Samantha Hunt - Mr. Splitfoot

Ruth looks confused.

“Toast with a Tummy?” No idea.

“Bull’s-Eye? Egyptian Eye? Rocky Mountain Toast? Camel’s Eye? Lighthouse Eggs? Hobo Eggs? Egg in a Hat? Egg in a Nest? Knotholes? Hocus-Pocus? Man in a Raft? Frog in a Pond? Bird in a Basket? Chick in a Well?”

She sips her juice suspiciously.

Mr. Bell drops his hands from his hips. He turns back to the stove, flips something in the fry pan, dishes it onto a plate, and presents it to Ruth.

She takes a bite and with mouth full says, “You mean Toad in a Hole.” Mr. Bell slaps his forehead. “Exactly. Coffee?”

“Please.”

He pulls out some Japanese contraption made of glass.

“What’s that?”

“Coffeemaker. Belonged to one of my dads, I think.”

“How many dads do you have?”

“Depends what year. Usually eight or nine.”

“Pardon?” Nat asks.

Mr. Bell squares his gaze. “My family was not traditionally described.”

Ruth sips. They chew. Nat lifts his gaze. They wait.

“I was an Etherist.”

Ruth and Nat draw blanks.

“It was a religious organization.”

“A charity?”

“A cult.” Mr. Bell smiles. He shakes his head. “Etherists, though more properly the Eternal Ether House of Mardellion.”

“What’s Mardellion?”

“Our fearless prophet. He was the psychotic who introduced me to music and the solar system. He knew everything about rocks.”

“What’re Etherists?”

“Etherism. Meteors and multiple wives. A mashup of Mormons and Carl Sagan. You know Mormons?”

Ruth glances back to Father Arthur’s lessons. “Not really.”

“You know Sagan?”

“No.”

“He was an astronomer.”

“That’s the meteorites?”

“Yeah. Yeah. Right. Mardellion thought one big meteor was going to land on this house and smash us into particles of free light.”

“That’s not very nice.”

“No. He wasn’t a nice man at all. Isn’t.”

“When was the last time you saw him?” Nat asks.

Mr. Bell sets his jaw at an uncomfortable angle. “He used to take me to mineral shows. He hated people who sold meteorites. He thought that was like selling slivers of the cross. So we’d go to gem shows, and Mardellion would set up a booth — this was years before IMCA—”

“What?”

“The International Meteorite Collectors Association. There were no regulations in place. He said he was an expert, so he was. He kept a picture of Sagan at the booth as if he was somehow endorsed by the man. People would line up to talk to Mardellion, show him their rocks. He didn’t charge anything and sometimes even did a little recruiting at the shows. ‘Chondrite,’ he’d say or ‘Stony iron. Looks like a desert landing.’ Or ‘Antarctica. Without a doubt.’ Eventually, I’d file into the line, dressed like an urchin, hauling a huge rock with me, barely able to lift the thing. Most often it was some junk rock we’d pulled out of the motel’s landscaping the night before. Schist or sandstone. Nothing special. I’d kick it, roll it, pitiful, making a scene, and then after waiting ten, fifteen minutes, I’d tell a guy in line, ‘Mister, I really have to go the restroom. Do you mind watching this for me?’ Never did the guy say no. I was a kid. But I wouldn’t go to the john; I’d hide where I could spy. The closer the guy got to Mardellion, the more worried he’d look, wondering what happened to the kid who left behind the big rock. Finally, the guy would reach Mardellion, who’d look down. ‘My wonder!’ he’d shout out, starting to salivate. ‘I’ve never seen such a perfect specimen of a pallasite! Do you realize how rare this is? I’ll give you five thousand for it, right here—’ ‘It’s not mine,’ the guy would have to say. ‘It’s some kid’s.’ At which point Mardellion would say, ‘Oh, I’m very sorry to hear that. When the kid returns, please give him my number as I have an appointment I cannot miss.’ Mardellion would scratch some made-up phone number on a scrap of paper and quickly close up shop, apologizing to those in line. He’d pack it out of there in a jiffy. Once he was gone, I’d slink back over ‘Darn,’ I’d say, ‘I missed him.’ Ten times out of ten, the guy’d say, ‘That’s a cool rock. I don’t know much, but I’ll give you a thousand bucks for it.’ ‘In cash?’ I’d ask.

“Mardellion would have the car waiting out front.”

“Nice,” Nat says.

“Yes. A handsome con and righteous according to Mardellion because the notion that one rock should be worth more than any other was cruel to him. He thought of rocks like people. Should dolomite be unloved? Should drug addicts? No, they should not.” Mr. Bell thumbs his chin and nods. “We worked that gig for years until a show in Concord. Mardellion’s doing his thing and I’m lugging my junk rock into place, making sure all the guys on line see me struggle, when we’re recognized. The pool of New England mineral show enthusiasts is somewhat limited, and one of the guys we’d rolled a few years back saw me, saw Mardellion, and the whole con clicked. Boy, did he ever make a fuss. Hollering for security, calling for the cops. All the while he’s got a viper grip around my arm. I saw Mardellion ducking out of the show and that was it. I don’t know what happened to him after that. Prison, I heard.”

“What about you?”

“I was arrested, taken straightaway, which was unfortunate. There were things I’d left behind here, things from my mom I really wanted to keep.”

“You can get them now, yes?”

“If they’re still here. Yes.”

“So you went to jail?”

“I was only fourteen, under the sway of a con man. I had no birth certificate, no idea what my mother’s real name was. I went to the state.”

“Foster kid?” This makes Ruth smile.

“Yes, dear. Just like you.” He doesn’t look away from Ruth.

“So that was the last time you saw him?” Nat asks.

“Well,” Mr. Bell says, and then nothing.

RUTH’S KNAPSACK DOES NOTHING.It sits between the beds without blinking. I unpack it like I’m cataloging evidence from a crime, like I’ve overlooked some essential clue. A flannel. Seven books of matches and some newspapers to start fires. A pair of socks, five pairs of plain underwear. The Book of Ether. Chocolate bars, nuts, pepperoni. The tarp. A compass. A flashlight. Two water bottles.

I turn on the TV. When the Wizard of Oz sends Dorothy off to get the witch’s broomstick, he’s sending Dorothy to her death in order to preserve his lie-based life. I lock the door from the inside. I think that’s awful. I can’t believe we’re supposed to forgive the Wizard at the end.

There’s a knock just after eight. The young woman from the office is wearing a mechanic’s coat with the word Mike embroidered in red. “I’m Sheresa. Ready?”

I put Ruth’s pack on my back. “I’m Cora. Yeah.”

Sheresa drives a Crown Victoria with brown velvet seats. She’s too short for such a car, so she has duct-taped hunks of two-by-fours to both the brake and gas pedals. She’s even rigged an extension on the radio tuner, placing it within easy reach. On the dashboard there’s a bumper sticker for an amusement park called House of Stairs and the odd slogan below, “It’s Vertiginous!” The car turns over, and the radio announces the theft of a rare early American bill from the Museum of Coin and Currency.

“So. Where are you heading?” Sheresa asks.

“My aunt’s trying to take me somewhere, a place she knows.”