by Susan Wilson
Ravi at the Dew Drop Inn has been kind enough to offer her a discounted rate as a “regular” customer. She wonders if he knows what she does for a living. This morning Polly transported Ruby and her tent and table to the green. “He got turned in, just like you predicted. The Great Dane.”
“I wish they’d kept him.”
“Interestingly enough, they asked me if I would ask Mrs. Turcott if she’d keep them in mind if she ever wanted to re-home him.”
Ruby smiled, pleased. Hopeful.
* * *
It’s been a fun morning. We got a ride in a truck that smells of dogs, but there weren’t any in it, so I think that they are now all happy back with their people. There was another scent in there too, an objectionable scent of feline. Then we met lots of people. My job is to greet them and bring them closer to Ruby’s tent so that they can talk about deep things while holding hands or sipping stinky tea. Sometimes they cry, and then I have to comfort them.
* * *
It’s really too hot to be sitting out here. The air beneath the canopy is almost hotter than outside, trapped by the impervious nylon. “Want to pack it in, Hitch?”
The dog wags her plume of a tail, yips.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
Closing the tent flaps, Ruby does a quick change of clothes, puts her cards in their case, and wraps the teapot in its protective Bubble Wrap. She’s got to wait for Polly to come back, so she’ll close up shop but not fold up the tent. They’ll head to the Country Market and get an iced coffee and then sit in the library park where it’s nice and shady. Polly, working on a Saturday, has planned on meeting Ruby at two, so she’ll head back a little before then. Sometimes just making a little decision feels like a conquest.
“Oh, are you leaving?” The voice is that of one of the teenagers who had passed by earlier.
“I don’t have to.”
“I’m eighteen, so, it’s okay, right?”
“Sit.” Out of the corner of her eye she sees the Hitchhiker sit, as if she’d been given the command, not the girl. That makes Ruby smile, and the girl, who is visibly nervous, smiles back. Ruby, no longer dressed as a fortune-teller, asks if the girl wants cards or palm. The teapot is packed away and she won’t be brewing more.
“Palms?”
“Okay. Hold out your hands.” Ruby places her hands palm up under the girl’s. It’s a hot day, and it’s no surprise that the girl’s hands are hot to the touch, but this is a different sort of heat. A pulsing heat. The heat of distress. Ruby can feel the heat of the girl’s aura, the flicker and flash of being female, of being young. Of being sexual. Ruby can’t bring herself to incant the usual long lifeline, meet a man, success in business claptrap she gives those with whom she has no actual connection. This girl warrants something like the truth. A guarded truth. She needs to find actual help. Ruby closes her eyes and lets the wash of connection take over. It has been such a rare event in the past year, and she knows that this is only possible because of the girl’s agitation, her distress. It’s more similar to how she’s been interpreting the dogs, images flood across her mind’s eye, grayscale, but vivid. Ruby sinks into a borderline trance. “I see a shadow behind you. Is someone following you?”
“Sometimes.”
“Someone who is familiar to you?”
“Yes.” The girl’s pulse quickens and the image in Ruby’s mind clarifies. Hardens.
“There is a predator in your life.”
A tear slides out from the corner of the girl’s left eye, traces a path on her ruddy cheek. She nods.
“Someone close?”
She nods again and Ruby’s angry heat rises, flushing her cheeks and bringing her back to a moment in her own young life when she was prey. She turns the girl’s hands over and grasps them in her own. “I’m not speaking as a psychic now. I’m speaking as an adult who also suffered at the hands of someone I knew. You must promise me to go to a trusted adult.” She shakes the girl’s hands, makes her look Ruby in the eye. Then Ruby releases her grasp and turns the girl’s hands over again. She traces a line. “This line tells me that you are a strong woman.” She touches another, close to the thumb. “You will act, and in acting on this, not just survive but thrive. No one can take your future away from you if you don’t let them.”
“Who should I talk to?”
Ruby lets the last image in her mind fade before answering. “You have an aunt. Go to her.”
“How did you know?”
“It’s what I do.” Ruby lets go of the girl, waves off her proffered twenty-dollar bill. “Just talk to her. Now.”
“Thank you, um, Madame Ruby.” She shoves the twenty into her pocket, a lock of hair falling over her eyes. She shoves it away and looks at Ruby. There is a flicker of resolve in her expression. “I will.”
Ruby reaches out to touch the dog, gathers a handful of fur between her fingers. She’s too shaky to get to her feet. The images coming from the girl overlay her own memories of being young and vulnerable and alone. And afraid. The Hitchhiker jumps into Ruby’s lap, shoves her head beneath Ruby’s chin, and a long strand of taste and scent fill Ruby’s mind with calm. If you suckle you are filled with good feeling. To the dog, the memory of being a puppy is her comfortable place. The dog’s memory comforts Ruby.
“Come with me and I’ll help you use that weird skill of yours.” Maggie Dean looked like a helpless old woman doomed to freeze to death on the streets, but in fact, she was a bit of a Fagan among the children that lived in those Hartford projects. A kind enough Fagan, and her criminal encouragement wasn’t to become deft pickpockets, but to introduce them to certain gentlemen who could make good use of their fleetness of foot and innocent eyes. As a former teacher, she also expected them to learn to read and do arithmetic.
Ruby followed Maggie home, home being a squat in the projects. The only comfort in the room, which had no running water or electricity, was a fetid armchair. But it did have books. Hundreds of them, stacked like dolmens blocking the windows, serving as stools or footstools. The pervasive scent of kerosene, which Maggie used for her lantern, and a touchy space heater. Ruby closed her eyes and saw tragedy. Old tragedy. Tragedy to come.
“Over there, second stack from the left. Third book down. Fetch it.”
Ruby did as asked, pulling a how-to book on tarot from the pile.
“And that one, top book.” Maggie pointed to the tallest stack. “You should know a little astrology. I have nothing on the more occult art of reading tea leaves, but this will get you started. You do read, don’t you?”
“Yes.” Ruby had smiled. “I read secrets.”
“You’ve already got it figured out, don’t you? The mystique of the psychic.”
There was no longer any point in lying. “It’s not fake, you know. I really do see things.”
“What you need is an act, or maybe it would be better to call it a performance that frames your talent. Carerra Brothers Carnival is back here from Florida in about a month. I bet they’d be interested in a psychic. A young, very young, psychic.”
A wave of cold fear dried out Ruby’s mouth. Then anger. “Are you a white slaver?” The term had been a useful warning to the young girls at Sacred Heart, what would happen to you if you should speak to strangers. Abducted, enslaved. Of course, no nun ever said what they would be enslaved to do. They all pictured farm work in rags.
“No. I just try to find purpose for kids like you, a safety net, if you will. Otherwise, you might be taken up by the wrong kind. There are plenty of predators out there, but if you can make your own way, you may stay alive.”
Predators indeed. And Maggie Dean’s tutelage into the psychic arts and subsequent introduction of Ruby into the carny world almost guaranteed that Ruby would encounter just such a man.
10
The Lakeside Tavern, which is less lakeside than lake-overlooking from the opposite side of the road, offers a reasonably priced pub menu and a nice selection of craft beer. Ruby orders the eggplant parm special
and a local brew. She grabs an outside table, a little damp but mostly protected by the porch overhang, and ties the Hitchhiker’s leash to the leg. It had been raining so heavily this morning that the Farmers’ Market and Makers Faire had been canceled and Ruby had enjoyed what felt an awful lot like a snow day. She pulls her atlas out of her satchel and flattens it against the tabletop. “Okay, where to?”
The Hitchhiker rests her chin on Ruby’s knees. Sighs. Eyes up, worried eyebrows. Ruby places a hand on the dog’s head to listen.
“Here is now.”
“Nope. Time to go. The van is back and I’m ready to find new adventure.” Ruby looks around, thankful that there is no one within earshot of a woman having a one-sided discussion with a dog.
“Here is now.”
“That doesn’t even make sense.”
The worried eyebrows. Spaniel eyes.
“Why not?”
“No go.”
“Don’t worry, little one. Travel is fun. I won’t leave you behind.”
The dog sighs but does not look any less worried. “More work left.”
What Ruby “sees” in her mind’s eye is the scent of unhappy animals. “There are dogs everywhere that I can help.”
“Here is now.”
Frustrated, Ruby is glad when the server comes with her meal. The Hitchhiker’s thought processes remind her all too much of a truculent toddler’s. No go. Well, let’s remember who’s in charge here.
“Hey, Ruby, what brings you into Harmony Farms’ best kept secret?” It’s Bull Harrison with Boy.
“Bull, hi. Probably the same thing that brings you here.” Ruby gestures toward her mostly empty plate and the beer.
Boy and the Hitchhiker perform their greeting routine, tails wagging. Both flop down on the porch floor, noses directly in line with anything that might fall from the tabletop.
Without being invited, Bull sits down opposite Ruby, taps the atlas with a forefinger. “Going someplace?”
“Looking for the next stop.”
“I thought you’d be staying.”
“No. I’ve about tapped out the Faire. Besides, Cynthia is being a pain in the tuchus. Gets in my face every single week.”
“That’s just her. Full of herself. She’s got something against everybody.”
“That’s no surprise. That woman is attitude on a stick.”
Bull rubs his whiskery chin in a gesture Ruby recognizes as a tell. She has an urge to grab Bull’s meaty hands and turn them over. She doesn’t, but she can read his thoughts in his expression. Not unlike his dog’s, Bull’s rumpled face gives away a lot of emotion.
“How come she’s angry at you?”
Bull makes that noise that might be choking or laughing and then stops. “We have a rocky history.”
“Former girlfriend?”
He shakes his shaggy head and Ruby gets why he might be nicknamed Bull. “It’s a long story, but everything worked out in the end.”
“Now you have me intrigued. Give me a short version.”
Bull gets a moment to decide if he wants to tell the story as Ruby’s server has wandered back to clear the table and ask about Ruby’s desires vis-à-vis dessert. She asks, “You want something to eat, Bull?”
“Naw.” He looks at the server. “Just the usual, Deb.”
“Seltzer and lime. Got it.” She scoops up Ruby’s plate, glances at her glass. “Another beer?”
“No. Thanks.” Ruby stops her. “Yeah, maybe another.” She’s intrigued by the wavering aura that now floats around Bull. She wants to have an excuse to examine it. “Go on, Bull. What happened?”
“A couple of years ago her ex-husband, although he wasn’t ex then, was arrested for animal abuse.”
“Whoa. Let me guess, Boy was the dog.”
“Yes, ma’am, he was.” Bull takes a long moment. “Anyway, it was my son who arrested him.” A beat. “My younger son.”
She keeps getting flashes of sharp grief, panic, and profound cold. Something deeply personal and yet not quite connected to the story that Bull has told her. His apparent need to clarify which son performed the arrest.
“Anyway, her husband, Don, went to prison for a bit. She liked having his money, but apparently so did he, so she didn’t get a ton of it in the divorce.”
“Kids?”
“One. I forget his name, but he was already in college at that point.”
Ruby gets it. Cynthia is one of those people for whom loneliness becomes bitterness. She is aggrieved and will make life miserable for anyone in her path. She also senses a hole within Bull Harrison. More than one. Not aggrieved, grieving.
She would ask but Deb has arrived to place a tall glass of seltzer in front of Bull. He sets aside the straw and takes a long drink and bends the conversation away. “So, tell me about where you’re headed?”
It’s a fair question. “I’m thinking Newport maybe, or the Cape. Look for street fairs, that sort of thing.” Even as she says this, Ruby realizes that she’s not as hot to pack up and venture blindly off as she had been an hour ago. The Hitchhiker noses her foot. Boy sighs and flops over on his side. The air is cool here, the breeze off the pretty lake ruffles her paper napkin. The sun has disappeared behind a scrim of fair-weather clouds, and the fairy lights hanging from the porch roof have come on. What’s the hurry?
“Polly will miss having you around. She says you’ve been a help.”
“That’s kind of her to say.” The fact is, Polly has been a help to Ruby. Letting her read the dogs in her care to some success gave her confidence that this canine communication phenomena is sticking with her.
“If it’s staying in the Dew Drop, well, you’re welcome to stay with me. Free. No strings.”
Ruby has no words for this offer. She’s seen the outside of his house; she can’t imagine what the inside must look like. “Um, that’s kind of you, but it’s not that. It’s just time to go.”
Bull sucks down the rest of the liquid, spits an ice cube back into the glass. If he’s disappointed or relieved, she really can’t tell.
“Stay stay stay.” Ruby hears Boy’s plaintive request. Even in her mind’s ear, his voice is distinct from the Hitchhiker’s.
Ruby closes the atlas, motions to the server that she’s ready to pay up. Bull digs into a back pocket for his wallet.
“No, I’ve got it. You can buy me a drink some other time.”
“Deal.”
“Do you need a ride home?”
“Nah. Got my trusty Raleigh. It’s not far.”
“It’s dark.”
“Got a good light. Coop bought me one of them LCD things. Real bright.”
“I think you mean LED.”
There’s a little goofy in his grin, the gaps where his front teeth should be giving him an oddly innocent expression. “I always get that mixed up.”
Ruby watches Bull pedal off before she starts her van. He’s got an uphill ride. She wonders at the effort he has made to go get a drink of fizzy water.
* * *
I do not understand why Ruby thinks it’s a good idea to leave here. Doesn’t she know that this is our territory? That we have marked it? That no good comes of wandering?
* * *
“I am so sorry to say goodbye and I hope that, when you are back in the area, you will make the Dew Drop Inn your home.” Ravi gives her that heartbreakingly melty smile of his and takes both her hands in his. She is unaccustomed to having her hands held rather than being the holder of hands. She momentarily expects him to read her and is surprised at the slight warmth rising in her cheeks.
“I will. I promise.” With the Westfalia back on the road, the summer weather absolutely divine, there is no reason not to camp. So, why does she feel like she’s wrong-footed?
As Ruby loads the rest of her stuff into the van, the Hitchhiker sits with her back toward Ruby, her nose pointed down and the term abject comes to mind. “Hey, girlie, hop in.”
The dog doesn’t move.
“Hitch, get in.”
Ruby points toward the interior of the van beyond the wide-open slider. “Up. Up.”
Nothing. A sigh. A yawn. Her cheerful little companion is pouting.
Ruby swoops down, encircles the dog with her arms and hefts her onto the bench seat. “I’m bigger than you are. Ha-ha.”
The Hitchhiker circles three times and curls up, tucks her nose beneath her hind leg. Closes her eyes.
Ravi waves from the office door as Ruby pulls out of the empty parking lot. The weekends have been busier, but the weekdays she’s had the place pretty much all to herself. The begonias and impatiens have fulfilled their promise of huge happy blooms in the time she’s spent residing in this humble motor lodge. Ruby bangs a left, which will take her through town and on toward the highway entrance. Except for Ravi, she’s told no one goodbye, as is her habit. She’s got Polly’s number; she’ll stay in touch. She’s enjoyed Bull’s unique company, and he knows she’s going. As with pretty much everywhere else she’s been in her life, Ruby leaves without leaving a wake.
A quarter of a mile before the highway access there is a large modern church, far enough away from town proper as to not be in architectural conflict with its more traditional peers of the Protestant persuasion. St. Sebastian’s RC Church boasts a bright pebble-dash façade interspersed with tall wide windows and a bell tower surmounted by a gold cross. It also boasts a massive black-topped parking lot, in the western corner of which is a fleet of flatbed trailers bearing the unmistakable burden of carnival rides. Ruby slows, pulls in to read the church’s signboard. St. Sebastian’s Days will open on Friday at five with the traditional feast of all things Italian. Bands! Contests! Traditional dancing! A Kids Parade on Saturday with fireworks Saturday night! And, most tempting for a psychic on her way out of town, the featured Benini Bros Carnival! Holy Exclamation Point!
