Samantha Hunt - Mr. Splitfoot

“Are you related to him?”

“I wish.”

“You know a lot about him.”

“I’m old-fashioned. I read books.” She swoops her lopsided hair from her face. “I can’t help myself. I love books. Even though I get enraged at the tyranny of text.”

“What’s that?”

“You know. Left to right. Punctuation. Page 1, page 2, page 3. Text has a lot of rules. Kind of like getting born, living your life, dying. You know. Text only has one direction. Frustrates me.”

“I see.”

“Plus, I talk to a lot of people. Still.”

Considering the company I’ve been keeping, this does seem a banner of marked difference. “What about the tyranny of talking?” I ask.

“Don’t even get me started.”

“My aunt doesn’t talk.”

“Really?”

“Uh-huh. I mean she can. I think. She just chooses not to.”

“Wow. Why?”

“I don’t know. She won’t say.”

“Right. Exactly. Cool. And you’re just left with this pounding hammer: Why? Why? Why? There’s truth for you. Where’s she at? I’d like to not-talk with her.”

“She should be back soon.” Changing the topic. “So are you a con man?”

“I’m more like a con man’s assistant. Or nurse. Or Gal Friday.”

“Do you live at the motel?”

“Lord Jesus, no, and no offense if you’re planning on moving in, but only dead people live here.”

“Huh?”

“This place is like a waiting room for dead people. You know, people with unfinished business.”

“I kind of like motels.”

“They’re great for a short visit.”

“Why would the dead come here?”

“Why come back at all is a better question.”

“Yeah. Why?”

“From what I understand, there’s three kinds who come back. All of them are people who get stuck, like some bad pop song, when you were a kid, that track you couldn’t stop listening to over and over and over? Of the three, mothers are the worst. They never let go. Especially, say, a mother who lost her kid. Forget it. She’s going to stick around forever ’cause first she’s got to find her kid, then she’s got to make it right. Not always easy. What if the kid’s dead himself, right? How are you going to find him?”

I squint at her, wondering if she might have been somehow sent by El. Or is on drugs.

“Next there’s the angry dead,” she says. “You know, looking for revenge. I don’t care for them one bit. They always seem desperate. Mouth breathers, I call them.”

“Huh?”

“You know.” She makes a Darth Vader sound. “Desperate. And last, you’ve got the lovers. Here it gets even stickier. Say someone’s hanging around to take care of his little sister. Then his wife ends up hanging around to take care of him. Then the wife’s daughter is worried about the mom. On and on, right? Pretty soon this place is filled up with people who didn’t get quite enough love in while they were alive, and — shudder to think — what if a living person ends up falling in love with a dead one? Love gets messy when you’re dead.” She nods at me. “I’ve got plenty of messes around here just keeping the sheets and towels clean.”

“How would a living person fall in love with a dead one?”

“Please. James Dean? Come on.”

“No, I mean, how would a living person see a dead person?”

“Thankfully most can’t, but sometimes a situation arises, say, a person who’s alive but maybe also not totally alive, right? Like a halfway-alive thing. You know?”

“I mean how would you know they’re dead?”

“The dead tend to carry around some sort of empty box.”

“Like a coffin.”

“Could be. Could be. But really any size. Sometimes tiny, say, a jewelry box. Sometimes huge, maybe a whole mansion. All that matters is the emptiness.”

“You’re speaking metaphorically, right?”

“Oh, sure. Of course. Metaphorically. Transubstantially. Cryogenically. Whatever you need. Whatever gets you through the night.”

I have no idea what she’s talking about. “How’d you end up here?”

“I’ll tell you.” She runs her tongue hard against her front teeth. “I’ll tell you. It’s like this. In college everyone chose a niche, a microscopic subset of the human race they wanted to fight for, lay down on the tracks for. You know, poets with AIDS, Ethiopians with cholera. Remember this? We’d organize a conference, and my friends would ask, ‘OK, did we invite a Lithuanian butch communist? Or have we represented the voice of African American cowboy storytellers who believe in UFOs?’” She twists her lips. “All interesting demographics to hear from, for sure, but it started to seem like so much rooting for the home team, and the home team only. I didn’t want to choose one small group. I wanted to understand real diversity, so I turned my scholarly attentions to the greatest population.”

“The poor?”

“Not even close. Dead people.”

“Right.”

“A totally underrepresented population. The people underground. No one’s looking out for dead people’s rights. Right?” She slams her fist on the counter. “No one’s making sure dead people are invited to speak at conferences on semiotics or the effect of polar vortexes on the Gulf of Mexico. I became a ghost activist. I’d start arguments with my classmates and professors as to why they always privilege being over non-being. Why they behave as if the only words people hear are spoken ones. Makes my blood boil. What about the unsaid? Right? What about the dead?”

A man with well-greased trousers enters the lobby. “How’s it hanging, Sherry darling? Loose?”

“Sure. Loose.” Then she turns back to me. “Ask Carl. He can tell you.”

“What?” He blushes. “And, please, don’t call me that.”

“Sorry. I was just telling her only dead people live here. Right?”

“Not exclusively.” The guy definitely looks like someone who lives in an upstate motel, a sexy bandito with a messed-up past. Lots of silver loot on his hands, bracelets on wrists. The man smiles and shakes one ringed finger at the young woman, scolding with a smile. “You’re a funny one, Sherry. Any caffeinated beverages at the ready?” he asks. “I can’t seem to stay conscious.”

She looks at the brewing coffeepot. “Almost.”

“Right. I’ll be back in a jiff.”

“Sure. Hey, Carl, you have that money you owe me?” she asks him.

“I’m working on it. Working on it.” He swings out through the door. “My great pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he says, though we barely met.

The woman lifts a brow after he’s gone. “So you guys staying another night?”

I look toward the phone, nearly believing my own fabrication of moments earlier. That it had been Ruth, that she’d said something to explain why the plan had changed. Why I was stopped here, waiting for her, holding the knapsack. “Yeah. Another night.”

“Got any plans?”

“Nope.”

“Cool. I get off at eight. I’ll be round to get you. If you’re interested.”

I don’t ask in what. I’m interested. “I’ll look for you then.”

MR. BELL PULLShis greased hair behind his ears. “Back to Troy?”

Nat joins them in the car.

Ruth imagines Zeke’s non-nose. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” They pass a dairy farm, an abandoned paint ball area, and a house whose yard is dominated by whirligigs and birdbaths.

“I know a spot. At least for a night,” Mr. Bell says.

“Far from here?”

“Far from any place really.”