Froelich's Ladder (17 page)

“
Me
?”

“Yes, you,” he snapped. “If the tempest rages, you’re going to get wet.”

From above, there came the sound of a minor disturbance, followed by a soldier tromping downstairs. It was one of the three eager recruits; the Sergeant Major couldn’t tell them apart, for all their cockeyed enthusiasm.

“Sir!” the soldier reported. “The person’s talking!”

“Talking?” the Sergeant Major echoed. “Talking, how? What did he say?”

The young soldier looked perplexed, not an uncommon state for the men. “I don’t think it’s English,” he frowned. “I’m not sure if—”

At sufficient volume to penetrate the wood, and to rise above the howling wind, they could all hear the guttural reply, “
Leck mich am Arsch
!”

When Frank Myers was still a young man, new to Manhattan and new to himself, he’d made a habit of buying the
Times
, the
Herald
, and the
New York Tribune
. How could he court opportunity if he failed to appreciate the world at large? God knows he hadn’t slogged over from Scotland to lie in a pauper’s grave. Every morning, he’d pay his two cents to the Greek at the intersection of Fulton and Pearl—a negotiated fee, the first of many.

Today’s news?” the Greek would ask in vowels that lilted and swooned.

“Have you tomorrow’s? It’s worth more to me.”

“Today is tomorrow, yesterday. For half, you can have it.”

Always, the same:
for half, you can have it
. Frank hadn’t known the Greek’s name, nor what sunny isle he’d hailed from, but in a city fast approaching a million he alone had recognized Frank by sight. Were Frank to have decamped for Boston, or to have enlisted in the Army, no one but the Greek would’ve noticed his absence.

But all this had changed when the Greek had been replaced. It had been a summer day, steam already rising from the pavement.

“Where’s the other fellow?” Frank had asked the new vendor, palming his two bits. “The Greek—is he sick today or what?”

“Dead,” the man replied. In his face, Frank could see the ruddy-cheeked youth he’d once been, now yellow-toothed and jowly. The man had done a poor job of shaving that morning, the whiskers still visible on his pale neck. “Hit by a brick, coming back from lunch. What d’you want, chum—the funny pages?”

“A brick from a building?” Frank winked, even as his pulse had quickened. “Or struck from behind, d’you mean?”

While he waited for the man to elaborate, two more customers purchased the news, reaching over and around him.

“How about his boy, then?” Frank persisted, when the vendor remained mute. “I’d see him sweeping up, now and again.”

“What about him?”

“Shouldn’t he be working this corner? By rights it’s his.”

“Oh, is it?” the man said, taking a step closer. “You ever hear that possession’s nine-tenths of the law? Well, this is the other tenth. Now either buy something or get moving.”

Another customer jostled Frank from behind. He could feel his bile rising, but had somehow managed to tamp it down. “I won’t be giving you my business,” he seethed, “so I’ll get moving, instead. But before I do, let me speak the plain truth. If this is the other tenth, then you’re one-tenth the man.”

“You get out of here,” the man had snarled, planting a hand in Frank’s chest and giving him a shove.

It was shortly thereafter that he’d decided to move west, maybe someplace with less ornate architecture, less prone to falling rubble. Looking back on it nearly two decades later, he could see what he’d most cherished about the Greek: the sense of continuity that the man had provided. It was why, when he’d opened his second Myers & Co. Store, Frank had copied the layout of the first down to the very last detail. Apples by the entrance, pickles by the register. Cigar cases opposite the counterman, behind glass, so that he could observe the customers’ reflections.

It was also why, before decamping from the isle of Manhattan, Frank had paid a second visit to the ruddy-faced vendor, dragging a blade across his neck and leaving him to die in the street. Another summer day, steam rising from the pavement.

Were Frank to die today, he’d certainly do better than a pauper’s grave—but what of his livelihood, for which he’s sacrificed these many years? It would be sold off, part and parcel, with all the proceeds going to the state. If possession truly was nine-tenths of the law (as he’d seen proved out, time and time again), he obsessed over the one-tenth men and their base behavior. Deception could wear a friend’s mask, or even a business partner’s. Who would protect Myers & Co. after Frank had gone to meet his Maker?

His niece Josie was the obvious answer, an heir to all he’d accomplished. In the absence of a son, there was no better candidate to take the reins. Josie was fair, smart, and fearless—easily superior to any boy her age. Who else would’ve come to America, sight unseen, to be received by an uncle she only knew from his portrait? No doubt she could direct his business to places Frank even hadn’t conceived of—not just the retail stores, but the lumber industry, too. What’s more, it would provide her with financial security long after he was gone. The only obstacle was a matter of identity, his and her own. The one-tenth men would surely plunder her inheritance if Frank didn’t safeguard it.

Thus, it was with thoughts of posterity that Frank exited the bowling alley and walked toward the congregation. More than a dozen parishioners were loitering outside the Methodist church, all of them dressed in their Sunday finery—and in their midst, Judge Harper, his bald head turning a shade of salmon. Frank waved and smiled as he passed familiar faces, even receiving the occasional handshake. But he didn’t stop moving until he’d reached the circuit judge.

“Your Honor!” he said, intruding upon some meaningless banter and causing the judge to confront him.

“Myers,” he grunted.

“Enriching service, I hope?”

“Hard to hear,” the judge remarked pointedly. “The reverend had to contend with a near-constant banging.”

“Did he?” Frank grinned. “How lucky the Lord has fine hearing! I was wondering if we could speak about the Naturalization Act.”

“Not now.”

“When, then? Would next Sunday be convenient? Any excuse to practice my bowling.”

 As Frank patiently awaited his reply (trying his best to appear guileless), he took note of the crowd’s homogeneity. Not a red, yellow, or brown face among them. No doubt a flock for whom citizenship had been all but assured.

“Five minutes,” Judge Harper said, the collar of his shirt going limp from perspiration. “Next week, you practice on Saturday.”

Satisfied, Frank nodded. “Agreed. Now, I haven’t reviewed the document myself, but I’ve spoken with a lawyer who has. He informs me—”

“By law, a fourteen-year residency is required,” the judge interrupted him, while investigating an itch in the depth of his armpit. “Not in
cluding the five-year notice period. I don’t know when you immigrated, Myers, but—”

“The Act doesn’t concern me. I’m curious about its provisions for children.”

Frowning, the judge stated, “There aren’t any provisions regarding children—not that I’m aware of.”

“Not so. The lawyer I spoke to was very clear—”

“Foreign-born children of a
United States citizen may also be considered citizens. The Fourteenth Amendment extends those privileges to anyone born inside the United States, regardless of their parents’ place of origin. The Naturalization Act details penalties in the event of fraud. That’s it—that’s all.”

It wasn’t often that Frank found himself tongue-tied, or ill-prepared for an eventuality. As he attempted to process this new information, he was faintly aware of a commotion coming behind him, provoking the other congregants to turn and stare.

“Children adopted by a United States cit
izen,” Frank recited from memory, “or children with a legal guardian—”

“Let me ask you something, Myers.” A cruel smile spanned the judge’s face. “This lawyer you spoke to … is he formally educated?”

“Of course.”

“And where did he receive his schooling?”

“I’m sure I don’t know.”

“But you—you ’re not a lawyer, are
y
ou?”

Judge Harper delivered this inquiry while looking over Frank’s shoulder, as did many of his coterie. Feeling compelled to turn around, Frank spotted Gordy and Gak moving toward him. The latter, in particular, looked incensed—her mouth screwed up tight, and her tiny hands balled into fists. Though Frank made
obvious shooing gestures, Gak cleaved a path through the crowd, paying as much heed to the congregants as she would a herd of sheep.

With an exasperated sigh, Frank answered the judge, “No, I’m not a lawyer.”

“Then perhaps you’ll heed my advice. Your niece—I assume it’s Miss Josephine we’re talking about? Like you, her path to citizen
ship is abundantly clear. Fourteen-year residency. Five-year notice. Ensure that her paperwork is in proper order and she might be an American citizen by 1890. Who knows—maybe you’ll even live to see the day.”

“You welched, Myers!” Gak shouted, jabbing a finger at Frank and thrusting out her chin.

“Your Honor—” he petitioned, attempting to speak over her head. But there was no denying the obnoxious child, her fingers sticky with taffy and dangerously close to his face.

“You’d all but lost. You know it, I know it, even the Chinamen knew!”

Looking away from th
e judge, Frank registered the crowd’s titillation. It was evident in their smiles, and how they craned their necks to see. After church services, these God-fearing men and women had only their Sunday dinners to captivate them; Gak was more entertaining by far. Consequently, she was pandering to her audience. While ost
e
nsibly talking to Frank, she also took a step back and projected her voice, so as to be overheard by the remotest pair of Christian ears.

“Now, I won’t call you a liar and a cheat … only, you walked away from a fair contest, and that’s the opposite of fair dealing. You ducked what you had coming!”

“What I had coming?” Frank scoffed. “There was no
wager, no stakes!”

“I may not know about running a successful business,” Gak replied, with galling humility, “or mitigating expectations, but I’m no dummy, either. When a person wins, he gets something. And when a person loses, he loses something. Also, anyone who welches is nothing more than a cheat and liar.”

With these words of opprobrium, she reache
d out to brush some lint from his shirt, a gesture that received raucous applause. Aware that a response would be required, Frank quickly considered his options. Gak had insulted his station; he could, in good conscience, strike her down. From the obvious efforts she’d made to conceal her gender, the majority of the crowd wouldn’t recognize her as female—and even if they did, they’d be too cowed by Frank to voice their dissent. But what purpose would it serve, other than the satisfaction he would receive? Better to confound expectations, and be the bigger man
.

Marshaling his ire, Frank affected a grin. “I’ve been called many things in my time,” he laughed, also projecting his voice to be heard above the crowd. “Sometimes a cheat and a liar. But never a Welshman before!”

It was funny—not remarkably so, but funny. People chortled. However, they’d been more pleased to see t
h
is young upstart deriding a successful businessman; Frank’s good humor only hampered their fun. And so, with their Sunday dinners growing cold, the assembled congregants began to disperse—and with them, Judge Harper.

“I’ll see you next week,” Frank hollered after him, earning himself a look of reproach. “By which I mean Saturday, of course.”

“She didn’t mean what she said,” Gordy apologized, when it was finally just the three of them. There was an edge to his voice, which Frank initially mistook for embarrassment. “She was only joking. Tell him you were joking.”

For emphasis, Gordy shoved Gak—and for the first time Frank could see the fissure between them. It was evident in the downward cast of her eyes, and Gordy’s tensed shoulders.

“No bother,” Frank said. “I don’t mind being the source of fun. But look here—it’s the Sergeant Major. Let’s see what he has to say about winners and losers.”

Their circle opened to include two riders approaching on horseback, both similarly attired: formal blue tunics and leather riding boots. The younger of the two was Harrison, a lieutenant much taken with Josie, for whom Frank entertained a mild enmity. The Sergeant Major could be distinguished by his impairment. A Union veteran, he lightly grasped the reins in his left hand. His right sleeve, resting on the saddlehorn, had been neatly folded and tailored to a seam.

“Mr. Myers,” the Sergeant Major said, not bothering to dismount. “I’m glad I found you.”

“And I, you! Did you know, Sergeant Major, how Judge Harper would define an honest citizen?”

Almost imperceptibly, the soldier sagged. “I’m sure I don’t care.”

“Oh, but you should! After fighting so valiantly, and giving so freely of yourself! An honest citizen, according to His Honor, is a sheep. Not a wolf, mind you—not one who can hunt and fend for himself—but docile, with fleece as white as snow. Waiting without want or complaint, until he’s led away to the slaughter.”

“Mr. Myers—”

“Doesn’t that vex you, Sergeant Major? Knowing that your nation was founded on laggards? That is, if Judge Harper’s to be believed. If you ask me, I’d say his opinion is worth one-tenth your own.”

“Be that as it may, Mr. Myers, I’d appreciate a word in private.”

“Yes, yes,” Frank conceded with a sigh. “State your business.”

Glancing at Gordy and Gak, the soldier hedged, “It would only take a moment, if you’d like to—”

“Don’t mind the rabble, Sergeant Major—spit it out!”