Mr. Splitfoot by Samantha Hunt

shoulders twitch. Ruth sways slightly, a humming groupie. Nat feels Elvis, Jerry Lee Lewis, Chuck Berry. “Calamine. Calamine. Calamine. Mine.” He moves his tongue and body, whispering, lashed from side to side. He borrows heavily from the Father’s playbook. Rolling his eyes back, his jaw gets ready to deliver, huffing an exorcism of their boredom. Nat thumbs back and forth over a word that sounds like “prick.” Nat tells Tonya that her mom would be with her if she could be. He tells her that her mom’s name was Cleopatra.
    “No. Her name was—”
    “Eunice,” Nat fills in.
    “Yeah.”
    “Nah,” he says. “That’s just what the kids in school used to call her.”
    Tonya nods. “Is that right?” and lifts her chin like the daughter of a queen.
    Even the prick’s mom makes an appearance. Nat says her name. “Ursula.” So the boyfriend drops to his knees and cries like a hungry calf until Ruth puts her arm across his shoulders and tells him that really, everything is going to be OK, everything’s going to be just fine.
     
    After Tonya, Shauna and Lisa take a turn, the sisters.
    Nat’s a bull ready to toss its rider, foaming like a terrifying moron.
    “I see your mom roasting a chicken in her pajamas.”
    “That’s her.”
    “She’s brushing her teeth while talking on the phone.”
    “Oh my God. How do you know?”
    “She says she’d be with you if she could.”
    Nat doesn’t even say hello to some of these kids upstairs, but down in the cellar their mothers’ words are in his mouth. “Miss you” and “Still” and “Soon, love,” and “Remember when.”
    Ruth carries a box of tissues into the basement each time they go. She also works security when necessary. The first time Nat contacted Tika’s mom, Tika went ballistic. “Dirty whore! Let me at her!” In his trance Nat kept saying, “I love you. I love you, honey. I’m sorry.” Tika charged Nat, knocking his head back against the concrete floor, scratching at his cheeks. Ruth pulled her off, told her she wasn’t allowed to come back to the basement anymore.
    A few days after the sisters, the tiny, quiet Raffaella has her turn, and this is how they move through the months.
    Ruth holds one of Raffaella’s hands. It looks and feels like a flipper. Nat takes her other hand. “Yaawwchappa chappa chappa,” Nat yammers in the murk.
    Raffaella’s flipper grips Ruth’s hand tighter. It’s the girl’s first time. She thought Jesus wouldn’t like her talking to dead people until Ruth pointed out that Jesus himself is a dead person who came back, talking.
    “Choo chug choo chug.” Nat’s pupils are vacant. “Hello?”
    Ruth opens her eyes a slit. Raffaella watches Nat, so hungry she’d eat him.
    “Jumper. Juniper. Jennifer. Jennifer. Jennifer.” Finding the right ghost is like selecting an entrée off a menu.
    Raffaella’s mouth opens. She straightens her spine. “That’s her.”
    “Remember that lightning storm? We sat and watched it.”
    Raffaella nods, whispers, “I remember, Mommy.”
    “I’d be with you if I could.” Every mother says that every time.
    Raffaella asks, “What’s stopping you?”
    Ruth tilts her head. “The veil between the worlds is hard to pass over.”
    “Pardon?”
    “It’s hard to come back from the dead.”
    “My mom’s not dead. She’s in Miami.”
    Ruth’s eyes open. “Miami?”
    “It’s
like
she’s dead.”
    “Like she’s dead?”
    Nat comes to. He rubs his forehead and stretches.
    “It’s over,” Ruth tells her.
    “OK,” the little girl says. “Well. Thanks.” Raffaella releases their hands. She doesn’t press it. She wants to believe. She pays them to not admit it’s fake. Her footsteps are light on the stairs as she goes. The basement door shuts.
    “Her mom’s not dead.”
    Nat shrugs.
    “I guess there are even more mysteries than I thought,” Ruth says.
    “I guess so.” They climb out of the cellar. Nat lets Ruth hold the money.
     
    Breakfast was seven