by Susan Wilson
Ruby emailed B. Johnson, Sister Beatrice as she turns out to be, first telling her that she would come to Sacred Heart to root through the archives, and then to let her know she wouldn’t. No reply. A second email came back with an out of office stamp. Which, considering her delay in leaving Harmony Farms, almost made Ruby feel relieved. It would have sucked to get all the way up there only to find out that Sister B is away and there is no one else willing to help Ruby out.
Ruby spots Carrie Farr at one of the other outside tables and waves. Carrie grabs her beer and comes over.
“Bull, do you know Carrie Farr?” Ruby feels like she should do hostess duties.
“Of course I do.” An unkempt gentleman, Bull gets to his feet and gives Carrie a hug.
The Hitchhiker scrambles to get Carrie’s attention, paws up, sneezing, fluffy tail waving like the lap flag at the Indy 500. As soon as she’s attended to, Boy, Bull’s placid Labrador, gets to his feet to get his share of petting. Carrie squats to accept the Hitchhiker’s greeting and gets Boy’s nose right in hers. Upon rising, she pats Ruby on the shoulder. “You might want to know that I fired Cynthia the other day.”
“Fired?”
“Yeah, told her I wouldn’t be her riding instructor anymore.”
“Why?” Ruby points to an empty chair at an empty table. “Sit. Tell.”
“Well, after your, um, diagnosis of Bella’s behavior, I put Cynthia on another school horse. Big gelding with the patience of a saint. I fudged it by telling her that I thought she needed a taller horse. She liked that. Long story short, old Bud started pinning his ears and acting exactly like Bella had been. Case closed. Some riders have what we call an electric seat, and I think that Cynthia is one of them. I don’t want to ruin every horse in my barn, so I told her I wouldn’t be her instructor anymore. She needs to find a new hobby.”
“And how did she take it?”
Carrie smiles behind the lip of her beer mug. “About as you’d expect.”
“With grace?” Bull chimes in around a mouthful of sandwich.
“If you call threatening me with losing my business license grace, then yeah. Sure.”
“Oh, Carrie. I’m sorry.” Ruby says this but can’t disguise the bubble of mirth fighting its way up.
“I’m not. She’s never going to be a good rider. She just likes the equestrienne look.” Carrie gets up to go back to her table where two of her students are finishing up their lunches. “I have to look out for my animals.” She dips down to give the Hitchhiker another pat. “Cynthia doesn’t intimidate me, but Ruby, you might want to keep a low profile because, for some reason, she’s blaming you for my attitude.”
“Not a chance. I’ll be in my usual spot on Saturday at the Makers Faire. She’s been trying to get me thrown out of there since the first week.”
Bull drags a wad of paper napkin across his mouth. “Someone forgot to tell Cynthia that she has no power anymore.”
“Well, she is a selectperson.”
Bull grunts. “Yeah, that and a quarter won’t even get you a cup of coffee.”
Ruby isn’t really sure what he means but laughs anyway.
A moment later her phone rings, the repair shop number coming up. “Wish me luck.” Ruby holds her breath, crosses her fingers, and answers.
The Westfalia is ready, the hard-to-get part found and installed, the cost only exactly what Ruby had made at the St. Sebastian’s Days.
“You wanna plug in at my house?”
It’s Thursday, and now Ruby is stubbornly committed to staying on to Saturday to plant her flag at the Makers Faire. Having her weekend’s profits wiped out and with a long trip north in the works, she really should economize where she can. So she nods. “That would be nice, thank you.” The Hitchhiker will be happy to be around her pal, Boy, for a little while longer.
As neither of them have a vehicle, Ruby and Bull and the two dogs take an amiable walk along the lake edge to their respective destinations. He to Poor Farm Road, and she to the auto repair shop.
* * *
All this sense of leaving is very disturbing to me. Ruby wants to leave; she has a destination in mind that I cannot see. All I see is that we should be here, in our territory. Not roaming. I have tried to tell her, but she is like so many of her kind, deaf to entreaty.
* * *
A pale shimmer of moonlight leaks through the space between the curtains, drawn hours ago against the night. It is a spirit-shaped shimmer, and it reaches out to touch Ruby on the face. Her eyes open and she sees the suggestion of an apparition before her. Once again, she knows that she is dreaming and is more curious to see where the dream will lead than she is afraid of the shimmering spirit. She sits up and, instead of the dog sleeping soundly at the end of her camper bed, Ruby sees a woman sitting there. She might be the Holy Mother or Ruby herself many years ago, a visitation from her past. The spirit woman holds up one finger, either keeping Ruby from saying anything out loud or as a caution. Ruby’s dream self wants to reach out and touch that finger, but she is incapable of moving. It is as if she has become an inanimate object. Before the shimmer dissolves into the fading moonlight she withdraws that cautionary finger and Ruby regains motion. She lunges forward, hands grasping nothing but air.
Ruby awakens to the Hitchhiker licking her face.
Before the dream can dissolve away as all dreams do, Ruby jots down the basics of it. She’s had enough of these—what she calls her mother dreams—to warrant seeking a professional dream interpreter’s opinion if she knew one that she could trust. The fact is, it doesn’t take a professional interpreter or even a psychologist to link her waking desire to find her mother with her dream world. She’s finally looking for her. It makes sense that, in her dreams, she would encounter her.
His name was Harold, but everyone called him Buck. Although he looked like a rough approximation of a grown man, he was only nineteen. His entire life had been spent living among carny folk. In some ways he’d grown into the roustabout profession as if it had been predetermined that he be big, strong, and none too bright. Others had gravitated toward the games of chance, or the mechanics of building and breaking down rides, but Buck had no interest in anything that required a skill beyond scoring girls and drugs. And his good looks guaranteed the first, his bullyish behavior the second. His mother, Madame Celestine, doted upon him with all the blind love a lonely carny worker could give. Ruby had one thing in common with him: he too had no idea who his father was.
As ordered, Ruby knocked that evening on the tin door of the RV belonging to Madame Celestine. The woman who pushed open the door to stare at Ruby barely resembled the woman in the truck. Without her wig, and dressed in comfortable sweats, she could have been a housewife. Anyone’s mother. A strong waft of fried chicken tickled Ruby’s nose and her stomach growled.
Celestine, without a word, stood aside and motioned Ruby to enter the RV. Much bigger than the camper that Ruby was sharing with the other single women, this one boasted a kitchenette, a flush toilet, and shower. Two sleeping spaces, one up a little ladder and the other in the back. Ruby knew that a third bed could be made up in the space where a fold down table was now set for dinner for two. It was an efficient space, uncluttered.
“He doesn’t live here; he has a girlfriend.”
Ruby noted the demonstration of psychic ability, the expectation that she would be amazed and ask how Madame Celestine had guessed her thoughts. The truth is, Ruby was only interested in if the second-place setting was intended for her.
“Sit down.”
Celestine was a very good cook. It had been a long time since Ruby had had a real meal that wasn’t carnival food. Perhaps since she’d run away from the orphanage. Over dinner Ruby had given Celestine a thumbnail and very edited version of her travels, if not the why of them. Finally, dinner over, Ruby was offered a cup of tea. Madame Celestine cradled the teapot with both hands as she brought it to the table. It was a lovely teapot, a deep pink color with a frieze of hand-painted ivy in varyin
g shades of green. Gold edging on the tip of the spout and the finial of the lid. Madame Celestine set a tiny matching cup and saucer in front of Ruby in such a manner that Ruby understood this to be her opening and she took it. “I can read the leaves if you’d like.”
“I was going to offer that to you.”
“I have some ability.”
“I know. I intuited that about you the moment I laid eyes on you. You have the aura.” This was the first time Ruby had heard the term, and immediately she understood that she had been seeing auras her whole life, that much of what she divined about people came from them. That was the first lesson Madame Celestine offered, and suddenly Ruby felt juiced with the idea that here was someone who could help her hone her skills. Not in the clumsy way of poor Maggie Dean, but as a professional in the art.
As Ruby helped wash up after dinner, the two psychics came to an arrangement. That night Ruby gathered her few things from the single ladies’ camper and became Madame Celestine’s boarder and student. In exchange, most of what Ruby would make would be turned over to her mentor. It seemed like a fair deal to the fourteen-year-old. A roof and a job. And real food.
What she couldn’t have foreseen was Buck breaking up with his girlfriend.
“I didn’t think we’d see you here again, Ruby,” Emily, the essential oils seller/treasurer of the Farmers’ Market and Makers Faire, says as she takes Ruby’s money. “Cynthia said you’d left town.”
“Well, I can’t say that I haven’t tried, but here I am.” She flashes the girl a bright smile. “Same spot still available?”
“Sure. People are starting to drop out, so take whatever space you want.”
Ruby has deliberately arrived early, mostly to be well dug in by the time Cynthia showed up to flaunt her imagined authority. As she sets up the tent, she notices a rent in one of the panels. The poor old thing is really showing its age. “Come on, pal, hang in there till winter.” Ruby pinches the edges of the tear together, wondering if some fabric glue or super glue would hold it long enough to get through fall fair season. Otherwise she’ll have to use her van. She didn’t mind so much for little venues like the St. Sebastian’s Days, but at the bigger affairs it’s a lot like inviting strangers into her home instead of her office.
The Hitchhiker, trailing her leash, is sniffing around, tail swishing from side to side as she meanders in a vaguely serpentine pattern. Her black ears dust the ground as she goes. Every night Ruby has to clean debris tangled in her floppy ears. Her head pops up from the ground and she makes a dash toward Polly Schaeffer, who is ambling along with a white bag Ruby just knows has something warm in it from Betty’s Blessings, the bakery tent.
“Why don’t you brew us a little tea in that fancy little pot of yours?” Polly sets the bakery bag on Ruby’s round table and plops herself down on one of the chairs.
Ruby has a souvenir mug from the Great Smoky Mountains and another from the Berkshires and she puts them on the table, produces a paper plate for the goodies. “I already got a Thermos of coffee from Bob’s Fair Trade Coffee. I need to reserve my tea leaves for readings.”
Ruby has offered to do a reading for Polly any number of times, but the assistant animal control officer always demurs with: “I don’t think I want to know.” Ruby has gleaned enough of Polly’s history from actual conversation to know that the woman is in recovery from an animal hoarding habit, and that she has found her emotional equilibrium in taking care of the town’s lost and homeless animals, receiving great satisfaction in effecting happy reunions and finding others new homes instead of keeping them in her own house.
In a normal friendship, Ruby would offer up selections from her own troubled past, but Ruby has never had a normal friendship. She isn’t quite sure what part of her life is of equal currency to Polly’s revelation that she’s had difficulties with her son because of her sometimes overwhelming compassion for the beasts of the earth, particularly cats. Like a prized jewel, Ruby plucked the story of her running away from the convent as her contribution to this friendship, not telling the story well, and not embellishing it. Polly listened as Ruby told it. Told it with dispassion. As if the story belonged to someone else. In the end, Polly had taken Ruby’s hand in hers and patted it, and that was enough to let Ruby know that if she remained in this town much longer, she would be tempted to reveal a lot more about herself. Already she has mentioned this idea of heading north, of getting her hands on those buried files. Polly has been encouraging but not enthusiastic. Like Sabine, she has asked: “Are you sure you want to know?”
15
It’s a slow morning at the Makers Faire, by noontime Ruby hasn’t given one single reading. Plenty of folks who want to pet the Hitchhiker, but no one wants to have her cards read. The Hitchhiker is a draw, getting people to come close to the tent, but this particular Saturday even her magic aura doesn’t attract anyone into the seat. Ruby is beginning to come to the conclusion that, Cynthia Mann be damned, this gig is over. Unless she gets a rush before two o’clock, Ruby figures that the day represents a total loss. She’s spent more on the vendor’s fee and coffee than the full afternoon of readings it would take to turn the day profitable.
A zephyr swirls through the grounds, catching dust and debris in its rotation. Ruby feels the breeze on her cheeks and the walls of the tent swell and deflate. The dog barks. What’s that quote from Macbeth? Something wicked this way comes. One of the witches foreshadowing the tragedy. Despite her limited education, Ruby has long been a fan of the Bard.
And, as if conjured, there’s Cynthia. She’s striding toward Ruby’s tent. Today’s outfit features a flowy black sweater over a black T-shirt, skinny black jeans, and a pair of pointy-toed black booties. The drift of the long sweater only enhances the overall impression of a witch in search of a broom. Ruby motions for the Hitchhiker to hide under the table. No sense taking chances.
Before Cynthia can close the distance between herself and Ruby, a middle-aged man with a middle-sized dog steps up to Ruby’s tent. As with most, he tries to look like he’s not quite interested. She flashes him her most welcoming smile and gestures to the other chair. “And what can I help you with?” She’s not going to let him dither around before he finally decides to ask for help with his dog, because, of course that’s what she immediately intuits about the pair. “Your dog has some questions, perhaps?”
“Well, no. I mean…” And dither he does, but Ruby is holding his eyes with intention, holding his hands, using the guy as a wall between herself and the grimy aura of Cynthia as she approaches. If Ruby had hoped that Cynthia would be deflected from her purpose by the presence of another human being, she is disappointed.
“Hello, John.”
“Cynthia.”
Because his hands are still in hers, Ruby gets a quick flash of history between this guy, John, and her nemesis.
Cynthia turns her attention to Ruby. “I don’t recall seeing your name on the list of vendors this week.”
“It wasn’t. Pure availability of space. Now if you don’t mind…” Ruby nods toward the guy, John, who is unsure where to look. He’s clearly a little embarrassed to be seen with his hands in the hands of a psychic, but he’s man enough not to bolt.
“Of course I mind.” She reaches out to touch Ruby’s client on the shoulder, leans in conspiratorially, and stage whispers, “She’s a fake. And she’s a whack job.”
Ruby lets go of the guy’s hands. Stands up. The Hitchhiker is beside her, pressing both of her forepaws onto Ruby’s instep in a doggy version of I’ve got your back. She growls softly, a little fear, a little offer of protection.
“Cynthia, that is uncalled for.” It’s John, now on his feet. “Why don’t you just shuffle off? I’ve got business here.”
“I can’t believe that you’re falling for this, this nonsense.” Cynthia laughs a particularly barky laugh and wheels away.
“Sorry about that. She’s never been much of a charmer. Especially since…” John lets his remark drift off, unfinished.
“Since?”
“You know, or maybe you don’t. Her husband? The dog?”
“I’m a stranger in town, John.” She smiles. “But yeah. I know a little about that. I guess that she didn’t like being the subject of the kind of gossip that incident must have generated. Surely she felt like her own reputation had been ruined.”
“More like people stopped talking about her. Which was worse. Shunning is such a popular New England–style punishment.” John smiles. “She certainly seems to have it out for you.”
“I have no idea why, but I have been a hair across her posterior ever since I showed up. Some people have a fear that I’ll perceive their deepest secrets and throw up a shield. In Cynthia’s case, she uses animosity.” Ruby doesn’t mention that she influenced Carrie Farr’s rejection of Cynthia as a riding student. “So, to the business at hand. What can I help you with?”
John puts a hand on the head of his middle-sized dog, a mongrel if ever there was one. “He’s not happy and I don’t know why.”
The dog, a mottled brown, long-bodied creature with upright ears and a docked tail, sits, sighs. He does indeed look unhappy. He’s sniffed the Hitchhiker, who has also taken his measure and gone back under the table.
“We got him…”
Ruby holds up a finger. “Let me get a read and see if he can tell me.” The dog seems happy enough to let this perfect stranger put hands on his head. Immediately that tingling vibe that she got with the Hitchhiker all those weeks ago, and then with Boy, begins to fill her hands and then her mind. She’s had decent connections with most dogs—and with the horse—but this one is stronger than that. This dog has something important to say. She takes a breath of fear and sorrow and confusion. She hears the scent of loudness and distance. Ruby closes her eyes and knows that this dog has come from afar, that he was never beloved, that he doesn’t understand kindness. She opens her eyes and meets the eyes of the dog; the connection is almost painful, and she removes her hands. They still tingle and she rubs them together to try to stop the zizzing in her palms. “He’s a rescue from someplace rather far away. Down South, perhaps?”