“Okay,” she said, “look”—rubbing her nose and scowling—“I’m sorry if you’re mad. And I’m sorry you didn’t know any better. But I’m glad for what you did! You’re right—those two goons did a number on me, all for making a joke. I thought I needed their help. Daddy traveled north in springtime, looking for work, and we haven’t seen him since.”
She could see the revelations striking Gordy, one after another: Ma being a California widow; the necessity of taking on boarders. While they were standing there, a particularly fat cloud moved in front of the sun and the light shifted from ocher to violet. This partial eclipse was followed by a thunderclap, so loud its reverberations spilled pollen on the breeze. They waited for the storm to come, but it never did—just the smell of rain, and electricity in the air.
“He said he’d try Fort Vancouver,” Gak continued. “But every time he leaves, I find him back at the Logging Camp. You ever been there before?”
“To the Logging Camp?” With an embarrassed smile, Gordy confessed, “I’ve never been anywhere but Boxboro.”
“Well, I’ve been there lots of times. Too many times. Lemme show you the way. It’s the least I can do, after the help you gave me.”
As Gordy mulled this idea, Gak tried to appear ambivalent, even when he said, “Sure—why not.”
Resuming their march, Gak observed, “That was a pretty nifty trick you pulled.” She could hear the relief in her voice, even if Gordy couldn’t.
“What was?”
“Getting the Rebels to cross the river like that.”
“Yeah, well—it wouldn’t’ve been so nifty if they’d known how to swim.”
“Say, you ain’t an Irishman … are you?”
Gordy gave her a sideways glance. “What do you think?”
“Don’t matter to me,” Gak allowed with a shrug. “Like you said, everyone’s gotta live someplace.”
At the intersection of a wider road, the Myers & Co. Store came into view. The façade was identical to the McMinnville location, which Gak had visited the previous summer: same porch, same rocking chairs, even the same shade of green they’d painted the trim. She’d never seen anything so faithfully recreated—including the flag at the county clerk’s office, which had been hand-stitched by the clerk’s wife after a trip to Baltimore. Tugging on the door and sounding the chime, Gak noticed Gordy still lingering on the stairs.
“You coming in?”
Looking up and down the road, he motioned to an empty chair. “I think it’s best I wait. I don’t want to miss it.”
“You couldn’t miss the mail jitney if you tried—not unless you’ve got cotton in your ears. Besides, we’re going on a trip. We need provisions!”
“Provisions? I haven’t got any money. Do you?”
“I got better,” she replied happily, ushering him through the door. “Store credit!”
Inside, the air was cool. Gak nodded at the counterman, who glanced up from his ledger.
“You gotta have shoes,” he said to Gordy, pointing at his bare feet. “I can’t be of service if you don’t have any shoes.”
“Oh, hush now, Horace,” Gak scoffed. “Since when is that a rule?”
Undaunted, she continued down the aisles, Gordy trailing. Together they inspected the shelves’ contents: Mason jars, candles, and spools of twine. There were various foodstuffs by the front, but Gak was looking for one item in particular: apricots, which were only in season for a short time and always stored in a cool, dark place.
But when they came to the appropriate corner, the barrel was empty. All she found was a display of stepladders, neatly folded and stacked against the wall.
“Funny thing,” Gordy said, tilting his head to one side.
“What’s that?”
Stepping closer, he ran his fingers along the moving parts—the planes and hinged stiles. “Makes me homesick, is all. Still, it’s got about as much in common with Froelich’s ladder as the business side of an oar.”
“A ladder’s a ladder,” Gak replied, plunging her torso into the barrel and kicking her trousers in the air.
“Not so! There’s cat ladders and orchard ladders, roof ladders and trestle ladders. They can be made from rope or hemp. Did you know, the second tallest ladder in history was made of gold?”
Failing to find any apricots at the bottom, Gak climbed out of the barrel. “You don’t say,” she muttered, elbowing past him.
But try as she might to convey disinterest, Gordy proceeded to tell her the entire story—even following Gak up and down the aisles while she made her way back to the counter:
“The pharaoh’s wife commissioned it, after he died. See, in Egypt, it was custom to be buried with your slaves. But the pharaoh’s wife wanted to send more. She worried he wouldn’t have enough, not to last for all eternity, except she didn’t want to disturb his tomb—so she had a golden ladder smelted, and told those slaves to get climbing!”
At the front of the store, with her palms splayed on the counter, Gak considered her options: pickled eggs, rock candy, and a vast assortment of jerky—deer jerky, turkey jerky, even salmon jerky. At her direction, the counterman marked his place in the ledger and shook out a paper sack.
“At dawn,” Gordy said, “the slaves started to climb. But as the day went on, the ladder turned hotter and hotter. By afternoon, the rungs were too hot to hold. When the first hundred slaves fell to their deaths, they all turned to locusts. When the second hundred fell, they all turned to frogs. The third hundred turned to blowflies—until there was so many plagues visited on the land of Egypt that the pharaoh’s wife was stoned to death.”
“Say, Horace,” Gak inquired. “Where’s the apricots? I checked in back, but I couldn’t find any.”
“Late thaw this year—try again in a couple of weeks.” With a smirk and a glance at her companion, the counterman added, “Is that all that you need, Gabrielle?”
“Gabrielle?” Gordy blurted out. “You’re a girl?”
This was entirely the problem with pretending to be a boy: one innocent remark could ruin the illusion. After she’d been revealed there was no way to talk herself out of it. Gordy would be mad, she knew; nobody liked to be fooled. But at least he wasn’t violent (or didn’t seem to be). If Carmichael and Nantz had learned her secret, she would’ve been raped and murdered for sure.
“Oh, is that a secret?” the counterman said. “Since when?”
“Shut up,” she snapped at him. “Anyway, so what? What’s Gordy short for—Gordon?”
“Yeah, but that’s different. I just thought—”
“Hollis can’t say Gaby—he can’t pronounce it—so he says Gak instead. There’s your mystery. If you’re too dumb to see what’s in front of you, it ain’t my fault. Anything else I can explain for you, Gordon?”
“No, I—”
“Then quit your yapping. Maybe if you stopped talking long enough, you’d know the mail jitney’s here.”
From outside, they could hear a rattle and whinny, wafting on the wing of a rank odor. While the gears continued to turn in Gordy’s head, Gak gathered up her food.
“Charge it to my account, Horace. And you can wipe that d—ned silly grin off your face.”
With that, Gak was out the door. As her vision readjusted from the dark interior, she spotted the amorphous shape of a horse and carriage. The peculiarities of the driver as he dismounted from the wagon, presumably with a bundle of letters in hand, were only just beginning to emerge.
“You there!” she barked at him, striding right up. “I’m on my way to the coast. Take me there?”
“You, or your friend too?”
Behind her, Gordy had stooped to retrieve a piece of jerky that she’d accidentally dropped. Gak barely afforded him a glance.
“Who says he’s my friend? Are we holding hands? Are we laughing and smiling and telling secrets? Now, can I get a ride with you or not?”
The driver scratched his chin. Blinking in the bright sunlight, Gak was afforded a better pers
pective of the man: broad across the shoulders, with close-set eyes. Not someone she’d normally care to provoke.
But, contrary to her expectations, he shrugged his assent. “Fine with me, I guess. You can ride in back. Just don’t touch the mail, is all.”
Still frowning, he plodded past them—throwing a quizzical look at Gordy and the piece of jerky in his hand before stepping inside.
“Like I’d want to sit with you,” Gak grumbled. “Oh, you mean I can’t? Well, boo-hoo-hoo.”
Climbing onto the back of the wagon, she girded herself for what was to come. Gordy was still bound for the coast—he’d still require a ride. Maybe he’d ignore her. Most likely he’d tease her, but that would soon lose its sport. What was crucial was that he not mention her sex to the driver, but how could she be assured of that? Even to ask him now would risk being overheard. Gak squirmed as he approached, knowing herself to be completely exposed.
Gordy stopped on the dirt track. “There’s something I mean to get off my chest,” he said. “If I don’t own up to it, I believe I’ll regret it.” Waiting for Gak to catch his eye, he waved the piece of jerky in her face. “I don’t know if this is salmon or maybe something I stepped in, but I’m gonna eat it. I’m gonna eat it, and it’s gonna taste better than your ma’s breakfast. So what do you say about that?”
The horse snorted and pawed at the ground. For her part, Gak stared up at the sky. How to translate this attempt at humor? Clearly, he meant to put her at ease, but why? To what purpose? Far overhead, the clouds cast their shadows upon the land, like pools of indeterminate depth.
“I lied to you,” she said.
“You don’t need to apologize.”
“Who’s apologizing?” Gak snorted. “I’m just owning what I did.”
“Still, you didn’t lie—you skipped the truth. Is there anything else you might’ve skipped?”
Taking a deep breath, she resolved herself to act in good faith. “Yeah,” she said. “That ain’t salmon jerky, it’s deer. And you’re right—the way Ma cooks, it’s like she’s mad at the food. Still, I hope you eat it, and I hope it tastes like s—t.”
Chapter 6
The crashing of the waves was faint from Josie’s tower, though the odor of seaweed was rank. Assuming that first light wouldn’t be long, she swung her legs off the bed and blindly felt for her shoes. She was still wearing her clothes from the night before, saving her the effort of dressing in the dark. She even had an extra shawl, which she now deemed unnecessary. There were no provisions to pack, no correspondence to be made. As soon as her laces were tied, she proceeded with resolve.
She accessed the stairwell quickly and quietly. Feeling her way along the rough-hewn wall, Josie descended the irregular turret steps. If pitch darkness could be improved upon, here it was utterly black, save for the faint outline of a doorway below her. On the other side of that border Lieutenant Harrison would be standing sentry. If Josie were lucky, he’d be sleeping at his post; if not, she was duly prepared to charm him.
Upon stepping outside, she was able to distinguish her arms and legs—and there too was Lieutenant Harrison, leaning against the wall with a woolen blanket around his shoulders. If he hadn’t been asleep, he wasn’t fully awake either, coquettishly blinking his eyes.
“Good morning, Miss Josephine,” he yawned. “You’re up early.”
Josie smiled at his obtuseness. A quick look around confirmed there was no one else present; the parade ground was empty, and the postern gate closed.
“Yes,” she said, “I was hoping for a short walk.”
Like a dog catching a scent, the lieutenant was immediately keen to her, rousing himself to a more attentive posture.
“A walk, you said? I’m not so sure about that. Did you ask Mr. Myers? Maybe if we tell the Sergeant Major first—”
“Harrison,” Josie cut him off, “what age are you?”
Having already conceived of such a moment, she now placed her hand on his chest. Not on his face, which would’ve been too intimate, but not his shoulder, either, which could’ve been dismissive. His chest, Josie had decided, would strike the perfect balance between familiar and flirtatious.
Her touch achieved the desired effect. Blanching, he stuttered, “What age? Seventeen.”
“Seventeen,” Josie repeated. “I am nineteen. Doesn’t that strike you as rather old for a nanny?”
When she gave him her most winning smile, the young lieutenant returned the favor—possibly blushing, even, though it was difficult to say in the feeble light. With gray dawn fast approaching, it wouldn’t be long before the whole of Fort Brogue started to wake. The smile sagged a little on Josie’s face, but she kept her eyes trained on his.
“It’s just a walk,” she murmured, removing her hand from Harrison’s chest. “I shouldn’t think I require anyone’s permission—certainly not at this hour.”
“Maybe I can come with you?” he hopefully suggested.
“And leave your post? I wouldn’t want you to be derelict. You stay here—I won’t be gone for long.”
Turning toward the postern gate, Josie assumed a pace of casual self-assurance. One more guard stood between her and freedom. For obvious reasons, the fort was kept secured during the night; the gate would have to be opened manually. But much could be accomplished on the suggestion of authority. It was amazing how the dynamics of momentum applied to a body even so large as the Army.
“Where are you going?”
It was Harrison again. Freezing in her tracks, Josie’s mind raced. She couldn’t tell him the truth: he’d never let her go if she answered him honestly. And what if he were interrogated in her absence? She wouldn’t put it past her Uncle Francis. Whatever her answer, the young lieutenant was all but certain to repeat it.
“I’m going for a lunt,” she said, delivering the words nonchalantly.
“A what?”
“Gone lunting. Don’t you say that in America? Walking while smoking a pipe. But you mustn’t tell—my uncle would never let me hear the end of it.”
Had Harrison asked her any more questions, or made further excuse to tarry, she might as well have crawled back to bed. The fort would’ve awoken; she would’ve been foiled. But instead he replied with characteristic insight, “I thought you said hunting! It rhymes.”
With a grin, Josie replied, “Yes, it does, doesn’t it?” And that was the end of that. Striding with newfound purpose, she found it twice as easy to convince the next guard.
Through the postern gate, Josie followed a steep and narrow path between the scrub grass and succulent plants, zigzagging her way down the bluff until she’d finally reached the beach below. Here, the smell of brine became practically overwhelming. Hugging her arms across her chest, she turned her face to the breeze. With her eyes closed, the Pacific Ocean sounded like … like the intersection of Bridge and High Streets on a winter’s eve, distempered draft animals and even more distempered cabbies. Long ago, her friend Mae had taught her how to spot a tourist. Somebody from Edinburgh would stand off the curb, Mae had said, while the tourists would abide by the rules. Peeking one eye open, Josie found the actual view to be less inspiring. Nothing to evoke home, save for the palette: gray dunes and gray sky. Gray America.
Ahead, she spotted a piece of driftwood. Gnarled and half-buried, it looked to be the size of a settee. Fixing that landmark as her intended destination, Josie teeter-tottered across the uneven dunes until she was able to sit down and remove her shoes and stockings. It was no warmer now than it had been before, even as the dawn heralded a new day. The sand was unpleasant to the touch—the landscape, now that the fort was safely behind her, not so vastly improved.
Who wouldn’t want to visit this land of splendor, this veritable Garden of Eden? Where the possibilities were only limited by one’s own imagination? That’s what Josie had told herself, anyway. Like a girl who’d been conspicuously absent for nine months, she’d excised herself from her previous life. But that wasn’t her, a girl to inspire rumors. Wha
t could be further from the truth? Still, her da had assured her when she’d left, “Stay here, and you’ll become your mum—not that we don’t give thanks every day. Even so, nothing can change without change.” Truly, standing on the quay, it had been difficult to say who was convincing whom.
Mae might’ve affected Josie’s decision to emigrate, had she been present—but, of course, Mae had stayed away. Even Josie’s da might’ve had a change of heart, had it not been his own brother taking receipt of her. Recalling this arrangement, Josie looked back the way she’d come. She’d always feared her mum’s temper, and with good reason, but she’d not yet tested Uncle Francis’s. It was best to keep moving.
The previous night’s encounter with her uncle continued to vex her. Indeed, here she was, marching into the wilderness with only half a notion of where she was going! If she hadn’t been expecting Uncle Francis at that late hour, it wasn’t because the two of them were estranged. In fact, they spent the majority of their days together—visiting far-flung locations of his Myers & Co. stores, discussing the strengths and weaknesses of his distributors, anything that might broaden Josie’s understanding of the business. It had been clear to her for some time that she was being groomed for management, an offer that she was slow to accept. But if she’d already been pining for home, his handling of the promotion had hastened her decision.
Uncle Francis had knocked shortly after dinner—a quick, decisive rap, impossible to mistake for anyone else. When she’d called her assent through the heavy wood door, he’d entered with his eyes downcast, lest he intrude on an intimate moment.
“Good evening, Josie,” he’d said, not looking up. “Is this a good time?”
She’d been reading her Virgil—in particular, the third book of the Aeneid. “I suppose it depends,” she’d remarked, saving her place with her thumb. “A good time for what?”
He’d smiled, braving a glance. Fully entering the room, he’d crossed to the end table that substituted for a writing desk.
“Tomorrow I’ll be meeting with the circuit judge. Harper is his name, an insufferable prig. You have to wonder whether it’s the chicken or egg with these people—whether they become arseholes after taking power, or if being an arsehole had everything to do with it.”
Froelich's Ladder Page 5