What a Dog Knows

by Susan Wilson

  What she’s also thinking is that Providence is about forty-five minutes from where she’ll set up her tent under the pines on the grounds of the Renaissance Faire. The weekends-only event itself stretches until Columbus Day, and Ruby is hoping to be able to keep her tent up, avoid any more wear and tear on the fabric. She’ll have lots of time for a visit with Madame Celestine. Assuming she can gin up the courage.

  Ruby finds the hobby farm with the unhappy miniature donkey with little difficulty. It’s a tidy little place on the outer edge of the posh Upper Lakes Estates where Cynthia Mann lives. A twenty-by-thirty pen delineates the creature’s space. A groove ten inches deep edges the interior perimeter of the circle. The pen itself is made of neat post and board, a scrim of green cage wire obviously intended to keep the animal within the confines of its space. Surrounding this corral are gardens of both the vegetable and floral variety. Stone walls outline a curvilinear cinder path that leads to a koi pond. All in all, more in keeping with Better Homes & Gardens than Farm World Magazine.

  Even before she sees the subject of her morning consult, she hears it. A sound more like someone choking to death than a bray. The sound precedes the appearance of a moldy brown foursquare animal with the most enormous ears and the saddest eyes she’s ever seen. A black stripe runs the length of its back and a brush of mane sticks up as if it’s been electrocuted.

  A woman comes out of the back door of the house. “This is Mr. Bates.”

  “Really? Interesting choice of name.”

  “Well, there was a Mrs. Bates, but she kicked the bejesus out of him.”

  “That hardly sounds like Anna Bates.” Ruby gets the Downton Abbey reference and likes this lady’s style.

  The woman introduces herself as Madeline and hands Ruby a carrot to try to entice the donkey over to the gate. “He used to be really friendly, practically dog-like, but lately he just paces and brays, paces and brays.”

  “I’m thinking that he misses his tormentor. Is that possible?”

  “Yes. I thought that too, but she really was miserable with him.”

  “Maybe he’d like another companion, perhaps a boyfriend?”

  “Is that your psychic evaluation?”

  “Nope, just guesswork. If he’ll let me, I’ll see if I can get a more professional read on him.”

  Madeline manages to get a halter on the donkey and rather than drag him over to Ruby, Ruby goes into the pen. She strokes his ears, mostly because she just wants to see how soft they are. His coat is bristly, but his ears are soft. He folds them back and Ruby steps away. Steps back, lays hands on his face, covers his massive brown eyes with her palms. He immediately relaxes. She can feel the long, long eyelashes against her hands, a little tickly, like caterpillar hair. There it is, a gentle rumble of vibration emanating from his skull. Ruby’s thoughts are filled with a deep loneliness that reaches right down and into her own heart. Loneliness and boredom. She releases the donkey’s face, lays her hands over her own heart. “He’s not lonely for Mrs. Bates; he’s lonely for someone else. Someone who played with him.”

  Madeline bursts into tears.

  Back in the van, Ruby turns to her dog. “Well, that was interesting.” Madeline, between sobs, had told the story of her husband abruptly leaving her. Completely unexpected, although she should, she said, have been reading the signs for months. Off he went, without more than a half hour’s warning, off into the arms of a woman he’d met online. Only Madeline hadn’t called it plain “online,” using a rather powerful descriptive in between “on” and “line” to establish her feelings about such things. Evidently, the miniature donkey missed the son of a bitch. Shocked into retreat, Ruby had given the only advice she could think of: Madeline should either start being the donkey’s playmate or find someone who can. It’s only when Ruby reaches the main road back to town that she realizes she hasn’t been paid. “Crap.” She does a quick Y-turn and heads back to the hobby farm.

  Now she’s late for her second appointment before leaving town.

  Ruby is careful not to stay too long at Bull’s, not wanting to tire him out and not wanting to find herself on Route 495 as commuter traffic ramps up in the late afternoon. He looks good, as good as a man who has spent a week in a hospital can appear. Boy looks better too. He has that old happy swing back in his tail that she’d missed the whole time she was taking care of him. He won’t leave Bull’s side even to greet her properly, letting her come to him.

  “Hey, can’t offer you a Dew anymore, but wanna cup o’ tea or something?” Bull has tried to thank Ruby for her help, but she’s put a stop to that with a generic “It’s what friends do.”

  “Friends. That kinda sums it up.” He gives her his big grin.

  In the end, Ruby makes the tea and they sit and watch afternoon television for a bit before she announces that it’s time to go.

  “See you soon?” It isn’t a plaintive question from Bull, but an affirmation.

  “You bet.” The tentacles of belonging wrap themselves around Ruby’s psyche. For once she is incapable of pulling loose. “I’ll be back Monday.”

  Traffic is indeed thick and slow as Ruby heads south on 495, but it gets better and she’s to her destination by four o’clock. All the way past Franklin, Medford, and Wrentham, she is mulling over her quick agreement to return to Harmony Farms on Monday. That had not been her intention, not at all, and it’s almost like she’s been inhabited by some woman who is comfortable staying in one place. It doesn’t help that Sarah Grace’s quick reply to Ruby’s last email included her telephone number with a 508 area code, suggesting that Sarah Grace lives in—who’d’a thought it?—Massachusetts. Is it possible, probable, or just weirdly coincidental that Ruby’s only known relative lives in the same state? The same state her daughter insisted on settling in. The one she herself seems to be incapable of getting out of lately. Ruby’s own area code is proudly random, having bought her first cell phone while passing through New Orleans: 504, signifying three wildly successful days during Mardi Gras when everyone wanted magic.

  The grounds of the Renaissance Faire are unchanged from the last time she was here a number of years ago. Cranberry bogs bordered by a forest of tall pines, within which is a collection of permanent buildings that, when open, will house a blacksmith shop, a costume emporium, crystal sellers, dungeons and dragons–themed souvenirs and, of course, food. Less permanent structures will include the stages for acrobatic acts and the storytellers, the booths for mini archery and games of chance. On the outskirts, the grandstand that will host the day’s big event, the make-believe jousting. She can hear the horses stabled beyond the palings, one calling to another. Somewhere out of sight, two combatants are practicing their choreography; she can hear the chime of metal against metal. There is the oh-so-familiar scent of pine chips that are freshly raked over the paths that, in a little while, will be trampled into pulp.

  The Hitchhiker at her heels, Ruby heads to the administrative offices located upstairs from the costume shop. There is nothing the least bit Medieval about the offices. Two women are sorting through file folders and a youngish man with close-cropped hair presides over a computer. He looks up as she comes in and Ruby gets the immediate sense that since the last time she worked this gig, there is new management.

  Ruby introduces herself and her services.

  “Oh, gosh, Ms. Heartwood, we’ve had all our acts lined up since last year. We don’t generally take anybody on this late in the game, and generally nobody new. We open tomorrow morning.”

  One of the women fiddling with folders puts in her two cents. “Besides, we have a fortune-teller already.”

  “Oh? May I ask who?” Ruby is surprised at her own lack of foresight. Of course it might be too late to get in on the action. She’s been stuck in Harmony Farms at the Makers Faire while the rest of the world has been making plans.

  “Um, let me see.” The woman moves to a spot on the office wall where a map of the area is pinned. Squares, rectangles, and ovals each have a
number within, and she finds the one she’s looking for, checks the number against a hand-printed key, pulls out a file folder with the corresponding number, and opens it. “Okay, here it is. Her name is Annie Felton.”

  Hardly the name of a practicing psychic. “And what’s her professional name?”

  “Doesn’t say. The business is listed as Clairvoyant and Seer. Pretty generic. Probably uses different names for different gigs.”

  “Yes. Probably.” A suggestion that makes Ruby think this interloper—as she can’t help but view her—is a lightweight. A weekend dabbler. A fraud. “Well, if she doesn’t work out, please”—Ruby hands the youngish man her card—“call me. I’m not far.” Not far at all, having no place to go. “And I’m not new. I worked this Ren Faire for years.” She doesn’t get as snarky as she feels and keeps the “before you were born” out of her riposte.

  Back in the van, Ruby fires off a quick text to Doug to let him know that her weekend plans have opened up. She gets one back almost immediately letting her know that he’s gotten a booking at a pet-friendly Airbnb in Sandwich, just a hop, skip, and a jump over either the Sagamore or Bourne bridges. He’ll meet her there in time for dinner. He’s made reservations for them at the Dan’l Webster Inn.

  “Well, Hitch, looks like we get a mini vacation.”

  The Hitchhiker seems to approve.

  After a lovely dinner at the Dan’l Webster, old-fashioned Yankee pot roast for her, the special of the day for him, Ruby and Doug stroll around Sandwich village, admiring the antiquity of it and the pond with its old mill. The Sandwich Glass Museum is closed, so they plan to visit it the next day. Even as they make plans, Ruby keeps thinking about the relative proximity of Madame Celestine. Providence is less than fifty miles away. But the idea of a gentle adventure, a visit to the Heritage Gardens and Museums, a walk on the beach with the dog seems so much more attractive than facing down an old, what? What was Celestine to her now?

  Doug takes her hand as they walk. “What’s on your mind, Ruby Heartwood?”

  Had anyone ever asked her that question before?

  So, she tells him. About Celestine, about Buck. Somewhere along the line, they find a bench and sit down while she digs back into old memories. “And now, all of a sudden, I know where she is. I’ve had her relegated to the past for so long it’s shocking to think that she actually exists.”

  “Why do you think you need to confront her?”

  “I’m not sure if confrontation is what I’m looking for, Doug. Maybe just see for myself that this woman is, like all of us, capable of bad judgment. That denying that her son was anything other than a monster was simply parental blindness.”

  “Did she think you were lying? About what he did?”

  “I think she told herself I was. She simply couldn’t see what was in front of her eyes.”

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “Of course.”

  “She’s never known about Sabine? Never known that she has a granddaughter?”

  “As far as I know.” Ruby pushes her hair away from her face where it’s caught in the light breeze and pulled free. “I suppose she does know about Sabine, in general. Not that she is who she is. It’s an interesting world, that of carnies and people in our profession, lots of gossip.”

  “Everything hits the grapevine?”

  “Something like that. People move from place to place and join this carnival or that circus. They regroup, find old friends, talk about who’s alive, who’s dead, and who’s hanging on by a thread.”

  “Do you think Sabine wants Celestine to know about her?”

  “You must be very good at your job.”

  “I am. What I’m working around to, obliquely, I agree, is that it really isn’t Celestine you want to confront.”

  39

  Doug leaves the Airbnb in Sandwich first. Before he goes, he lets Ruby know that she’s welcome to bunk in with him if she has no other plans. Ruby likes his turn of phrase. No other plans. She could go back to the Dew Drop, or back to Bull’s, or, as she thinks she should, just get on the road and simply go. Drive until she gets free of this sticky sense of belonging. South is appealing. But she’d have to go through Providence to go south. Fifteen minutes on I-95 and she’d be through it. She can point her van and her nose toward Connecticut and not look left or right, not look for an exit sign that announces, “This Way to Celestine Fox’s House.” Yes, she’s looked it up.

  Or she can take Doug up on his offer. Spend a little time being domestic. Catch up on her laundry and exercise her cooking skills. She could even take a quick trip farther northwest and visit her family in Moose River Junction. Ruby recognizes stasis when she sees it. For so many years of her life she’s practiced the art of cut and run, pick up and go, blow this pop stand. Never looked back, never let the dust of one place adhere to her feet. Until now. Now she can’t seem to work up the energy. Maybe energy isn’t the right word; it’s more the imperative.

  Ruby suddenly is weak in the knees. The imperative. She no longer feels the urge, the need, to move. Whatever has been pressing down on her all her life has all but vanished.

  * * *

  We are on the move again. I was happy while the direction in which we were going was toward the place I like, the place I feel we are at home. It’s not a particular den, more like a territory. Doug’s house is in it and Boy’s yard. The little room we den in every few days where Ravi has good treats. The street where we stop and chat with humans and dogs we know; the park where Ruby touches other people and other dogs to understand what they need. This mobile den. That’s our territory. Not where we are going now; now we are headed in the completely wrong direction and nothing smells right. Ruby is exuding her worry scent, her nervous scent, and that makes me nervous too. If she is apprehensive, then so am I.

  * * *

  It doesn’t take but one wrong turn before Ruby finds the neighborhood where Lily visited Celestine. Celeste as she is now. The house is much like every other house around it, a tiny Cape style, faded green aluminum siding, a sentry box entryway with a cement walk leading to it. Scraggy grass, foundation plantings that have become overgrown and reach to the lip of the picture window, itself framed unevenly by heavy draw drapes, the left side far wider than the right, making the window look off-kilter. The plot is tiny, and the driveway abuts the neighbor’s driveway, the pair divided only by a strip of dirt. There is no car on either side.

  Ruby pulls up in front of the house, shuts off the Westfalia, and sits. The dog climbs from her seat to Ruby’s lap, licks Ruby’s chin. Asks loudly what is going on. Ruby rests her chin on the dog’s head. “I’m going to visit an old friend.”

  “Doesn’t feel like that.”

  “No. I suppose not. We were close once but had a falling out.”

  “You fell out of what.”

  “Affection, I suppose.”

  “I smell hurt. Did she bite you?”

  “Sort of.”

  Suddenly the Hitchhiker stands on Ruby’s lap, growls. “I will protect you.”

  “You will stay in the car.”

  A flicker in Ruby’s rearview mirror catches her eye as a car lumbers into the driveway on Celeste’s side. A beat-up landau-roofed copper-tone Oldsmobile very well suited to an old woman. As Ruby watches, the driver’s door opens, but no one emerges. After a moment, a leg comes out, the foot shod in a camo green Croc, followed by a barrel-shaped torso. A thin gray T-shirt rides up and grimy chinos ride down. The driver yanks at the pants, then reaches in and pulls out a brown paper bag. There is absolutely no resemblance between the hulk that makes his unsteady way to the side door of the tiny house and the God’s gift to women that Buck once was. There is every resemblance to the image she conjured of him on that long-ago day when she cursed him into wreckage. He has become the monster she shrieked into existence. Troll-like he leans heavily against the railing, hauling himself up the steps. As he gains the landing, Ruby sees his face. She has been holding her breath, and now can rele
ase it. There is nothing of Sabine in those bruised-looking eyes, those sallow, withered cheeks. To her he looks haunted, defeated. And then Celestine comes to the door and opens it for him, and Ruby sees a softening, a flicker of a smile and a vestige of humanity.

  Cars must park on this street all the time because no one has so much as noticed her distinctive white Westfalia sitting in front of their house. Buck has gone in and straightened the crooked curtains. Ruby puts her hand on her ignition key, but neither turns it nor pulls it out. Now or never. The dog, back in her own seat, has her eyes on Ruby, her little eyebrows expressing a near perfect perplexity. Reflecting Ruby’s own mixed feelings.

  A surge of an old combative spirit rises. The same spirit that allowed a teenage girl to stay out of reach of authorities who would take away her child; the same spirit that enabled her to raise that child, to provide for her.

  What Buck did changed the course of Ruby’s life. But she cannot imagine it any other way. Forty years ago, this man inflicted himself upon her, violated her. But she has gotten the better of him. She has Sabine. She has Molly and Tom and, yes, Dan, her son-in-law. If evil was done, she has received a greater good. She stepped out of Madame Celestine’s RV and made her own way, made her own life.

  “What do I do?” Ruby presses her hands on the dog’s head.

  For once there is no response, no connection. The dog is just a dog, her thoughts inscrutable.

  Ruby jerks the key out of the ignition, pops open her door and slams it behind her. It bounces, the latch not clicking, but she doesn’t notice. She slips the key into her jeans pocket as she stands on the sidewalk, facing the house. Now she’s been noticed. The newly straightened drapes move slightly; clearly, they think she might be some Jehovah’s Witness going solo. She wonders if neither Celestine nor Buck will recognize her. Is she someone so far in their past that they may need her driver’s license to believe that this avenging angel is who she will tell them that she is?