Froelich's Ladder (3 page)

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, that 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.

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.

“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?”