by Susan Wilson
Three more days in Harmony Farms but no need to deal with Cynthia Mann. For a cut of the take, she knows that old Angelo Benini will let her read cards out of her van unless he’s found himself a fortune-teller willing to travel under his banner. Ruby vastly prefers to be a subcontractor than an employee.
“What do you say?”
The Hitchhiker has jumped down from the backseat and is standing between the front seats, her tail wagging in triple time.
“I haven’t changed my mind, but this could be a good reason to put the travel on pause.” Ruby doesn’t put her hands on the dog because she isn’t interested in any comment from this furry peanut gallery.
Ruby finds Angelo Benini the younger coming out of his camper. She remembers him from when he was just a tyke, following his dad around the various empty lots where the carnival would set up. He and Sabine were sometime playmates and once even classmates when they both overwintered in North Carolina when Angelo, Jr.—called Joe by his peers—and Sabine were in third grade.
“Ruby Heartwood as I live and breathe!” Joe trots over and throws his arms around Ruby in a joyful embrace. “You look great, you haven’t aged a bit.”
“And you are a flatterer or need glasses. But thank you.”
“And Sabine, is she here with you?”
“Nope. Happily married and firmly rooted in Moose River Junction.”
“She always did talk about finding a place to call home.”
“Your dad? Is he around? I’d like to talk with him.”
“He’s in Florida, semiretired. He remarried after Mom passed and his new wife isn’t carny.”
That is, one of us. Itinerant. Transient. It was always a bad sign when a carnival worker married outside of the culture; either the marriage failed or they found other, less transient employment. Even though an outsider might flirt with the life, it is a rare thing for them to stick with it.
“But he’s happy.” Statement of fact, not a question. She can read Angelo the younger without too much effort and interprets that he’s pretty okay with being in charge. “You’re happy.”
“We both are. He joins us for part of the year, so he gets his fix.”
“Well, I expect you know what I wanted to talk to him about.”
“You are more than welcome to set up with us. Let me check the layout and find a good place for you.”
The carnival is more just an edited-down version of itself, consisting of games of chance and rides, not the full-bore midway that Benini’s was known for a decade or so back. Joe notices Ruby noticing. “This is the local amusement division. Our big stuff is waiting for the big fairs coming up at the end of the summer—Topsfield, Freyberg. I’d love to have you there.”
“I’d like that. It’s been awhile since I did a big fair. I’ve been mostly doing little places. I like it. I can pick up and go when I want.” Except that she can’t seem to get out of Harmony Farms.
Because it’s asphalt, Ruby can’t set up her tent. Joe grabs a stack of traffic cones and delineates a space for her van, writes “Madame Ruby” in chalk in the rectangle. “All set.”
Time to deal. “Sixty/forty?”
“We’re more into fifty/fifty these days, but, hey, you’re family. Sixty/forty is fine.”
It feels so good to be among folk who get her.
Maggie Dean found a gaudy robe in a thrift shop in Newington; Ruby filched a box of hair dye from Caldor along with a home perm kit. Her holey Keds were set aside for a Goodwill pair of boots Maggie spray painted gold, then glued sequins to. Every day they practiced Ruby’s schtick. Ruby studied the tarot cards, memorizing the suits and meanings until it felt like she was prepping for exams. And just as if she was prepping for a big test, Ruby began to balk. She had never gotten the psychic feeling from props, only by touch and proximity. It was all intuitive, although she didn’t have that word in her vocabulary. “I can’t do it, Maggie. I just don’t feel it. I don’t know what to say if I don’t have a connection.”
“You only have to act, to pretend that you know what the cards mean. When you get a real feeling, then go with it. Otherwise, just play like you’re seeing something in the distance.”
Ruby would sit in Maggie’s book-crowded squat and shuffle and deal; shuffle and deal over and over until she had softened the edges of the cards. Curled up under a Salvation Army sleeping bag, she dreamed of laying out cards, of the Wands dancing, of the Fool wagging his finger at her. She learned the language of “cups” and “swords” and “arcana” and “wands” and on and on. Storytelling based on an occult mythology. And each time Ruby shuffled and dealt and interpreted cards from their position, upside or reverse, she thought of her life in the convent school and the fear in the nuns’ eyes when she displayed her gift of second sight; the anger and humiliation of Monsignor LaPierre in the face of her knowing his past. How she was considered the Devil’s tool and here she now was, handling the mysteries of the occult. Sometimes her fingers burned.
And it got easier. Maggie Dean reminded Ruby that she didn’t have to make up more than a half dozen readings; no one would ever know that she was passing out the same tales of future glory or past pain over and over. It wasn’t accuracy, it was the skill with which she would weave the tale, inexact but believable. The details would be left to the client; her job was to guide them into revealing enough to suffice. Improvisation by any other name.
The caftan was hemmed, and the boots were properly glittery; Ruby’s strawberry blond hair was now curly and as dark red as the jewel of her name. Maggie, her black trench coat belted tightly around her waist, took Ruby’s arm and the odd pair walked the six blocks to where the Carerra Brothers Carnival had set up. As if she were Ruby’s grandmother, Maggie kept up a litany of do’s and don’ts, mostly don’ts . Don’t tell them your real age. Don’t give them your real name. Don’t let anyone touch you. And then, when they met the brother who hired acts for the sideshow, Maggie actually did introduce Ruby as her granddaughter. One with extraordinary abilities who would draw a crowd. The brother shrugged, having no illusions about their relationship or Ruby’s so-called abilities, and said no thank you.
Ruby felt Maggie Dean’s ragged fingernails dig into her forearm, reminding her of their plan. In a pathetically thin voice, she offered: “Let me read you.” A free sample in the face of refusal.
Ernest Carerra laughed, shook his head, and waved them away from his trailer office. “Just beat it. Fake psychics are a dime a dozen. This isn’t that kind of show.”
“We both know that’s not true.” Maggie laughed. “It’s all fake.”
Ernest Carerra slammed the door of his trailer. End of discussion.
“Never mind.” Maggie renewed her grip on Ruby’s arm. “It’s a second-rate carny anyway. I’ll get you in with a better one.”
Ruby felt stupid dressed in the flowing robe and the glittery shoes, and the permanent wave curls in her dyed hair were beginning to frizz. Building within her was the urge to move on. She’d been too long in one place. Enough with Maggie Dean’s vision of her future. The next afternoon when Maggie was out panhandling, Ruby shoved the props of her untested profession into her schoolbag and slipped away.
Her unplanned route out of the city took her past the carnival. She skirted around the gate and marched up to Ernest Carerra’s trailer. Knocked. Dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, her Keds on bare feet, her hair scraped back into a ponytail, he didn’t recognize her at first.
“I need a job, Mr. Carerra. I can sell tickets or popcorn or sweep up. Whatever you need.”
“You’re that psychic kid. Maggie’s protégée.”
“No. I’m Ruby Heartwood and I need a job.” She watched his hands, the way they flexed as he thought about hiring someone who clearly didn’t fit the legal parameters of an adult. Someone who he would take on the road, farther away from whomever or whatever she had run from. Ernest Carerra had been a long time in the business and knew trouble when he saw it. But Ruby could see in his weary-looking blue ey
es that he had a soft spot for trouble.
By the time the carnival had moved across the state, Ruby was plying her trade, paying Ernest six of every ten dollars she took in.
11
Because it’s only Thursday and the feast doesn’t open until tomorrow night, Ruby doesn’t want to set up camp on the overheated asphalt of the St. Sebastian’s parking lot. The rest of the roustabouts, rides and games people, have air-conditioned campers and have already commandeered the available outlets from the carnival generator. It’ll be a long day sitting around if she sets up now and a longer night hoping her laptop battery lasts long enough to watch a movie. At another venue Ruby might be more inclined to set up and hang out, but with these folks, not so much. She’s basically an interloper, an unknown. Except for Joe, there isn’t anybody she knows from previous associations.
Remaining within the boundaries of Harmony Farms doesn’t preclude camping instead of enjoying the Dew Drop Inn’s relative luxury. Despite Joe Benini’s generous offer of only 40 percent of her take, Ruby really needs to start economizing. The question becomes where should she set up her modest camp tonight? The state park isn’t an option; no overnight camping. Her one and only night there, the stormy night she discovered her new and extraordinary powers—and the Hitchhiker—had happened under the radar. It now being full summer, she just doesn’t dare park there and hope for a second helping of grace. When she hasn’t indulged in the Dew Drop’s hospitality, Ruby has camped at a little family campground on North Farms Road, but a quick call lets her know that they’re full up for the rest of the week. “It’s the Feast, you know,” says the host.
With her little camp toilet, all Ruby needs is a place to plug in. If this town had a Walmart, she could, as she has done many times over the years, dock at one of the camper-friendly parking spots and use their bathrooms. Buy a cheap dinner at the in-store Subway. Alas, this is tony Harmony Farms.
The Hitchhiker seems to know that they are no longer leaving town because she’s hopped up on the passenger seat and is cheerfully gazing out the window, the frond-like tip of her tail beating a happy tattoo against the back of the seat.
“Okay, where do we go?”
“Boy boy boy.”
It takes Ruby a second to realize that the dog is thinking about her pal, the dog self-named Boy. Bull’s yard. It wouldn’t be the same as staying with him. Just hooking up to his power source. He did offer, after all. Ruby points the Westie in the direction of Cumberland Farms. Even without psychic powers, she knows that the best place to find Bull Harrison at this time of day is at Cumbie’s.
Sure enough, there he is, leaning against the wall like some kind of 3-D mural. Boy is flat out on his side but lifts his head at the sound of Ruby’s van as if he recognizes the puttering engine. His rudder tail beats time against the hot cement, and he hauls himself up to his feet to go greet her halfway across the parking lot.
“Thought you blew town.” Bull drops his cigarette butt. Steps on it.
“I was practically gone and then I spotted the St. Sebastian’s Days. Friend of mine is the amusements guy. I couldn’t pass up the opportunity.”
“Shaking off Cynthia?”
“Something like that. But, hey, I’ve got a favor to ask of you.”
“Shoot.”
Ruby lays it out: She’ll spend the next couple of nights parked in his yard. Nothing more than space and an outlet to plug into. She won’t get in his way, won’t need anything else.
Bull sweeps his trucker hat off his head. “I’d be honored.”
Boy beats time with his tail and the Hitchhiker dances on her hind legs.
* * *
Never have I ever been so happy to see a friend. When I was in my former career, I had many acquaintances, but few with whom I could share a joke, ramble around a property, play tug-o’-war. Boy is a pushover in that game. He thinks that he has to be gentle with me, but he’s mistaken. All to my advantage, I can tell you. I could hold on to that knotted end for the whole day and he would only tire out. He and I have something in common that makes our friendship different. We have both endured difficult times.
* * *
The Hitchhiker is all played out and sound asleep on the fold-out bed. She snores lightly. She and Boy have been chasing each other around Bull’s ragged yard all afternoon. Ruby has tucked the Westfalia up against the hedge, and a long yellow extension cord ties her into Bull’s only outside outlet. She’s pulled the café curtains almost closed, leaving a crack so that she can see the yellow light of his kitchen. Beyond that, a half moon, bright in a clear night sky. She’s set up the screens in the windows so the sound of insects and the muted hiss of the few cars that pass by are playing as background music. On the table in front of her, an array of tarot cards. It’s not often that Ruby reads her own cards, but it’s a little like testing the brakes on the van—pump and see if they hold. Since the early days of Maggie Dean’s insistence that she learn the tarot, Ruby has come to believe that the cards do, on occasion, hold clues to the future. It’s not the same as the intense feeling of connection that she sometimes gets with physical contact, but there’s enough of a vibe to detect a narrative. Tonight they tell her nothing more than she will move on. Well, duh. Although she’s been thinking of heading in a more southerly route, the cards suggest that north is the best direction to take.
She taps the cards into alignment and puts them away. Pulls out her laptop. That Bull has Wi-Fi is a bit of a surprise, and he was quick to hand her a scrap of paper with his password on it. “In case you wanna watch TV or something.”
Ruby has received no response from the convent. After much dithering, she had finally sent off a brief query: Does the convent keep permanent records of the girls once in its care? She didn’t identify herself as a former Sacred Heart girl. She might have implied that she was writing a novel. Nonetheless, she has gotten no response.
What she needs is a contact person. Ruby pulls up the Sacred Heart website once again. Studies the bare-bones information there, doesn’t recognize the Mother Superior, whose smiling photo on the website suggests a cheerful middle-aged woman, only her short cropped gray hair and a large pectoral cross suggesting a vocation. A staff list allows for first and last names, none of the married-to-Jesus made-up names of the nuns of her youth. If one of these ladies is a survivor of Ruby’s days at the orphanage, she can’t tell by their names. No Sister Gertrude or Sister Martha Joseph; no Sister Clothilde. The staff list includes an office administrator. If anyone knows where things are, it’s always the chief of the clerical staff. Ruby opens a blank email document, types in the office administrator’s email, B. Johnson. Betty? Barbara? Ben?
“I am writing to ask if you have records of the girls who would have been put into the care of the order in…”
Ruby puts in her year of birth, which she knows; the month, which she estimates; and leaves off the day as she has never known the exact date of her birth. Anytime she’s been forced to use a birth date, she uses what she considers her best in terms of numerology. She types in her assigned name. Not for the first time does she think that the nuns betrayed a remarkable lack of imagination in naming her Mary, and with such a generic last name. If there was ever any doubt that she’d been dropped on the doorstep, nameless, being called Mary Jones was proof enough of that. She supposes she should have been grateful that she wasn’t called Jane Doe.
What kind of mother drops her kid off at an orphanage nameless? The very least she could have done was pin a tiny note to the swaddling: Please take care of my baby Victoria, or Renata, or what have you.
Unless. Unless it wasn’t her mother who left her on that doorstep. Ruby lifts her fingers from the keyboard. She can feel her heart pounding in her chest. In all these years, it has never occurred to her before that someone else might have done the deed; an angry and embarrassed grandparent, or a kidnapper with second thoughts. In all her life, Ruby has been stuck with the origin story she had interpreted for herself from the scant clues offered
to her by the nuns. Left with us. No one to claim you. Always, always assumed it was her mother.
“… If you are willing, please let me know as soon as you can. It means a great deal to me.”
First step. Find out if there is a slip of paper somewhere in the bowels of that redbrick building that has her name, however generic, on it. And, if there is something there, will it be enough to start a search she should have begun eons ago?
As the first of the St. Sebastian Days doesn’t begin until five o’clock, Ruby decides that a quick trip to the local Laundromat is a good use of her time. She loves the Tons of Suds for its unabashed utility. Nothing froufrou here. Good old-fashioned coin-op washers that don’t require an engineering degree to operate, a temperamental dollar-bill changer, and only three kinds of detergent in little boxes. It smells wonderful.
The attendant is a tiny Asian woman whose English is limited but who manages to keep the customers in order, admonishing against ignoring the lint traps and taking too long at the folding tables. Cheerfully opening the cranky bill changer to fish out coins. Somehow she knows that Ruby is a fortune-teller and each time Ruby comes in, says: “You tell my fortune. I give you extra dry time.”
Ruby doesn’t know how much the little lady understands of what she tells her, but she always smiles and seems pleased to hear that only good things are in store for her. A visit from a daughter, a grandson’s good grades. She prefers the tea leaves over the cards. Prefers green tea over black.
Ruby is just folding her laundry when Polly Schaeffer comes through the door. She’s toting a basket of towels and blankets and the smell from across the room is very animal shelter.
“Damned washer quit on me. I’m not looking forward to begging the town for the money to get a new one.” Despite her title of “assistant,” Polly is actually the only animal control officer. Paid as an assistant, she is also expected to manage the office as if she was in charge.