“Well, look at you. Last time you was here, you was just a girl.”
“Last time I was here, you was under a john.”
Narrowing her eyes, Harmony said, “Makes no difference—standing up or lying down. Either you see things plainly or you don’t.”
Before Gak could answer her, a man pushed past—flashing his purse in Harmony’s face before disappearing through the door. The madam didn’t acknowledge him. Instead, she took another sip from her mug, her painted lips leaving a mark.
“I guess you’d know,” Gak said. “Spending so much time on your back.”
“If that’s what you’re after, I can help you next.”
Feeling an irrational flush of shame, Gak attempted to change the subject. “I’m here for my daddy. Have you seen him?”
“Harmony!” the man shouted. “I’m ready!”
“I doubt it,” she muttered. Turning to peek inside, she instructed the customer, “Take off your shoes and socks.”
As the man cursed and grumbled, Gak repeated the question: “Have you seen him or not?”
“Gaylord? Maybe. Why should I say?”
“Because I’m asking.”
But it wasn’t good enough; the look on Harmony’s face was the opposite of cowed. Fighting back the urge to scream, Gak took a deep breath.
“Because if he was your kin, you’d be looking for him, too.”
Initially, the madam’s expression revealed nothing, and Gak despaired of a better option. But then she chortled. “You think? I wouldn’t be so sure.”
“D—n it, woman!” her customer harangued her. “I’m about as ready as I’m gonna get!”
“Honest,” Harmony continued, “I haven’t seen him in weeks. You know where the Chinamen pour their lye? If he’s here, that’s where you’ll find him.”
Gak left before the customer could be serviced. She trusted that Harmony was telling the truth: the smell of lye could be unbearable, but not to one who’d abused his senses. Plus, it would drive regular folk away. What better guarantee of one’s desired privacy?
When she got to the prescribed place (as was made clear by the smell), she found precisely what she’d been looking for. Entering the radius of a dying campfire, the sound of a dinner bell caught her ear. The proprietor of the smokehouse would sound the chime whenever business was slow that he might whet the camp’s appetite. But the tenants of this particular campsite, represented by two bundles of burlap, didn’t seem to have noticed.
“Hey, mister,” Gak said, prodding the one on the right by kicking his feet.
Hawking a glob of phlegm, the man rolled over, only to burrow more deeply into himself.
“Hey, mister—your missus is here.”
The words had the effect of a splash of cold water: sitting bolt upright, he let loose an empty clay jug. From his person wafted the scent of urine.
“She went that way,” Gak gestured with her thumb.
Sure enough, the fellow loped off in the opposite direction. The ploy was so predictable, and so perfunctory, that just once Gak wished to see it fail. Sniffing the air to ensure he’d mostly peed himself and not his environs, she settled into the cavity he’d left behind, the ground here a bit more cozy and less damp than its surroundings. Reaching for her tobacco pouch, she hailed the other sleeping form.
“Mind if I borrow a spark?”
When he didn’t answer her, she inserted a wick of rolling paper into the embers. It was prudent of Gak to save matches—plus, the smoldering paper served a dual purpose. Lifting it to her cigarette, she took a deep breath and exhaled with relish.
“Much obliged.”
Then she flicked the wick, such that it landed between his chin and shoulder—muttering to herself, “Oops.”
At first, he swiped at his neck, like he was trying to stave off a mosquito. When that failed, he tugged at his collar, as the wick wheedled its way past layers of clothing. Finally, it settled on a dry patch, and Gak’s daddy came to life, hissing and paddling his chest like he was trying to revive his heart. This performance lasted a matter of seconds, after which time he became aware of her presence—still seated across from him, earnestly puffing on her cigarette.
“Hi there, Gaylord.”
She gave him time to reorient himself. Reaching for the clay jug, so recently abandoned, she braved a sniff. Whatever they’d been drinking, it was enough to make her eyes water.
“You feelin’ okay?” she said. “Like you’re gonna be sick? When’s the last time you ate something?”
Slowly batting his eyelids, he stared at her with middling comprehension, or so Gak assumed. Even bundled in rags, it was apparent that he’d lost weight. The last time she’d corralled him, after she’d lifted him to his feet, he’d been sick down the front of her shirt—nothing but sticky, green bile. Now he looked too wrung out to spit. For all his squalor, though, his fingernails were remarkably clean—gleaming in the half light like pearls in the dirt.
“I know you?” he croaked.
Despite his febrile state, he was staring straight at her. For a moment, Gak wondered if he was joking, or else foisting a lie. But there was nothing in his eyes to suggest humor, nor did he seem capable of guile.
“You don’t recognize me?” she said, a sickening feeling taking hold.
Leaning forward, her daddy sneezed. “I’ll share a smoke, if you got one.”
With trembling hands, she dug into her tobacco pouch for a piece of rolling paper. What did it matter, she asked herself, if he couldn’t see past her clothes and bruises? So what if he thought she was a boy—all it required was a few curt words and he’d know her true self. At the same time, was that what she wanted? Or who she wanted to be? When she couldn’t hold the pouch steady, she gave up, dusting stray flakes from her fingertips.
“I’m nearly out,” she faithfully reported, but Gaylord just continued to stare. “See for yourself,” she said, tossing the pouch in his direction. “Ain’t nothing but dust.”
Wetting his lips, he asked, “What about—?” Making a tippling gesture, and pointing at the jug.
“Empty. You got your friend to thank for that.”
There was a speech she’d been practicing since springtime. In it, she’d cite Dolly, Hollis, and Ma—how they were all waiting for him, at their genuine peril. She was going to remind him of his responsibilities, both as a husband and a father. But now she found herself drafting a new speech, which she could deliver upon her return home. She’d describe the bowling alley, the hollow tree she’d slept in, and maybe even Owen’s bear, for Hollis’s sake. Of this person before her, she’d make no mention.
But before she could excuse herself, and much to her surprise, her daddy flashed a grin. “Ah, heck,” he grunted. “Nothing to smoke and nothing to drink—you’d think we was in church!” Despite all else, his smile still evinced a handsome face. When he clapped his hands together, Gak inadvertently flinched. “I’ll tell you what,” he said. “Good. Good, I say! There comes a dawn you wake to a fresh start, and I’m glad it’s here. You say I don’t know you? Then you don’t know me. But loan me a dollar, friend, and I promise you this—come back tomorrow and you’ll find me good as new. New prospects, new clothes, just a whole new man. What d’you say? Help me back to where I belong?”
Was there a flicker of recognition in his eyes? Or perhaps a tremor of contempt? Gak was equally content not to know. Rising to her feet (with a tingling sensation in her extremities, like she’d been held too long underwater), she peered down at him.
“Here’s where you belong,” she said. “You don’t need any help for that. Who’s got a dollar, anyway?”
Turning, she took the first of many steps away from him. But she’d only made it a few strides, her pins-and-needles feeling greatly improved, when Gaylord threw himself at her feet. He couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred pounds; the impact hardly caused her to lose her balance. Still, Gak jumped as if bit.
Without stopping or bothering to look back, she ran
until her lungs burned. A glance in the opposite direction confirmed that she wasn’t being pursued, Gaylord being too weak to give chase. Panting, she came to a stop. It was time for her to depart this place, Gak decided, hopefully never to return. Presumably, Gordy was still looking for his uncle. It was obvious that their relations were strained—you couldn’t be a party to murder and still remain collegial. But Gak owed him her life. Though he’d denied her help, her debt to Gordy remained unpaid, and she’d been raised to pay her debts. Ironically, it was Gaylord who’d taught the lesson.
And so she resolved herself to go to Fort Brogue. If Gordy wasn’t there, at least they’d know where to find him. Just now, as the proprietor of the smokehouse rang the bell again (having failed to entice a crowd the first time), Gak’s stomach rumbled in kind. Maybe she’d stop for a bite to eat, to gird herself for the journey. But then, as she was coming around the corner, she heard one Confederate voice say—
“I swear, I can eat so much bacon, my belly’d come out to here!”
—and halted in mid-stride. Furthermore, upon hearing the rejoinder—
“If your belly was any bigger, Carmichael, I’d mistake you for the pig hisself!”
—all her intentions were swept away, like so much scum on a moonlit river.
Chapter 19
Once the cookfire had burned down, and the silence between them had assumed a timeless quality, Miss Sarah became visibly restless. Having already cleaned the area around the base of the ladder, she now gathered the breakfast dishes and stuffed all her wares into her wicker basket. Watching her, Binx was moved by the desire to say something—to thank her for her charity, at the very least. But the import of Froelich’s philandering, as well as the Rübezahl’s departure, had left him feeling despondent.
“I’ve been meaning to ask,” Miss Sarah finally said while chastely folding her napkins. “What’s that?”
“What’s what?”
“That,” she clarified, pointing at the fulcrum. The large and ungainly piece of furniture was resting on the far side of the meadow, draped in the shadows of the dogwood trees.
“It’s a fulcrum,” Binx explained, rubbing a muscle in his thigh. “Harald carved it, for balancing the ladder.”
“How old is it?”
“As old as the ladder. They’ve both held up pretty good, don’t you think?”
Laughing, Miss Sarah admitted, “I thought it was a wheelbarrow without any wheels.” But then, as she parsed his words, her expression changed. “Wait—what do you mean, for balancing the ladder?”
The weight of the stiles made it all but impossible to shrug, but Binx managed a rough approximation, raising his eyebrows and turning out his palms. “Just as I say.”
“You mean you don’t have to stand here?”
Dropping her basket, Miss Sarah stalked off to the far side of the meadow, bunching her apron in both hands. Binx was surprised by her sudden urgency, and more than a little confused, but he contented himself to watch her in silence. Running her hands over the soft wood, she thoroughly examined the fulcrum’s surface. No matter the distance between them, Binx could’ve described every inch of it—every nick and detail. He and Gordy had spent countless hours on its steep planes, scampering up one side and sliding down the other.
“Do the wheels work?” Miss Sarah called, raising her voice above the birdsong.
“They should. But it’s heavy,” Binx added. “I doubt you can move it.”
Putting her shoulder to the fulcrum, she immediately proved him wrong. Though Miss Sarah was able to persuade it a couple of feet, she would’ve had an easier time lifting one end and taking full advantage of the wheels—advice that Binx was reluctant to dispense.
“I can’t believe it!” she exclaimed, standing and wiping her sleeve against her forehead. “This whole time, it’s been here?”
“I don’t see the big deal,” Binx huffed. “Just because you never noticed it—”
“Don’t see the big deal? Binxy—you can leave! You don’t have to stand here! Why haven’t you ever walked down to the river, or gone into town, or even decided to take a little nap?”
The impertinence of these questions made his cheeks feel hot. As if he’d never considered the possibilities. Why did everyone think he or she knew better than Binx—that somehow he had trouble making decisions for himself?
“It’s a poor substitute,” he informed her, though he found it difficult to meet her gaze. “For a person, I mean—the wood doesn’t yield if it gets windy, or if the ground’s hard with frost. And what if Froelich needs something? What if he sends a message down the rungs and I’m not here to listen?”
But even as he said this, he realized his mistake: Froelich wasn’t up the ladder. His uncle’s absence struck him anew, causing his jaw to clench. Binx could leave the ladder unattended without there being any consequences—except, of course, he couldn’t. His responsibility went beyond Froelich’s safety; there was a principle at stake.
Walking back toward him, Miss Sarah smiled in infuriating fashion. “I’m not saying you should leave it forever—perish the thought! Only, can’t you take a short break? Is that really such a bad idea?”
In addition to being unable to shrug, the stiles made it impossible to turn away. He could only cross his arms and stare into the distance, trusting his reticence to speak louder than words. What he wouldn’t give for Lord John, Binx thought, to come clambering down the rungs and question Binx’s priorities. Hadn’t the Rübezahl claimed to be listening? Would there be a more appropriate time to make himself known?
“Fine,” Miss Sarah said, collecting her bonnet from the ground. “I’m sure you’re right.”
“Of course I am,” Binx insisted. “Don’t you think I’ve given it some thought?”
“Obviously you have.”
“I’m responsible for the ladder,” he continued. “I can’t just walk away because I feel like it. This is a serious responsibility! Harald built the fulcrum, but even he hardly ever used it. If he’d wanted the ladder to lean against it, he would’ve asked for the fulcrum when he died, instead of telling me—”
Seeing the look on Miss Sarah’s face, Binx arrested himself in mid-sentence.
“Binxy,” she said. “I’m sure if Harald were here, he’d say it’s okay for you to take a break. He built the—the fulcrum, you said? Then I’m sure he wasn’t opposed to using it. That’s like building a door, and telling everyone to stay inside! If you’ve been standing here this whole time, for however many years, because you think you might disappoint him—”
“Harald’s dead,” Binx interrupted her. “You can’t disappoint someone who’s already dead.”
“You can’t impress him, either.”
The truth landed with the weight of Froelich’s chisel. Even the breeze faltered, abandoning the leaves with a tremendous sigh. Binx stared at the bonnet in Miss Sarah’s hands. How long would he continue to support the ladder, in the hopes of securing his father’s praise? Ten years? The rest of his life? While he pondered this thought, his body, always so insistent for his attention, continued to itch and to ache. Stonily, he tried to focus on the stiles, whose faint tremors reached him from even the highest rungs, where they warped and swayed in empty space.
“You couldn’t move it the rest of the way by yourself,” he finally rasped, attempting a dry swallow. “The fulcrum’s too heavy. You’d have to wait for Gordy.”
“Yes, Gordy,” Miss Sarah replied, sounding chastened. “Anyway, he’s the reason I came. When will he be back?”
Binx snorted. All these years he’d sacrificed to the ladder, and his brother was free to come and go. In that respect, he was no better than Froelich!
“Who knows?” he spat. “Probably never. He could be dead, for all I know! More likely, he’s off having himself a ball while I’m stuck here. I wouldn’t depend on Gordy, if I were you.”
Stuffing her bonnet into her apron pocket, Miss Sarah nodded. “No—I won’t. Too bad,” she added. “I c
ould’ve used his help.”
“What for, did you say?”
“To slaughter a pig. Hiram’s no use.”
“What makes you think Gordy is any better?”
The idea seemed to catch her off-guard. Miss Sarah paused for a moment, then gave a slight shrug of her shoulders.
“There’s other stuff he can do, besides. Feeding the animals, rebuilding the wall—like I said, Hiram is useless. To be fair, his talents lie elsewhere, but it’s hard work running a farm.”
Picking up her basket, Miss Sarah prepared to leave, even arranging her bonnet back atop her head. In that instant, Binx decided not to worry about Gordy, nor would he trouble himself with Froelich. Apart from balancing the ladder, Harald had taught him one other thing: how to butcher a hog. After all, he’d been heir to the family farm before departing for America.
“You think you can move the fulcrum?” Binx asked.
Miss Sarah blinked at him, her basket dangling from her elbow. “That’s what the wheels are for, right?”
“I can help on the farm,” he said. “Just promise that Hiram will leave me alone. No more questions about the ladder. At least, not right away.”
“I can’t speak for anyone else,” Miss Sarah said, crossing the meadow and applying her shoulder. “But I’ll ask him.”
The fulcrum proved surprisingly easy to move, once it had gained a little momentum. They had some difficulty maneuvering it into place, making sure the rungs were properly aligned; but after it had been positioned opposite Binx, he could nudge the ladder against its steep plane. The stiles made a trough in the dirt as they rotated over the axis. There wasn’t any need to worry about Froelich, or how he’d handle the transfer; the Rübezahl, if he even existed, could fend for himself.
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