Mr. Splitfoot

~ ~ ~

MR. BELL PULLS his greased hair behind his ears. “Back to Troy?”

Nat joins them in the car.

Ruth imagines Zeke’s non-nose. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” They pass a dairy farm, an abandoned paint ball area, and a house whose yard is dominated by whirligigs and birdbaths.

“I know a spot. At least for a night,” Mr. Bell says.

“Far from here?”

“Far from any place really.”

Ruth nods a slight yes like a mafia boss. They pass a field of three transmission towers. In the field there’s an abandoned lightweight truck. Nat taps his nails against the window.

The radio speaks of nothing but the coming storm. “It’s going to be a doozy!” DJs ratchet up fear. “No end to this nastiness in sight, folks!” They are bullies taunting winter into bad behavior.

Seventh Lake, Eighth Lake. There are so many lakes in the Adirondacks, some are numbered rather than named. Homes swarm by the lakeshores, leaving huge areas of unpeopled land. Mr. Bell’s car heads up into the mountains. Ruth has her forehead flattened against the window. “A bear.” She sits up. The bear is not alone. There are three, four, and another one across the street standing in front of a trailer. The giant bears have been chain-sawed from trees and painted black as fur.

A highway turns to a county road to a back road. The car climbs higher. Many of the homes look like chalets with carved wooden shutters. Cheaply built vacation condos collapse under the weight of winter and neglect. There’s a plague of empty tourist businesses, restaurants that catered to the summer crowds until the summer crowds found something chicer than a week in the high peaks. Small flakes fall, covering their tracks.

They travel slowly through the morning, higher and higher, up where the snow berms are as tall as a child. No one is here.

Mr. Bell spins the tuning on the radio. Even the weather forecasts have petered out at this higher altitude. There’s one country station and one for Jesus. Mr. Bell switches it off, and they are left with the sound of slush rushing under the tires. He says, “Ah, yes,” or “Of course” every mile or two as if he’s just remembering how to get there. He hurries. “Sorry to rush but there’s one stretch of the road that becomes impassable very quickly in snow. I’d like to get there before that happens.”

Ruth’s breath fogs the window. She wipes it clean in time to catch a momentary view. The trees drop away, the hills open into a vista. Huge ancient mountains disappear into clouds and snow. The road switches back. The view tightens and trees close back in on either side. Ruth fogs her window again. Oxygen thins. The road twists. They drive on.

The next town has an oversize highway department and a bar whose parking lot’s filled with snowmobiles. There’s a gas station and a general store rolled into one. Mr. Bell parks. A community bulletin board on the porch advertises clean fill, chainsaw repair, and a double mattress for sale. The door makes an electronic ding as the three enter. Mr. Bell extends his hand toward an uninterested mutt curled on the cashier’s wooden counter. “Bonjour, pooch.” He passes shopping baskets to Nat and Ruth with the instruction, “Fill ’em up.”

“How long are we planning to stay up here?” Ruth asks.

“Depends on the storm.”

Five or six people have gathered by the coffee counter — some seated, some rubbing their hands near a wood stove. They stare. Mr. Bell smiles to his audience. “Could one of you remind me where I’d find the lamp oil?”

No responses but wide eyes drink in Mr. Bell’s shine. He twinkles his fingertips above his head releasing them from his spell. “Hello?”

The clerk jumps to attention. “Follow me.” Mr. Bell disappears down one creaky wooden aisle into the back of the store. Nat and Ruth stand in the gaze of the townspeople before shuffling off to their shopping.

The store specializes in canned, frozen, and cured provisions. Ruth finds whatever is fresh, or once was: eggs, milk, bananas, iceberg, and onions. There’s penny candy and a mounted moose head as large as the ice cream cooler. There’s beer and a wall of movie rentals. There’s a post office, presently closed. There’s a rack of magazines, locally made jams, and a tray of fudge. Road salts, shovels, winter boots, emergency flares, motor oil, and lug nuts. Ruth selects three tins of Vienna sausages, some creamed corn, maple candy, cheddar, yogurt, biscuit mix, fruit cocktail in syrup. She puts her full basket up on the counter beside Nat’s and Mr. Bell’s.

The big ears at the wood stove watch them. There are three older gentlemen individuated only by the messages on their baseball caps. CAT says one. STIHL says the second. HOW CAN I MISS YOU IF YOU WON’T GO AWAY? asks the third. There are two women — one old, one younger. Both with short, styled hair, diamond-chip wedding rings, and winter parkas. All five people stare, prompting Mr. Bell to shuffle his feet, Bojangles style.

“Where you kids headed in this weather?” one of the old-timers finally asks.

Mr. Bell stops dancing. “Up the mountain a stretch. Over the river. Through the woods.”

The man lifts his lip and squints trying to see what Mr. Bell is talking about. He blows a raspberry and turns back to his circle of familiars. “Heard about them city hikers?”

The circle nods, studying boots and cracks on the wooden floor.

“Yup. Two weeks to thaw out their bodies. Though I heard it wasn’t the cold that got them.”

Mr. Bell’s interest in the old guy has now been piqued.

The man nods to his friends. “Yup.” And then the bastard doesn’t say what killed the city hikers.

The cashier rings up their purchases. Nat adds some trucker speed. Mr. Bell pays and their supplies are loaded into three cardboard boxes as Ruth imagines starving to death, falling off a cliff, being hacked to bits by some old-timer in a baseball cap.

With the car loaded, Nat takes a moment to piss over the snow berm in the rear of the lot. A group of young men have parked their trucks and snowmobiles by the propane tank refill center. They practice machismo in front of the strangers. They imagine the fearsome cluster of manhood they present. One boy spits an ugly if expected word in reference to Ruth. She doesn’t hear it. One boy scratches his, as of yet, untested testicles. Ruth notices one of the boys because he’s dressed crazy for the cold weather, in shorts and a concert T-shirt. His hair is as dark as his shirt. She leans back into the seat, making eye contact with this boy as Mr. Bell finds reverse and Nat slams the door shut.

A mile or two away from the store, the town disappears. They take a right onto a road where the plow hasn’t tried very hard at all. The notion of trouble is immediately upon them when two pickup trucks and a snowmobile follow them onto the off road.

“It’s not far now.” Mr. Bell speaks to cancel any alarm.

Ruth monitors activity out the rear window. “The boys from the store are following us.”

Mr. Bell tucks his chin, wraps a hank of hair behind his ear. “Nothing but ignorant rednecks.”

“Ignorant rednecks getting closer.” The first truck races up to their bumper. Ruth ducks. “They’re here,” she says, seconds before the truck lurches. Bumper meets bumper. The second truck pulls up alongside, overtaking Mr. Bell’s average sedan. The truck comes to a dead halt across the road. Mr. Bell uses two feet to brake, sliding toward a small river, one that washes through these mountains timidly, a forgettable stream that collects water from all these lakes, rolling down the mountains until it reaches the magnificent Hudson. The car comes to a stop, leaving just enough space for a minor paperback mystery to slide between the two vehicles.

A number of crows sitting in a spruce wisely decide it’s time to leave.

Mr. Bell steps from the car. Hands on hips, he approaches the lead truck. “What is this? Some sort of pickle sandwich?”

Four boys from the store climb out of the trucks, another arrives on snowmobile.

“Pickle sandwich?” Nat shakes his head and gets out as well. Ruth follows.

The dark-haired boy is there. “Which one’s your boyfriend?” he asks Ruth. She looks down at the truck’s hubcap. “And which one is a mother-fucking faggot?”

She doesn’t understand the question entirely. All she’d done was look at him for a moment. Is it good or bad to be her boyfriend? Does that carry some sort of immunity? Or does boyfriend = head beaten with a crowbar? More likely faggot = crowbar with these boys. Even more likely, nobody’s safe because they don’t even understand what it is that’s making them angry. Chunks of muddy slush cling to the flap behind the tire, hanging on for life.

“Generally.” Mr. Bell draws them off her. “Male homosexuals don’t go in for mothers.” Raw meat to maggots, they turn toward him.

“What’d you say?” asks a slow one.

“Oh, dear.” Mr. Bell sizes him up, hand on chin. “You, presumably, own one of the trucks?”

“Why?”

“Strapping young lads such as your friends here only socialize with the hideously obese who can afford fancy cars.”

“Cocksucker.” The guy begins his waddle toward Mr. Bell’s neck, arms raised zombie style.

“Yes, well, Fatso. The truth do hurt.” Mr. Bell takes a seat on the hood of his car, arresting Fatso’s advance with indifference. Mr. Bell dusts a few snowflakes off his knees.

“I think you three are in trouble now,” says the black-haired boy, closing in on Nat, who suddenly looks tiny in the big world. Ruth churns with nausea, a wave of blind sickness to see Nat made unstrong and scared.

“Is that right?” Mr. Bell asks.

Ruth tries to count. Five of them. Again. No six.

“Yay, boy. We’re the Destructo-Crew.” The black-haired boy’s voice makes a high screech, striving for the amped-up insanity of a metal band but sounding more like a happy dinosaur on a children’s cartoon. “And we like to blow shit up!”

Threats met with silence sound absurd. “Like what?” Mr. Bell finally asks. “Balloons? Bubble gum?” Again he draws the bullies off Nat and Ruth. “I don’t imagine we’re meeting here by coincidence?” He shifts gears, begins his attack. “So I wonder why we’ve been selected for this honor. Is it because one of your lot…” He looks around. “I’m guessing you.” He points to the dark hair. “Longs to pound your pale, pitiful worm against the dewed and virtuous flesh of my bride? Yet due to some malformation in your person, you lack the refinement to pursue her eye in the more traditionally charming ways — flowers, phone calls, candlelit dinners? You follow instead the caveman paradigm, the old club and hair drag?” The boys are stunned dumb. “Grunt once for yes, twice for no.”

Brown slush drops from their mud flaps down to the road. Mr. Bell stands, dusts off more snow.

“You’re one of those religious weirdoes from Tahawus. Ether?” The statement comes from a boy who has not yet fully climbed out of his cab. “Yeah. He’s one of them,” the boy says to his friends. “I can tell by his pants.”

Mr. Bell puffs up his chest and regards the pants he has on. “Hmm.” He rubs the fibers of the fabric between his fingers, puzzled.

“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.

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.

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.