak repeated. “Plus his next roll.”

  Myers appraised Gordy, his empty hands flapping at his sides. It seemed the Scotsman was debating something with himself. “Goodness,” he finally murmured. “Aren’t you a quick study? No matter—keep your spare. I’ll just take greater pleasure in beating you.” But his confidence was betrayed by his next roll: far wide, missing everything but the protective cushion.

  After that, the contest unfolded qu
ickly and silently. The Chinamen left the pins for Gordy, as per his request, and he went on to record spare after spare. For his part, Myers insisted on resetting the pins—and while he performed admirably, he couldn’t possibly keep pace. Finally, after scoring the seventh frame, he laid down his pencil and sighed.

  “I believe that’ll suffice.”

  “Suffice?” Gordy echoed. “What d’you mean? You’re tired of getting beat?”

  From his pants pocket, Myers produced a watch fob. “Do you know the secret to running a successful business?” he asked. “Mitigating the customer’s expectations.”

  “Say again?”

  “Reducing the likelihood of disappointment.” As if provoked by his inspection of the time, the church bells next door began to peal. Immediately, everyone clapped his or her hands over his or her ears, while the attendants started to clean up the pins.

  “So, you won’t play it out?” Gordy hollered. He felt disappointed that he’d failed to impress Myers, but even worse was the prospect of being left with Gak.

  “Not unless I feel like being humiliated,” the Scotsman confided, “which isn’t without its virtues. But I don’t, so I won’t. You should challenge my niece, Josie, if you want a fair contest.”

  “WHAT?”

  “Sorry,” Myers shouted, backing toward the entrance at the far end of the hall. “I really must go. The circuit judge is a pious man, but he never stays at church longer than is required. I thank you for the lesson, young man. And you, young lady—thank you for your honesty! The next time I pass through Huntsville, I promise to personally visit your location.”

  As they were both witness, he turned on his heel and marched out the door. Moments later, Frank’s silent partners also exited the building, the Chinamen making use of a concealed hatch. Suddenly, Gordy and Gak were alone again—the gas lamps sputtering, the shadows lapping their feet, and the bowling alley feeling like a proximate Hell.

  Chapter 12

  Were his predicament not so perilous, Froelich might’ve recommended the view: majestic trees rising from the Cascades and wildflowers blooming in swaths of indigo. Even his earache had subsided, though he’d have welcomed the pain to be back on the ladder. A day and night had passed in the ether, and thus far his efforts to reduce the cloud’s altitude (in order that he might plummet from a less injurious height) had been negligible; still, he continued to slough off a little at a time.

  Ahead, the Pacific Ocean was growing noticeably larger. Borne along by the slipstream, his cloud was fast approaching the Oregon coast—too fast, he determined. Doing some quick calculations, he reasoned that, at his current rate, he’d be over water before he was low enough to jump. The force of impact would likely stop his heart, prior to being swallowed by the sea.

  Meanwhile, up ahead and approaching at an alarming speed (or, rather, remaining perfectly still, while Froelich approached it), Fort Brogue remained invisible. All Froelich could see was a mass of clouds, and not the turret that they clung to.

  When his cloud did finally merge with the herd, the impact was gentle; Froelich only knew he’d stopped when his insides lurched. It was a temporary reprieve, he knew. Soon, his cloud would disengage and continue its westward journey. At the same time, Froelich thought, here was a chance to improve his situation. What was the worst thing that could happen to him—he might be expelled and die a little sooner? Planting both of his hands on the cloud’s downy surface, he cautiously supported his weight.

  “Farewell, my hungry friend,” he said, while crawling forth. “I’m glad not to have been your meal. In time, I hope you can flourish. But should you die, at least the weather will improve just a little.”

  Lumped together and jostled by the breeze, the herd produced a curious noise. Too atonal to be mistaken for music, it seemed less the product of the individual clouds than that of friction caused between them. The sound most closely resembled wind chimes. How had he never heard this before? Hadn’t his research been thorough enough? If he did somehow survive this experience, Froelich vowed to share his discovery with the world, either by dictating his lithograph or alerting the proper authorities. A newspaper reporter might even be interested; Froelich would be a local celebrity. The act of planning for his future gave him hope.

  Passing from one cloud to the next, he also observed a change in temperature. As he continued on his elbows and knees, careful not to compromise the gossamer surface, a window suddenly appeared in the mist. Froelich gaped at it. Without question, it was a window, replete with a frame and shutters. Had he possibly lost his mind? Even so, especially if so, shouldn’t he scamper through it, just to see what was on the other side? Presumably, anything he’d encounter would also be a product of his imagination. Nothing could hurt him that he hadn’t conceived of himself.

  Extricating oneself from a cloud was more difficult than he might’ve expected. First, he attempted a serpentine motion, then he tried thrashing. After neither technique proved to be successful, he conceded to bring the cloud with him, still adhering in clumps to his torso and limbs. Climbing over the windowsill, Froelich found himself in a bedroom that contained a wardrobe, a bookshelf, and a bed, as well as a writing desk devised from an end table and an oval rug that covered much of the floor. Clenching his toes, so accustomed to gripping the rungs, he generated a hot clutch of friction. It felt real. If he were crazy, then his toes were crazy. Also, his hips and knees, evenly distributing his weight and supported by a horizontal surface. His hips and knees, now reporting dull pains, were also crazy. That his madness would span from his brain to his heels was nice, in a way. If Froelich was crazy, it was with his entire being.

  Brushing tufts of cloud from his shoulders, he allowed them to float to the ceiling. He recognized this room from the fairy tales of his youth. After a husband and wife are caught stealing radishes from a witch’s garden, they must surrender their firstborn child in order to appease her. Here the purloined girl would age to adolescence, imprisoned in a high tower, the only entrance or egress to be made by her hair. It was cause for some concern that this room, in which he currently stood, also had a door. Since no door was mentioned in the original story, Froelich had to assume it was a contrivance of the mind. Whatever lurked beyond the sturdy wood, he had no desire to find out.

  The bookshelf featured a handful of tomes, many in Greek and Latin. Also on the shelves, as well as the desk, were mementos from the seashore: rocks, shells, and petrified wood. Girls’ clothing, arranged in the wardrobe, had been hung in orderly fashion—save for a shawl, which was tossed upon the mattress.

  Ah, the mattress: he’d been eyeing it since he climbed through the window. On its surface, he could discern the impression of a sleeping form. “What harm would it do,” Froelich reasoned aloud, “if I were to pull back the sheets? If I were to lie down with my eyes closed, say—who would begrudge me this one small pleasure? Anyone?”

  From the moment his head touched the pillow, he experienced a feeling of profound calm. The cloud had been nice, but this … this was sublime. Finally, he could ignore his aching body and narrow his thoughts to just the idea of himself. Outside, he could hear the cloud music playing, and wondered if he hadn’t actually gone insane. But who even cared? Froelich could be dead and d—ned, and it wouldn’t matter. For the first time in years, he felt at ease.

  Which made it all the more upsetting when the pounding began.

  Chapter 13

  Binx thought the ladder was going to fall. Lord John was shaking it so hard that dust was rising off the ground and leaves were displaying their undersides. And what if it did fall? Froelich wasn’t up the rungs anymore; the ladder served no demonstrable purpose. It was just a meaningless totem—and, for all that, it was extremely heavy against Binx’s back. Why not let it topple, once and for all?

  Just as Binx was ready to surrender, Lord John stopped—still holding onto the rungs, though his attention had been diverted elsewhere. Binx could hear it, too, now that the rumbling had diminished and the tre
es had stopped their quivering: the sound of someone whistling a tune. He recognized the song as one of Miss Sarah’s favorites.

  Lord John bit his lip. Releasing the stiles, he took a step back from Binx, the ladder already ten times lighter.

  “Does she know about Froelich?” the Rübezahl asked. How he knew that Miss Sarah was a woman was a mystery, but Binx wearily nodded his head.

  “She brings him lemon cakes,” he said. “Even though he never comes down. Gordy and I eat them ourselves.”

  “Then you mustn’t tell her,” Lord John instructed. “Do you hear me, lad? She mustn’t know that he’s missing.”

  Disinclined to argue or even to care, Binx ignored him. The prospect of yet another conversation weighed on him—having to feign interest in Miss Sarah’s words, and duly reply to her inquiries.

  Lord John took a step back, to better inspect the stiles. “I’ll climb the ladder,” he said, his face pinched with concern, “just high enough to conceal myself. You relay anything of significance via TAP. When she’s gone, alert me and I’ll come back down.”

  Miss Sarah was drawing near; Binx could see flashes of her white apron through the veil of leaves and wondered if she had any food.

  “Do you hear me, boy?”

  “Yes, I hear you!” Binx snapped. “Get on with it already, why don’t you?”

  Taken aback by his brusqueness, Lord John started to say something, then thought better of it. Instead, he walked around to the other side of the ladder and started to climb. Groaning under his weight, Binx inadvisably glanced up, catching a glimpse of the Rübezahl’s undercarriage.

  “Don’t forget about me,” Lord John said as he ascended to the double-rungs. “Say you won’t!”

  “I won’t forget,” Binx muttered. Would that it could be so easy.