Mr. Splitfoot (24 page)

Even when I try to be silent, I can’t because worry is like words, hard to stop them from getting in, messing up your house. I need to call El. And after we’re done here, after I see what Ruth wants me to see, I will. I’ll go back. I’ll let El be a grandma. She deserves that. She deserves way more than that.

Ruth’s hands are squished together under one cheek, a sleeping child from a Christmas card. One of the sisters shuts off the exterior floodlight and the window disappears, but I still feel it lurking somewhere out there—a clear idea of what being a mother means, and every day I’m getting closer.

When I wake in the night, there’s a pair of knobby knees under thick brown hose in front of me. It’s still dark. I look up from the knees. The nun smiles. Her headgear conceals all but a few silver-brown hairs, the thin ruddiness of blown-out pores. “I saw you at Compline.” She tugs at a thread that’s unraveled from her wimple.

Ruth sits up.

The nun continues. “So it’s time to go.”

“What?” I rub my face.

“Time to leave.”

“You’re kicking us out in the middle of the night?” Not very Christian.

“We’re going together.”

“We don’t have a car, lady. Sister.” I swing my legs to the ground. Dig fingernails into my scalp.

“No car?” She holds her chin. “OK. We’ll walk.”

“Can’t we wait until morning?”

“No.”

“Where? Why?”

“I’m leaving the convent.”

“But we like it here.”

“You wouldn’t after a while.”

“Why do you need us?” I whine. I’m tired.

“Because the Lord told me you’d come.”

I look out the one small window. The Lord didn’t tell me anything.

“I’m Sister Margaret. Just Margaret now. Come on.”

“I’m Cora. She’s Ruth.”

“Ruth?”

“Yes.”

“Come on.”

It’s hard to look tough while slipping on maternity jeans. I tie my hair into a ponytail. Ruth finds our bags. Why don’t we resist? Why do I have the idea that I’m in training and must meet every challenge?

Sister Margaret heads downstairs and we follow. She hesitates by one door, holding its handle without opening it. She bows her head against the wood.

“Where’s that go?”

“The enclosure. The cloister. Sisters only.” Her wimple keeps much hidden.

“What’s enclosed?”

“Exactly.” She wags her finger, smiles. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“Yeah.”

“I know you would.”

“You’re not going to tell me?”

“Why buy the cow when the milk’s free?”

“But I was never even looking to buy this cow.”

“Still.”

“But what is it? What does that even mean? An enclosure?”

“It’s space. Protected space, fenced in, walled off, boxed up.”

“Why? What’s in the space?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Why not?”

“A girl’s got to have her secrets.”

The night air’s cold. Ruth pulls on my hoodie, covering her head. It’s filthy. We need a Laundromat. She adjusts the pack, hefting my bag up on one shoulder. The nun looks at the stars. Ruth starts walking and we follow. The nun switches on a flashlight beside me. “There,” she says.

That’s different, talking company. “Why are you leaving?”

“The Lord said someone would come when it was time to see my kid again.”

“You have a kid?”

“Yes.”

“How, like, how did the Lord tell you? In words?”

“Yes.”

“How’d you know it was the Lord and not your own voice? I’d have trouble separating the two.”

“Yes. You might.”

I think that’s an insult. “So. You have a kid?”

Ruth looks back at me.

“A daughter. From before.”

“How long have you been at the convent?”

“Since she was eight months.”

The mountains are moist before dawn. “You left an eight-month-old?”

The beam of her flashlight bobs. “I did.”

“What’d you do all that time you were gone?”

“We support a brother monastery. I was a seamstress. Lots of silence.” The nun uses her fingertips to tap her side, then her shoulders.

“What do the monks do while you’re supporting them?”

“Pray.” She rubs her hands together to stop the tapping. She moves faster.

“What’d your kid do?”

“Her father took care of her.” When she looks at me now, the flashlight’s under her chin, a horror show. “That’s a cruel question,” she tells me.

“Sorry. I haven’t had anyone to talk to in a long while.”

“Yes. Your friend’s quiet.”

“My aunt. She doesn’t talk.”

“She doesn’t talk?”

“No.”

“I’m pretty good at that too.”

The damp air’s medicinal. I like the privacy of walking at night and how it fuels dread and excitement. If something interesting’s going to happen—say, aliens landing—it’s going to happen in private. It’s going to happen at night.

“To be in touch with our smallness,” the nun says. “Closer to God up here.”

“Feels that way.”

“The world needs stillness.”

“True.”

“I wasn’t always still. I sat with the dying. Cooked for the hungry. Once we visited prisoners. I made decisions. I helped pregnant women like yourself. I spun thread.”

“Huh.”

The nun sizes me up. “Why? What did you do back in reality that was so great?”

“Sold insurance.”

“Wow. Real important stuff.”

She’s a mean nun. Even if she’s right.

The sun blues the sky. We head down her mountain into the valley of the next peak. I have to lean way back to stay balanced. “What’s with the show tunes?”

“Sister Kate. I’ll miss that.”

The road flattens eventually, and we head into town. We leave the berry briar and white pines. We pass through a forest of car dealerships, three on the left, two on the right. Despite their open, optimistic nature—broad plate-glass display windows, generous lots with wide drives—only one of the five dealerships remains in business. A battery of fast-food restaurants lures travelers off the cloverleafs. Sister Margaret sets her hands evenly on her hips. She stops walking. “What’s that sound?”

I stop to listen. Water running. We must be back by the canal. “The Erie.” We should have taken a canoe down the canal instead of all this walking.

“I haven’t been off the mountain in a while.”

“Why are you going to find your kid now?”

“Think she forgot about me?”

“No. But—”

“Listen.” Margaret sharpens again. “Do you have any idea what’s about to happen to your life?”

“Some.”

“You won’t ever know peace again.”

I shrug.

“I was a terrible mom. I couldn’t stop worrying. I thought about men with machetes, pedophiles, high staircases, electrical sockets. You name it. Once on the street, a stranger chucked my daughter under the chin. He thought she was cute. I went home and covered her with anti-bacterial gel. She was three months old.” Her eyes roam the air behind me as she makes her list. “Redneck drunk drivers, brain damage from a fall off her changing table. I thought about her soft head all the time. I couldn’t sleep and I couldn’t let her sleep. Sleep looked like death. Eating looked like choking. Friends looked like murder.

“Hormones attack you,” she says. “Hormones will try to kill you.”

“You didn’t let your baby sleep?”

“I imagined danger so well, I made it real.”

“You didn’t let your baby eat?”

“Her father took better care of her than I could.” She looks up. “Motherhood,” she says, “despite being immensely common, remains the greatest mystery, and all the language people use to describe it, kitschy words like ‘comfort’ and ‘loving arms’ and ‘nursing,’ is to convince women to stay put.”

The sun lands on us awkwardly. I don’t say it, but I think she’s forgetting half. There’s a lot about mothering that’s good. I had a really good mom. We walk on in silence.

“Where are you going?”

“My aunt’s taking me somewhere.”

“Where?”

I hesitate. “I have no idea.”

“Exactly. That’s what I’m telling you.” She looks at Ruth. “Maybe she’s hardening you up into the warrior you’d better be before that baby arrives.”

“Maybe.”

Feels a little bit like more mother-hazing, so I prepare for another episiotomy story, the horrors of child birth, blah, blah, but one doesn’t come.

“How old is your girl now?”

“Ten.”

“Well, what are you going to do? What’s the plan?”

“Catch a bus to Forked Lake. Find her. See if she’ll forgive me. Let me in her life somehow.”

“What if she won’t?”

“Yeah,” Margaret says. “Then there’s that.”

In town the nun points to the pharmacy where the buses stop.
HALF GALLON OF MILK $1.50
. The terminal’s not open yet. The nun takes off her wimple and shakes out her hair. With the wimple removed, I can see her neck and it’s a horrible thing. Thick brown, purple, and black lines, ligature marks, damaged and ghastly as if she’d been hanged then resuscitated or her wimple had been fastened so tightly it choked her. I worry her head will detach entirely without it now. She sees me staring and nods. “I’m telling you, it’s not easy. Life and death are not clean, separate functions.” She gently touches the marks on her neck.

I want to get away from her, but she keeps talking.

“Motherhood makes you a dealer in death. No one tells you this beforehand. You will become obsessed with all the ways a person can go because while it might be easy to deal with the fact that you will one day die, it’s not at all easy—totally unacceptable—to deal with the fact that one day your child will die. Do you hear me?”

I nod. I hear her. I do. “What am I supposed to do? Just give up? Not even try to be a good mom?”

The nun exhales. “You’ve got yourself a real live one here,” she says to Ruth, smiling. “Are we done? We’re OK?”

Ruth gives her something, money maybe, like she’d hired the nun to teach me, though clearly that can’t be true.

Margaret tucks whatever it is into her bra. She has a seat, waiting for the bus with a drunk and a soldier on a bench out front, feet planted for battle, rubbing her neck.

“Good luck,” I mumble.

“Same to you.” Then the nun asks God to be with us. Then the drunk hums “O Night Divine” though Christmas is still a long way off.

A
WOMAN ON THE RADIO
speaks with a French accent. “Brasserie Caribou. You cannot beat our meat.” Nat and Ruth fly into the back seat. “Howdy, lovebugs,” Mr. Bell says. “How’d it—?”

“Go!” Ruth need only say it once. Mr. Bell locks the doors, engages the engine, depresses the accelerator with everything he’s got. They find their breath in the dark car. She leans forward as he speeds away from the house, and as they fly past, she sees a man running for the car. The man is not Zeke. It’s Ceph, running out of the woods by the house. Ceph calling her name, “Ruth! Stop! Wait!”

“Don’t stop,” Nat says. “Don’t.”

Streetlamps ripple overhead, passing in sickening waves of darkness and light. None of them speak yet because Mr. Bell’s I-told-you-so is loud enough for all to hear.

The vehicle moves away from the house at speeds ranging from thirty-five to forty-five miles per hour for a time period of twenty-three minutes. Once sufficient distance is gained, Nat can finally speak. “I need some water. Please.”

“Of course.”

At Andy’s Discount Food and Dairy, Mr. Bell locks Nat and Ruth inside the car while making his purchases. As soon as Mr. Bell’s gone, Nat starts to plead. “Don’t tell him I fucked up so badly. OK?”

“But the man knows his name.”

“The man knows your name too. Maybe it’s your fault also. Did you think of that?”

She looks out the window.

“Don’t tell him. Not everything. Please.”

“If I have to, you can’t be mad.” She pushes a spot between her eyebrows. “What happened to his nose?”

Nat shakes his head. Ruth imagines the lonely appendage stashed in a cup, a mug, a gift box, blackened, crusted in parts, and all the smells it ever knew. Grass. Bacon. Seawater. Mildew. More likely though, it was eaten away slowly, crumbled and wasted in bits.

“And what the hell was Ceph doing there?”

“Poor Ceph,” Ruth says.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Mr. Bell passes Nat a bottle of water, juice, and a bag of snacks. He opens beers for each of them, using a quarter pinched as a pry bar. “You look like ghosts. What happened? Did the dead actually speak this time?” He smiles. The alcohol hits Ruth’s blood, swiftly cooling hot metal. Mr. Bell catches Ruth in the rearview. “What is it?”

She shuts her eyes, so Mr. Bell drives. They pass three farms and one home-heating oil depot. Finally she answers him, “The man didn’t have a nose.”

“What?”

“He didn’t have a nose. It had been eaten away. Just a hole in his face.”

“Terrible.”

Nat grabs her thigh, squeezes as if holding her reins.

“More snow in the forecast, Jim. The county’s on alert. We’re looking at accumulations of anywhere from thirteen inches to two feet. More than that up in the mountains.”

“No nose?” Mr. Bell stretches his fingers, regripping the wheel. The streetlamps end. “What happened?”