Samantha Hunt - Mr. Splitfoot

Eventually Linda Thompson got some of her voice back. I can wait around until the same thing happens to Ruth. I’ve got a lot of questions I need to ask her, like, How does she know herself without a mother? How does she know herself without sound? I guess she knows the shape of things that aren’t there instead. Imagined or borrowed ideas like: mothers make food; mothers provide homes; mothers tell stories before sleep comes and remain steady when you are sick; mothers answer the phone when everyone else is asleep.

El was homeless when she went into labor with me, living on the streets of Troy, having contractions on the curb, and still she never hated me. She was alone through her whole labor. Nurses were few between in the welfare ward. She did the work herself, and at the very end an old man who’d specialized in podiatry in med school caught me. “You keeping this?” he asked her.

“That’s my daughter.” She held me close as she could, not alone anymore.

I’ve been a little shit, a spoiled, selfish brat. In this silence, when I close my eyes, I’m standing on stage and El’s the only audience member, clapping her heart out. El made herself into a really good mom with nothing, rubbing dirty hands together. And then I slunk off. I had no idea how hard this was. All I’ve got is a loose plan: Tell the baby it’s lucky to be here, then spend the rest of the time watching out for wolves. It’s not much of a plan, only slightly more evolved than El’s for me, which was something like: Don’t throw bleach on the baby’s face. That’s a good plan too. I’ll incorporate that into mine.

Even when I try to be silent, I can’t because worry is like words, hard to stop them from getting in, messing up your house. I need to call El. And after we’re done here, after I see what Ruth wants me to see, I will. I’ll go back. I’ll let El be a grandma. She deserves that. She deserves way more than that.

Ruth’s hands are squished together under one cheek, a sleeping child from a Christmas card. One of the sisters shuts off the exterior floodlight and the window disappears, but I still feel it lurking somewhere out there — a clear idea of what being a mother means, and every day I’m getting closer.

When I wake in the night, there’s a pair of knobby knees under thick brown hose in front of me. It’s still dark. I look up from the knees. The nun smiles. Her headgear conceals all but a few silver-brown hairs, the thin ruddiness of blown-out pores. “I saw you at Compline.” She tugs at a thread that’s unraveled from her wimple.

Ruth sits up.

The nun continues. “So it’s time to go.”

“What?” I rub my face.

“Time to leave.”

“You’re kicking us out in the middle of the night?” Not very Christian.

“We’re going together.”

“We don’t have a car, lady. Sister.” I swing my legs to the ground. Dig fingernails into my scalp.

“No car?” She holds her chin. “OK. We’ll walk.”

“Can’t we wait until morning?”

“No.”

“Where? Why?”

“I’m leaving the convent.”

“But we like it here.”

“You wouldn’t after a while.”

“Why do you need us?” I whine. I’m tired.

“Because the Lord told me you’d come.”

I look out the one small window. The Lord didn’t tell me anything.

“I’m Sister Margaret. Just Margaret now. Come on.”

“I’m Cora. She’s Ruth.”

“Ruth?”

“Yes.”

“Come on.”

It’s hard to look tough while slipping on maternity jeans. I tie my hair into a ponytail. Ruth finds our bags. Why don’t we resist? Why do I have the idea that I’m in training and must meet every challenge?

Sister Margaret heads downstairs and we follow. She hesitates by one door, holding its handle without opening it. She bows her head against the wood.

“Where’s that go?”

“The enclosure. The cloister. Sisters only.” Her wimple keeps much hidden.

“What’s enclosed?”

“Exactly.” She wags her finger, smiles. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“Yeah.”

“I know you would.”

“You’re not going to tell me?”

“Why buy the cow when the milk’s free?”

“But I was never even looking to buy this cow.”

“Still.”

“But what is it? What does that even mean? An enclosure?”

“It’s space. Protected space, fenced in, walled off, boxed up.”

“Why? What’s in the space?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Why not?”

“A girl’s got to have her secrets.”

The night air’s cold. Ruth pulls on my hoodie, covering her head. It’s filthy. We need a Laundromat. She adjusts the pack, hefting my bag up on one shoulder. The nun looks at the stars. Ruth starts walking and we follow. The nun switches on a flashlight beside me. “There,” she says.

That’s different, talking company. “Why are you leaving?”

“The Lord said someone would come when it was time to see my kid again.”

“You have a kid?”

“Yes.”

“How, like, how did the Lord tell you? In words?”

“Yes.”

“How’d you know it was the Lord and not your own voice? I’d have trouble separating the two.”

“Yes. You might.”

I think that’s an insult. “So. You have a kid?”

Ruth looks back at me.

“A daughter. From before.”

“How long have you been at the convent?”

“Since she was eight months.”

The mountains are moist before dawn. “You left an eight-month-old?”

The beam of her flashlight bobs. “I did.”

“What’d you do all that time you were gone?”

“We support a brother monastery. I was a seamstress. Lots of silence.” The nun uses her fingertips to tap her side, then her shoulders.

“What do the monks do while you’re supporting them?”

“Pray.” She rubs her hands together to stop the tapping. She moves faster.

“What’d your kid do?”

“Her father took care of her.” When she looks at me now, the flashlight’s under her chin, a horror show. “That’s a cruel question,” she tells me.

“Sorry. I haven’t had anyone to talk to in a long while.”

“Yes. Your friend’s quiet.”

“My aunt. She doesn’t talk.”

“She doesn’t talk?”

“No.”

“I’m pretty good at that too.”

The damp air’s medicinal. I like the privacy of walking at night and how it fuels dread and excitement. If something interesting’s going to happen — say, aliens landing — it’s going to happen in private. It’s going to happen at night.

“To be in touch with our smallness,” the nun says. “Closer to God up here.”

“Feels that way.”

“The world needs stillness.”

“True.”

“I wasn’t always still. I sat with the dying. Cooked for the hungry. Once we visited prisoners. I made decisions. I helped pregnant women like yourself. I spun thread.”

“Huh.”

The nun sizes me up. “Why? What did you do back in reality that was so great?”

“Sold insurance.”

“Wow. Real important stuff.”

She’s a mean nun. Even if she’s right.

The sun blues the sky. We head down her mountain into the valley of the next peak. I have to lean way back to stay balanced. “What’s with the show tunes?”

“Sister Kate. I’ll miss that.”

The road flattens eventually, and we head into town. We leave the berry briar and white pines. We pass through a forest of car dealerships, three on the left, two on the right. Despite their open, optimistic nature — broad plate-glass display windows, generous lots with wide drives — only one of the five dealerships remains in business. A battery of fast-food restaurants lures travelers off the cloverleafs. Sister Margaret sets her hands evenly on her hips. She stops walking. “What’s that sound?”