by Susan Wilson
“Yes. We saw his picture on the web and just fell in love with that face.”
“I see. So, he probably was in a kill-shelter.”
“That’s what we were told. He was one of the lucky ones, pulled out by the rescue team.”
“He’s never had people of his own, so he’s confused. It’s not that he’s unhappy, he’s just uncertain of how to be.”
“Doesn’t he know that he’s never going to be homeless again?”
“No, not yet.” Ruby touches the dog once more, simply running her hand along his spine. She gets a whiff of a deeper confusion, an empathic grief. “He’s picking up on some unhappiness of your own.”
When John doesn’t respond, she looks up at him and sees for herself that what the dog is absorbing from his new forever home is this man’s own despair.
“Let him help you.”
“I thought getting the dog would help. That he would fill a hole for me.”
Ruby doesn’t have to read John’s tea leaves or palm to know that the “we” he had used was really a force of habit. There was no longer any “we” in his life. Except the dog. So much pressure on an animal.
“It takes time. Patience. He doesn’t know how to help you.”
John squats and takes the dog’s head between his hands. “You are helping, Roscoe. Just by making me get out of bed.”
Roscoe’s stubby tail begins to tick tock and he gives John a quick, shy kiss.
“Oh! He’s never done that before! Good boy, Roscoe.”
It has been one of the unexpected benefits of this odd new talent, witnessing the wonderful care people have for their animals. Most of them, that is, with a couple of notable exceptions like the Great Dane woman and that other woman who wouldn’t let her little dog touch the ground. Ruby leans down and swoops up the Hitchhiker. The dog licks her face and the warm contented feeling of companionship soothes away the last of the vibrations.
* * *
Each time that tall skinny woman approaches, it feels like the air is being sucked out of my body. I am a lover of all humans, I have made a career out of being nice and friendly, cheerful and available, but I swear, this Cynthia woman is more wolf than dog. I fear her feet. I fear a kick that would send me into oblivion. I sense Ruby’s distaste for her, but I don’t detect fear, which is all I can take courage from. If my person is unafraid, then I am too.
* * *
It’s after six o’clock when Ruby pulls into her little space at Bull’s house. She’s been to the Country Market and to the wine shop. She’s ready to settle in for a pleasant evening of Netflix. Things had picked up after John and Roscoe so she’s feeling a little better about her prospects. She opens the side door of the van and the Hitchhiker jumps out to greet Boy heading in their direction, goofy Labrador grin on his face and feet failing to keep pace with his tail. Except for her grandchildren, Ruby doesn’t think anyone has ever greeted her with such enthusiasm as this dog does. Ruby gives him some love and then hunts around for the extension cord that will keep her—brand-new—battery from draining as she uses her laptop and the interior lights. She spots the yellow cord a few feet away. Bull waves from his kitchen window like a friendly neighbor as she picks it up. She waves back, equally neighborly.
After dinner Ruby makes a quick phone call to Sabine, checking in as she has promised her daughter to do, asking after the kids, listening more than talking. Sabine is living the life Ruby had long ago rejected—that is, utterly established. Sabine sits on committees and carpools with other moms. She has a permanent address in a house that is one of the oldest in the town. Married to a man whose antecedents founded the place. She is carefully growing a root system. Ruby thinks, more power to her. She tries not to think of it as a commentary on her own life of perpetual motion. Her chosen lifestyle.
Ruby opens up her laptop and moves to click open Netflix but hits the email icon first. Two emails. One is a come-on from an online retailer. The second bears the address of the Sacred Heart Convent and School for Girls. A moment of true psychic inspiration washes through Ruby, jolting her enough that the dog jumps up and presses her nose into Ruby’s neck. Opening this message will change everything.
PART II
16
From the way that she sat there staring at the machine she consults when she isn’t consulting me, I knew that there was something of great portent in its message. If we canines like to communicate through scent, both the leaving of it and sniffing of it, I also knew that this black box was Ruby’s primary way of communicating with those out of sight. Her other method, the littler box, at least made some sense to me as I could discern the other voice, its pitch and quaver a little harder to comprehend than if I could see the speaker and read his or her expression, but comprehensible all the same. I especially liked it when there was a picture on the screen, much like the moving pictures on the TV. Yes, I am one of those dogs who watch television. I especially like the animal programs. I like to bark at them. Although I am in what my people have referred to as a “small package,” I am all field dog.
As Ruby seemed to be locked in some human-style point, I got to work, jumping on the bed, shoving my nose into the crook of her neck, which never fails to tickle. She pushed me aside. Her hands hovered over the machine, and I could smell the excitement and nerves and fear and other luscious human scent markers emanate from her into the air, thence into my nose as I sucked them in, the better to understand what, exactly, was going on here. Giving up on shaking her from this odd torpor, I settled for crawling onto her lap and going to work licking my forepaws as if I had no particular interest in anything other than hygiene. I was rewarded with an embrace, her cheek against my head, a whisper of praise, reminding me not only am I a “good girl,” but I am essential to my human’s well-being.
* * *
Ruby pulls her hands away from the keyboard, quelling the temptation to reply instantly before thinking. Fortunately the Hitchhiker is on her lap and that’s where her fingers land, stroking the soft fur, pulling gently on the floppy ears. She hopes for the vibration of psychic communication, but all she gets is the comfort of a small dog on her lap. And then she realizes that the dog is communicating, but in a more normal fashion. While Ruby has been able to read the dog, she realizes more and more that the dog also reads her. Opting to speak out loud, Ruby asks: “So what do I do?”
The dog studies Ruby’s face with gimlet eyes, her pink tongue darts out and gives Ruby a kiss.
Ruby pulls the curtain aside, stares out at Bull Harrison’s house. There’s a light on in the kitchen and she can see the blue flicker of his television, visible through the naked window of his living room. She thinks about calling Sabine back, letting her know what’s possible.
Hi, Ruby,
I need to let you know that the file that you are interested in is on my desk. Ironically, just as I replied to your query, the board of trustees voted to dispose of the boxes in the basement. Timing is everything in life, isn’t it? I remembered your hoping to find out something about yourself and I went down to see if I could find anything. It felt wrong to let you miss the opportunity to get some answers. Luck, or God, or Providence, was with me and the file wasn’t buried too deep. Almost as if it was waiting for me, if you like. You see, I wasn’t completely up front with you. I was in your class or maybe the one after it. I remember you warning me about skinning my knee and then I did. It was weird, but it kept you lodged in my memory after all these years. I wasn’t Sister Beatrice then. I was Karen.
At any rate, let me know what you want me to do with this file. I haven’t looked in it. But I will if you want me to.
Yours in faith, Sr. Beatrice Johnson
A tingling starts in Ruby’s palms. A zizzing. The Hitchhiker presses her skull more firmly into Ruby’s hands. Images flood; she sees the world as if a child looking up at a chair she cannot climb up into. She sees knees, table legs. This is the Hitchhiker’s world view, always looking up, until she looks down and suddenly Ruby is filled w
ith the idea of grass and water and the scratchy feel of pavement. “You want to go out?”
“Yes, please.”
“Why don’t you ask me like a normal dog? Go to the door and bark?”
“I don’t have to.”
“I love you.”
“I love you back.” The Hitchhiker jumps off Ruby’s lap.
This last exchange is both spoken—her—and scented with something vaguely stinky but clearly pleasant in the dog’s mind.
Boy meets them outside, greets them exuberantly as is his habit, as if he had had no hope of ever seeing them again. The summer evening has become cottony with humidity, Ruby can taste it on her tongue. The dogs disappear into the darker reaches of the cluttered yard and she stands by herself, possessed by a kind of inertia. She should call the Hitchhiker to her, prop the bed back into its couch position, unplug the cord connecting her to Bull’s outside outlet. Check her wallet to see if she has to make a quick ATM run and then turn toward the highway. These are actions that she has executed a million times; she has almost no need to think about them, they are reflexive, comfortable even. But the thick night air holds her still.
A tiny button of red appears on Bull’s back porch. She can hear his deep inhale, his noisy exhale, his cough. If she stands very still, he won’t know she’s out here, but Ruby moves toward the porch. “Evening, Bull.”
“Hey, Ruby. Just givin’ Boy last call.”
“The Hitch is out there with him. I’m just hoping it isn’t a skunk they’re so interested in.” Ruby joins Bull on his porch.
“They’re smart enough to stay clear.”
There is so much on her mind that Ruby has a hard time keeping up the gentle banter, the neighborly chitchat. Ruby feels the buildup of emotional steam rising past being able to keep her news to herself. In a weak moment Ruby had found herself telling Bull and Polly about her sudden interest in finding out more, about her origins. “I got an email tonight. My file is sitting on a nun’s desk right now. In Canada. I need to go get it.”
“That’s good news, isn’t it?”
“Don’t I sound like it’s good news?”
Bull sails his cigarette butt to the dirt at the foot of his steps. “What do you hope will come out of that file?”
“I don’t know if hope is the word. Maybe fear or worry is better.”
“When I was eighteen, and they were pullin’ numbers for the draft, I found myself hopin’ that they’d pull mine; it would be my ticket out of here and away. And in the same breath I was knee-knockin’ shaking that they would. I didn’t want to die, but I didn’t want to stay here.”
“You were called up?”
“Nope, my number was so high there was almost no way I’d be drafted. So I joined up.”
“And you survived.”
“I suppose. Point is, sometimes things are scary. But necessary if you want to get on with life.” Bull shakes another cigarette out of the pack. “This is your draft number. Or your chance to volunteer. I think that you’d regret leaving that file on the desk.”
“You were desperate to leave Harmony Farms, but you came back.”
“Lots scarier things out there than having a crazy old man. Plus, I had a girl waiting for me here.”
“At least you knew who your old man was.”
“Well, there may have been a paternity test involved, but he did the right thing in the end. Just never really accepted me.”
Ruby studies Bull in the gloaming, sees the youth he might once have been. “Mine never tried.”
“Go get that file.”
Ruby nods, calls the Hitchhiker, and heads down the porch steps.
“Hey, you want me to go with you?”
Ruby pictures Bull’s bulk in the passenger seat, the yellow dog and the Hitchhiker sharing the back bench. Not since Sabine has she traveled with anyone. Oddly, the idea doesn’t appall her as much as it should. “I’m good, but thanks.”
“Let me know if you change your mind.” He snaps his fingers and Boy bounces up the steps and into the house. The door closes.
Ruby flips up the laptop cover, opens her email with every intention of replying to Sister Beatrice that she will be heading north, when she sees that there is a new message from the former Karen Johnson.
If you’ll give me your address, I’ll FedEx the file to you.
+ Sr. Bea
Ruby starts to laugh. So simple. So logical. So obvious. Maybe a quest requires a journey, but in this day and age, FedEx will suffice. And any concern Ruby had that a runaway Canadian with not quite legitimate papers might find it difficult to get across the border—and then back—has been neutralized.
Bull’s kitchen light is still on, so she dashes across the yard to knock on his door. “If I can stay a bit longer, and if you’re willing to let me use your address, that file can come to me.”
“I’d rather take a road trip, but sure: 1806 Poor Farm Road.” Bull shrugs, pulls open the screen door. “And you know that you’re welcome to stay as long as you like.”
That settled, Ruby trundles back to her van, and the excitement of knowing that there is a file slowly evolves into wondering what in the world she will find in it.
In exchange for a place to sleep that is far more comfortable than the single girls’ trailer or any Salvation Army bed Ruby has slept on in the past year, Madame Celestine expects chores done and a cut from every reading Ruby does. The two fortune-tellers do not compete against each other for clients; they take turns. Madame Celestine likes her nap in the afternoon, and her cocktail in the evening, so Ruby has begun taking those hours in Madame Celestine’s place. It’s a workable situation: Madame Celestine loses no opportunity to make a buck, and Ruby is gleaning everything she can from the woman’s routines. Ruby is still young, but her psychic senses are as strong as they ever will be. So strong that Madame Celestine begins to fret that Ruby is stealing her thunder, that clients who have heard of this child wonder are waiting for her to vacate the tent and for Ruby to enter it. In the end, Celestine figures that she can certainly capitalize on Ruby’s talent and popularity with very little effort. She begins to introduce Ruby as her protégée. She begins to say things like: “I’ve never had a daughter, but if I did, I’d hope she would be like you.” Even the suggestion that Celestine feels a bit maternal toward her is enough to relax Ruby’s guard. She doesn’t ask if Celestine is referring to herself or to her talents.
From county to county, the carnival moves, an erratic wagon train with no certain destination. In each location, Ruby helps Celestine set up her booth, and makes sure the teapot is clean and the tea leaves are within reach. The tablecloth smooth, the chairs aligned perfectly so that Madame Celestine can comfortably reach across the table to grasp a client’s hand. Ruby shills for Madame Celestine, sometimes beckoning to passing carnival goers to hear their fortunes, sometimes pretending to be having her fortune read. “Oh, Madame Celestine,” Ruby would say, reaching into that actor’s bag of tricks Maggie Dean taught her. “A boyfriend and a winning lottery ticket? How wonderful.” Sometimes Madame Celestine had to whisper to Ruby to take her acting down a notch. “You don’t get any Oscar nominations for this. Just look happy.”
As fall became early winter the carnival wended its way toward Florida. “What happens when we get there?” Ruby is ironing Celestine’s better caftan.
“We stop.”
Ruby’s pressure on the flimsy fabric increases. Madame Celestine notices and comes up beside Ruby. She touches her on the chin, turns her head to meet her eyes. “If you’re wondering, no, I don’t have any intention of giving up my protégée.”
If only Ruby’s real mother had felt the same way. The Hitchhiker leans her whole weight against Ruby’s back as she thinks about that long-ago part of her life, of that brief period when she thought she had found her place in the world. Images and memories she rarely allows herself to visit.
The psychic vibe coming now from the dog is pleasant, commiserative. A comfort as Ruby cuts the rever
ie off before she falls off the dark edge of how it ended.
“Be present,” says the dog with her nose pushing against Ruby’s shoulder. “Be with me now.”
17
In the dream Ruby is standing outside of a door. It is an interior door, perhaps a bedroom door or the door to a cellar. She knows, in her dream, that her mother is standing on the other side of that door. She can hear a quiet rustling, as if her mother is wearing crinolines or taffeta. Every time Ruby’s dream-self reaches for the doorknob, it moves. She tries to catch it in both hands, and it disappears. She wakes, realizing that she needed to dream her mother into opening the door.
“Hi, Ruby,” Granddaughter Molly has liberated her mother’s phone and called her. She does this occasionally, usually with some whim that needs satisfying. A game or a must-have fashion item for the tween set.
“What’s up?”
There’s the sound of Molly clumping up the stairs of their antique house, a door shutting. “I have a question.”
Maybe it’s being a psychic, maybe more being a blood relative, but Ruby hears the question before Molly can ask it. Is it normal to know things before they happen?
“Is it normal for me to know things about people before they do?”
“Have you asked your mother?” Sabine has always been closemouthed about her skills in front of the children.
“She said that sometimes people get feelings. It doesn’t mean anything.”
