What a Dog Knows

by Susan Wilson

  “About?”

  “Buck. Don’t find yourself alone with him.” A recommendation that was, given her living arrangements, totally impractical.

  “Hard to avoid but thank you. I’m fine.”

  Judy let go of Ruby’s elbow. “Seriously, he can be a charmer. A snake charmer.”

  Ruby took Judy’s hand and turned it over. Ran her forefinger along Judy’s life line. “I see a turning point for you. The choice you make now will open a new path for you.”

  Judy pulled her hand out of Ruby’s. “Hokum. But thanks. As it happens, I am thinking about not moving on with the carnival.”

  “I don’t think that you’ll regret it.” Ruby clapped her hands together as if she’d been doing manual labor. “I’ll be careful.” As she walked toward the RV, Ruby reflected on how worldly she’d become since that moment she decided to run from the orphanage. Maybe worldly isn’t the word; maybe it’s having lost her naïveté. The facts of life had been parceled out in increments, and the overarching lesson was that the human female body was treacherous and sinful. Now in the company of rougher folk, she understood that pleasure in whatever form it takes is a reward for life’s struggles. She no longer felt shocked by anything she saw or heard. And she knew that Judy was right—Buck could become a problem if she didn’t have the protection of Madame Celestine. Buck might be a Romeo outside of the RV, but inside, he was his mother’s little boy.

  The RV was empty. Madame Celestine nowhere to be found and Buck still on the grounds. Ruby was sweaty beneath her heavy caftan and decided that she’d sneak in a shower. Madame Celestine was a nag about using too much water. Ruby would make it quick. Her benefactor would never know. The tiny bathroom was stinky. The holding tank was nearly full, and the septic odor wafted up. Ruby didn’t wait for the water to get hot before jumping into the shower stall. She soaped, shampooed, and rinsed in less than five minutes. She carefully wiped down the walls. It wasn’t late, but Ruby pulled on her only nightgown, the label inside the collar declaring it the property of the Sacred Heart Convent and School for Girls.

  Settled on the banquette with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, Ruby thumbed through an outdated Newsweek until she couldn’t keep her eyes open any longer. Madame Celestine was still out, so she left a lamp on and made up her bed, climbed into it. Buck had been nosing around one of the food vendor girls whose boyfriend had broken up with her so Ruby didn’t think she’d hear from Buck. All in all, it felt nice to be alone.

  It was the scent of alcohol that woke her. Fumes and the weight of the man who breathed them into her face. Ruby fought Buck as he took her hand and put it on his erection. “Girls like that. You should like that.”

  “No. Get off. Stop.” Ruby thrashed, but that seemed only to make Buck more aroused.

  “You can’t tell me I’m your first.” Buck’s glee was evident. “Lucky me!”

  “You’re hurting me. I can’t breathe.” And she finally figured out that if she just let it happen it would be over with and she could breathe again.

  A couple of thrusts and it was all over. Buck pulled himself away and buttoned up.

  “You need to practice.”

  “And you need to watch out. Your mother will kill you.”

  Buck laughed, leaned over, and smacked Ruby gently in the face. “Don’t bet on it. It’s better for you if you don’t say anything because she’ll throw you out.”

  Ruby pushed herself upright and got to her feet. There was something powerful moving through her, more powerful even than fear or anger. She could feel the blood on the back of her nightgown. She throbbed where he had penetrated her. A sensation like rushing water rose from her deepest parts to her heart. She felt as if she was filling up with a potency stronger than any psychic vision she had ever experienced. Buck’s malignity had caused something to be released in her. She barely reached Buck’s shoulder, but she drew herself up as if she towered over him. She pointed. “I curse you. I curse you. I curse you.”

  “I’m the fortune-teller’s son. I know bullshit when I hear it and all of it is bullshit.”

  “Not this time.”

  Monday morning. Does Ruby dare to email Sister Bea and ask if she’s sent the file yet? Would she be perceived as being pesty? Should she offer to pay for next day shipping? Patience, she counsels herself. After nearly fifty-five years of not knowing anything, what’s another forty-eight hours?

  She has been expecting Polly’s call, dreading it, so when her phone rings, Ruby feels like she’s going to have a heart attack. She has been unable to bring herself to make that call to the breeder. Therefore, there is nothing left to do but wait for Polly to tell her what will happen. She pictures Polly sitting by her phone in the animal control office, also reluctant about making a phone call.

  “What if I just don’t answer the phone?” she says to the dog, who blinks slowly, as if considering the suggestion. But she does, looking first at the caller ID. Not Polly. It’s not a number she recognizes. But she absolutely knows who it is. Ruby’s mouth is as dry as paper as she answers the call.

  “Is this Ruby Heartwood?” The voice is female, a little crusty. Ruby senses a woman who does not beat around the bush, and when she doesn’t wait for confirmation but gets out the next sentence, Ruby knows she is right. “I’m Martha Cross and I believe you have one of my dogs.”

  “I love her.” Her own voice croaks like an adolescent boy’s.

  “How’d you get her?”

  “She came to me.”

  “There’s been some suggestion that you took her.”

  “No. The Hitchhiker met me at Harmony Lake. The dog was looking for asylum. She asked to stay with me.” Ruby deliberately phrases it the way it happened, despite knowing that doing so was not doing her any favors. Mrs. Cross will think she’s nuts.

  “Asked?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I do. Cavs are particularly good at getting what they want.” Mrs. Cross coughs, although it might have been a laugh. “What do you call her?”

  Ruby takes a smidgeon of comfort from the way the conversation is going. “The Hitchhiker. It felt like she was hitching a ride with me that day, and she’s been my buddy ever since. Please let me keep her.”

  “My policy is that any of my dogs who need to be re-homed come back to me. I’ve only ever had two come back, both times, like this one, because the owner passed away. I don’t know you.”

  “I’m happy to give you references.” Polly, for sure. Ravi? Carrie Farr. Maybe even Bull if Mrs. Cross doesn’t meet him face to face.

  “What’s your living situation? I require that my dogs have healthy environments. Preferably fenced-in yards.”

  It would be so easy to lie, to say that she was living in a tiny house but with plenty of safe space for a dog to run. The little yellow house on North Farms Road she has so admired comes to mind. She could embellish with details borrowed from Sabine’s place. Picket fence, two nice kids. Stable environment. Although Ruby has never been a phone call psychic, she’s getting very strong vibes from Mrs. Cross, to the point she can almost envision her. But what she senses most is that this woman would see right through her lies. “I travel for a living, which is why the Hitchhiker is such a great companion. She’s my navigator.” Well, sort of, given that Ruby has been seemingly unable to cross the border out of town.

  “The animal control officer, Ms. Schaeffer, said something about you being psychic.” The crusty tone hardens. “Working out of your car?”

  “Yes. My Westfalia, a camper. But I’m also an animal communicator. I don’t know what your experience is of that, but I can tell you…”

  “Not a believer. And I require all my dogs to have stable homes. Flitting about the country is not conducive to a healthy environment.”

  “Any more than traveling from dog show to dog show? Being passed from handler to handler? Hitch and I are very good together. I groom her every day, including brushing her teeth. She’s never left alone. We have wonderful long w
alks.” Ruby feels the tears build, her voice thicken.

  “I don’t give my dogs away.”

  “I don’t expect you to.” Actually, she hadn’t expected that keeping the Hitchhiker would involve a monetary transaction. Could kindness of heart be enough?

  “I’ll need two references, one from a veterinarian. I’ll need you to sign my contract and,” Mrs. Cross adds, “I’ll want a bank check for two thousand dollars.”

  “Oh.”

  The object of the conversation jumps off the bed and shakes herself. Scratches behind an ear. Ruby is dry-mouthed. Where is she going to get that kind of money? “Could I use a credit card?”

  “No. No credit cards, no personal checks, and no layaway.” Mrs. Cross laughs at her own joke.

  Ruby wants to cry. “I’m not sure how quickly I can come up with the money, but yes, please sell her to me.”

  “Roundelay should come back to me while you figure out how to come up with the money. I’ll hold her for you.”

  Hold her hostage, Ruby thinks. “She’s been with me all this time; I think it would be very upsetting for her to be separated from me.”

  “I’m sure you can explain it to her, what with being an animal communicator and all.”

  “How do you expect to pick her up?” Ruby hopes that the logistics will discourage Mrs. Cross from her plan. She is certainly not volunteering to take the dog back to Mrs. Cross, even temporarily.

  “I have a litter about to be whelped, so I’ve asked my son. He’s willing to pick her up. You can hold on to Roundelay until he gets there.”

  “When will that be?”

  “Well, he probably can’t get free until the weekend, so I guess you’ll have her till then.”

  There it is, the flicker of hope that Ruby has been looking for. “If I have the money by then…”

  “He’ll have the papers with him.”

  Ruby knows that she sounds a bit like an adolescent again, this time one whose had her wish fulfilled even with restrictions. “Thank you, Mrs. Cross. It’s the right thing to do.”

  Mrs. Cross harrumphs. “We’ll see. Get those references.” Hangs up.

  The Hitchhiker jumps into Ruby’s open arms. “Now all I have to do is figure out how to earn a couple grand in five days.”

  Ruby has a little more than $600 in cash. Her checking account has enough to cover daily expenses and this stay at the Dew Drop. She’ll check out today, save on tomorrow’s rate. Ravi will just have to understand. Maybe she can set up the Westie someplace and do some readings in town; even a hundred bucks will help. Ruby snaps the dog’s leash to her harness and takes her for a long thinking walk. Ultimately, as painful as it will be, it will likely come down to calling Sabine and seeing if her daughter will front her the remainder of the money for the dog. This puts a new tent and new tires on hold, but who cares? And maybe it won’t come to that. Maybe she should buy a lottery ticket using her psychic powers. Ruby makes herself laugh, and for the first time since Polly’s bad news, there is a return of optimism in her heart.

  “You look cheerful.” Polly pulls the animal control truck over to where Ruby and the Hitchhiker stand on the sidewalk. “Good news?”

  “Pretty much.” Ruby fills Polly in on her conversation with Mrs. Cross.

  “Please let me be one of your references.”

  “That would be great. I know that will help, having your thumbs up,” Ruby says. “Now all I have to do is raise the money.”

  “Why don’t you do one of those personal social media donation things?”

  “I don’t know. I’m a little squeamish about asking strangers for money to buy a dog. So many other people out there, like those with serious medical problems, deserve help.”

  “There’s so much money floating around this town. We just have to figure out how to tap into it.”

  “Says the woman the town doesn’t even pay equitably. Got that shelter washer fixed yet?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I’m not going to fund-raise and I’m not going to beg. I’ll earn it.”

  “In five days.”

  “You bet.”

  21

  Tuesday afternoon and still no delivery from FedEx. It’s almost five o’clock and Ruby debates the wisdom of calling Sister Beatrice and simply asking if she’s sent the file. She’d promised herself not to get concerned until Wednesday, but it’s a promise she can’t seem to keep. Instead she calls the FedEx depot nearest Harmony Farms. Just in case it got misdirected. Alas, she is told, without a tracking number, yada, yada.

  Ruby sits outside on one of Bull’s lawn chairs to make the call to the convent. The dogs are playing behind her, some kind of rough and tumble “I’ll chase you if you chase me” game of their own design. Abruptly, the Hitchhiker ends the game and joins Ruby in the side yard. Boy wanders over to his water bowl and laps noisily. Flops onto his left side in the overgrown yellow grass, instantly asleep. His yellow coat blends in so well with the grass that Ruby, seated across the yard, can hardly make him out.

  Hundreds of miles away, the convent office phone rings and rings. Each buzzy repetition sounding increasingly like someone giving Ruby the Bronx cheer. “Come on, Karen, Sister, whoever you are. Answer the phone.”

  If the nun cum office manager has sent the file, Ruby wants the tracking number. If she hasn’t, well, Ruby will handle that politely but firmly.

  Finally, just before the answering machine clicks into action, someone picks up the phone. “Sacred Heart Convent and School for Girls.” The voice is different, older sounding.

  “Bea?” Ruby quickly corrects herself. “Is this Sister Beatrice Johnson?”

  “No. This is Mother Superior. How may I help you?”

  It must be hardcoded, this instant sense of fear. The thought of speaking to a Mother Superior again, despite all the time that has passed, gives Ruby a chill. Of course, the woman who sent her to Monsignor LaPierre, the woman who accepted his cruel order of isolation to punish her without protest, is long gone. Ruby recalls the far more benign face of the current Mother Superior on the convent’s website. Finding her voice, Ruby politely asks for Sister Beatrice. “She’s sending me something and I haven’t yet received it.”

  “What is it?”

  The Hitchhiker noses Ruby’s elbow, almost shakes the phone right out of her hand. Behind her, Boy jumps up and barks at something she cannot see.

  “Some information about the school.”

  “Well, I’m sure she has. She’s very responsible. Patience is a virtue.” The head nun chuckles as if she’s coined a new joke. “What did you say your name was?”

  “My name is Ruby Heartwood.”

  “Were you a student here?”

  The sound of an engine, slightly squeaky brakes. A transmission thrown into park.

  Ruby pushes herself out of the lawn chair. “Maybe.” She thumbs off the phone. With the Hitchhiker by her side, she meets the FedEx man halfway.

  It’s a most curious thing. My companion is as excited as if she was about to give me a special treat, but she is also afraid, as if she is expecting pain. I can’t quite suss out what’s going on except that I maybe should have kept that strange man away, not let him give her that flat object smelling of many hands. But she seems to like this thing, holds it up against her as if it was as precious as I know I am to her. She is talking, but none of her words are part of my collection of human utterings. First we go back to sitting outside, and then we go into our little mobile house. She closes the door, then opens it. Stares out at the big house where Boy’s man lives. Boy has followed us to our mobile house and is waiting patiently outside for me to rejoin him. He’s napped and now he’s interested in playing. Still she holds the flat object in her hands, not doing anything with it. This is not a book. I know what a book is, and yet she seems to be staring at it like she does those. Finally, she sets the thing down and picks up her phone. Taps it. With my excellent hearing, I can discern the little whoosh sound she causes it to make, almost immediate
ly followed by a ding sound.

  * * *

  “For God’s sake, Ruby, open it.” Sabine doesn’t bother texting back. She calls her mother.

  “Will you stay on the line?”

  “I will.”

  The Hitchhiker watches as Ruby pulls the cardboard tab to open the mailer. Her little nose is wriggling, taking in the history of its journey from a convent to a VW bus. Ruby slides a manila folder out. It is crisply new, no doubt a replacement for the one the good sister had taken out of the box of files. She’s attached a bright pink sticky note: Hope you find what you’re looking for. Blessings, Sr. Bea.

  “Me too.” Ruby pulls the note off, sticks it to the table. She lays the folder on the table beside it and places her hands on it. It is fuller than she’d imagined. Almost like there is something other than paper in there.

  “Mom, hey, you there?”

  Ruby had forgotten that Sabine was listening in.

  “Just looking for a vibe.”

  “Oh, for goodness sake, open it.”

  Ruby can hear the sound of Beenie’s refrigerator door, the click click click of the ignition of the gas range. She’s getting dinner started. The kids are probably on their way back from some activity. Her life is busy.

  “Okay. Here goes.” Ruby flips the cover, and the first thing revealed is a stack of report cards in kraft envelopes. Kindergarten through eighth grade, in order. Ruby randomly selects one, third grade. She wasn’t a bad student. Remarks are generally favorable. She pulls the report card out of the last one, her eighth-grade year. She was still a solid B student, but the remarks are less favorable. The last quarter of that year is blank. A note at the bottom in black ink: Left without permission. Fail for the year. Ruby looks at the signatures of the various teachers and is surprised that she can call most of them to mind, that their faces framed by their wimples are vivid. “Report cards.”