Read Online Mr. Splitfoot by Samantha Hunt - Free Book Online
Authors: Samantha Hunt
Tags: Fiction
Ads: Link
Proctor’s Theater. Some of the buildings have been emptied, some just collapsed. There are a number of 99¢ Shops and opportunities for mugging RPI students after dark. There’s Pfeil Hardware and DeFazio’s. There are quiet people making things in secret. And the mighty Hudson.
Fulton Street arrives quickly. Mr. Bell pulls to the curb. Nat and Ruth step to the sidewalk in front of the Jamaican Restaurant. They want to ask the question that will reveal why this young man is so unlike other people. Nat holds the car door open for a moment, but a person like Mr. Bell has places to go. “Be seeing you,” he says, and his car pulls away past the Uncle Sam Parking Garage. Mr. Bell, who is not really yet a mister, is gone. After one truck carrying bananas and another carrying dry-cleaning supplies have passed, what’s regular and dusty creeps back in.
A Jamaican couple waiting for take-out go haywire at their Love of Christ! clothes.
“Ku pon dis. A fuckery frock.” The critics use high dialect to speak freely, coded, in front of Nat and Ruth.
“Dos dutty jackets dem from up de hill yaad. Tall hairs. Dem get salt. No madda, no fambly. Zeen.”
“A pyur suffereation.”
At the Stewart’s Shop, Nat shoves two sodas, a tin of Pringles, and a chocolate bar down his pants. No one suspects a boy from the nineteenth century of shoplifting. They eat the loot on the library steps, enjoying each toxic bite.
“What’s up with that?” There is no peace for Nat and Ruth in Troy. A trio of curious men from the Italian ranks of South Central approach. One Mets fan, one Buffalo Bills enthusiast, and one whose T-shirt boasts a mysterious message: WHISKEY TANGO FOXTROT .
“You got a costume party?” one man asks Nat.
“No. No. They’re, what’s it? Hamish people.”
“Amish?” Ruth asks slowly.
“Aww, shit! She talk!” Two of the men high-five.
“No.” Not Amish. “Yes.” She talks.
People in their Corollas slow for a moment to observe Ruth in her long dress, Nat in his plain clothes. There’s no recognition of fellowship or shared humanity. The people shudder or chuckle in their cars. They make a nervous radio adjustment, relieved that they have not been raised by religious weirdoes.
The walk back uphill is hot. Ruth has parceled out her soda to make it last. Nat asks for a sip, having polished off his own. By the time they reach Frear Park, he’s finished hers as well.
That night, Ruth wakes. She pinches the fold of Nat’s underarm. Artificial yellow light flows through the transom of their room. Where is her mom? Where is her other sister? On a map of the world, on a map of New York State, where are they? It wakes Ruth. If Nat can talk to Raffaella’s living mother, why doesn’t he tell her where her mom is?
She puts her hand on his calf.
“What?”
The room is silent.
“What about my mom?”
He pretends he’s still asleep. Ruth cuffs her fingers with his. She digs her nails into his proximal phalanges.
“It’s the middle of the night.”
“Why don’t you ever talk to my mom?” Ruth forces her tongue up against the roof of her mouth, making garbled, devil sounds. “Cooowla trappa waneenee.”
“The dead speak English.”
“Well, what does my mom say? In English?”
“She says she’d be with you, you know, if she could.”
“Same thing the rest of the moms say?”
Nat wakes up fully. “No. Sorry. Come on.”
The basement is dark as fur. Ruth scratches her fingers across the
Stachybotrys chartarum
mold growing on the stone walls, raising bits of the fungal growth under her nails.
She walks behind Nat; his bottom touches her belly. One bare bulb back at the staircase is the only light. The air smells of bad breath. Nat pats the darkness, arms outstretched, until he finds the corner coal bin. “You first.” He pushes her in. They sit cross-legged. She sees bursts of color behind shut eyes.
“Want a bite?” Nat holds something under her nose.
“No.”
He takes a
Fulton Street arrives quickly. Mr. Bell pulls to the curb. Nat and Ruth step to the sidewalk in front of the Jamaican Restaurant. They want to ask the question that will reveal why this young man is so unlike other people. Nat holds the car door open for a moment, but a person like Mr. Bell has places to go. “Be seeing you,” he says, and his car pulls away past the Uncle Sam Parking Garage. Mr. Bell, who is not really yet a mister, is gone. After one truck carrying bananas and another carrying dry-cleaning supplies have passed, what’s regular and dusty creeps back in.
A Jamaican couple waiting for take-out go haywire at their Love of Christ! clothes.
“Ku pon dis. A fuckery frock.” The critics use high dialect to speak freely, coded, in front of Nat and Ruth.
“Dos dutty jackets dem from up de hill yaad. Tall hairs. Dem get salt. No madda, no fambly. Zeen.”
“A pyur suffereation.”
At the Stewart’s Shop, Nat shoves two sodas, a tin of Pringles, and a chocolate bar down his pants. No one suspects a boy from the nineteenth century of shoplifting. They eat the loot on the library steps, enjoying each toxic bite.
“What’s up with that?” There is no peace for Nat and Ruth in Troy. A trio of curious men from the Italian ranks of South Central approach. One Mets fan, one Buffalo Bills enthusiast, and one whose T-shirt boasts a mysterious message: WHISKEY TANGO FOXTROT .
“You got a costume party?” one man asks Nat.
“No. No. They’re, what’s it? Hamish people.”
“Amish?” Ruth asks slowly.
“Aww, shit! She talk!” Two of the men high-five.
“No.” Not Amish. “Yes.” She talks.
People in their Corollas slow for a moment to observe Ruth in her long dress, Nat in his plain clothes. There’s no recognition of fellowship or shared humanity. The people shudder or chuckle in their cars. They make a nervous radio adjustment, relieved that they have not been raised by religious weirdoes.
The walk back uphill is hot. Ruth has parceled out her soda to make it last. Nat asks for a sip, having polished off his own. By the time they reach Frear Park, he’s finished hers as well.
That night, Ruth wakes. She pinches the fold of Nat’s underarm. Artificial yellow light flows through the transom of their room. Where is her mom? Where is her other sister? On a map of the world, on a map of New York State, where are they? It wakes Ruth. If Nat can talk to Raffaella’s living mother, why doesn’t he tell her where her mom is?
She puts her hand on his calf.
“What?”
The room is silent.
“What about my mom?”
He pretends he’s still asleep. Ruth cuffs her fingers with his. She digs her nails into his proximal phalanges.
“It’s the middle of the night.”
“Why don’t you ever talk to my mom?” Ruth forces her tongue up against the roof of her mouth, making garbled, devil sounds. “Cooowla trappa waneenee.”
“The dead speak English.”
“Well, what does my mom say? In English?”
“She says she’d be with you, you know, if she could.”
“Same thing the rest of the moms say?”
Nat wakes up fully. “No. Sorry. Come on.”
The basement is dark as fur. Ruth scratches her fingers across the
Stachybotrys chartarum
mold growing on the stone walls, raising bits of the fungal growth under her nails.
She walks behind Nat; his bottom touches her belly. One bare bulb back at the staircase is the only light. The air smells of bad breath. Nat pats the darkness, arms outstretched, until he finds the corner coal bin. “You first.” He pushes her in. They sit cross-legged. She sees bursts of color behind shut eyes.
“Want a bite?” Nat holds something under her nose.
“No.”
He takes a
Similar Books
