Froelich's Ladder (12 page)

Morning had become afternoon, and the day brutally hot.

How long had they tarried on that road to the coast? Minutes? Hours? No other traffic had chanced upon them. Eventually, the driver had started to collect flies, and the horse had grown skittish. Even then, Gordy and Gak had failed to rouse themselves, neither acknowledging their surroundings nor each other.

For his part, Gordy was thinking of the letter that Gak had produced—the envelope from Colorado. What news had it contained, he wondered? Had its sender made a successful life for himself in that virgin territory, or was he burdened by unpardonable crimes? The letter itself lay somewhere among the others—past the inconvenient body in the road, and the terrible mess they’d created.

They might’ve lingered indefinitely were it not for the sound of the church bell. Upon hearing the chimes, they both raised their heads and made inadvertent eye contact. The sound was distant, but distinct; on and on it went, like a summons to judgment. Without uttering a word, Gordy and Gak stood. Pointedly, they didn’t look at the driver, nor did they borrow his horse and carriage. All they carried with them was Gak’s bag of provisions: the rock candy, taffy,
and jerky.

Thus, they shambled along, remaining at arm’s length and hardly ever speaking. In short order they arrived at a town, laid out on opposite sides of a wide thoroughfare. The first thing Gordy observed (aside from the passing resemblance to Boxboro) was the preponderance of flat land. Clearly, they’d left the forest behind, as the continent now gently inclined toward the sea. Second, he noticed that it was eerily quiet. Even the insects were hushed.

“Where’s all the people?” Gak asked, plunging her fist into the bag of preserved goods. Her voice sounded hoarse from lack of use.

When Gordy ignored her, preferring to walk in silence rather than maintain the illusion of comity, Gak answered her own question: “Is it Sunday? Maybe they’re in church.”

Even in 1871, after statehood, gold, and Indian sequestration, it wasn’t uncommon to find deserted towns. Whole communities could collapse with little or no warning. But here, all the buildings were pristine, and the boardwalk had been swept of animal tracks. Also, there was the sound of the church bells to explain, still ringing in their ears. As they walked past an all-too-familiar Myers & Co. Store, the road hooked sharply to the right.

Rounding the bend, Gordy was startled by a loud crashing noise. Gak raised her eyebrows. “That didn’t come from no church.”

Then they heard it again—not quite as momentous as before, but still an awful din. Continuing along the loping curve of the road, they ultimately arrived at a cul-de-sac. There, to their left, was the town’s church, big enough to receive an entire congregation. (Indeed, from inside they could discern the cadence of a sermon.) Though the air was oppressively hot, its doors remained closed. Standing adjacent to the church was another building, equally large, but without any signage to designate its purpose. Its doors stood open.

“I guess—”

This time, the crash was so loud that they both leaped with fright. It came from the second edifice and was accompanied by a manic shouting: a single voice, though the words were unintelligible.

No sooner had Gak and Gordy landed on their feet than a man came out the door and striding toward them—the owner of the voice, slight of build, with curly red hair and pale skin. He was wearing pants and suspenders to match Gordy’s own, though the man’s cuffs reached comfortably past his ankles, with a high polish to his shoes.

“You!” he cried. “Lad! May I solicit your assistance?”

Gordy touched his sternum. “Me?”

“Yes, you!” With a smile, the man turned to Gak and apologized, “It’s heavy lifting I require—I’m sure you’re twice as sharp. I say, is that taffy you’re eating?”

“What?”

“Saltwater taffy—is it taffy in your bag?”

“Maybe?” she replied, clutching her sack. “So?”

“
So
, it must’ve been purchased at a Myers & Co. Store. No one else stocks it north of Sacramento.”

Taking note of the man’s accent, Gordy asked, “Is someone in trouble? Do they need help?”

“That depends on your meaning,” the curly-haired gentleman replied. “How do you define trouble? Or help? And whosoever constitutes someone?” Failing to explain himself any further, he spun around and stalked back inside. Though they waited for another crashing sound, the tumult (and cursing) seemed to have stopped.

“We don’t have to go in,” Gak said, the aforementioned taffy now plugged in her cheek.

“Do you know who that was?” Gordy murmured. “It’s Francis Myers.”

“You’re sure?”

Without further comment, he started toward the building. A not-small part of him wished he could proceed alone—that Gak would stay behind, or find her own way. Every time he looked at her, he could feel the weight of the bludgeon, as if it were still in his hands. But he hadn’t walked five feet when he could hear her in tow: the dry-leaf sound of her sack, and her jaw furiously working.

Once inside, they were initially disoriented by the waxed floor, like stepping onto an icy pond. The hall itself was long and high-ceilinged, with a half dozen lanterns strung together at the end.

“If I may be so bold,” Myers inquired of Gak, calling over his shoulder, “where did you make your purchase? Was it here, in town?”

“Purchase?” She frowned. Then, remembering her saltwater taffy, she answered him, “Huntsville.”

“Huntsville—I see. And how would you rate your experience there?”

“My what?”

Pausing halfway across the long hall, he turned to face her. Frank Myers didn’t look like the richest man in Oregon, Gordy thought, but what would that look like? Proprietor of all the Myers & Co. stores, as well as Myers & Co., what he didn’t outright own had been constructed with his lumber. Here was someone who could speak to fame and wealth, and he only seemed interested in Gak’s snack.

“Did you find everything you were looking for?” Myers continued. “Was the Huntsville counterman courteous and polite? How about the aisles—would you call them orderly and clean? Would you go back a second time? Or is it already your Myers & Co. Store of choice?”

“It’s a store,” Gak firmly stated. “It was fine.”

Myers snorted. “Better than
fine
, I hope. I’d like to think that when a person enters a Myers & Co. Store he—or she—can expect a rewarding experience, and that that expectation will be honored, whether in Bend, Salem, or even Huntsville!”

“What is this place?” Gordy asked, trying to insert himself into their conversation.

“We tried playing by natural light,” Myers commented, turning away again. “But the shadows made a muck of it. Also, we were constrained by daylight hours. I’d like to have lamps installed—incandescent, like I saw last year on a visit to France. Truly awe-inspiring. And you—do you have a name?”

“Gordy,” he said.

Glancing down at Gordy’s feet, Myers observed, “You’re not wearing any shoes.”

It was a rather odd comment to make, like acknowledging one’s forward-facing head. At a loss for words, Gordy simply shrugged.

“No bother!” Myers declared. “I can loan you a pair.”

The opposite side of the hall had the benefit of being better illuminated. (Gordy could see where windows had been boarded shut, both cut into the walls and high above them on the ceiling.) The air was more acrid here, closer to the ambient glow, but they were better able to scrutinize their surroundings. The floor had been divided into two lanes, each one roughly three feet by sixty. At the terminus of each lane, where the lantern light was brightest, were two ghostly wedges, each formed by ten pegs and overseen by an attendant.

“What is this place?” Gordy asked a second time.

Handing him a pair of shoes, Myers gestured at the lanes. “Have you never bowled before? It’s a game—for sport! The object is to knock down as many pins as you can.”

“But … why?”

“For sport!” he repeated, grinning like a shill. “I had the alley built last winter—before that, they used the space for cattle auctions. Lord knows, I’ve tried to get the townspeople interested, but there’s no luring them away from church and industry. Those two I hire by the hour,” he said, indicating two Chinamen, who stood motionless in the shadows. “But they won’t play against me, either.”

“You called us here … for a game?”

“What could be more natural? What say you, Gordy—join me in a contest?”

The novelty of this proposition caught him off guard. Inhaling the gas lamp’s poisonous fumes, and with sweat trickling down his back, he was stunned by the frivolity of Myers’s offer. Not more than an hour ago, Gordy had killed a man, all thanks to Gak. And now he was being invited to bowl? What sort of grotesquery was this? Homicide in the morning and sport in the afternoon?

“Sure,” he said, succumbing to the strangeness of it all. With some effort, he squished his feet into Myers’s proffered shoes. Gordy hadn’t worn loafers since the occasion of Harald’s funeral, and the feeling was akin to a horse being shod.

“Those look a mite small,” the Scotsman commented, after Gordy had taken a mincing step. “Still, it’s better than falling on your arse. We can share a ball. Hopefully, your fingers will fit.”

“My fingers?”

“I had it custom made—I have fine digits, you see. Young lady, may I suggest that you sit over there?”

At that, Gordy and Gak both froze. Gordy’s hands, already slick from heat, began to sweat even more profusely. Would he be required to murder Myers, too? And what about the Chinamen in Myers’s employ—must he dispatch them, as witnesses to a crime? He couldn’t spend the rest of his life protecting Gak—who, even now, was staring at him, her eyes wide, the weight of her secret a burden between them.

Seemingly oblivious to their discomfort, Myers directed Gak to a wooden bench, then selected a bowling ball from a nearby shelf. The orb was dark as shale and the size of a person’s head. Observing Myers’s tensed arm and the strain upon his face, all Gordy could think of was wielding his bludgeon.

“Allow me to demonstrate the proper technique. As you can see, there are three holes, here.” Cradling the ball in the crook of his arm, Myers poked his thumb and middle fingers into the openings, balancing the ball with a look of intense concentration. “Employing an underhanded motion, the bowler rolls the ball toward the pins. I suggest that you aim for the head pin. Lad, are you listening?”

“What?” Gordy blinked. “Yes—of course.”

Facing his lane, Myers exhaled. With two broad strides, he approached the leftmost wedge, swinging his ball in a pendulous arc and releasing it no higher than his ankle. It glided down the lane at a predatory speed and met the pins with resounding force. The sound was so loud that Gak inhaled her taffy.

“The two and seven pins remain standing,” Myers observed while thumping her on the back. “With my next bowl, I shall attempt to convert a spare.”

As the attendants rushed to retrieve the pins, Gordy inquired, “Is it always so loud?”

“A person gets used to it.”

“Isn’t it dangerous?”

Myers appeared confounded by this statement. “Oh,” he said, acknowledging the attendants. “You mean for them? Yes, I suppose so. But I’ve made them partial owners, in the event that we open to the public. Maybe you’ve heard the term
sweat equity
?”

“No,” Gak scowled. “Maybe
you’ve
heard the term no-good huckster?”

The younger of the two attendants fetched the ball—steering it with his feet, and rolling it back down the lane. When he caught Gordy’s eye, he gave a polite smile, then sprinted back to the remaining pins, where he assumed his position.

“Now, on to unfinished business,” Myers decreed.

Just as before, he took three long strides in the direction of the pins, released the ball, and admired its progress. This time, it whispered past the rightmost pin, which abruptly launched itself into the air and collided with its counterpart.

“A baby split!” he shouted. Then, composing himself, he confided in Gordy, “I’d be even better with some practice—it’s so inelegant, having to rely on a spare. However, I
did
score ten points, plus the value of my next roll. Each turn consists of two rolls, ten turns total. Do as I do, and see if you can’t enjoy yourself!”

Copying Myers’s grip (a wholly unnatural three-finger pinch),
Gordy found the ball to be much lighter than he expected. Mindful of his longer gait, he took an additional step back from the release point, began his motion, and swung his arm—the ball coming loose in midair, resulting in thumb-popping pain.

“Careful!” Myers scolded him. “You’ll hurt the finish!”

“Sorry—it got stuck.”

“Maybe don’t stick your finger so deep,” Gak said. “It ain’t plum pie—you ain’t Jack Horner.”

“You could do better?”

“I couldn’t do worse!”

Stalking across the floor with the bowling ball still cradled in his arms, Gordy hissed at her, “You and me aren’t chummy, Gak, so why not keep your advice to yourself?”

Scowling, he returned to the top of the lane and nodded to the attendant. This time, he used only his fingertips, guiding the ball in the direction of his target (rather than throwing it). The results were much improved: the ball went forward, though it failed to connect with any of the pins. Instead, it veered to the right and struck a protective cushion, producing a muffled
thump
.

“Can I go again?”

“Yes, of course. Take as much practice as you like.”

“So, what?” Gak interrogated their host, finding her voice again. “You invite people over to bowl, then quiz them on their favorite Myers & Co. Store? What’re you doing here, anyway? Ain’t it a bit humble for a millionaire?”

If he was offended by her glibness, Myers didn’t show it. “Oh, we don’t
live
here. We reside at Fort Brogue, courtesy of the Sergeant Major. I only come down here for sport.”