Free Froelich's Ladder by Jamie Duclos-Yourdon

or worse than beast? That roles could be reversed, whether master and subject or tormentor and victim? Regardless, it had stopped the two boys cold. Josie had also been affected. As the clown had trotted to his place in line (not a svelte man, his belly had jiggled and his feet had slapped against the pavement), the procession had continued on either side of her, parting and then seamlessly merging, until she’d been left all alone on the darkened road. Even the two boys had had the wherewithal to go home, while Josie had just stood there, her mouth agape.
    Ever since her rift with Mae, she’d felt miserable, undeniably so. Whether at home or at work, she’d suffered from a dull, aching pain, like her body had been bruised on the inside. In order to console herself, she’d tried to pretend that their spat was only temporary—that, sooner or later, Mae was bound to reward Josie’s patience. But now she’d been made to see: if a clown could demonstrate empathy for a monkey, surely she deserved better. Moving to America, if not the best or only remedy, had been the most expedient. All it had required was a letter to Uncle Francis, and here she was.
    Coming upon another piece of driftwood, she stopped for a brief rest. Ahead, there were two choices available to her. She could continue down the beach until she reached the Coast Reservation, or she could venture inland, in search of the Logging Camp. Neither prospect seemed more appealing than the next. The former was a home to Siletz Indians, without the means or Christian charity to help her; the latter had been described to Josie in the bleakest of terms. Still, if it were a champion she sought, whether a fellow runaway or sympathetic countryman, she was most likely to find him at the camp.
    Dangling her shoes from one arm, she kneaded her toes in the sand. The day was advancing; soon the alarm would sound. Taking advantage of the lull, and with guarded optimism, Josie ventured forth, determined to find her own way home.

 
Chapter 7
     
    Riding on the back of the mail jitney, Gak produced a drawstring pouch. She’d picked up smoking while her daddy was away—a sociable habit among the guests, and something to do with her hands. Despite the uneven ride and satchel of letters she was sitting on (which caused her to slide back and forth with the topography), she still managed to pinch a wad of tobacco and roll herself a tidy cigarette. She struck a match against her shoe, took a drag, and flicked the spent red-tip into the road.
    “Let me ask you something,” she said. “This uncle of yours who lives on a ladder—the ladder so tall, a person can fall off it and land in a tree? Where’s he sleep?”
    When Gak offered him her cigarette, Gordy took a polite puff, gasp-talking, “Up the rungs, of course.”
    “You mean he just holds on? Because I tried sleeping in a tree once. I nearly broke my a—!”
    “See?” Gordy said, becoming animated. “You want to learn more, right? You’re intrigued? People hear about a giant ladder, they got questions!”
    “Are you kidding me?” Gak guffawed. “I’ve got a million! Like, what’s your uncle eat? What’s he wearing? Is he naked up there? I mean, completely naked? Is the ladder straight up and down, or is it tilted? How much of a tilt? Is it like—”
    Holding her wrist steady, Gak moved her hand back and forth, alternating the plane of her palm between vertical and horizontal.
    “No,” Gordy corrected her, “it’s more like this—” holding his own hand at a diagonal.
    “What’s it leaning against, then—a tree? What if the tree gets hit by lightning? Is it an A-frame? The ladder, I mean. Because, if it’s an A-frame, what if somebody climbed up the other side? What if the ladder got struck by lightning? What if—”
    “It’s not an A-frame,” he interrupted, and continued to speak before she could unleash another barrage. “It’s not leaning against a tree, either. My brother, Binx, is holding it