Ruby in the Sky

by Jeanne Zulick Ferruolo

  Mom stepped out of her room wrapped in a blanket over her sweats, her forehead creased with concern. “Where have you been?” she asked.

  I shrugged.

  She slid onto a chair at the table. “I’ve been waiting for you for over an hour.” She pulled the blanket tight. “What were you doing?”

  “Walking Bob.”

  “You left your backpack on the front porch, Ruby. What was I supposed to think?” She followed me with her eyes. “And you weren’t just walking Bob for a whole hour. Where did you go?”

  “There’s a lady that lives at the bottom of the hill. She wanted me to help her.”

  I opened the fridge and removed Cecy’s casserole.

  “You didn’t, did you? I heard she’s not well,” Mom said. “I don’t want you down there.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? Doesn’t she live outside? Something’s definitely not right there. What if she does something weird?”

  You mean like get arrested? I thought. “You don’t know her, Mom. She couldn’t hurt a flea. I think I weigh more than she does.”

  Mom frowned. “Don’t go down there. End of conversation.”

  The hair on the back of my neck bristled. Why should I listen? It wasn’t like Mom listened to me anymore. I turned the oven on. “What happened in court? Did they drop the charges?” I asked.

  “Nope.” Mom pressed the moon charm to her lips. “Turns out Frank’s Diner is what they affectionately refer to around here as the Mayor’s Satellite Office.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “The owner, Frank Chatty, who shoved me … well, he’s lived in Fortin his whole life and so has the police chief, and they’re all best friends with the mayor, who says he saw everything.”

  “So?”

  “So, when it comes down to who’s to blame here, who do you think the police chief picked? His old pal from T-ball days or the new girl in town?”

  “You’re from here.”

  “I haven’t lived here for over thirty years.” She spread her hands wide. “Welcome to Fortin, Ruby. Don’t you get it? They can do whatever they want.”

  None of this made sense. “But what about the waitresses who were there? Won’t they say what they saw happened?”

  “It’s a small town, Ruby, and they’re scared of Chatty.” She crossed her arms. “No one wants to lose their job.”

  As I put the casserole in the oven, I tried to gulp back the panic that was rising in my throat. “They can’t put you in jail for this, right?”

  “Annie worked out a deal with the prosecutor. If I plead guilty to a lower charge like disorderly conduct, he’ll give me probation and I’ll only have to do some community service.”

  “Who’s Annie?”

  “My public defender. She’s not like any lawyer I’ve ever met.” Mom glanced at me sideways. “But she’s tough as nails. She’s the only person who’s actually listened to me.”

  Relief washed over me. “Well, as long as you don’t have to go to jail.”

  Mom frowned.

  “What?”

  “I don’t want it,” she said.

  “What do you mean, you don’t want it?”

  She shrugged. “I didn’t do anything wrong. I’m not going to plead guilty, even if all I have to do is community service.”

  “But you won’t go to jail.”

  Mom picked at a thread on the blanket.

  “What does Cecy say?” I asked.

  Mom snorted. “What do you think Cecy says? She wants me to get this over with.”

  I removed the casserole from the oven and sliced two pieces onto paper plates. It had noodles and cream and what looked like ham and peas in it. I handed Mom a plate and sat across from her.

  “None of this would have happened if we’d never come here,” I said. “I know you hate it here, too.” I took a bite. The casserole was still cold, but I didn’t think it would taste much better hot.

  “Maybe you’re right.” Mom moved a pea around her plate. “We haven’t even unpacked yet. And things sure aren’t going the way I thought they would.” She put her fork down. “But I thought that this could be it, Ruby. Even though I left Fortin when I was little, I still have good memories of growing up here.” She stared out the window. “You know, I used to help my dad collect sap to boil into maple syrup.” She smiled. “And Vermont in the summer … it’s so green and the air, well, you’ve never smelled anything so delicious…”

  I crossed my arms.

  Mom blinked. “I’d hoped that by coming back I could make some new memories with you, Ruby.” She sighed. “Of course Cecy’s been after me to move here ever since … well, I know she can be a pain but…” She half-smiled. “That’s Cecy for you.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  Mom’s face got serious. “She’s the only family we have left, Ruby. I can’t do it alone.”

  “You’re not alone, Mom. I’m here.” I hated the whine that was creeping into my voice. “Aren’t I enough?”

  “You’re more than enough, Ruby Moon. Maybe you’re right. Maybe Fortin isn’t our forever home. But—”

  “But nothing, Mom. We need to get out of here. Let’s go back to DC. Let’s go back to where we were a family.”

  “Oh, Ruby.” Mom put her hand on mine. “It will never be the same. You know—”

  I jumped back as if stung. “You don’t know, Mom. If we moved there and—”

  “Ruby.” Mom’s voice was getting that exhausted sound that seemed to consume her lately. “Washington, DC, is over. We are never moving back there. Can’t you understand? All these fresh starts … I’m doing this for you.”

  “You’re not doing anything for me.” My voice quivered. “You’re doing whatever you want, like always. I never get a say in what we do or where we go.” I shut my eyes tight. I will not cry. I will not cry.

  “Oh, Ruby. I’m sorry.” Tears wobbled down Mom’s face. “I didn’t mean to—” She reached out to hug me, but I moved away. She ended up hugging herself. “It’s okay. It’s been a long day. We should both go to bed.”

  Her blanket dragged behind her as she disappeared into her room.

  I stared at the empty table and our uneaten dinner. Bob stretched, then turned toward me as if to say, Well, if you’re not eating that …

  I lowered my plate to let Bob lick it clean. At least someone enjoyed Cecy’s casserole. I hitched Bob’s leash and slipped into my coat. I wrapped a scarf across my face and stepped into my boots. Bob’s tail whacked everything in sight. Before we left, I opened the fridge and found Cecy’s salad. I shoved a handful of lettuce into my pocket. Mom had left a flashlight near the woodstove. I grabbed that and a pair of gloves, too.

  * * *

  Bob and I hiked down Specter Hill Road until we reached the pine tree and the NO TRESPASSING sign. I dumped the lettuce and whispered, “Come, little bunny.”

  The woods were thick with night and the smoke from the lady’s campfire danced above the tree line. What did she say her name was? Abigail. Abigail Jacobs. I wondered if she was still outside by the fire or inside her crooked shed. I wondered if she was cold, too.

  I scanned the horizon until I found the skinniest of moon slivers. “I’ll see you on the moon tonight,” I whispered. I hoped Dad could see it, too.

  Standing beneath that skinny moon, I made a wish. I wished I could turn back time. I wished we were still in DC and everything was the way it was before fathers didn’t come home and mothers got arrested. I thought about Mom’s face as she told me about court. I’d never get her to move to DC now until her case was done, but I could do my best to speed things up. As soon as we get court behind us, I thought, then we can get back to where we were before everything fell apart.

  When I couldn’t stand the cold any longer, I ran up Specter Hill Road, Bob at my heels.

  Inside the house, the fire had died. Bob shook off the snow and followed me into my fake bedroom. I put on my pajamas and crawled under the comforter. Bob snuggled close. T
ogether we fell asleep, staring at that barely-a-sliver of moon.

  CHAPTER

  5

  The next morning, as the bus made its way around the town green, I was doing my best to stay invisible when someone shouted, “Hey, look!” Kids sat up, pushing against the windows.

  Like an ink blot on a blank page, a figure stood by a bench on the edge of the park. She wore a patched wool coat and was wrapped in so many scarves you couldn’t see her face. Her hands stretched out in front of her as birds gathered. Abigail was feeding her pets.

  “Look, you guys! It’s the Bird Lady!” Dakota said.

  Bryce, the kid with the missing iguana, said, “I’ve never seen her this close.”

  “I have.” Dakota raised her eyebrows. “Inside her camp.”

  “No way,” Bryce said. “No one goes down there.” He held his hands like claws and made a bwah-ha-ha sound. “No one who’s ever lived to tell about it, anyway.”

  Someone threw a crumpled piece of paper at him. He batted it away with his claw hand.

  “I heard her house is boarded up,” Melanie said. I watched her eyes dart between Dakota and Ellen as she fidgeted with the zipper of her orange coat.

  “She doesn’t live in her house,” Dakota said.

  “Where does she live?” Melanie asked.

  I couldn’t take my eyes off Abigail as chickadees landed on her fingertips, one at a time.

  Dakota stared out the window. “She lives in a dirty shed. She won’t go inside her house.”

  “Why not?” a boy asked.

  “Really, you guys don’t know what she did?” Dakota said.

  Kids were still batting the crumpled paper in the air.

  “Cut it out,” the bus driver yelled.

  Bryce slid low in his seat.

  “Her real name is Abigail Jacobs. She used to live in that house with her husband and little girl,” Dakota said. “But my mom says she was always weird. Like she never talked to anyone in town and was never home. One day she called the police to say her husband and daughter disappeared. The police couldn’t figure out what happened for a long time. Then they found them”—Dakota glanced around—“dead!”

  Kids turned away from the windows to stare at Dakota. She seemed to enjoy her growing audience.

  “People knew she murdered them,” she continued. “But the cops could never pin it on her.” Dakota narrowed her eyes. “My mom says she knows she did it because, right after it happened, the Bird Lady became a drunk and lost her job and stuff.” Dakota nodded. “It’s her conscience that keeps her outside.”

  I thought about what Abigail had said. There are only ghosts in that house.

  Bryce popped up. “When we go camping, my uncle always tells a story about the Bird Lady killing her family and then disappearing.” He shook his head. “I can never sleep when he tells that story.”

  “I heard she’s, like, a real witch. She always has a fire going, and she has one of those witch’s pots where she mixes spells,” someone said.

  “It’s called a cauldron,” Dakota said.

  We were past the town green. Kids settled back into their seats.

  Dakota seems to know everything about everybody, I thought. My heart beat hard and fast in my ears. What if she found out about my mom getting arrested? My palms felt damp inside my gloves.

  “You live next to her, right, Ruby?” Dakota leaned over my seat.

  For a moment, I thought she meant my mom. Then I realized she meant Abigail. I wondered if she’d seen me walking Bob down there. I let my bangs fall forward.

  Dakota laughed. “Ruby, have you been visiting her shed?” She sniffed the air. “I think you even smell like the Bird Lady.”

  I cautiously sniffed my sleeve. All I smelled was a smoky wood smell.

  Ellen and Dakota started to make sniffing noises near me and then Dakota said, “Yup, definitely bird poop.” The two fell into a fit of giggles.

  I leaned against the window. The cold glass felt good against my hot cheek. The bus drove through the center of town, past the Babcock Library, the post office, and Rucki’s Market. More kids got on. I felt someone sit on the edge of my seat.

  “Hello, Ruby.”

  It was Ahmad. I kept my gaze focused out the window.

  “I have decided that I will be astronaut Neil Armstrong for the Wax Museum,” he said. “I know you are Michael Collins. We can work as a team.”

  Mr. Andrews hadn’t said anything about partners.

  “Everyone in town goes to this Wax Museum. It is very fun like a great celebration,” Ahmad said. “My uncle posted an advertisement in Rucki’s window.”

  Fortunately, the bus pulled into school. I stood and heaved my backpack onto my shoulder. Its weight pulled down on me. Ahmad stepped aside to let me go first. I pushed past him to join the kids streaming off the bus. He got stuck a few people behind me.

  * * *

  After fighting with my locker for ten minutes, I hustled toward Language Arts, worried I’d be late. I slid into my seat, glancing at Dakota. All of her clothes were so shiny. I looked down at my gray sweatshirt. I felt like I was doomed to be stuck in her shadow—same stupid bus, same stupid homeroom, same stupid Wax Museum.

  Mr. Andrews stood at the front, his mouth serious, his eyes laughing. He reminded me of someone who knew the answer to a puzzle no one else could figure out.

  “Okay, friends, settle down.” He pulled at his beard.

  When everyone had taken their seats, he clasped his hands. “Today we are going to talk about primary and secondary sources. If your book is not an autobiography, it is not a primary source. You are reading someone else’s view, which is never going to be as accurate as your subject’s own words. So how can we find primary sources?”

  Hands went up.

  “Sophia?”

  “We can search online to find letters or books our character has written.”

  “Excellent. Does anyone have any other ideas?”

  “If our character is alive, we can write them a letter,” Ahmad said.

  “Great idea. They might not write back. But why not give it a shot?” Mr. Andrews said. “So, today, that is what we are going to do. Everyone should get a laptop from the cart and begin researching primary sources.”

  I waited in line, grabbing the last laptop. I brought it to my seat and stared out the window. The gray sky promised snow. I thought about Abigail Jacobs, always outside, always cold.

  I opened the laptop and signed on. Mr. Andrews strolled up and down aisles helping students. I typed Michael Collins. Several websites popped up. I clicked on one and began jotting notes.

  Michael Collins was sometimes called “the forgotten astronaut” because he stayed inside the command module Columbia and traveled alone to the far side of the moon while Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin landed in the Eagle. He lived with his wife, Patricia, and their three kids. He had a German shepherd that he named Dubhe, after one of the stars in the Big Dipper, and a rabbit named Snowball. Michael Collins orbited the moon twenty-seven times during the Apollo 11 mission. Each time his spacecraft drifted behind the moon, he lost all radio contact with Earth. But Collins says he never felt lonely because he had an important job to do—he knew Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin couldn’t get home without him.

  I tried to stay focused on Michael Collins, but the stuff the kids had said about Abigail was bouncing around in my brain. Their chatter reminded me of the blue jays I’d seen fighting and squawking at Abigail’s tin can feeders.

  The laptop’s screensaver faded to black and in my mind’s eye I could see the image of Abigail feeding the birds at the town green. She was strange enough, but could she have really killed a person? Could she have killed her own daughter?

  I clicked the screen awake, and in the search field I backspaced over Michael Collins and typed Abigail Jacobs, Fortin, Vermont.

  The Fortin Citizen archives popped up with an article headlined ABIGAIL JACOBS, 18 SPECTER HILL ROAD, ARRESTED.

  “Ex
cuse me, Ruby.” Mr. Andrews read over my shoulder. “Who is Abigail Jacobs?”

  I jumped at his voice.

  “I thought you were doing Michael Collins?”

  I exited the page. “I—I won’t be here for the Wax Museum.”

  “Where will you be?”

  I stared hard into the screen. Kids began whispering.

  “Washington, DC,” I whispered.

  “Hmm.” Mr. Andrews pulled at his beard. “Well, until that happens, you need to keep preparing. So are you Michael Collins or this Abigail Jacobs?”

  I heard Dakota whisper something to Ellen. Ellen laughed.

  I felt my body shrink. “Michael Collins,” I said.

  “Okay, so let’s get back to that.” Mr. Andrews moved on.

  Suddenly, I felt like I was in a shadow. I turned to see Dakota hovering over me. I stared after Mr. Andrews, but he was helping someone else.

  Dakota flipped her hair and leaned in, trying to see my screen. The smell of her grape bubble gum turned my stomach.

  “So you’re going to be the Bird Lady for the Wax Museum?” she said. “Are you going to sleep in an old milk shed to get ready for your big debut?”

  Ellen tried to suppress her laugh. It came out as a snort.

  I stared at my hands.

  Ahmad turned around in his seat. “Ruby is Michael Collins for the Wax Museum.”

  Dakota’s giant round eyes felt like they were boring into my skin. “No, I think you really are the Bird Lady.” She blinked. “You don’t talk to anyone. You wear the same dirty sweatshirt every day.” She put her hands on her hips. “And I happen to know that your mother—”

  My head whipped around, but before Dakota said another word, Mr. Andrews was at my desk again. “Everything okay here?” he asked.

  Dakota flopped into her seat and began typing hard on her laptop.

  “Ruby?” he said.

  I nodded. “Y-yes.” I typed in Michael Collins’s name and a series of articles popped up. I clicked on one and began reading.

  Mr. Andrews moved on.

  Beep! My screen showed one new message. I clicked on it.