Samantha Hunt - Mr. Splitfoot

Ruth nods a slight yes like a mafia boss. They pass a field of three transmission towers. In the field there’s an abandoned lightweight truck. Nat taps his nails against the window.

The radio speaks of nothing but the coming storm. “It’s going to be a doozy!” DJs ratchet up fear. “No end to this nastiness in sight, folks!” They are bullies taunting winter into bad behavior.

Seventh Lake, Eighth Lake. There are so many lakes in the Adirondacks, some are numbered rather than named. Homes swarm by the lakeshores, leaving huge areas of unpeopled land. Mr. Bell’s car heads up into the mountains. Ruth has her forehead flattened against the window. “A bear.” She sits up. The bear is not alone. There are three, four, and another one across the street standing in front of a trailer. The giant bears have been chain-sawed from trees and painted black as fur.

A highway turns to a county road to a back road. The car climbs higher. Many of the homes look like chalets with carved wooden shutters. Cheaply built vacation condos collapse under the weight of winter and neglect. There’s a plague of empty tourist businesses, restaurants that catered to the summer crowds until the summer crowds found something chicer than a week in the high peaks. Small flakes fall, covering their tracks.

They travel slowly through the morning, higher and higher, up where the snow berms are as tall as a child. No one is here.

Mr. Bell spins the tuning on the radio. Even the weather forecasts have petered out at this higher altitude. There’s one country station and one for Jesus. Mr. Bell switches it off, and they are left with the sound of slush rushing under the tires. He says, “Ah, yes,” or “Of course” every mile or two as if he’s just remembering how to get there. He hurries. “Sorry to rush but there’s one stretch of the road that becomes impassable very quickly in snow. I’d like to get there before that happens.”

Ruth’s breath fogs the window. She wipes it clean in time to catch a momentary view. The trees drop away, the hills open into a vista. Huge ancient mountains disappear into clouds and snow. The road switches back. The view tightens and trees close back in on either side. Ruth fogs her window again. Oxygen thins. The road twists. They drive on.

The next town has an oversize highway department and a bar whose parking lot’s filled with snowmobiles. There’s a gas station and a general store rolled into one. Mr. Bell parks. A community bulletin board on the porch advertises clean fill, chainsaw repair, and a double mattress for sale. The door makes an electronic ding as the three enter. Mr. Bell extends his hand toward an uninterested mutt curled on the cashier’s wooden counter. “Bonjour, pooch.” He passes shopping baskets to Nat and Ruth with the instruction, “Fill ’em up.”

“How long are we planning to stay up here?” Ruth asks.

“Depends on the storm.”

Five or six people have gathered by the coffee counter — some seated, some rubbing their hands near a wood stove. They stare. Mr. Bell smiles to his audience. “Could one of you remind me where I’d find the lamp oil?”

No responses but wide eyes drink in Mr. Bell’s shine. He twinkles his fingertips above his head releasing them from his spell. “Hello?”

The clerk jumps to attention. “Follow me.” Mr. Bell disappears down one creaky wooden aisle into the back of the store. Nat and Ruth stand in the gaze of the townspeople before shuffling off to their shopping.

The store specializes in canned, frozen, and cured provisions. Ruth finds whatever is fresh, or once was: eggs, milk, bananas, iceberg, and onions. There’s penny candy and a mounted moose head as large as the ice cream cooler. There’s beer and a wall of movie rentals. There’s a post office, presently closed. There’s a rack of magazines, locally made jams, and a tray of fudge. Road salts, shovels, winter boots, emergency flares, motor oil, and lug nuts. Ruth selects three tins of Vienna sausages, some creamed corn, maple candy, cheddar, yogurt, biscuit mix, fruit cocktail in syrup. She puts her full basket up on the counter beside Nat’s and Mr. Bell’s.

The big ears at the wood stove watch them. There are three older gentlemen individuated only by the messages on their baseball caps. CAT says one. STIHL says the second. HOW CAN I MISS YOU IF YOU WON’T GO AWAY? asks the third. There are two women — one old, one younger. Both with short, styled hair, diamond-chip wedding rings, and winter parkas. All five people stare, prompting Mr. Bell to shuffle his feet, Bojangles style.

“Where you kids headed in this weather?” one of the old-timers finally asks.

Mr. Bell stops dancing. “Up the mountain a stretch. Over the river. Through the woods.”

The man lifts his lip and squints trying to see what Mr. Bell is talking about. He blows a raspberry and turns back to his circle of familiars. “Heard about them city hikers?”

The circle nods, studying boots and cracks on the wooden floor.

“Yup. Two weeks to thaw out their bodies. Though I heard it wasn’t the cold that got them.”

Mr. Bell’s interest in the old guy has now been piqued.

The man nods to his friends. “Yup.” And then the bastard doesn’t say what killed the city hikers.

The cashier rings up their purchases. Nat adds some trucker speed. Mr. Bell pays and their supplies are loaded into three cardboard boxes as Ruth imagines starving to death, falling off a cliff, being hacked to bits by some old-timer in a baseball cap.

With the car loaded, Nat takes a moment to piss over the snow berm in the rear of the lot. A group of young men have parked their trucks and snowmobiles by the propane tank refill center. They practice machismo in front of the strangers. They imagine the fearsome cluster of manhood they present. One boy spits an ugly if expected word in reference to Ruth. She doesn’t hear it. One boy scratches his, as of yet, untested testicles. Ruth notices one of the boys because he’s dressed crazy for the cold weather, in shorts and a concert T-shirt. His hair is as dark as his shirt. She leans back into the seat, making eye contact with this boy as Mr. Bell finds reverse and Nat slams the door shut.

A mile or two away from the store, the town disappears. They take a right onto a road where the plow hasn’t tried very hard at all. The notion of trouble is immediately upon them when two pickup trucks and a snowmobile follow them onto the off road.

“It’s not far now.” Mr. Bell speaks to cancel any alarm.

Ruth monitors activity out the rear window. “The boys from the store are following us.”

Mr. Bell tucks his chin, wraps a hank of hair behind his ear. “Nothing but ignorant rednecks.”

“Ignorant rednecks getting closer.” The first truck races up to their bumper. Ruth ducks. “They’re here,” she says, seconds before the truck lurches. Bumper meets bumper. The second truck pulls up alongside, overtaking Mr. Bell’s average sedan. The truck comes to a dead halt across the road. Mr. Bell uses two feet to brake, sliding toward a small river, one that washes through these mountains timidly, a forgettable stream that collects water from all these lakes, rolling down the mountains until it reaches the magnificent Hudson. The car comes to a stop, leaving just enough space for a minor paperback mystery to slide between the two vehicles.

A number of crows sitting in a spruce wisely decide it’s time to leave.

Mr. Bell steps from the car. Hands on hips, he approaches the lead truck. “What is this? Some sort of pickle sandwich?”

Four boys from the store climb out of the trucks, another arrives on snowmobile.

“Pickle sandwich?” Nat shakes his head and gets out as well. Ruth follows.

The dark-haired boy is there. “Which one’s your boyfriend?” he asks Ruth. She looks down at the truck’s hubcap. “And which one is a mother-fucking faggot?”