Froelich's Ladder

by Jamie Duclos-Yourdon

  For Froelich, progress guided him in the direction of Boxboro, which, at the time, consisted of a gristmill and a general store. At first, he only visited to acquire supplies, but soon he was inventing reasons to stay. On a humid night, he might linger by the general store and drink from the proprietor’s flask. When homesteaders passed through, he’d portray himself as the mayor and stand upon whatever stump was tallest. Or if a different mood possessed him, he’d scale the nearest tree, brandish his hairless a—, and moan like a woebegone ghost.

  At the same time, Harald was striving the opposite direction, driving himself deeper and deeper into the woods. The Very Big Tree hewed a path to Lotsee’s meadow, wherein one day she was hanging her laundry out to dry. When he stumbled through a clutch of boysenberries she spun around, startled by the sound of his glottal invective.

  Harald had yet to see Lotsee for himself, having relied on Froelich’s description. At first glance, she was lovely. More than lovely—Lotsee was stunning. Harald was old enough to have known the caress of a woman; indeed, had he remained in Germany, he might’ve taken a wife already. But despite his impressive stature and his experience with the fairer sex, Harald was a shy individual at heart.

  Cowed by Lotsee’s beauty and mindful of his brother’s claim, he took a good, long look then retreated to the woods. Soon thereafter, he regretted his decision to flee. He couldn’t casually return to the meadow, which meant he’d lost a day’s work. Worse yet, he’d failed to introduce himself! He hadn’t even said hello! Instead, he’d hollered obscenities. Of course, Lotsee didn’t know he was Froelich’s brother; Froelich hadn’t introduced himself yet. But whenever they did meet, she’d assume that Harald was crude and uncouth, if not a little touched in the head—a first impression that galled him to the bone.

  Out of embarrassment, he neglected to tell Froelich. Some days had passed since their last correspondence via TAP; what Froelich didn’t know, Harald decided, wouldn’t hurt him. Additionally, he resolved never to utter another word to Lotsee—not the next time he saw her, nor ever. With any luck, she’d mistake him for a deaf mute.

  The next day, when he returned to the meadow, the Very Big Tree was awaiting him … and so was Lotsee. She’d been attired in sensible clothing the day before, while conducting her chores, but now she wore a skirt and a blouse, and her hair (modestly threaded with silver) was arranged in a fastidious plait. Harald studiously avoided eye contact, busying himself with the rung at hand.

  “Do not pretend you cannot see me, when you are standing in my shadow.”

  Harald froze, his shoulders tensed.

  “Fine, then.” She shrugged. “Pretend.”

  Lotsee crossed the short distance that separated them. When she sashayed her hips, the motion was like wading into deep waters.

  “I know who you are,” Lotsee said. “You are Death. You look as I expected, but it didn’t stop me from being afraid. Had you beckoned to me yesterday, I would have gone with you willingly. I would have greeted my ancestors in the afterlife and endured their chiding. ‘What, child,’ I can hear them saying, ‘did you really expect him to take a bride? When the sun shines down from the sky, is that for you, too?’”

  Glancing at her sideways, Harald made no indication that he was able to understand her, nor that he’d even heard her. When she drifted closer, he could smell the lilac water on her skin. He was terrified he’d miss the chisel with his hammer and smash one of his fingers.

  “When you left,” Lotsee continued, “I was relieved. I was so happy to be alive! But soon I became irritated. Why did you not beckon to me? Was I not good enough for you? Then I looked down at my clothes—pants, like a man. My face, hands, and feet covered in dirt. That night, I talked to my ancestors again. I told them, ‘Death thinks he can ignore me, just because he walks between the raindrops? You tell Death I would rather kiss a toad!’ And here you are. So I ask you, Death—do I look better?”

  Rather than acknowledge her, Harald coaxed a shape from the wood, a mound of sawdust growing at his feet. But Lotsee would not be ignored. Leaning forward and cupping his chin with her palm, she turned his face to her own. Thus compelled, he looked at her—truly looked at her. Immediately, his mouth filled with praise, everything from German poetry to American slang. He could imagine sharing a future together, one that didn’t include Froelich: native daughters with matching plaits, and a raised ceiling for Lotsee’s lean-to. Determined that he not voice these ideas, Harald pressed his lips together and shut his eyes.

  Grunting at his intransigence, Lotsee walked behind his back and addressed his profile, the long expanse of the Very Big Tree laid out before them. “You are making a ladder?” she said. “Where will you take it, when you are finished?”

  Her questions (and his inability to answer them) made him feel stupid. Opening one eye and then the other, he continued to work, chiseling twice as hard and twice as fast. Shavings floated on the breeze, coating his chest and shoulders. Though he was facing straight ahead, all he could see were Lotsee’s eyes—not brown, as he might’ve expected, but gray like goosedown.

  “It’s a wedding present,” he abruptly informed her. He didn’t mean to ruin Froelich’s surprise, but there it was.

  Lotsee’s response was curious. At first she stiffened, but then she made a resigned sound, as if this were something she had already expected. Lightly, she placed her hands over his. Harald didn’t know how to receive her touch. He looked everywhere but directly at her. Sawdust clung where it had alighted on his beard, making his neck itch. When she urged him to his feet and pulled him, step by step, in the direction of her lean-to, he was unable to resist. She was radiant and indefatigable. She was intended for his brother, but she had chosen him.

  After their tryst had begun, Harald made a modest effort to contact Froelich. Over the next few days, he sent polite inquiries via TAP and even walked a short distance along the Very Big Tree, but he never pursued his brother as far as Boxboro, unwilling to stray from Lotsee’s company. She and Harald spent nearly all their time together, caressing each other’s bodies when they were within reach and gazing at each other when they were not.

  Finally, once Harald had resigned himself to the inevitable consequences, he freed the finished portion of the ladder from the Very Big Tree. He left a considerable portion of the timber unmolested—nearly four hundred meters, by his estimate. If Froelich had intended the ladder as an engagement gift, Harald’s thinking went, he might abandon his proposal upon discovering it missing; then the lovers could reveal themselves in the fullness of time. Employing a system of ropes and pulleys, Harald dragged it to the edge of the clearing, whereupon he’d constructed an enormous fulcrum—also carved from the Very Big Tree, and nearly his own height. To Harald, it looked like a giant doorstop. Using this device as a wedge, he was able to erect the ladder, such that it could stand against the fulcrum without any assistance. At Harald’s best estimate the stiles were seventy meters tall, gently wobbling like a newborn fawn.

  It was breathtaking to behold—but that’s not what Froelich saw when he emerged from the woods. What he saw was Harald and Lotsee, standing together in the shadow of the latticework. It was a scene of perfect contentment: Lotsee resting her head against Harald’s chest, his arms wrapped around her, the two of them entwined like a solitary figure. It was enough to make Froelich retch, and so he did.

  Before Harald could speak, Froelich had fled back to the woods—all the way to Boxboro, where he got terrifically drunk. Harald knew better than to pursue him. Froelich would return when he was good and ready. Whether he’d provoke a confrontation, or laugh about the affair, Harald couldn’t say.

  The next morning, when Harald quit Lotsee’s bed, he went to inspect the fulcrum. He’d dreamed of stags during the night and planned to emboss the unfinished wood. But when he touched the stiles, he felt a curious vibration, like a TAP conversation already underway:

  —my own brother, as if it weren’t bad enough. But for that swine to betray me, th
at duplicitous, bovine Judas—

  Froelich? Harald said, rapping his knuckles against the ladder. Are you up there?

  —me, who saved him from a life of boredom and hog s—t! Who loved him first among all men, even myself!

  Looking up, Harald could see nothing. Froelich had climbed so high that even the soles of his feet were no longer visible. Circling to the other side of the fulcrum, Harald grasped a rung in either hand, briefly considering his own ascent. But he was concerned that two men (one significantly larger than the other) might be too much weight for the ladder to bear. So instead he said, Froelich, come down.

  No—I’d rather stay up here. Go enjoy your freedom, why don’t you? Go and pick some berries to shove in your stupid mouth.

  I will not, Harald replied. And because they were communicating in outsized gestures, he rashly contributed one of his own. Positioning himself opposite the fulcrum, with knees bent and shoulders hunched, he pulled the rungs toward him, straining with all his might, until the full heft of the ladder was leaning against his back.

  What was that? Did you move the fulcrum?

  Indeed I did. Now you can punish me for as long as you like, Harald vowed, his arms trembling from the effort. I will not move until you come down.

  Then you’ll have to wait a very long time, Froelich retorted. Which was true: Harald would wait there all day long, while Lotsee marveled at his stubbornness. Could Death himself be as obstinate as a Deutschman? The summer months waned, passing into autumn, and gradually a full year elapsed. In time, thanks to Lotsee’s persistence and ingenuity, Harald’s sons were born—also spaced fourteen months apart, the second of whom would leave him a widower. For the next seventeen years he would patiently wait, until a chance accident would take his life—and even then Froelich would stay up the rungs.

  But now Harald muttered to himself, “A very long time is no time at all.” Realizing he’d spoken aloud, he repeated the sentiment via TAP, flexing his knees and patiently waiting for Froelich’s reply.

  Chapter 3

  It was a June morning in 1871 when Froelich disappeared. Dawn had erased the stars from the sky, and a rosy shoal of clouds was swimming toward the coast. Not until he woke did Binx, the younger of Harald’s two sons, first notice a difference.

  The ladder was light against his back. Yawning, Binx examined this sensation. Even without ballast, the ladder continued to move, its stiles tilting in the breeze as a result of natural elasticity. But this morning it vibrated with uncommon vigor. As he experienced a muscle spasm under his right shoulder blade, like the fluttering of a trapped bird, Binx assured himself that Froelich was still asleep, safely anchored by his elbows and knees. This was a plausible explanation; he had good reason to believe it. And yet … something felt different. Even as he was slow to wake, Binx remembered how it normally felt when Froelich was sleeping. He remembered how it was supposed to feel.

  Fully alert now, he considered his options. Gordy was due shortly with breakfast. Still, that left minutes to kill, if not longer. So on this morning, just like every other morning, Binx braced his hands against his knees and supported the ladder with his back. He tried to construe its weight not as a burden but as a comfort. Despite his suspicion that he was talking to himself, he relayed a message up the rungs:

  Froelich, he said, I’ve been meaning to tell you. The other day, Gordy came around with a feather he’d found. He said he didn’t know what bird it belonged to, but it must be huge, this bird, since the feather was twice as long as his arm. I didn’t tell him it was a frond—just an ordinary deer fern, you see? I said it was a condor feather—and he believed me! I said you’d seen them nesting in the double-rungs and that he should look out for bird poop. He hid under the wood tarp, he was so scared!

  It was a fabrication, meant to provoke a response: Gordy knew the difference between a leaf and a feather. Gordy could fix a wristwatch, play a game of chess, and even speak a little German. People only treated him like a dunce because of his bare feet and his drawl, and Gordy was disinclined to correct them. Better some kind of fool, he always said, than any kind of threat. That was all well and good, but for someone as large as Binx the connotation of being stupid was most unwelcome. Anyway, the tarp had blown away the previous summer. They’d been using damp logs ever since, knowing how the smoke must irritate Froelich, and how there was nothing he could do to stop it.

  Binx wasn’t delusional—he knew that no one was listening. Still, his uncle had been a constant presence since before he was born. When they were kids, Binx had made Gordy practice TAP with him, so he could someday communicate via the ladder. They’d pounded their feet on the schoolroom floor while their teacher droned on about history and math. Even after Binx grew too large for the schoolhouse and had to wait outside on the lawn, Gordy had relayed information by stomping his heels. Not long after turning sixteen, when Binx had replaced Harald under-rung, Gordy also quit school, claiming to be bored and determined to become famous. But Binx had known the truth: without his brother to provide basic services, such as cooking and cleaning, Binx wouldn’t have lasted a week. The ladder was balanced in the center of the meadow, far removed from any amenities, and Binx could not avail himself beyond arms’ reach.

  Since there was nothing better to do, he resumed his weary banter:

  What’s the weather like, Froelich? I’d ask if you can see rain, but that joke never gets old, does it? Surprise—you’re all wet! Hope you weren’t eating! Or reading! Or sleeping! Hey, you know what else is funny? Rot. These pants are practically falling off my body. It’s not so bad during summertime, but have you ever tried mending your own clothes? Try holding a piece of hair between your thumb and finger and stitching a seam—that’s what it’s like for me! Better yet, try having a conversation with a piece of wood.

  By the time Gordy arrived with their breakfast, the better part of an hour had passed. “Morning, Binxy,” he said, failing to acknowledge his brother’s despondency. Gordy was dressed for town, from his bowler cap to his red suspenders. The only thing missing were socks and shoes.

  “I hope you’re hungry,” he continued, “because Miss Sarah has labored under that assumption.”

  In his hands, Gordy was carrying a tidy parcel. When he unwrapped the linen napkin, Binx saw it contained bacon, eggs, and bread, as well as a jelly jar of lard. As was her habit, Miss Sarah had provided a triple ration: one for Gordy and two for Binx, commensurate with his size. It was a tempting sight, to say the least, and Binx’s stomach rumbled again, but a fleeting detail nagged at him.

  “You went all the way to Miss Sarah’s farm? Why not Luther’s?”

  Gingerly placing the eggs on the ground, Gordy stoked the fire and grinned. “That’s a good question!” he said, picking a fleck of dirt off the bacon. “I can see the early hour hasn’t affected your brain. Me, I get some of my best ideas before it’s even light out. A darkened sky is like thinking with your eyes closed!”

  The smell of rendered lard was making it hard to concentrate. Still, Binx persisted: “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “Didn’t I? What was the question again?”

  “Miss Sarah’s farm. Why’d you go all the way—”

  “Oh, yes! Did you know she’s got a cousin visiting? Hiram, his name is. A reporter from Philadelphia. Well, he was a reporter. But since he’s here, and the job’s back there, I can’t imagine he’s a reporter any more. Not that there’s a shortage of stories to be found here in Oregon. Even in Boxboro—”

  “No.”

  Pursing his lips, Gordy flipped the bacon on the skillet, hissing and flinching when it spat grease.

  “Too provincial?” he said. “But what good is news, if not news of oneself? You can write about the Pope in Rome, but I’d rather read about Luther’s barn—whether or not he’s patched that hole. Or if the late thaw will mean hungry bears, or—”

  “The answer’s no, d—n it, just like last time and the time before. Don’t you ever listen?”

 
Tipping the contents of the skillet onto two plates, Gordy tossed the bread in last to fry. “Just for conversation’s sake, do you know what an article could mean for us?”

  “Shame?” Binx snorted. “Embarrassment? Do you want to be the butt of every last joke, or for people to learn how Harald died?”

  “Attention’s not always a bad thing, you know. And not just local attention—national attention. Traveling dignitaries. How’d you like to meet Johnny Appleseed?”

  “What I’d like to meet is my d—ned breakfast. Give it here!”

  Grunting with frustration, Gordy surrendered the plate—tending to the bread, and shoveling a handful of eggs into his mouth. Binx gave his brother an exasperated look as he too wolfed down his meal, nearly twice the portion allotted for Gordy. The day Johnny Appleseed stood under the ladder would be the day that Gordy met his idol.

  “You’re an idiot,” Binx said.