Froelich's Ladder

by Jamie Duclos-Yourdon

  “Well,” Gordy mused as he gnawed on a piece of bacon, “I respectfully disagree. And I don’t see why you get to decide. Shouldn’t we ask Froelich?”

  It was only with some difficulty that Binx managed to swallow. “We can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he’s gone.”

  “Who’s gone?”

  “Uncle Froelich. He’s missing.”

  It took a moment for this concept to sink in. “What d’you mean, missing?” Gordy asked, the look on his face changing from wonder to bewilderment.

  “I mean missing from the ladder.”

  “Since when?”

  “I don’t know—yesterday? The day before that? I only realized it this morning.”

  “He’s probably just ignoring you.”

  Normally, Binx would’ve agreed. Froelich’s feelings could be easily hurt, and playing deaf was his favorite punishment. But today that wasn’t the case.

  “Not ignoring me,” he said, shaking his head deliberately. “Not here.”

  Then Gordy did the only natural thing: he stared straight up into the sky, even though it was pointless. The ladder kept rising beyond the tallest tree, where it became lost in the leaves. On a good day, they could distinguish clear up to the four-hundred-rungs from where they were standing, but Froelich hadn’t ventured lower than the hundred-rungs since they were kids.

  In all of recorded history, Froelich’s ladder was the fourth tallest that had ever been erected. The tallest, of course, had been Jacob’s ladder—which, even if it was fictional, had still been conceived of by man, and therefore had to be counted among his many accomplishments. In truth, neither Gordy nor Binx had any idea how tall the ladder was—not precisely, anyway. Froelich claimed the Very Big Tree had never ceased to grow. He claimed never to have seen the top of the ladder, suggesting it might be infinite. When Binx reminded him that Harald had carved the other end, and therefore the ladder couldn’t be infinite, Froelich had given the TAP equivalent of a shrug.

  Gordy turned to face the far side of the meadow, taking in the lean-to, the wood pile, and the lonely fulcrum—shaped, to Binx’s eye, like an abandoned ax head. Not finding what he was looking for there, he began to pace around the foot of the ladder, inspecting every inch of dirt.

  “What’re you doing?” Binx asked him.

  “Checking for footprints.”

  “Footprints? Whose footprints?”

  “Froelich’s, of course! Who do you think?”

  For a moment, he departed from Binx’s field of vision, circling around to the far side of the ladder. When he reappeared, Binx cleared his throat.

  “Let me understand this. You’re searching for Froelich’s footprints … on the ground? You think maybe he climbed down to the double-rungs, over me, and then walked away?”

  “Also, scuff marks.”

  “You think maybe he climbed down while I was sleeping, then scuffled with someone?”

  Refusing to meet Binx’s eye, Gordy muttered, “Anyway, that’s what I’m looking for.”

  “Brother,” Binx said. “Quit it—there ain’t any footprints. The only possibility is that he fell.”

  “Has he ever fallen before?”

  “It only has to happen once.”

  “Still, where’s the proof?”

  “I don’t need any proof! He’s gone—I can feel it. Try sitting down for a minute. Take some deep breaths until you start making sense.”

  Grudgingly, Gordy obliged.

  “He’s probably just napping.”

  “In the middle of the day? It’s too bright out.”

  “Well … what if he did fall? Where’d he land? I don’t see any Froelich-shaped holes in the ground, do you?”

  When Binx craned his neck to demonstrate his limited range of motion, Gordy protested, “But why now? It hasn’t rained in weeks. So, what—maybe he got poached by a cloud? Shouldn’t we at least check? You say Froelich’s missing from the ladder—shouldn’t we know for sure?”

  “And how do you propose we do that?”

  “Climb it ourselves, of course! Just to see!”

  Binx began to shake his head. At the same time, Gordy clambered to his feet.

  “No way,” Binx grunted. “No, sir.”

  “Yes! It’ll be easy!”

  “Easy? Easy for you to say! You’re not the one holding two people on his back—if Froelich is up there. Which, by the way, is against the rules, holding two people!”

  “Given the situation, I think we can suspend the rules. Now, if you’re not strong enough to hold us, I can get the fulcrum …”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Binx snapped. “Of course I’m strong enough to hold you. Look, it’s past noontime already—it’ll be dark before you’re ready to come down. And don’t say you can sleep up the rungs, because you can’t.”

  But Gordy had planted himself in front of his brother, resolute and erect. In his undershirt and suspenders, Binx thought he looked like a candy cane, and briefly considered saying so. He further considered whether they’d be having this conversation if Harald were still alive. But then he’d be the one holding the ladder, not Binx.

  “You can make all the arguments you want,” Gordy reasoned, “and some of them might even be right. But don’t pretend like everything’s normal when it’s not! Sooner or later you’ll want answers. Is he up there or isn’t he? So how long are we going to stand around, trying to come up with a reason? Anyway, I’m not done with Hiram. If you won’t ask Froelich, I will.”

  The wind shifted directions then, carrying with it the scent of honeysuckle. Binx’s plate was empty, and the forgotten bread had since charred in the skillet. Inhaling deeply, he scratched his elbow by rubbing it against a rung. Who would suggest that things were normal? Was spending your whole life in the shadow of a ladder normal? With a neck like a plow horse from bearing the weight? If things were normal, they’d be throwing more wood on the fire, using the soggiest, smokiest logs they could find. More than anything, he resented that Froelich (wherever he was) would deprive him of this one small pleasure: choking their uncle on toxic fumes. Looking toward the heavens, Binx sighed.

  “Three points of contact at all times,” he said. Gordy clapped his hands and doffed his cap. “Be sure to climb with your legs, and not your hands. Don’t think in terms of up-and-down, but—”

  “—forward-and-backward. I know, I know!”

  As he came around to the other side, Gordy poked his toes into the small of Binx’s back.

  “You okay?”

  “Fine,” Binx said, clutching the stiles with both hands.

  “Remember how we used to practice on trees? And that one time, when I fell on you?”

  “Brother?” he hissed through clenched teeth. “Less talking. More climbing.”

  At first, it was fairly easy to hear each other speak, but then the wind picked up, plucking their words from the air and making it necessary to communicate via TAP. Gordy had fallen out of practice, rendering his vocabulary uncharacteristically blunt.

  Cold. More cold than expected.

  Maybe socks would help?

  Shut up.

  I’m surprised there’s even time for you to complain. Shouldn’t you be at the top by now?

  Shouldn’t you shut up?

  When they were younger, Harald had allowed them climb to twice his height. Binx, formerly the more adventurous of the two, had sneaked even higher, ascending past the treetops; but this was before the bloom of adolescence, when his size and weight would’ve betrayed him. He could recall the view from on high, like a dream he’d been snatched from. The thrill of defying gravity remained just as tantalizing.

  On the lower rungs, where the spiders spun their fusty webs, the wood was more absorbent, minimizing the risk of sweaty palms. Farther up it could be dangerously slick. Each rung possessed its own identity, and Froelich had continued to decorate them all, scratching odd scripts and patterns over the years. Binx expected that Gordy would find himself di
stracted as he made his way higher and higher.

  How’s the view? Binx asked. From the double-rungs, one could see over the forest and toward the horizon. When he reached the hundred-rungs, Gordy would be awarded his first glimpse of Boxboro, more than a mile away.

  I can see Miss Sarah’s farm, he replied. Do you think Froelich ever watches us?

  Binx had entertained this thought before: that Froelich must observe their daily interactions, or else be privy to their secrets, should he be intrigued. It was a disquieting idea, that some remote witness was observing everything. Even more distressing was the notion that he could, but might choose not to—that one’s day-to-day existence might not warrant attention.

  I couldn’t say. Any signs of him yet?

  Not yet. Should it move so much?

  Binx could feel the resulting tremors as Gordy hooked an elbow over a rung and rapped against a stile, faithfully maintaining three points of contact. From the ground, the stiles appeared to be perfectly stationary, but up high, where Gordy was continuing his ascent, the swaying became more pronounced, with all the attendant creaks, groans, and shifts in equilibrium.

  It’s because you’re bigger than Froelich—not to be rude. Do you think maybe you should come down?

  I’m not coming down. I’m fine.

  Then concentrate on climbing, Binx admonished his brother, willing him hand over hand, rung over rung, despite the frequency of the oscillations. Were Gordy to allow himself a peek (not down, of course, but backward), any view of the meadow would be obscured by the trees. From the hundred-rungs, the residents of Boxboro would be hard to distinguish, making the town appear to be deserted.

  Gordy?

  It’s windy!

  That’s the slipstream, Binx replied, remembering what Harald had told him. Make sure you hold on tight. How about Froelich? Can you see him?

  No. Wait! Let me ask this guy. No—he says no.

  Ha, ha, very funny. Okay, let’s make a deal. If you haven’t found him by sunset, you should come down immediately.

  Here’s another deal—you put on a dress and I’ll call you Binxerella. There’s lots of clouds up here. I thought you said they didn’t fly this low?

  Binx frowned, while a shift in the breeze filled his nose with burnt toast. It had been a late thaw that spring, meaning less pollen than usual. Hungry cloud calves, separated from the herd, might’ve descended in search of food, but he couldn’t recall anything of that nature from previous years.

  It’s not normal, he admitted, thinking of what Gordy had said about Froelich being poached. How big are they? Can you see?

  Maybe if I climbed a little higher.

  From where he was standing, Binx couldn’t see Gordy, not even the soles of his feet. He could only imagine the series of mistakes that would ultimately lead to his fall. First, as the stiles swayed, Gordy would begin to climb on a downbeat, rather than wait for the following oscillation. The resulting momentum would cause his feet to slip, which would inspire him to rely more thoroughly on his hands and shoulders.

  Gordy? Don’t worry about the clouds. Make sure you’re holding on.

  He’d require a free hand with which to respond. Gordy’s second mistake would involve releasing the rung, in order to rap on the stile. Thus, while assuming he was maintaining three points of contact, only one point of contact would actually be secure. During the ladder’s next oscillation, when the momentum shifted in gravity’s favor, his feet would suddenly vanish from underneath him—and, just like that, he’d be dangling by one hand.

  Gordy—what’s happening? Why aren’t you talking? The air gets thin up there. Are you dizzy? Disoriented? Don’t answer that. Just grab the nearest rung and take deep breaths.

  Gordy’s third mistake, as dictated by the previous two, would be to rely exclusively on his upper body—not that he’d have any choice. His one hand wouldn’t be strong enough to support his weight. Maybe, if he’d spent the previous month in training, the situation would be different, but the point was moot. When the ladder swayed in the opposite direction, it would casually fling him into the wide, blue sky, like a fisherman casting bait.

  Gordy? Binx tapped. Just hang on, brother. Everything is gonna be okay.

  Chapter 4

  Gordy was plummeting through space—which, much to his relief, proved to be less harrowing than he might’ve expected. In fact, he’d been more afraid while still clinging to the rungs. Now that he was airborne, there were other sensations to compete for his attention: the intense cold, the rushing wind, and the view of the sunset he was uniquely afforded.

  Then he was crashing through a canopy of trees, and that part was extremely painful. Once, as a boy, he’d fallen from a birch limb and landed on top of Binx, both of them sustaining minor injuries; this was similar to that experience, only far worse. Among other places, he was battered in the neck, groin, hips, ribs, spine, one knee, and also the other knee. Finally, after his body had been thoroughly pulverized, he had the good fortune to snag on a branch—landing on his stomach, with his limbs dangling over the sides.

  The light was much dimmer here, now that he had departed from the stratosphere. To his right and far below, he caught a glimpse of a fast-moving river: the Columbia, he assumed. Gordy didn’t recognize its shape, making him think he was miles from home. In the gloaming, the current rippled like an enormous snake. All around him, leaves rustled and boughs groaned. And then there was a snap, and he was falling again—only, this time, he landed on his head. Moments later, the branch that had been supporting him also came down, and Gordy was plunged into darkness.

  He woke sometime later with a pain like a gong.

  “What is it?” somebody was yelling. “Is we under attack?”

  Coaxing one eye open, Gordy observed the glow of a campfire. Then he was being hauled to his feet, urgent hands poking and prodding him.

  “Who’re you?” a second voice demanded to know. “Where’re you comin’ from?”

  There were two men, one of them fat and the other one thin, both of them dressed in rags. After they’d leaned him up against a tree, they scurried back, standing on either side of the campfire, such that their faces were only partially illuminated.

  “You a moon man?” asked the fat one, jabbing a finger at him.

  “Or a Irishman?” accused the other.

  When Gordy attempted to speak, he found the pain in his skull to be too overwhelming. Standing with his hands on his thighs, he raised a finger, requesting a moment.

  “If you ain’t no moon man, then who’s the president of the United States?” the first one persisted.

  “That’s right! Or the president of Ireland!”

  In an audible whisper, the fat man asked, “Nantz, what is it with you and the Irish?”

  “I told you, Carmichael, I killed a Irishman at Murfreesboro—only, he wouldn’t die! I tried arsenic, I tried castor beans—I even tried choking him! I swear, the whole time I had my hands ’round his neck, he was singing a dirge. It went on so long, I thought it was the Resurrection.”

  Gordy had already pegged the vagabonds as Confederates, but the mention of Murfreesboro cemented his guess. In his experience, their type was quick to violence. That they hadn’t harmed him yet meant they were fearful; that they were fearful meant they lacked scruples. Gordy remained hunched over while simultaneously trying to compose his thoughts.

  “Just before he passed,” Nantz continued, “he swore he’d take revenge. Five brothers, he claimed he had, and twice as many cousins. He swore they’d hunt me down, no matter where I’d hide. So, if a person’s gonna be jumping outta trees at other people, I’d like to know they ain’t Irish!”

  “Grant,” Gordy wheezed, as soon as he was able. “The president of the United States is Ulysses S. Grant.”

  Making a sour face, the one called Carmichael spat on the ground. “For now he is.”

  From the look of things, their campsite was only temporary. No shelter had been erected, nor had any laundry been hung o
ut to dry. Even their campfire suggested impermanence, the logs chiefly consisting of green wood. Slumped in the shadows was a young boy. Even in the half light, it was plain to see that his lip had been split and his eye was bruised. Someone bigger and stronger had recently rendered a beating. It could’ve been either man. It could’ve been both.

  “For what good reason was you up that tree?” asked Nantz.

  “I was keeping lookout,” Gordy explained.

  “Lookout for what?”

  When he refused to answer, the two men exchanged a glance.

  “My goodness,” Carmichael said, squatting and shaking his head, like he’d just remembered something amusing. “We ain’t even introduced ourselves! You can call me Carmichael. This one here’s Nantz. Sorry about grabbin’ you—but when people start falling outta trees at other people, there’s reason to be skittish. No hard feelings?”

  Gingerly testing his shoulder, Gordy conveyed indifference.

  “That’s nice—we ain’t looking for trouble. We’re traveling north. You ever heard of Francis Myers? Richest man in all of Oregon? He’s hiring English-speaking trappers. Me and Nantz is expert outdoorsmen.”

  “Experts at killing people, too,” Nantz added.

  “Or was,” Carmichael agreed, “during the War. I’d say we was responsible for at least a dozen deaths—wouldn’t you say, Nantz?”

  “Union or Rebels?”

  “I guess it don’t matter which. There was that boy who’d lost a hand—he died in his sleep. And then the boy with no hands. Always thirsty—”

  “But couldn’t hold a cup,” Nantz completed the thought.

  “Then there was those boys from Tennessee—neighbors, they said, from the same holler. One died with a pillow to the face, the other from gangrene. Not that it matters now—it’s all behind us. What matters is the present, or wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Who’s he?” Gordy asked.

  Carmichael dismissively waved his hand at the boy. “He’s nothing,” he said. “Less than nothing—when we get to the Logging Camp, we’ll trade him for chaw. Now, what was you keeping lookout for?”

  At the mention of the Logging Camp, the hair stood up on the back of Gordy’s neck. He’d never been there before, but he was aware of its existence: a shantytown on the far side of the Cascades, owing its existence to Myers & Co. Maybe, not so long ago, a logger had gotten drunk and wandered down from the timberline. Maybe an Indian had come up from the Coast Reservation—and a missionary, too, because you couldn’t hold a quorum without the Holy Ghost. These men would’ve required food and entertainment. Want begat labor, labor begat industry, and soon the Logging Camp was born.