Froelich's Ladder (15 page)

With little choice, she pulled it back on and continued her trek. In her urgency to find a co
b
bler, she became even more curious about the caravans now clumped in twos and threes, with chocks under their wheels and raised canopies. But nobody had a shingle out with a clear indicator of the services provided. One had to be a familiar, Josie realized, to know the proprietors—how long they’d occupied their stalls and what prices they charged. It was an economy for the well-informed, not tourists.

So far, there’d been no linear dimension to the settlement, no streets or avenues laid out in a grid. Some paths appeared better traveled than others, the plant life trod down from regula
r traffic, but even those trails could be harsh on her feet. The air smelled of damp ashes, and the occasional outpouring of laughter made Josie turn about. Clotheslines had been strung between the trees, swaying in the breeze and bearing the weight of sodden laundry. Where the lines were presently empty, they’d been marked with bright ribbons to prevent an unwitting pedestrian from garroting himself.

Finally, Josie picked a caravan to make her inquiry. She selected it above the others because it had recently been painted (green and red, like a yuletide gift), and because its steps were not so steep. As she approached the vehicle, there was movement from behind the curtains. Accordingly, a man emerged. He was sinewy and short, and moved with purpose, closing the door behind him and trotting down the stairs. While he wasn’t wearing a suit, he remained presentable. His hair and moustache, Josie saw, had been styled with pomade.

“Good afternoon, miss,” he said, speaking in a resonant voice. “How may I help you?”

“You don’t happen to be a cobbler?” Josie asked. Leaning one hand against the lacquered caravan wall, she offered a view of the offending sole.

“As a matter of fact I am.”

“You’re not!” she guffawed, astounded by her luck. “Are you really?”

Frowning, he walked around to cradle her foot—Josie suddenly made aware of her bare knee.

“This is a good boot,” he said.

“Yes, well—excluding the hole.”

When he didn’t immediately release her, she began to feel uncomfortable, hopping on one leg while compelled to lean more heavily against the caravan. If she’d asked for a doctor, would he have claimed to be that, too? Or a cook, if she’d mentioned her hunger? Thankfully, the cobbler was receptive when she cleared her throat. He gently lowered her foot to the ground and retreated to an appropriate distance.

“I’d buy those from you,” he stated, matter-of-factly. “Would you barter? But wait—you’ll need another pair. Do you?”

“Do I what?” Josie frowned.

“Have another pair?”

Shaking her head, she said, “Only what you see. Are they really so fine?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Motioning for her to raise her foot again, the cobbler took another look at the hole. “I don’t have anything in stock that might fit you. And I can’t let you go without shoes, not in good conscience. You’ll step on a nail.”

Josie was mildly disappointed; furthermore, she was made to confront her lack of resources. How was she going to pay for food, or decent lodging? She hadn’t considered such concerns when leaving Fort Brogue, and now found herself mildly alarmed. Since the day she’d arrived in America, her uncle had provided every material thing: food, shelter, and clothes. She didn’t even have goods to barter with, as the cobbler had suggested—a shame, given all the trinkets in her turret.

At least she’d chanced upon an honest man. From her business dealings with Uncle Francis (endless visits to the Myers & Co. stores, each location a reflect
ion of the last), Josie considered herself to be an excellent judge of character. The cobbler, for his lack of showmanship, struck her as a plain-dealer. As such, she resolved herself to be forthright:

“I don’t have any money.”

The cobbler shrugged. “They say it’s the root of all evil. Besides, there’s not much cash changing hands. I’ll take an I.O.U.”

The notion of an I.O.U
. caused Josie to bristle. It was just another denomination in the imaginary economy, no better than a Confederate dollar. But since she had no other way to make a payment, there appeared to be little choice in the matter. Having never provided an I.O.U. before, she didn’t know how to proceed—whether she should spit on her palm, or else provide a written receipt. Finally, she blurted out, “I owe you.”

Apparently, an oral contract would suffice. With a nod, the cobbler started back up the stairs, saying, “Let’s conduct our business outside. You don’t want to enter my wagon unescorted—people will talk.”

Watching him disappear inside his caravan, Josie snorted—but perhaps she should be more conscientious. After all, her reputation was the only currency she had left.

It required numerous trips for the cobbler to amass his various tools outside. Some items Josie could identify by sight: a compact cauldron for melting rubber, great iron tongs for handling a boot. But other things, and their nominal purpose, she couldn’t have begun to guess—such as an array of glass ampoules, and something shaped like a wishbone. It was an impressive collection, to say the least. At a certain point, she wondered if he was taking everything out of his caravan in order to reorganize it. But after concluding his fourth circuit, he stopped to admire the mess.

“I hope there’s nothing missing,” she joked. Despite her attempt at humor, the cobbler’s expression remained blank.

“No, I think we have everything we’ll need. I’m just wondering if it’s going to rain. I wouldn’t want it to get wet—there’s some very expensive equipment here.”

Josie tried to imagine what might be most (or least) expensive. The sundry jars of shoe polish? Or the metal cast of a foot, flat like a duck’s bill? Still, he underwent the tedious process of returning more than half the items inside the caravan. Meanwhile, Josie, her feet still aching from the long walk, decided to sit down. Smoothing her dress against her thighs, she reclined on a log with her knees pressed together, continuing to regret the absence of her stockings.

“What brings you here?” the cobbler asked, as he continued to separate the objects. He didn’t seem particularly interested in her reply, not bothering to look up while he negotiated the clutter.

“A husband,” she answered. Having said the word aloud, she felt a flutter of anxiety. Josie’s idea of a champion had evolved over time, while walking down the stretch of beach. After all, why would a stranger come to her aid, or provide her with safe passage to Scotland? Wouldn’t it be easier to ask a spouse? Of course, it would require a groom of little or no guile, someone she could bend to her will. It would further require that Uncle Francis honor the contract, were he to discover them.

Briefly, the cobbler paused in his efforts. “You’re here to be wed?” When she nodded, hoping to convey confidence, he grunted. “You’ll need a license for that.”

“A license?”

“A wedding license,” he said. “I can make you one. Do you know your husband’s name?”

That he’d think to ask such a thing demonstrated the cobbler’s savvy. For her part, Josie should’ve been outraged—except, of course, she didn’t know his name, nor whom she might marry. Having to choose between feigned outrage or the slightest tinge of embarrassment, she found that neither came to her naturally.

“Not yet,” she said, making tiny circles in the air with her one good boot. “Is that a problem?”

The cobbler shrugged. “I can’t see why. You can make one up. Or leave it blank, to fill it in later. That might be easier, depending.”

“Depending on what?”

“On what’s more important.” He grinned. “The husband or the license?”

“Like the chicken or the egg,” Josie laughed. She could appreciate the cobbler’s discretion. At the same time, she didn’t want to reveal herself too soon. “That’s the riddle, isn’t it?”

“It is, indeed.”

Now that he’d stowed all the nonessential or expensive equipment (and with no rain to show for it), the cobbler seemed exhausted. Rather than commencing his work, he too took a seat, dragging over an anvil and squatting comically low to the ground. Judging from his hands and eyes, Josie tried to make an accurate guess of his age: older than she, but not so old as Uncle Francis.

“Can I make an observation?” he said.

“I’d be delighted if you did.”

“That hole in your boot is well-earned, but the heel’s not as worn as the toe. However far you’ve traveled must’ve come all at once. Was it a long walk here?”

“It was,” she replied, feeling as if she were playing a parlor game.

“Where are you coming from?”

Here Josie paused. The cobbler
seemed
like a decent fellow, but still he remained a stranger to her.

“May I ask you something first?” she replied. “What’s your name?”

Sitting back, he thrust out his hand in introduction. “Danny.”

Immediately, her mind summoned the image of Danny Foye. “No—it can’t be! Really?”

“Have I said something funny?”

“Danny what?”

With his hand still extended, the cobbler—Danny—blinked. “Just Danny,” he said. “There’s no last names here.”

 “No last names. But there are wedding licenses and I.O.U.s? How can the latter be true without the former? What sort of magical place is this?”

Withdrawing his hand, he gave her a tight-lipped smile. “Let me see—nice clothes, looking for a husband. I’d guess you’re pregnant, except for the boot. That’s a long way to walk for someone who’s expecting. Something else, then. Something bad.”

Though she could feel herself shrinking, Josie fought to maintain eye contact. Was it really so obvious, she wondered? Or had she seen so little of the world that she couldn’t guess the cobbler’s story at a glance?

“
That’s
why, Miss. No last names—it’s survival, not magic.”

“Josie,” she finally said, offering her own hand.

“Josie,” he repeated. Danny’s palm, when clasped, was firm and dry. “A pleasure to meet you.”

“Tell me—how long before you can fix my boot?”

Swiping that same strong hand across his face, he produced a weary sigh. “May I be honest with you? The truth is, I’m not
really
a cobbler—not by trade, anyway.”

“But all those tools—”

“Either bartered for or won. Some have no use. Like that thing,” he said, poking his toe at a hinged piece of metal. “I’m not entirely sure what it’s for.”

In light of this revelation, Josie expected herself to
feel angry, or betrayed, but instead she found it to be inconsequential. Her boot still existed, as did the hole; nothing had fundamentally changed.

“So your offer to fix my shoe?”

“I stand by what I said—no pun intended! You can’t walk around here barefoot, not if you plan to remain in good health. There’s a real cobbler by the Chinese laundry—Morris, his name is. I can introduce you. He’s oftentimes drunk, and he quarrels with his inventory, but he does good work.”

With a nod of her head, Josie assented. “Let’s go see him. And if it turns out
he’s
not a real cobbler, then maybe he can point us toward someone else. And so on and so forth, until I’ve met everyone in this camp.”

Rising from his anvil, Danny collected his stray pieces of artifice—most of which, Josie now observed, were obviously junk. In her willingness to believe him, she’d imbued everything with a false sense of purpose.

“Not to be rude,” she said. “But what
is
your true profession?”

He coiled a length of rope in his hands and gave her a thoughtful look. “Contracts—I bring people together.”

“Like you’re doing now, with me and Morris? Is that your play?”

Grinning, he said, “When I’ve made my play, you’ll know it.” And, with that, he carried an armful of equipment back inside his caravan.

A snatch of song carried through the trees: two voices, slurred with drink, yowling about goober peas. Josie assumed the revelers must hail from a neighboring caravan, though it seemed unwise for her to leap to conclusions. How willing she’d been to believe Danny! In truth, she rather liked him—the unfortunate coincidence of his name notwithstanding. He reminded her of Uncle Francis. Bringing people together—wasn’t that essentially what Uncle Francis did, except on a larger scale? Certainly, he had no qualms about stretching the truth. Should circumstances permit, perhaps Josie might introduce the two. They could open a Myers & Co. Store at the Logging Camp and install Danny as manager. It was the kind of idea that made her worthy of promotion, if not adoption. Too bad Uncle Francis wasn’t getting a son.

When the song reached her ears again, it sounded much closer than before. Rising from her log, Josie smoothed the fabric of her dress. Danny continued to tarry in his caravan, creating a great deal of noise, so she helped herself to a piece of equipment: the metal w
ishbone-looking
thing, numbingly cold to the touch. When he came back outside, she could return it to him. In the meantime, Josie took some comfort in its heft.

Leaves rustled and parted, as strangers emerged from the foliage. The taller of the two, skinny to the point of being hunched, was looking intently at the caravan. The other man, whose rotund belly brought to mind a friar, was still humming a Rebel tune. Both men carried heavy cudgels.

“Well, look here, Nantz,” said the friar, with an unfriendly smile. “Danny’s got himself a friend. Hello, friend.”

Before she could reply, the second man growled, “You said it, Carmichael. How about putting that down, friend, before your arm tires?”

Josie’s eyes flitted toward the caravan, where she hoped to see Danny reappear. The two men stood on either side of her. She tried to imagine using the wishbone as a weapon, swinging it at the men’s heads; when she found that she couldn’t, she discarded it. The wind shuffled the leaves from green to white as the quality of light became opaque.

“Is he alone?” Carmichael asked, taking another step toward Josie. Nodding, she signaled in the affirmative, not trusting her voice.