Samantha Hunt - Mr. Splitfoot

“Trying?”

“We’re on foot.”

“I noticed. No car. You’re walking there? Aren’t you pregnant?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you religious or something?”

“No. Nothing against cars. We just don’t have one anymore.”

Sheresa’s eyes get very wide. “Strange!” A compliment coming from her. “You must get tired.”

“I did at first. But we take it easy. No more than five or six miles a day. Sometimes less. Not walking makes me more tired. I don’t like to stop now that I’ve gotten used to it.”

“Looks like you’re going to have to stop pretty soon.”

“I guess so. Maybe not.” Maybe the baby will be a walker too. It’s getting darker, but I can still see the landscape. St. Eugene is in a valley. The houses we pass are from a fairy tale. Deep in the woods, yellow lights in the windows. “Where are we going?”

“It’s an event.” Sheresa smiles.

“An event?”

“Yeah.”

The air in the car is warm. The brown velvet seats of a big American sedan and someone else who doesn’t want to tell me where we’re going.

Sheresa parks. There are a number of other cars, odd rigs culled together from a post-apocalyptic junkyard. She checks her lipstick and hair in the rearview. “Ready?”

“For what?” There’s a forest in front of us.

Her eyebrows lift twice, and she starts down a path into the woods. “Mind your step. Trees poison the ground so that nothing else can grow near them. Not even their own children.”

“I’m not a tree.”

“Right.”

The other day a stranger in a grocery store told me that my baby has fingernails and, if it’s a girl, the eggs that will be my grandchildren.

I have to move quickly to follow Sheresa. The path is amniotic, dark, humid, and inviting. I lose up and down, left and right. I navigate by listening to her feet. I break the back of a twig underfoot. Up ahead there’s light. Safe haven. Sheresa’s spreading a blanket beneath a weeping tree on the shore of a river. It’s a wide stretch of the canal. Torches, lanterns, and candles glow, lights float on the water. It’s a very quiet party. Everyone assembled keeps his voice low. I worry I’ve stumbled into some witches’ coven.

“It’s just begun.”

Four vessels float on the Erie Canal, at the edge of the light. Each boat is more festive than the next. One has sails cut from a fur coat. One has sails made from a bridal gown. One is an assemblage of logs powered by paddle wheels. The last boat is two fiberglass tubs hinged into a pod. A periscope guides its small crew.

“What is it?”

Sheresa pulls a quart of malt liquor from her bag. “Captain Ahab and Huck Finn versus Lord Nelson and some sort of German U-boat.” She takes a bite from a sandwich. “Last month Amerigo Vespucci beat the Rime of the Ancient Mariner in record time. A real upset since fiction always wins. Not to mention, I was the Mariner.”

“You?”

“We’re the Society for Confusing Literature and the Real Lies, aka TLA, History.”

“TLA?”

“True Love Always. Dominic!” Dominic passes with a wave.

“What is it?”

“Oh,” she says. “It’s art. Sandwich?” She passes me a submarine of hummus, vegetables, and mustard. The crowd on the beach looks like a nomadic Ren Fair troupe from the year 2200. Every last part of the beast has been used for their dress. Sandals made of bald tires, lots of knickers and lacy thrift store blouses. Old leather, an aviator’s cap and goggles, a hoop skirt, facial hair, suspenders, straw hats. Picnic hampers. Young people. Old people. Children and everyone so cool they must be freezing.

“Where’d you meet these people?”

“College.”

“Not the college I went to.”

The ships, rafts, and miniature frigates have made their way a bit closer to shore. A series of lanterns rigged on tall branches driven into the dirt reveal a crew of gypsies on the deck of each vessel. Sailors aboard the Pequod are already frantically bailing.

“They’re not always seaworthy.”

“I guess I don’t know much about art.”

Sheresa thinks that’s funny. “Oh, that’s funny,” she says.

It doesn’t take long for Huck Finn to win. The Pequod sinks of its own shoddiness while Huck’s raft, simply constructed, goes on to triumph over history. Lord Nelson waves his one arm as his boat sinks. The Germans curse, “Scheisse! Scheisse!” Most of the people on the shore charge into the water to make sure history does not surface again. Huck Finn’s raft is dragged onto the beach and added to a bonfire that the man Dominic starts with a canister of lighter fluid, shooting streams of flame high overhead. Fire falls and ignites the wood. Music begins to play. Three drummers, a trumpet, a trombone, tin whistles, and a violin. People dance. Sheresa takes my hand. Someone takes my other hand. We run up to the fire and back again, up to the fire and back again. There’s singing, chanties loud and obscene. One made up on the spot: “Finn! Finn! The mightiest win! Down on your knees, Krauts, a blowjob for Jim!” The Jim from the raft, played by a young woman in overalls, accepts her pantomimed fellatio from one of the Germans dressed in a Boy Scout uniform.

My clothes stick to me on the ride home, sweat from dancing by the fire. I was a popular partner. Everyone wanted to dance with the pregnant lady, my belly a totem of good fortune. Sheresa is still making up songs that are vaguely about the ocean, vaguely about screwing. “So. What’d you think?”

“Fun.”

“‘Fun’? I say nuf to fun, Cora. People call some really messed-up shit ‘fun.’ Right?” She takes a deep breath. “I suppose it comes down, as it always does, to the question, Is it art? Right?”

That wasn’t the question I had.

“Then, logically, what are the perimeters of art? And what purpose does this serve our lives?”

I confuse perimeter with protractor, which brings to mind my elementary school pencil box. Scissors, erasers, crayons, and pens. The pencil box smelled good. It smelled of beauty and art. It’d be nice to have friends like Sheresa.

“You need to remember artifice,” she says. “Art isn’t a hawk making lazy circles in the sky. Beauty doesn’t equal art, and it can’t just be the world in a package. It’s got to take the world and mess it up some. Add the artifice as a lens, right?”

“It might seem like art to the hawk.”

“True. True. But then everyone would be an artist, and I don’t think that’s right. Are you an artist?”

“I walk. A lot.”

She misunderstands. “A walking artist. OK. I like that. That’s good. Walking can definitely create things. Thoughts. Footsteps. Lines that intersect. Lines that connect us historically. Ley lines, right? You could connect every place in New York where daisies grow. Or the places where girls named Lisa live. Or sites where meteorites crash-landed. Right? What would that map look like and how would you read it? What message is that map trying to tell us?”

I like the idea that Ruth and I are walking artists, as if our tracks leave color behind. Blue and green. Orange painting the map we make each day. But if everybody in the world were a walking artist, the land would be so jammed with traces of everyone who ever came before. Haunted, polluted.

“And what about mothers? Mothers-to-be? Are they artists?”

I have no idea.

“Then there’s the never-ending battle over what’s real. Or realer. What does reality mean? True things that happen? What are those? My grandma says she saw a UFO. Is that more real? My uncle believes in angels. Whatever. Is fiction the real thing or is history?”

“History.”

“Urr. Wrong. Want to guess again?”