by Susan Wilson
The image in Ruby’s head is the Dew Drop Inn. She is taken with the wisdom of a small dog. Seek shelter. Ruby turns the van toward the Dew Drop and inches her way through the deluge toward that safe haven. Ravi is delighted to see her as she and the Hitchhiker dash through the rain into his office. In minutes they are back in their little, slightly askew room. Ruby showers and even though it’s barely three o’clock, pulls on pajama bottoms and a sweatshirt. The rain continues, but the tornado warning is lifted. She’s got the spoils from her sojourn among the Italians in the dorm-room fridge so there’s no need to go out again today. The Hitchhiker is on the bed, nose beneath tail, a tiny package of contented fluffiness.
Tomorrow is another day. Tomorrow, she promises herself, she will reverse her lifelong trajectory and return to where she began.
13
As the old saw says, what a difference a day makes. Ruby awakens to a clear, dry morning, a perfect day for a road trip. She quickly dresses and heads out to get enough ice to hold the leftovers awhile longer. The Hitchhiker trails along, tail waving in salute to a beautiful day and a cheerful companion. Ruby is cheerful. After dwelling on this idea of finding out where she came from, or at least trying to, she is content with her decision to head back to Sacred Heart Convent and drill down through whatever boxes she needs to in order to find out her real origins. The idea of knowing who she is, who her mother was—or is—has begun to take on a bucket list feel.
Last night she called Sabine. Told her what she was up to.
“Are you sure you want to do this?”
“She’s been coming to me. In dreams.”
Dreams and portents, signs and auras, the stuff of their lives. Sabine wishes Ruby good luck. “And try not to be disappointed if nothing comes of it. You’ll still be you.”
Sabine is right, and Ruby understands that knowing if she was left by a mother or a stranger won’t change her life; it won’t really matter in the long run. She will still be Ruby Heartwood, self-invented. But doing nothing, not trying to find out, has become an unacceptable choice.
All is quiet at the Dew Drop Inn this early in the morning. There are cars enough to suggest that there are occupants in six of the twelve units. Ravi doesn’t discuss his economics, but Ruby has figured out that the Airbnb phenomenon and other do-it-yourself rentals are taking a toll on the traditional accommodations. The guests she’s encountered before have all been older, mainly couples, mostly just interested in a place to rest before continuing on to their actual destinations. A way station, that’s what the Dew Drop Inn is. A motor court between Boston and the Berkshires or Vermont or Canada.
One half of one of those couples is sitting in the plastic Adirondack chair outside his room. He’s wearing Madras shorts of a style Ruby hasn’t seen worn without intentional irony in years. Loafers with tassels but no socks. A turquoise golf shirt with a popped collar. He’s either got an angry resting face or something is troubling him. Ruby doesn’t pause as she walks by but does give him a civil nod to acknowledge his presence. He looks right past her. It’s nothing to her, she’s just being polite. Nonetheless, she notes his aura, and begins to sense his expression isn’t anger but something else, perhaps grief or melancholy. It’s rare enough to get vibes from a man, rarer still to see such a defined aura surrounding one.
“Are you okay?”
He does see her then. Gathers himself enough to give her a smile. “Oh, fine. Just waiting for the wife.”
The wife. Boy does Ruby hate that two-word identifier.
The door opens and The Wife comes out. She’s maybe half a decade younger than he is and sports a massive engagement ring aligned with a wide gold band thrust on a long finger with a gel coat manicure in a shade of deep purple. She’s tan and trim and wearing high-tech athletic pants and a sweatshirt with St. Augustine emblazoned across her chest. Ruby smells second wife all over her. She has no particular aura surrounding her. Just a cloud of curly auburn hair that Ruby finds herself pining for. It’s kind of like her hair was thirty years ago. Which was, of course, a wig. Her costume. Her disguise.
Under the woman’s left arm is a bundle of white. At first Ruby takes it for laundry, or a towel, maybe she’s headed to the seldom-utilized pool. Then the bundle shifts to reveal two brown eyes and a black nose. It arfs at her. Wiggles.
“Zelda, that’s not polite. So sorry.” The bundle’s carrier chides the dog in a fairly pro forma way. Like she has to do that every time the dog encounters another human being.
Ruby recognizes a yappy little dog when she sees one. Except that this one, like just about every other dog she’s met during her stay here in Harmony Farms, has spoken to her, mind to mind.
“Zelda. Cute name.”
Zelda wriggles harder, nearly launches herself out of the woman’s arms. “I’m not cute. I want to walk.”
“She doesn’t like to be carried.”
“Excuse me?”
Ruby wonders why it is that all these dog people have to be excused when she first interprets for their dogs. “She thinks it’s undignified. To be carried. She’s a dog, she wants to get down and sniff the grass. Meet other dogs.”
“I hardly think that’s appropriate.”
Ruby reaches out to stroke under Zelda’s chin. “I tried.”
Zelda’s little head sags, but her tail wags gently, the long hairs on it tickling her owner’s bare skin.
“She’d get dirty.”
“I suppose she would. But she’d enjoy it.”
Zelda raises her tiny head to stare at her bearer. If ever a dog could plead for clemency, it was Zelda.
“It’s nice and grassy out back. She could run around, get some exercise.”
The mister of this odd couple has said nothing, just continued to stare out across the parking lot as if there was a nice view. “Doreen, put the goddam dog down and let her be a dog.”
Ruby realizes that his aura is the ashy color of regret, and she knows that it isn’t regret for being snappish.
“Well, nice meeting you.” Not.
The Hitchhiker is waiting at the room door as if she has deliberately ducked the opportunity to meet the couple and their unhappy arm candy of a dog.
“Consider yourself lucky.”
“I do. Especially if cheese is going to happen.” Hitch is quite single-minded about cheese.
Once again Ruby bids Ravi adieu, and once again he reminds her that she is always welcome at the Dew Drop.
And once again, the van doesn’t start.
“It’s almost like I’ve been bewitched or cursed; like I can’t get past the borders of this town because of some spell.” Ruby takes a bite of her dill pickle.
“Have you thought about consulting someone?” Polly, who has already finished her sandwich, is now at work on one of those individual servings of pudding. She points her spoon at Ruby.
“I’ve been consulting my cards. Thank you for not being skeptical.”
“The man who acts as his own lawyer has a fool for a client.” Polly sticks a finger into the plastic cup, drags up the last of the pudding.
“You may have a point.”
“Have you ever thought that if you leave Harmony Farms, you might lose your animal communicator abilities?”
“No. Maybe. But…” Ruby wraps the other half of her sandwich. She’s lost her appetite. “… I have had the feeling that the whole thing is temporary.”
They are sitting at a café table outside of the Country Market. The Hitchhiker rests her chin on Ruby’s foot, adds a paw to remind Ruby that she’s there, holding her in place.
“Well, as long as you’re still here, would you be willing to do a consult?”
“Another guest of the town at the shelter?”
“No. Actually, it’s not a dog. I’m hoping that you’re interested in advancing to large animal communication.”
“How large?”
“Pretty big.”
“I thought you only dealt with dogs and cats.”
“Don’t fo
rget the occasional bunny. But no, I also do farm inspections.”
“I repeat: How big?”
“Fifteen hands.”
Ruby knows this means that Polly’s consult request is for a horse. “I have no idea if I can connect with a horse, but hey, like you said, I’m still here.”
“I’ll call the owner.”
Ruby figures that communicating with a horse might help pay for the van’s latest illness. Maybe she can charge by the pound.
An hour later Ruby and Polly, with the Hitchhiker in the backseat of the truck, are on their way to Far Piece Farm.
If Ruby was expecting the whitewashed fences of Kentucky, she was bound for disappointment. Far Piece Farm boasts a three-strand electric fence delimiting a collection of paddocks. Polly leads Ruby through a Butler building barn, behind which a riding ring has pride of place. They walk toward it, watching three women trot around a fourth who stands her ground, planted dead center in the ring. She never flinches as the trio change direction, zigging and zagging and circling around her. Each of the riders wears sunglasses against the midday glare, and the appropriate gear of helmet, tall boots, and riding tights; they are distinguishable from one another only by the horses upon which they ride. A chestnut with flashy white legs, a dark horse whose ears keep flicking backward, and a mottled-looking creature Ruby will learn is called a red roan.
Polly motions for Ruby to take a seat on a bench to wait out the lesson. “The horse in question is the black one.”
Ruby keeps her eyes on the animal, hoping to get some intel on the creature’s troubles. The pinned ears and the fact that the rider looks tense is a pretty good indicator of problems.
“Who’s its rider?”
“I can’t tell with the helmet and sunglasses. The horse is a schoolie, a lesson horse, so it could be anyone on her.”
As Ruby watches, even she can see that the horse is resisting its rider’s orders. There is a tension in its—her—eyes, and Ruby has to wonder how safe an unhappy horse could be for a student rider.
“Okay, everybody. Cool them out for ten and then bring them in and untack.” With a wave, the instructor finally acknowledges Polly and Ruby sitting on the bench. While her riders walk their horses slowly around the ring, she comes out. “I’m Carrie Farr.” She sticks her hand out for Ruby to shake.
“Farr, ha. So, the name of your farm then is a wink.”
“And a nod.” Carrie is also dressed in riding clothes but wears a frayed ball cap rather than a helmet, a straggly ponytail coming through the gap in the back, and clogs on her feet. She’s wiry, giving off the impression of contained power, kind of like a stick of dynamite. She could be forty or sixty.
As they head into the barn, Ruby says, “Polly tells me that you’ve got a problem with that black horse.”
Carrie shrugs, picks up a dropped hoof pick, tosses it into a box. “Sometimes. Not always. That’s what’s weird. I’ve had all the usual things checked out when a perfectly lovely animal starts to go off. You know, teeth, feet, back, health check. Blood tests for Lyme. The whole shooting match. The thing is, she’s a school horse, which makes her valuable in her job, but if she won’t do her job, well, it’s my way or the highway.”
“Got it.”
Leading their horses, the riders have entered the barn like a little parade, one after the other, and Carrie takes the reins of the horse in question from the hand of her rider, who turns and walks away without a word. The other two start untacking their mounts, chatting about their lesson, commiserating over errors, verbally slapping each other on the back for a good canter or trot. They finally pull off their helmets and Ruby can see that they are just girls. Teenagers. They offer handfuls of carrot chunks to their horses. The other rider, having disappeared into the tack room does not come out to treat this horse. Carrie quickly untacks the mare, who stands calmly on her cross ties while Ruby observes.
Carrie pats the animal on the neck. “I just want you to know that this isn’t something that I, um, believe in, animal communication. I mean, I communicate with my animals, but it’s through touch and aids and food and, well, sometimes some inspired swearing, but not mind to mind.”
“And if I’m to be honest, I’m not sure I can do anything anyway, but hey, it can’t hurt, can it?” Ruby looks toward Polly’s truck, where the Hitchhiker is standing on the armrest, her head out the window. Two big farm dogs are staring up at her.
Carrie sees where Ruby is looking. “Is that your dog?”
“More like I’m her person.”
“My dogs won’t bother her if you want to let her out of the truck.”
“I’ll go,” Polly offers.
Ruby stands to the left side of the horse, who lowers her head so that human and horse are eye to eye. The animal’s eye is soft, deep brown, and her lashes are remarkably long. If the eyes are the windows to the soul, this creature seems quite soulful to Ruby. “Can I put my hands on her face?”
“Sure, she’s not head shy at all. Or, at least wasn’t until recently. Don’t be surprised if she lifts it away from you. And watch for getting clunked in the head with hers.”
As Ruby lifts her hands, the horse does bob her head, then shakes it. This isn’t the same as when the Hitchhiker shakes her head, which is a sign she wants to play. Ruby lowers her hands, then reaches slowly to stroke the animal on the cheek. Immediately, the connection is there, not as electric as with the dogs, more a soft humming. The mare lowers her head and closes her eyes. Ruby moves to stand in front of her, lays her hands on either side of the horse’s muzzle. Leans in instinctively to breathe into the mare’s nostrils, breathe in the mare’s breath. Pictures of greenness come to mind, images of what speed feels like.
“You’ve been around horses, I take it.” Carrie is standing aside, arms folded. “You’ve read a lot of them?”
“Nope. She’s my first one.”
“But you know about introducing yourself that way, breath to breath.”
“Not a clue. I’m just listening to her.”
The curious thing is, the contented vibe that Ruby is getting begins to harden, she tastes tension in her mouth. The switch is so quick it makes Ruby feel as though she’s being hunted. As if there is a predator lurking.
“Carrie, I want to book a lesson for this weekend. Private, if you can.” The third member of the class walks up to Ruby, Carrie, and the horse, who now jerks her head out of Ruby’s hands.
Cynthia Mann.
It all makes sense.
“Hello, Cynthia.”
Is Ruby imagining it, or does Cynthia’s lip actually curl before struggling into a smile? “Oh, hello, Ruby. Practicing your dark arts here now?”
“Helping figure out what’s spooking this poor horse.”
“If you ask me, she just needs to keep working with an experienced rider, fewer children letting her get away with murder.” Cynthia clearly means herself as the experienced rider.
Carrie bends to give the Hitchhiker a pat, and Ruby can see she’s biting her tongue.
“Carrie, a lesson?” Cynthia does that arms akimbo thing she must have learned from her first-grade teacher.
“Sure. Let’s go look at my book.”
As the two women walk away, the horse drops her head, nudges Ruby with her muzzle. Predator predator get away.
“I know. She’s after me too.”
Carrie returns in a moment. “So, what’s the verdict?”
Ruby sees Cynthia’s Land Rover speed away. “I think that she would very much like to go back to being a children’s mount. She doesn’t like bossy people.”
“Well, that’s kind of what her purpose is, to be asked to do something and to do it. Besides, I have more adults than children.”
“Then she needs to have a nicer adult on her. Right? Someone who isn’t convinced of her own infallibility. One who asks more nicely.”
Carrie gets it. “Yeah, I see what you mean.”
“Exactly.”
“I’ve got a nice older lady
this mare might work well with.”
“What’s her name?”
“Eleanor Something. Dorsey.”
“I mean, the mare. What’s her name?”
“Bella.”
Ruby places her hands against the horse’s muzzle, finds herself drawn to kiss that soft nose. “Bella, life will be good if you’ll give Mrs. Dorsey a chance. No more predator.”
14
“When you gonna call it?” Bull has joined Ruby at the Lakeside Tavern, his usual glass of seltzer and lime in his hand. A Cuban sandwich on his plate. “Put that poor thing out of its misery?” Bull is referring to the Westfalia. Which is still in the shop.
“I don’t have a lot of choice.”
“Bet you could sell it. Get something decent I’d think for a classic like that.”
“Then what would I drive?”
“Buy yourself something from this century.”
“Ha-ha.” Ruby tucks into her artisanal grilled cheese sandwich. Three cheeses, locally sourced, only one of which is familiar to her. Still, it’s pretty darn good. A gooey string dangles between the sandwich and her lip. She reels it in. “I’m essentially spending every penny on keeping the van going—and the Dew Drop—so I haven’t got much in the old savings account.”
“Guy across the street from the Dew Drop? He’ll cut you a deal.”
“And trade in my semi-reliable Westie for a risky used car? A beater I couldn’t even use for a camper? Nuh-uh. No, thanks.”
This is the same conversation she’s had with herself for years. It’s kind of nice to have someone else take half of the dialogue.
“You got kids, an ex? Someone who might help you out?”
“A daughter. No ex. And, no. I couldn’t do that.”
Bull shrugs. He’s done his bit to try and solve her automotive problems.
The fact is, she’ll stay put—hopefully only a little longer—in Harmony Farms. Long enough to do one more Makers Faire and maybe scratch up enough private animal consults that she can get on the road to Canada before the big fall fairs start up. Otherwise, she’s going to have to postpone her search for her origins until almost winter. And that idea doesn’t appeal. She may have fled Canada when she was very young, but she still has vivid memories of deep cold and snow. The Westie is much more a fair-weather vehicle even when in top form.
