Froelich's Ladder

by Jamie Duclos-Yourdon

  The air inside the smokehouse was kept artificially warm and poured out like something molten. Through the breach, Josie could see a boy approximately her own age, partially undressed and drenched in sweat. His face was the color of a turnip.

  “What’re you doing in here?” Josie asked, feeling her throat constrict.

  “I’m roasting—what’s it look like I’m doing?” When his sarcasm was greeted by silence, the boy moaned, “I’m hiding, you dummy.”

  “Hiding? Hiding from what?”

  “From those two, over there.” Pointing an index finger through the crack in the door, Josie observed a heat rash down the length of his arm. She did not, however, turn to see whom he’d indicted. “The fat one and the skinny one? If they see me in here, I’m as good as dead!”

  Her first thought was that he was exaggerating; but then the image of Danny’s face floated before her eyes, and she probed for the hole in her boot—realizing that she was now barefoot. As Josie herself began to sweat (the pores on her scalp opening up like tiny pinpricks), she thought to ask the obvious question:

  “Why not run?”

  “Because they’ll see me!”

  “Then why not stay here? Until they’re gone, I mean.”

  “You get in here,” the boy quipped. “See how you like it. If I hang around any longer, I’m gonna turn to jerky!”

  Trying to keep her composure, Josie swiped at her brow. “Then what shall I do?”

  “Cause a distraction! Go over there and get their attention. Then, while they’re watching you, I’ll sneak away!”

  “Cause a distraction?” Josie echoed.

  “Yes!”

  “No.”

  The boy frowned at her. “Why not?”

  Why not, Josie thought? Because she didn’t enjoy being gawked at, which was precisely what the men would do—wasn’t that reason enough? Or perhaps because this boy, whom she didn’t remotely know, would presume to give her orders? Or maybe because these hypothetical fellows, who would so readily cause another person harm, might not lose interest when she was done distracting them. Any one of those reasons might’ve sufficed; but instead of choosing, she asked, “What’s your name?”

  “My name?” he scowled. “Why?”

  “Because I’d like to know. My name’s Josie.”

  As the rash advanced even farther up his neck, the boy made a vile noise.

  “Gak?” Josie repeated.

  “You heard me. So?”

  “So?” she huffed. “Obviously it’s not your real name, so. It’s a common courtesy to introduce oneself—especially when asking another person for help. And why should I help you, when all you’ve done is be rude to me? Why not leave you here, to melt in a puddle?”

  It could’ve been a result of his prolonged exposure, but the boy (Gak?) had turned an even deeper shade of red. While waiting for his apology, Josie nakedly appraised him. Unwilling to remove all his clothes, he’d rolled up his sleeves and pants legs to reveal long, sinewy muscles. The bruise around his eye made him look like a bandit.

  “Gabrielle,” he muttered.

  “I’m sorry? I didn’t catch that.”

  “My name’s Gabrielle. My brother, Hollis, he likes to call me Gak.”

  “Gabrielle.” With a sharp nod of her head, Josie said, “All right—good-bye.”

  “Wait!” he shouted after her. “What d’you mean, good-bye? You’re not going to help me?”

  “No, I’m not,” Josie hissed, whipping around and finally venting her frustration. “Why should I, when you’ve made a mockery of me. Gabrielle? What do you think I am, some kind of idiot? I swear, if I didn’t think they’d hurt you—”

  “Good grief,” Gak sputtered. “It’s my name, okay? I’m a girl.”

  For a moment, Josie was at a loss. “A girl?” she said—though, once clued to the fact, it was possible to see.

  “They’ll kill me, all right? I’ll die. If you don’t do this, then I don’t know what else.”

  Whatever misdemeanor Gak might be accused of, Josie had seen how justice was meted out. She couldn’t feign obliviousness.

  “Do they know you’re a girl?” she asked.

  “No,” Gak said, vigorously shaking her head.

  “All right then … wait here.”

  Before Gak could protest, Josie had already turned and left, in possession of an idea.

  She found Harmony outside her hutch, in the same pose as before—a disheveled sentry manning her post. Befitting the early hour, she held a steaming cup of coffee.

  “You decide to earn some money after all?”

  Josie scowled at the suggestion, determined not to be intimidated. “I need some clothes.”

  The madam shrugged, absent any judgment. “What kind of clothes? I ain’t giving back your boots.”

  “Girl clothes.”

  “For you?”

  “For my friend.”

  “This friend,” Harmony said, lighting a cigarette. “Is she your body type?”

  “I don’t see how it matters.”

  Exhaling, she shook out her match. “Different clothes fit different people, differently. You want your friend to look nice? Else we can stick her in a poncho, for all it’ll keep her dry.”

  She was right, of course. Josie’s ruse would rely on Gak being disguised; to dress her in ill-fitting clothes would defeat the purpose.

  “She’s—” Thinking back to the smokehouse and Gak’s state of undress (largely concealed from sight, but not to Josie’s imagination), she attempted to do her justice. “Shorter than me, but with longer legs. Narrow hips. Not buxom, but pert—good posture, my mum would’ve said.”

  “Sounds ravishing,” Harmony smirked, picking a coffee ground from between her teeth. “This friend of yours.”

  Josie understood that she was being teased. “Spare me your humor,” she snapped. “I don’t have any money, but my I.O.U. must be worth something. Otherwise, I can buy my poncho elsewhere.”

  “No one’s taking your I.O.U., not when it’s plain to see you ain’t staying. Don’t pretend elsewise.” Giving Josie a once-over, she added, “I do fancy your dress, though.”

  Not two minutes later, Josie was back where she’d started—differently attired, and bearing a partial wardrobe in her arms. Her tastes had run more conservative than the madam’s, but together they’d been able to reach a compromise.

  “I’m not wearing that!” Gak insisted, as soon as she saw Josie’s wares.

  “Oh, yes, you are. They think you’re a boy? Then we’ll dress you like a girl. Now take off those rags—your trousers smell like meat.”

  “Is that a bonnet? I’d rather be caught dead!”

  “Isn’t that the idea?” Josie thrust Harmony’s laundry through the crack in the door. “Look, if you want my help, here it is. But don’t think I’ll spend another minute arguing.”

  Just then, the dinner bell rang. Gak stripped off her remaining clothes without another word and stepped into the dress. In the dim confines of the smokehouse, she looked like a trussed bird: naked, pink, and hopping on one foot.

  “What’d you trade it for, anyway?” she said.

  Averting her eyes, Josie stammered, “Clothes—my clothes.”

  “You traded clothes for clothes? Why not gimme yours instead?”

  “Because yours smell like bacon. Hurry up!”

  But Gak was having some difficulty with the buttons, unaccustomed to this type of garment. “Who’d you get it from?”

  “Does it matter? The camp’s madam.”

  “Harmony? You mean these clothes belong to a whore?”

  “It’s not the outfit that makes the woman,” Josie sniffed, opening the door and tugging on her wrist. “Or haven’t you heard?”

  Together, they broke into a trot. The uneven ground pummeled Josie’s naked feet, making it difficult to run— exposed roots assaulting her arches. For her part, Gak seemed too preoccupied to notice, running with a skirt bunched around her thighs.

 
The shouting began before they’d made it twenty paces:

  “Hey, you!”

  Immediately, she recognized the voice. It was Carmichael, who’d struck the initial blow to Danny’s ankle, and Nantz couldn’t be far behind. Without bothering to confer, the girls ran even faster.

  “Slow down, you two! We jus’ wanna talk!”

  They could hear the sound of plates and utensils being dropped, followed by indiscriminate steps. It was like being stuck in a terrible dream, where Josie was running as fast as she could, knowing she was bound to be caught. They made it another twenty paces before a wheezing mass of gentility blocked their path.

  “Couldn’t you hear me? I said, slow down.”

  Like she’d thought (just like she’d known), it was Carmichael—grimacing and panting, his dinner napkin still tucked into his collar. Next to him, no worse for wear, was Nantz.

  “Tell me, Nantz,” Carmichael said. “Did I, or did I not, ask them nicely to wait?”

  “You did, Carmichael,” Nantz replied.

  “Did you hear me say it? For them to wait?”

  “I did. I could hear you plain as day.”

  Having established this fact, Carmichael peered into their faces—smiling, for all his benign toothiness, like a feral animal. Through her panic, Josie felt a small measure of relief that Gak had consented to wear a bonnet. With her short hair concealed, much of her would-be masculinity had been transformed. Even the bruise around her eye was hard to distinguish, given the unnatural flush of her skin. But the way that Carmichael was staring at them, nothing could be certain.

  “You,” he said, rudely poking a finger in Josie’s face. “Danny’s missus. What’s the matter with your friend? Why’s she all red?”

  “Leprosy,” Josie answered, the lie taking flight so fast there was hardly time to think.

  It was the first and only word she’d spoken to the Confederates, relying on nods and shrugs the last time they’d met. And what a word it was: Nantz leapt back, as if the syllables themselves might be infectious. But Carmichael only clucked his tongue.

  “Nah,” he murmured. “I’ve seen it before, at a colony outside Baton Rouge. It don’t look nothing like this.”

  Josie was prepared to defend her falsehood when Nantz commanded in a hoarse voice, “You … say something different. Say something again.”

  “What—” she stammered.

  “I knew it!” Snatching the dinner napkin from Carmichael’s neck, Nantz yelled, “You’re Irish, ain’t you?”

  “Actually,” Josie frowned, “I’m not.”

  “Oh, yes, you are—don’t be lying!” Dancing an agitated jig, he somehow seemed both delighted and distraught at the same time. “Where’s the rest of you? Where there’s a Irishman there’s bound to be scores!”

  Only here, in Oregon, would Josie have to differentiate between Ireland and Scotland. Despite everything else, she felt a desperate loathing for all things American—a loathing so urgent, in fact, that she was about to correct his mistake when Gak found her tongue:

  “You said it!” she hollered. “Irishmen everywhere! In the bushes—in the trees! But mostly above you, in the trees!”

  She was making an effort to disguise her voice, sounding high-pitched and squeaky. Not that it really mattered. The content of her message (if not the delivery) had been sufficient to spook the two men, such that they tripped over each other’s heels, eyes wide and heads tilted back.

  “Do you see ’em? I can’t see ’em!”

  “They’re in the trees, Carmichael! Oh, it ain’t right—I only just got dry!”

  “And leprechauns, too!” Josie added. For this embellishment, she garnered a stern look from Gak—though why it should be any more or less preposterous, she couldn’t guess.

  “Leprechauns, Nantz! Protecting their gold!”

  “I only just got dry!”

  “There’s one on your shoulder!”

  When Gak failed to specify whose shoulder, each man assumed it to be his own. As they alternately slapped and pawed at each other, Josie and Gak slipped away, moving deliberately at first, until they felt confident enough to run. From the diminished quality of the furor behind them, they could tell they weren’t being followed. And soon the ruckus had been lost to the trees.

  “This way,” Gak said, pulling Josie by the wrist. “Owen’ll hide us. We can stay in his caravan till nightfall, and maybe get something to eat, besides. No one’s gonna test that bear.”

  “What bear?”

  They were still running, despite the fact that they weren’t being chased. They were also holding hands—a boon to Josie, as she was stumbling in her bare feet. Gak’s palm was warm against her own. Josie felt faint of breath, exhilarated.

  “What?” Gak gasped.

  Coming to an abrupt stop, they turned to face each other. “You said something about a bear,” Josie insisted. “Don’t tell me I’m going deaf!”

  “Where’re you headed?”

  The suggestion caused her to flinch, as if this moment weren’t a destination unto itself. She didn’t want to go back to Fort Brogue, or to Uncle Francis. She only wanted to remain with Gak.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Nowhere.”

  “Me neither.”

  A pause elapsed between them. Then, as if the Confederates were still in pursuit, they started to run again.

  “I can’t believe we fooled those two,” Josie laughed. “I can’t believe it worked!”

  “I know,” Gak agreed, throwing off her bonnet. “Lucky for us you’re Irish!”

  Chapter 22

  Froelich was stumped. A full day had passed since he’d started his letter, and still he didn’t know what he wanted to say. Save for completing this chore, there’d been little else to occupy his time, confined as he was to his solitary cell. He’d slept, he’d read, and he’d sat with his legs crossed. But no matter how he’d distracted himself, the letter still needled him.

  It seemed abrupt to open with his departure from the ladder, almost childlike in its bluntness, so he cast about for harmless platitudes. How are you? How’s the weather? Somehow, questions such as these, asked for the sake of asking, seemed more offensive. Surely there was a happy medium to be reached, between bombast and bromides? Staring down at the mostly blank page, he hummed along to the sound of the clouds.

  Dear Harald,

  That was all he’d managed so far. He’d wavered on the “Dear” part; even now had misgivings. As inspiration, he tried to imagine his brother opening the letter, ripping the envelope with a look of stern concentration. How would he feel, when he first recognized Froelich’s handwriting? How did Froelich want him to feel? It was as good a place as any to start: determine the emotion he meant to elicit, and work backward.

  The truth was, it was impossible to imagine Harald opening the envelope when there were no envelopes to be found. Not on this end table that doubled as a writing desk, not under the mattress, or tucked among the bookshelves. Anyway, who would deliver it, provided that Froelich could locate an envelope? And how would he address it? To the large man standing underneath the very tall ladder?

  Stabbing his quill in the inkwell, he rose from his chair. The turret room (which he’d come to think of as his own) wasn’t ideally suited to pacing, given that it was small and circular, and yet he engaged in this futile exercise—crossing to the door, where he confirmed for the umpteenth time that nobody was peeking. Meals, Froelich had discovered, were delivered twice daily, once in the morning and once in the evening, discreetly left outside his door. He didn’t question this arrangement any more than he’d questioned riding on a cloud; indeed, some things were best left unexamined. It was midday, hours yet until his dinner would arrive. Thinking of eating, he was suddenly reminded of an incident from his youth—and, just like that, Froelich had found his platitude.

  Stalking back to the writing desk, he took up his quill and added:

  Do you remember Hermann the pig? I haven’t thought of him in years—how h
e used to follow us around like a dog, and how we called him Hermann the pig-dog. Poor, old Hermann the pig-dog—I wonder what’s become of him. (I don’t know why I asked that; we both know what’s become of him.) Do you think he pined for us when we left? Probably not. He probably spent his days contentedly, like the mindless creature he was.

  I was specifically thinking of the time you fed him streusel kuchen, and the awful mess he made. Do you remember that, Harald? He was no fool, Hermann the pig-dog—he knew you’d share your dessert with him if he badgered you enough. We should’ve called him Hermann the pig-badger! I still recall the sounds that he made, following you all around the farm and even inside the house. And, oh, the mess—the mess that he made—when you finally gave him a bite. Do you think it was the cinnamon that roiled his stomach? Or the cloves? I’d never seen a pig with diarrhea before, and hope never to see one again. But the sight of you cleaning up all that mess, with a rag in one hand and your kuchen in the other—

  Smiling, Froelich replaced his quill in the inkwell. He hardly expected streusel kuchen to be served with his evening meal, but the memory had caused him to salivate: the delicate balance between savory and sweet, especially when the recipe called for chopped walnuts. Wondering if Harald ever ate so well under-rung, Froelich’s thoughts turned to Lotsee, and immediately he felt a stab of resentment. In his mind he could picture her, as beautiful as when he’d first seen her. For too long, he’d fought the urge to say something—to utilize his TAP to its fullest extent. Instead, he’d patiently waited for Harald’s apology. With that behind them, they could’ve traveled again! Or stayed in Oregon Country, where he could’ve been an uncle to Harald’s boys. And so he’d waited too long, his stubbornness getting the better of him.

  Froelich glared at the page. Here was something he could write: Why did you choose her over me? Yes, she was bewitching, but was that worth your brother’s love? Or did you think I sulked these many years because she chose you? Don’t be ridiculous! To imagine I’d spend decades up a ladder because of that! I’d already forgotten her name by the time I’d reached the double-rungs. But you, Harald—your betrayal I have not forgiven.