Samantha Hunt - Mr. Splitfoot

None of them speak. It’s work enough to bear the supplies, but after a quarter mile, Ruth sees the house: tall, gray, enormous, and proper, like a stone woman kneeling by the side of a lake, gazing into the water for something she lost there. The house is utterly grand, a mansion in the mountains, totally unaffordable. “This is your house?”

“Sort of.”

Mr. Bell is a rich kid. Though once again he has no key.

“One moment, please.” He disappears round back, leaving Nat and Ruth alone. They wait on the covered landing. There’s a rusted bell on a cord. Nat jangles it, but the bell makes no sound, the clapper’s frozen in place. Overhead there are more crows.

Ruth cups her hand to the glass of the door. She can’t see much. Most of the windows are shaded with green canvas, giving the inside a swampy feel as if the house is not beside the lake but under it. There’s another moose in the foyer with a rack the size of a loveseat. Someone has hung a number of umbrellas on his antlers. The moose looks large and dumbstruck. The moose reminds Ruth of Ceph.

The wind blows snow and ice against the house, a tiny tinkling sound. Cloud-Splitter, falling back to Earth. Mr. Bell reappears, spinning a ring of keys on his index finger. He tries each one in the lock, raising his eyebrows, pleased when the tumblers finally fall. “Welcome.” He steps back to allow Ruth and Nat entrance.

The house is built for giants. “What is this place?” The furniture is fashioned from felled trees and worn leather. “This is your house?” Ruth walks through the living room. A wall of old photos mark glorious times here on the lake.

“Sort of.”

“You grew up here?” The same question she’d already asked.

“I haven’t been back for a long time.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Why am I sleeping in basements when my family’s loaded?”

“Yes.”

“It’s more complicated than that. Please,” he says. “Come in and be comfortable.” Mr. Bell leads them through the enormous living room. A grand piano is under a canvas dust cover. There’s a hearth tall enough for a man to stand inside. It’s freezing. Mr. Bell draws back a heavy set of curtains. Seven deer cross the lake ice in single file like the gang of rednecks.

“Is that a lake or a pit?”

“Started as a pit. Now it’s the deepest lake of them all.”

The mustiness of the house smells like swimsuits and the yellow odor of board games.

“How deep?”

“Should the Empire State Building need a place to hide, it could do so there.” Mr. Bell steps back to unblock their view.

Ruth’s never seen the Empire State Building. “What’s down there?”

“Cars, no doubt. Backhoes. Wedding rings. Sneakers. Snakes. Bodies? Monsters? And all of it under a thousand feet of water and ice.”

The kitchen is huge with open shelves covered in floral contact paper like a hotel. Ruth struggles to identify many of the culinary devices on the shelves. Old-fashioned tools, cousins to hand beaters, food mills, hot pots, fondues, apple corers, candy thermometers.

“There’s a furnace in the basement. I’ll get it going if you can spare me.”

Ruth and Nat unpack their supplies.

“Looks like you’ve done well for yourself,” Nat says.

Ruth nods.

“Maybe you should reconsider those plans for divorce.”

“Maybe I already have.”

Though it isn’t much past three, the light is stretched and far away, heading to sunny California. The storm gains confidence. Ruth finds an odd light switch with two buttons, one ebony, one pearl. She pushes the pearl. An overhead fixture glows.

They put the dry goods in the pantry. The bins and shelves require a library ladder to access. She crams some of what’s already there to make room. Capers, peanut butter, baking powder, shortening, caramels, popcorn, eighteen boxes of dried spaghetti, and jar after jar of pickled beets. There are six cases of red wine. There are two cans of lychee nuts, whatever those are. There are at least thirty-six cardboard boxes of toilet paper. And each box must contain at least two hundred rolls. SCOTTIES each box says. Someone really didn’t want to run out of toilet paper. Inside the floor freezer Ruth finds venison steaks, bags of British peas, ice cream, meatballs, strawberries in syrup, bacon, and almonds. This is the life she dreamed of after Love of Christ! — ample food, quiet, Nat, and a fireplace. Ketchup, mustard, dill spears, and marmalade.

Mr. Bell builds a fire in the living room. Rubbing his hands over it, blowing air beneath the logs to spread the flames. He strips the piano of its dust cover.

“You play?”

“No.” He tucks the cover under his arm.

“What?”

“I want to cover the car.”

“Why?”

“To keep off the snow.”

“You want to hide it,” Nat says.

“Yes. In case.”

“In case what?”

Mr. Bell shrugs. “I’ll be back.”

Ruth puts up the last of their food except butter, cheese, and onions. She cooks the onions in the butter. She fries three cheesy omelets in a pan. Ruth plates and serves the meal on TV trays printed with hunting scenes. The three of them dine in front of the living room fire. The lake ice turns blue then navy while they eat. Having slept very little last night, they are exhausted. At four-thirty the last light disappears from the sky. The storm has only just begun, but Nat and Ruth follow Mr. Bell up the center staircase. Its Persian runner leads down the second-story hallway. Antler sconces light the dark wood walls.

Mr. Bell opens one door. The room belongs to a boy. There are four bunk beds, room for eight children. There’s a train set and a small bookshelf rising only as high as his hip. “I usually sleep in here if you don’t mind.” He leads them farther down the hall. “You’re welcome to any of the other rooms, though best to keep the third story closed. The heat can’t make it up there in winter.”

Nat opens a door on a large suite. “How about in here?” he asks Ruth.

“Yes,” Mr. Bell says. “That’s the nicest. It has a view.”

Ruth falls asleep in minutes, in her clothes, the only clothes she’s got.

She wakes and she’s alone. She hasn’t any idea what time it is. She slips out of bed. The room is plain, cold. There’s a bureau, a mirror, a rag rug, and a large black desk. In the bureau drawers: two unmatched socks, a keychain, two black buttons, and a beige pillowcase. The center desk drawer is empty except for a scrap of paper.

TO DO

fix hole in porch roof

energize people

And a list from a geography society.

Bethlehem

42°32′N

73°50′W

Burlington

42°45′N

75°11′W

Cambria

43°12′N

78°48′W

Lasher Creek

42°50′N

78°48′W

Mount Morris

42°42′N

77°53′W

Peekskill

41°17′N

73°55′W

Schenectady

42°51′39N

73°57′1W

Scriba

43°27′N

76°26′W

Seneca Falls

42°55′N

76°47′W

South Byron

43°2′N

78°2′W

Tomhannock Creek

42°53′N

73°36′W

Yorktown

41°17′N

73°49′W

The meteorites again. It must be a family thing.

She steps out into the hallway. She puts her hands on Mr. Bell’s door as if checking for a fire. Outside the storm is wild, but she’s not outside.

Downstairs someone’s cooking.

“Morning, Mollypop.”

“What time is it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Late?”

“Maybe. Breakfast is almost ready.” He pours her juice and steers Ruth to a Dutch bench in the kitchen, where Nat drums his thumbs.

“One-eyed Jack? One-eyed Susan?” Mr. Bell asks.