Froelich's Ladder

by Jamie Duclos-Yourdon

  The Sergeant Major gave a curt nod. He’d seen enough in the past year to gauge the Lieutenant’s aptitude, which he’d rate on the low end of the scale. However, it wasn’t a lack of caring that made Harrison inept. He truly desired to be a soldier, even if he possessed none of the necessary attributes.

  “Isn’t it possible,” the Sergeant Major now proposed, “that you fell asleep at your post?”

  “No, sir, I never—”

  “And isn’t it also possible,” he continued, “that Miss Josephine decided to go for a walk? Or, what does she call it—a lunt? Lunting?”

  Harrison shook his head, as if to prevent the word from gaining purchase. “I don’t know anything about that. Like I said, I knocked on her door and she was gone.”

  “Perhaps you’re concerned about getting in trouble. I think it’s time we had a talk, Harrison, about the importance of telling the truth—”

  Upon hearing a bump, they both reacted simultaneously, the Sergeant Major arresting his thought and Harrison glancing up the stairs. Typically, Miss Josephine had a light footfall—heavier if she were wearing riding boots. This sound had been ponderous, like the canter of a horse. It was followed by another, and then another, the sound echoing from the turret above.

  “Harrison,” said the Sergeant Major, his eyes never leaving the stairwell. “You’re quite certain the room was empty?”

  Opening and closing his mouth, the lieutenant stammered, “I—I—”

  “Get men. Be quick.”

  “How many?”

  “Three. Do it now.”

  He was gone and back in a matter of seconds, with three amiable recruits at his heels. They were unarmed, pulled from their training exercise, and for that the Sergeant Major was grateful; in such a confined space, a bayonet could be lethal; never mind the damage that a bullet could inflict.

  Leaving the forlorn lieutenant at his post, they bounded up the stairs. The young soldiers stalled when they reached the door—kicking and slapping with their palms, until the Sergeant Major was able to force his way through. He hadn’t visited Miss Josephine’s quarters since she’d moved in. Initially, she and Myers had shared accommodations, an arrangement that no sensible person would’ve brokered. Once provided her own space, she’d seemed to be more contented. Doubtless, she’d found the turret room cozy enough, what with her mementos and collection of books. The Sergeant Major had meant to ask her for a recommendation, in fact—something that Clara might’ve favored, not knowing for himself what a girl might enjoy.

  “Miss Josephine?” he now called through the door. “Can you hear me, Miss Josephine? Are you there?”

  When there was no reply, he tried peering through the keyhole. The Sergeant Major could see the window frame, opposite the door, its view obscured by clouds. The room was rounded, with no feasible place to hide. Still, he could hear a vague scuffling noise, as if someone were moving just beyond sight.

  Then he saw a figure that approximated a man, with deranged eyes and a hideously long beard. The fiend was nude, with skin the color of chaw spit, sunken cheeks, and a hairless crown. His shoulders and back were spattered with bird droppings. And though he was hardly more than skin and bones, his limbs were grotesquely long.

  Horrified, the Sergeant Major fell back on his haunches. If Miss Josephine was inside, then her life was in peril. Possibly she was already injured, having been silent for so long.

  “No one goes in there,” he rasped, as the three other soldiers helped him up. He saw panic in their eyes, a desperate longing for his trademark assurance. Instead he ordered them, “No more pounding on the door. You do nothing—just make sure that nobody leaves. Do you hear me?”

  Rushing down the stairs, he passed the lieutenant on his way to the postern gate. The young man started, lost in thought. It made the Sergeant Major wonder: if someone had been fleet of foot, how likely was it that Harrison would’ve heard him?

  “What? Where—”

  “You stay there!” the Sergeant Major barked at him. “Just you wait!”

  As always, the view beyond the postern gate threatened to leave him breathless—the vast and untamed continent coming to an abrupt end, with only a fingernail of sand to distinguish its shore. While the wind tousled his hair and blew up his trouser legs, the Sergeant Major followed the fort at right angles until he reached Miss Josephine’s turret—little more than a ledge for him to stand upon, before the land dropped steeply toward the ocean. If the intruder hadn’t climbed up the stairs, as Harrison claimed, he would’ve had to come from this direction. Clearly, the Sergeant Major wasn’t expecting to find anything so obvious as a ladder, but it was necessary for him to check.

  Looking up, he spied Miss Josephine’s window, partially concealed by a bank of clouds. The perspective threatened to give him vertigo. From this angle, he could see where the weather had impacted the wood—the saltwater mist that drifted up from below, and the storms that arrived almost daily. What good was a fort, he thought to himself, no matter how steadfast, if it couldn’t resist one man?

  Retreating behind the fortifications, to where the wind was less pervasive, he sought out Harrison again. Grabbing the lieutenant’s shirt with his one good hand, the Sergeant Major hissed, “Don’t you dare lie to me—you fell asleep on watch, didn’t you?”

  With a look of horror on his face, Harrison gushed, “No, sir, I swear! I didn’t!”

  “Did you even check upstairs? Because someone—something—is in that room with Miss Josephine, and he bloody well didn’t fly in. So if he didn’t come up the stairs, you tell me—how’d he get in there? How?”

  Harrison was close to tears. His only response was a feeble shrug—which, insufficient though it may have been, forced them both to acknowledge the odd choreography: a one-handed man accosting a significantly taller youth. Thus anchored to the present, the Sergeant Major released his grip, absently patting Harrison on the chest. The lieutenant wasn’t lying; at least, he didn’t think he was. And despite how the turret had actually been breached, the fact remained: Miss Josephine had become someone’s hostage. Nothing else mattered.

  “What’re we going to do, sir?” Harrison whimpered.

  “Tell Myers,” the Sergeant Major replied. “Call him back from town. And, by God, you’re coming with me!”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you,” he snapped. “If the tempest rages, you’re going to get wet.”

  From above, there came the sound of a minor disturbance, followed by a soldier tromping downstairs. It was one of the three eager recruits; the Sergeant Major couldn’t tell them apart, for all their cockeyed enthusiasm.

  “Sir!” the soldier reported. “The person’s talking!”

  “Talking?” the Sergeant Major echoed. “Talking, how? What did he say?”

  The young soldier looked perplexed, not an uncommon state for the men. “I don’t think it’s English,” he frowned. “I’m not sure if—”

  At sufficient volume to penetrate the wood, and to rise above the howling wind, they could all hear the guttural reply, “Leck mich am Arsch!”

  Chapter 16

  When Frank Myers was still a young man, new to Manhattan and new to himself, he’d made a habit of buying the Times, the Herald, and the New York Tribune. How could he court opportunity if he failed to appreciate the world at large? God knows he hadn’t slogged over from Scotland to lie in a pauper’s grave. Every morning, he’d pay his two cents to the Greek at the intersection of Fulton and Pearl—a negotiated fee, the first of many.

  Today’s news?” the Greek would ask in vowels that lilted and swooned.

  “Have you tomorrow’s? It’s worth more to me.”

  “Today is tomorrow, yesterday. For half, you can have it.”

  Always, the same: for half, you can have it. Frank hadn’t known the Greek’s name, nor what sunny isle he’d hailed from, but in a city fast approaching a million he alone had recognized Frank by sight. Were Frank to have decamped for Boston, or to have enlisted in the Arm
y, no one but the Greek would’ve noticed his absence.

  But all this had changed when the Greek had been replaced. It had been a summer day, steam already rising from the pavement.

  “Where’s the other fellow?” Frank had asked the new vendor, palming his two bits. “The Greek—is he sick today or what?”

  “Dead,” the man replied. In his face, Frank could see the ruddy-cheeked youth he’d once been, now yellow-toothed and jowly. The man had done a poor job of shaving that morning, the whiskers still visible on his pale neck. “Hit by a brick, coming back from lunch. What d’you want, chum—the funny pages?”

  “A brick from a building?” Frank winked, even as his pulse had quickened. “Or struck from behind, d’you mean?”

  While he waited for the man to elaborate, two more customers purchased the news, reaching over and around him.

  “How about his boy, then?” Frank persisted, when the vendor remained mute. “I’d see him sweeping up, now and again.”

  “What about him?”

  “Shouldn’t he be working this corner? By rights it’s his.”

  “Oh, is it?” the man said, taking a step closer. “You ever hear that possession’s nine-tenths of the law? Well, this is the other tenth. Now either buy something or get moving.”

  Another customer jostled Frank from behind. He could feel his bile rising, but had somehow managed to tamp it down. “I won’t be giving you my business,” he seethed, “so I’ll get moving, instead. But before I do, let me speak the plain truth. If this is the other tenth, then you’re one-tenth the man.”

  “You get out of here,” the man had snarled, planting a hand in Frank’s chest and giving him a shove.

  It was shortly thereafter that he’d decided to move west, maybe someplace with less ornate architecture, less prone to falling rubble. Looking back on it nearly two decades later, he could see what he’d most cherished about the Greek: the sense of continuity that the man had provided. It was why, when he’d opened his second Myers & Co. Store, Frank had copied the layout of the first down to the very last detail. Apples by the entrance, pickles by the register. Cigar cases opposite the counterman, behind glass, so that he could observe the customers’ reflections.

  It was also why, before decamping from the isle of Manhattan, Frank had paid a second visit to the ruddy-faced vendor, dragging a blade across his neck and leaving him to die in the street. Another summer day, steam rising from the pavement.

  Were Frank to die today, he’d certainly do better than a pauper’s grave—but what of his livelihood, for which he’s sacrificed these many years? It would be sold off, part and parcel, with all the proceeds going to the state. If possession truly was nine-tenths of the law (as he’d seen proved out, time and time again), he obsessed over the one-tenth men and their base behavior. Deception could wear a friend’s mask, or even a business partner’s. Who would protect Myers & Co. after Frank had gone to meet his Maker?

  His niece Josie was the obvious answer, an heir to all he’d accomplished. In the absence of a son, there was no better candidate to take the reins. Josie was fair, smart, and fearless—easily superior to any boy her age. Who else would’ve come to America, sight unseen, to be received by an uncle she only knew from his portrait? No doubt she could direct his business to places Frank even hadn’t conceived of—not just the retail stores, but the lumber industry, too. What’s more, it would provide her with financial security long after he was gone. The only obstacle was a matter of identity, his and her own. The one-tenth men would surely plunder her inheritance if Frank didn’t safeguard it.

  Thus, it was with thoughts of posterity that Frank exited the bowling alley and walked toward the congregation. More than a dozen parishioners were loitering outside the Methodist church, all of them dressed in their Sunday finery—and in their midst, Judge Harper, his bald head turning a shade of salmon. Frank waved and smiled as he passed familiar faces, even receiving the occasional handshake. But he didn’t stop moving until he’d reached the circuit judge.

  “Your Honor!” he said, intruding upon some meaningless banter and causing the judge to confront him.

  “Myers,” he grunted.

  “Enriching service, I hope?”

  “Hard to hear,” the judge remarked pointedly. “The reverend had to contend with a near-constant banging.”

  “Did he?” Frank grinned. “How lucky the Lord has fine hearing! I was wondering if we could speak about the Naturalization Act.”

  “Not now.”

  “When, then? Would next Sunday be convenient? Any excuse to practice my bowling.”

  As Frank patiently awaited his reply (trying his best to appear guileless), he took note of the crowd’s homogeneity. Not a red, yellow, or brown face among them. No doubt a flock for whom citizenship had been all but assured.

  “Five minutes,” Judge Harper said, the collar of his shirt going limp from perspiration. “Next week, you practice on Saturday.”

  Satisfied, Frank nodded. “Agreed. Now, I haven’t reviewed the document myself, but I’ve spoken with a lawyer who has. He informs me—”

  “By law, a fourteen-year residency is required,” the judge interrupted him, while investigating an itch in the depth of his armpit. “Not including the five-year notice period. I don’t know when you immigrated, Myers, but—”

  “The Act doesn’t concern me. I’m curious about its provisions for children.”

  Frowning, the judge stated, “There aren’t any provisions regarding children—not that I’m aware of.”

  “Not so. The lawyer I spoke to was very clear—”

  “Foreign-born children of a United States citizen may also be considered citizens. The Fourteenth Amendment extends those privileges to anyone born inside the United States, regardless of their parents’ place of origin. The Naturalization Act details penalties in the event of fraud. That’s it—that’s all.”

  It wasn’t often that Frank found himself tongue-tied, or ill-prepared for an eventuality. As he attempted to process this new information, he was faintly aware of a commotion coming behind him, provoking the other congregants to turn and stare.

  “Children adopted by a United States citizen,” Frank recited from memory, “or children with a legal guardian—”

  “Let me ask you something, Myers.” A cruel smile spanned the judge’s face. “This lawyer you spoke to … is he formally educated?”

  “Of course.”

  “And where did he receive his schooling?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know.”

  “But you—you ’re not a lawyer, are you?”

  Judge Harper delivered this inquiry while looking over Frank’s shoulder, as did many of his coterie. Feeling compelled to turn around, Frank spotted Gordy and Gak moving toward him. The latter, in particular, looked incensed—her mouth screwed up tight, and her tiny hands balled into fists. Though Frank made obvious shooing gestures, Gak cleaved a path through the crowd, paying as much heed to the congregants as she would a herd of sheep.

  With an exasperated sigh, Frank answered the judge, “No, I’m not a lawyer.”

  “Then perhaps you’ll heed my advice. Your niece—I assume it’s Miss Josephine we’re talking about? Like you, her path to citizenship is abundantly clear. Fourteen-year residency. Five-year notice. Ensure that her paperwork is in proper order and she might be an American citizen by 1890. Who knows—maybe you’ll even live to see the day.”

  “You welched, Myers!” Gak shouted, jabbing a finger at Frank and thrusting out her chin.

  “Your Honor—” he petitioned, attempting to speak over her head. But there was no denying the obnoxious child, her fingers sticky with taffy and dangerously close to his face.

  “You’d all but lost. You know it, I know it, even the Chinamen knew!”

  Looking away from the judge, Frank registered the crowd’s titillation. It was evident in their smiles, and how they craned their necks to see. After church services, these God-fearing men and women had only their Su
nday dinners to captivate them; Gak was more entertaining by far. Consequently, she was pandering to her audience. While ostensibly talking to Frank, she also took a step back and projected her voice, so as to be overheard by the remotest pair of Christian ears.

  “Now, I won’t call you a liar and a cheat … only, you walked away from a fair contest, and that’s the opposite of fair dealing. You ducked what you had coming!”

  “What I had coming?” Frank scoffed. “There was no wager, no stakes!”

  “I may not know about running a successful business,” Gak replied, with galling humility, “or mitigating expectations, but I’m no dummy, either. When a person wins, he gets something. And when a person loses, he loses something. Also, anyone who welches is nothing more than a cheat and liar.”

  With these words of opprobrium, she reached out to brush some lint from his shirt, a gesture that received raucous applause. Aware that a response would be required, Frank quickly considered his options. Gak had insulted his station; he could, in good conscience, strike her down. From the obvious efforts she’d made to conceal her gender, the majority of the crowd wouldn’t recognize her as female—and even if they did, they’d be too cowed by Frank to voice their dissent. But what purpose would it serve, other than the satisfaction he would receive? Better to confound expectations, and be the bigger man.

  Marshaling his ire, Frank affected a grin. “I’ve been called many things in my time,” he laughed, also projecting his voice to be heard above the crowd. “Sometimes a cheat and a liar. But never a Welshman before!”

  It was funny—not remarkably so, but funny. People chortled. However, they’d been more pleased to see this young upstart deriding a successful businessman; Frank’s good humor only hampered their fun. And so, with their Sunday dinners growing cold, the assembled congregants began to disperse—and with them, Judge Harper.

  “I’ll see you next week,” Frank hollered after him, earning himself a look of reproach. “By which I mean Saturday, of course.”