Mr. Splitfoot (28 page)

“Is she?”

“Am I what?”

“A weirdo.”

Ruth considers this.

Mr. Bell pinches his chin. His silence is a bit frightening, brewing something. The boys wake from a fantasy of manhood.

Ruth re-asks them their question. “Am I a weirdo?” She’s ignored.

Mr. Bell does not blink but ever so slightly nods assent. Yes.

“I knew it,” Fatso says. “Let’s go.” His cronies do not disagree.

“Sorry about that,” one utters.

Mr. Bell nods.

The boys beat a retreat, executing two rapid three-point turns, radios blaring. The black-haired boy strikes a hand gesture most certainly intended to be devil horns but which is, in actuality, the American Sign Language manual expression of the phrase “I love you.”

Nat, Ruth, and Mr. Bell return to the car, shaking snowflakes from their shoulders and crowns.

“Morons.” Mr. Bell tries to wash away the incident with one word. He keeps the speedometer steady at twenty-five miles per hour, breathing in practiced labor, calmly, firmly, but it is not so easy for Nat and Ruth to carry on. While they are accustomed to measured doses of violence, their force fields are weak.

“What were they talking about?”

Mr. Bell takes a right onto a smaller road through pine trees and then a left onto an even smaller road.
LOWER WORKS
says one sign.
MT. MARCY
says another.
SLEEPING GIANT
. Ruth can’t read all the signs before they pass—something about private property, something about the DEC, something about a missing boy. Their rear end fishtails slightly. The road is not cleared.

“I’m sure I have no idea.” Mr. Bell looks once again at his completely average pants.

The snow continues to fall. The deeper they move into the forest, Ruth feels calmer. Mr. Bell is a weapon so secret, he doesn’t even know the secret.

The road goes higher still, and after a mile or two it straightens, allowing a view that tightens every nerve in Ruth. “Mr. Bell.” She leans forward.

“This is the stretch I spoke of.”

“We have to cross that?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Nat leans forward as well, and through the front windshield the three of them study what’s ahead. The view is sickening. The road narrows to an extended, one-lane wooden bridge with railings constructed of rough branches no thicker than a woman’s arms. The bridge curves in a crescent over a chasm whose bottom is deep enough to be unknowable, a slice carved through the mountain’s stone since before time began.

“Are you sure?”

Rather than respond, Mr. Bell starts out across the pass in a crawl. All three hold their breath as if the slightest change in air flow might send the vehicle plummeting over the edge.

Safe on the far side, they travel a few miles in grateful silence. Finally, Mr. Bell speaks. “It’s really more dangerous on the descent. One wants to slow to allow for the curve, but braking on a frozen one-lane bridge is the worst idea a driver could ever have.”

Through the trees and snow, there’s an enormous structure built of stone beside the road. It’s dark and towering, nothing like a house, closer to an ancient jungle temple, built by people who believe in human sacrifice. She hopes they won’t be staying there.

“Blast furnace.”

This triggers no response from Nat or Ruth.

“There was a mine here a long time ago.” Ruth cannot see the top third of the furnace from inside the car. They pass it by. “Some of the pits are down there.” Mr. Bell points through the woods. “They’re filled with water now. Deepest lakes in the Adirondacks. During the mine’s high years, almost a thousand people lived up here. Tahawus.”

“What?”

“Someone told me it means Cloud-Splitter, though I can’t finger the language. Something native perhaps. It was a company town with all the attendant alienations and snug circumstances that suggests. There was one YMCA. People fished or hunted. People mined until the eighties, when it became cheaper to bring ore in from South America.”

“You have a summer home here?”

“No.”

“This is where you grew up?”

“The mine was closed by the time I was born.”

The car slows again. “Then what were you doing?”

“Here.” Mr. Bell turns down an unplowed drive. The wheels spin and, less than a few yards down the path, the vehicle lurches into a shallow ditch. He spins the tires a few times before announcing, “All right. We are firmly stuck.” As though he’d intended it. “We can hoof it in from here.”

Each carries a box of food, and as long as they are careful, they can walk gently on top of the snow like cats trying to not break through the crusted surface. When they are less careful, the surface breaks. Mr. Bell goes under first, plunging in up to his mid-thigh, dipping into a world that is cold, bright, and without oxygen. He extracts himself on all fours, and they set off again, stepping lightly, mastering the slow art of walking on top of snow.

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.

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.

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.