by Susan Wilson
“Which, if you think about it, worked.” Polly laughs, a ringing laugh suitable for a woman with her dimensions.
Bull has wandered back to Elvin, a new cup of coffee in his meaty hand. He sets the cup on the top of the meat case, hitches up his pants. Goes back to gabbing with his cronies.
Polly catches Ruby’s eye. “I know, he’s a piece of work, but every town needs a Bull.”
“You ready to check out?” the gum snapper asks, and Ruby sets her purchases down on the counter along with her cloth carry bag. She won’t realize that she’s forgotten the peaches until she gets home.
Ruby has the dream again. The phantom woman touches her cheek, brushes aside her hair. She wakes, not in a cold sweat, but feeling as though she’s been nurtured.
There was nothing nurturing in Ruby’s early life. Food enough. Clothed adequately. Never cold. Untouched except for an occasional smack. Sitting up in bed, dawn’s rosy fingers heralded by a cardinal in the highest treetop, Ruby wonders for the millionth time why she was left with the nuns. Why she was unwanted. Most of the other girls in the place had some cursory knowledge of their parents, knew why they had been left in the care of the nuns. There was an assumed sinfulness about Ruby’s—Mary’s—genesis in that place. Child of sin. Bastard. Where the other toddlers were there because of some family tragedy, or inability to care for them, Mary Jones was tainted. The others in her infant group were eventually adopted out. But not Mary, who didn’t arrive with a name.
“Who left you?” The Hitchhiker is standing with her feet on the edge of the bed, her spaniel eyes focused on Ruby’s. The question is loud and clear. Ruby has been the one asking questions of dogs; this new development, of being questioned, is a little frightening.
To say, I don’t know in answer is wrong. So Ruby tells the dog, in plain English, “My mother.”
“Find her.”
Perhaps she dreamed the dog’s question and her own answering of it. Ruby wakes again, the red dawn giving way to a rainy day. She pushes aside the bedclothes and reaches for her laptop. She types in the convent name, Sacred Heart Convent and School for Girls, and the little town in Ottawa. Closes her eyes and prays without knowing if she hopes it still exists or has burned to the ground.
Monsignor LaPierre resembled nothing so much as a cannonball, a spherical form dressed in black. Folds of pink flesh cascaded over the band of his clerical collar. His smooth pink cheeks suggested a boyish lack of beard. Tussocks of gray blond hair were interspersed with the shiny pink of his scalp, a sparsely planted wheat field. Someone who had not met him might have thought he looked jolly. Benign. A roly-poly doll in a black suit.
“Mary Jones, please stand before me.” The priest was sitting in a soft chair. His legs, encased in the dull fabric of his trousers, were widespread to accommodate his belly. His short plump fingers gripped the arms of the chair.
She hesitated. She had never been this close to him in his street clothes, only at Mass, where his bulk was shrouded in the cassock and chasuble of his priestly authority, where his sausage fingers placed the Host on her tongue.
“I said to come here.” He was breathing in truncated bursts. Puffed from the action of moving from desk to chair.
Mary took a slow step toward him. A soft hum began to tease, more sense than sound. The hum was fluid as it rose and fell with each step. The closer she got to him, the more intense the sound until she was sure he must have heard it too. Images: A man. Pain. Thin wrists gripped, crossed like a martyr’s. The hum became a high-pitched squeal and yet the priest did not flinch. His pale blue eyes did not move from hers.
“I haven’t got all day.”
“He hurt you.” The words could not be contained.
The Monsignor pushed back into his chair. “What did you say?”
“I’m sorry.”
“What did you say?” The priest pushed himself awkwardly out of his chair. Took one step and grabbed Mary’s chin. “Tell me.” His puffing breath is foul with the smell of unclean dentures.
“He hurt you. That’s all I know. You were a boy.”
“No one knows. Not even my confessor.” Fat snail trails of tears leak from the corners of his eyes. His pink cheeks are florid, wobble with anguish. Anger. Disbelief. “You are a witch.” With the hand not gripping Mary’s chin, he vigorously crossed himself.
“No. I’m not. I just feel things. I mean no harm.” Mary wrenched her chin out of his hand. “I won’t do it again.”
Monsignor LaPierre stepped away, leaned heavily against the edge of his mahogany desk. “You will have to be isolated.”
“I’m not sick.”
“Kept away from the others, from everyone. Until I can pray upon this affliction. Beg for an answer.”
Mary Jones stood where she was. Her fingers clutched at the pleats of her school uniform. For a fourteen-year-old girl, isolation was frightening. The companionship of her classmates, three or four friends in particular, was the only thing that made life worth living. “Please, Sir, don’t lock me away.”
“I don’t know if you have the devil in you, or if you are adept at discovering secrets, but you cannot be allowed to mingle with the others.”
“May I go?”
“Tell Sister Clothilde that you will be in the unused sick room until further notice.” He had his back to her, the tight broadcloth outlining the ridges of fat of his back. The great secret and determiner of his life was evident in the dark purple shimmer of the grim aura that surrounded him. She knew that she looked upon a man at once broken by an event in his youth and made by it.
In the hallway, Mary Jones looked at the bleeding heart of the wooden Christ and touched its foot. She was sorry for frightening people with this unwanted gift, but she wouldn’t accept that it was something from a malevolent source. She couldn’t see that it was anything other than God given and she just needed to learn how to use it. She wished that she could see into her own future, but all she could envision was the low metal bed of the unused sickroom, the dusty curtains blocking the sun through never-opened windows. The legend was that if your fingers touched the statue’s foot and the wood felt warm, you would get an answer to your prayer. Mary Jones opened her hand, laid her whole palm across the instep of the sandaled foot. When she had touched Sister Anne, and then Sister Gertrude, it had been like she was touching flame. The wooden foot felt only like wood—smooth, neither warm nor cool. She lifted her hand to the Sacred Heart where it protruded from the cavern of the opened chest. The heart is where the power is. If it burns me, I will know that I am evil. Mary Jones placed her right hand on the carving. Please help me. There was no burning, no heat. And yet, one word seemed to come through her fingers from the carved heart and straight into hers. Go.
It had only taken a few keystrokes to discover that the Sacred Heart Convent and School for Girls hadn’t burned down. The orphanage was long gone, and a token number of nuns remained to teach at the Parochial school. Featured on its barebones website was the statue that had brought Ruby Heartwood into existence.
8
Ruby has a house call to make today. After almost two weeks, her flyer—with the addendum of “animal communicator”—tacked to the notice board at the Country Market has hit pay dirt. Although many of her peers do this sort of thing over the phone, Ruby really wants a face-to-face, or, rather, face-to-muzzle reading. She knows, even as that sounds more authentic, it’s really because her abilities are nine tenths intuition, not second sight. She’s got to get a read not just on the cards, but on the face and hands of the client. A scrim of sweat on an upper lip, the slight vibration in a hand as a palm is turned over for her examination. Voices can be controlled, but “tells” not so much. With the dogs, the clearest messages are when the vibration she feels in the palms of her hands intensifies and the cross connection between scent and image develops in her mind’s eye. She can’t imagine being helpful without touching the dog.
With the Hitchhiker ensconced on the double bed, fresh water, and light
air-conditioning making her hours of waiting for Ruby’s return quite comfortable, Ruby makes sure she’s got her tarot cards with her just in case the client decides that she needs a reading of her own, and locks the door behind her.
The van gives Ruby a moment’s hesitation before starting. “Come on, old girl, we aren’t done yet.” Ruby cranks the ignition, tickles the gas, prays to whatever goddess rules over tetchy machinery and is relieved when the engine shakes into life. Ruby has signed up for another Saturday at the Faire, not just to tweak Cynthia Mann, but because the van needs attention. If she’s to keep moving, she’s got to keep the Westie in shape and, with an ancient vehicle like this one, that doesn’t come cheap. Her son-in-law has broadly hinted that maybe it’s time to retire the van. By which he means retire herself. Well-meaning but unheeded advice.
The address of the client is Poor Farm Estates. She’s toured around the outskirts of town often enough now that she has passed Poor Farm Road and assumes that this may be some modern affordable housing development, and also thinks that the name is a tad insensitive. Driving past an ancient wreck of a house, she thinks she spots Bull Harrison. She slows down, waves. He’s outside hacking at the lilac bushes, a cigarette in the corner of his mouth, wielding a pair of hedge trimmers that look like they’d been new in the nineteenth century. His dog, Boy, is in a Sphinx-pose just at the edge of the driveway. Ruby slows down, pulls over. Recognizing her car, Boy jumps to his feet to amble over, tail swinging. Rising to his hind legs, he pokes his head through the open passenger window. She gets a nice image of meat from the dog’s mind; the image is so strong, for a moment she thinks she’s smelling it, and then realizes that she is. Bull’s got something on the grill.
“Hey there, Ruby, what brings you to my neck of the woods?” Bull tosses the cigarette butt into the road in front of her van.
“I have a client in the neighborhood.” She’s already thinking that she can’t possibly charge anyone living in this neighborhood her new fancy price for having a dog read. “Poor Farm Estates?”
“Down the hill, quarter of a mile. Can’t miss it.”
“So, was there a poor farm?”
“Oh yeah. Back in the old days. Town took care of its indigent. Put ’em to work on the farm.”
“And now?”
Bull chuckles, pats Boy on the head. “You’ll see.”
The address is 259 Poor Farm Drive, and the house is absolutely the antithesis of a poor house. Talk about tone deaf. Whoever the developer was certainly had either a warped sense of irony or a mean streak. Acres once set aside for hay fields and rows of vegetables now boast two- and three-acre lawns and landscape architect–designed flower gardens, oh, and Olympic-sized swimming pools. And this. A house that looms over the landscape, not so much a part of the scenery as the focal point. Glass and half timbers, columns and gables—a hybrid between Tudor and Frank Lloyd Wright. Not a hybrid, Ruby thinks, a hydra. The garage is bigger than an average house. No doubt bigger than the original poor house.
Well, a client is a client. A reading is just a reading. She has no urge to discriminate against more money than taste. And any impulse to reduce her fee is gone, replaced by the thought that she isn’t charging enough. Sliding scale, that’s what she should charge. Slid all the way to the top of the meter in this case.
The massive front door resembles what the door to the Magic Kingdom would look like if the Magic Kingdom had a front door. Predictably, and it didn’t take special powers to do so, the doorbell rings with the distinctive notes of Big Ben. Ruby has to put her hand over her mouth to stop herself from laughing. It’s so trite. This is going to be fun.
The lady of the house herself opens the door. “Ruby, hello, thank you for coming.” Her client is Jane Turcott and her dog is a pale fawn-colored Great Dane. Said Great Dane is in the kitchen, in a crate the size of a playpen, which would be intrusive if the kitchen hadn’t been the size of an airport hangar. Ruby doesn’t even have to try; this dog is thinking right at her. “Let me out!”
“Does he have aggression problems?”
“Oh, no. He’s as sweet as can be with everyone.”
“Then let him out. I need to touch him to get a good reading.”
Jane does, and Gulliver eases himself out of the crate. Stretches, walks up to Ruby who, sitting straight in her chair, can look the dog in the eye without having to lean down. “He’s a big one, isn’t he?” She takes the dog’s muzzle in her hands, ignoring the drool. “Tell me again why you called me.” This to Jane, although she’s pretty sure she’ll get the real answer from the dog.
“He has started pulling on the leash and he’s never pulled before, not even when he was a puppy and in training. And he,” a pause for proper terminology, “pooped where he shouldn’t.”
“In the house?”
“Oh, no. Outside, but not where he should.”
“Have you consulted his trainer?” Ruby is certain that the trainer is probably on retainer.
“Of course. And we went through a refresher course. But the minute the trainer is gone, it starts up again.”
“Why’d you call me?” Ruby thinks that Jane isn’t a likely candidate for reaching out to a psychic to figure out her dog problem. She looks more like a woman who would trade the dog in for a better-behaved model.
“My housekeeper saw your poster. She’s a dear, and I didn’t want to discourage her wanting to be of help so, in all honesty, against my better judgment, I called you.”
Ruby gets a better picture now: Mrs. Turcott wants to keep her housekeeper happy, and surely it’s the housekeeper who’s doing all the doggie cleanup. What’s that phrase? Good help is hard to find.
Jane slides onto one of the high-backed counter stools, rests her elbows on the high-gloss slab of Carrara marble. She looks a little embarrassed, a little tired. “I never wanted a dog. My husband, Mr. Turcott, said that a house like this should have a good-sized dog.”
“As ornament?”
“As guard dog, but, as you can see, Gully is anything but fierce.”
Ruby thinks, no, that’s not what Mr. Turcott intended. Big house, big dog. Probably has a big car. Freud, anyone?
“Play with me,” Gulliver thinks, and Ruby hears it loud and clear. Images of ropes and balls.
“Do you ever play with him? Say, tug of war?” The Hitchhiker loves nothing better than to tug on her rope toy with Ruby on the other end.
“He’s too big, he’ll pull me down.”
Fear. Probably not an unreasonable reaction given that this dog certainly outweighs his mistress. “Will he fetch?”
“Chase the ball. Chase the ball,” thinks the dog. Ruby can practically taste the bright red scent of a rubber ball.
“I don’t know. I don’t let him loose. I’m afraid…”
“That he won’t come back?”
“That he’ll wreck the gardens.”
“You’ve got how many acres here? Surely there’s enough area for the dog to run, get some exercise, be a dog.”
“I thought you were going to read him, that he’ll tell you what the matter is. Why he’s being so naughty.”
“He is telling me. He wants to get out of that crate, to play, to run. He’s not a bibelot you take out to show off and then put back in its box.”
Jane stands up, huffy now. “He told you that?”
“Not in so many words,”—especially bibelot—“but in images. He wants to run. He’s a big athletic dog.”
“You’re just putting your own spin on it.” Act II in the play. Doubt and accusation.
“What do you think?” Turnabout.
Jane Turcott moves a vase of freshly cut lilies from one side of the marble counter to the other, adjusts the positioning of the three blooms so that they are displayed to perfection. A light orange dust of lily pollen sprinkles onto the black surface. Jane stares at it. “I cannot get that gardener to remember to cut the stamens.” Ruby notes the nonanswer to her question.
Gulliver leaves Ruby and marc
hes over to his mistress. He cocks his head, which sports cropped ears, giving him less of an aggressive appearance than one of mistreatment. He whines softly. Jane doesn’t acknowledge his presence until she points. “Go to bed.”
The big dog is a portrait of despondence as he does what she says.
“Don’t lock it.”
“He can’t roam free. I mean, what if he does make a mistake in the house?”
“Then find a new home for him or he’ll continue to be a problem, maybe even develop worse behaviors.” Ruby has no idea what she’s talking about, but she knows that this dog deserves better than what he’s got.
“He was a very expensive dog. We can’t just give him away.”
“Sure, you can.” It would be a far better thing for this giant dog to live in a two-room hut with a loving family than in a crate in this ostentatious house. Ruby stands up, gathers her bag. Gives Jane a moment to realize that this isn’t a social call. “Ahem.”
“That was it?” Jane’s face is a mask of civility. She won’t let her annoyance show. But Ruby sees it, feels it.
“I’ve read him, given you the results and that’s what constitutes a session. One hundred twenty dollars, if you please.” Twice what she planned on asking.
“Fine.” Jane finds her purse, hands Ruby the cash. “You can go out through the garage.” Ruby has the sense that Jane is hustling her out. She thought she’d heard a car door slam a moment ago.
Predictably, there is a giant Hummer in one of the three car bays. Ruby bets that Mr. Turcott also smokes Cuban cigars.
As Ruby comes out of the garage, she spots Jane’s visitor. Cynthia Mann. Jane perhaps didn’t want Cynthia to see that she’d employed a psychic, an animal communicator, especially one who has stuck in Cynthia’s craw. “Hello, Cynthia. Lovely day, isn’t it?” Ruby twiddles her fingers in Cynthia’s direction and climbs into her van. Cynthia waves a flaccid, queenly hand.
It’s a darn good thing that Ruby charged the delightful Mrs. Turcott double the price for her poor dog’s reading because the Westfalia has chosen to take a break. The dodgy starter can no longer be charmed into turning over. As a professional road warrior, Ruby has never been without AAA. She watches as the van is ignominiously hauled onto the back of a flatbed and she fights the urge to wave goodbye. Of necessity, with her mobile home in the shop, Ruby has booked another few days at the motel.