by Susan Wilson
“Funny the things that make us happy.”
“You bet. I remember when I was a new bride, a new umbrella-style clothesline was the joy of my life. Can you imagine?”
“Not exactly.” Ruby doesn’t mention that having enough quarters for the Laundromat to wash Sabine’s two school dresses was often joy enough. “Hey, question for you…”
Ruby gives an edited-down version of the past day, leaving out her overnight with Doug for the moment, leading up to the question of Cynthia’s real or imagined fortune-teller. “Do you remember a hippy shop? What we used to call a head shop? With a psychic?”
Polly sets the mugs of tea down, reaches for the sugar from the shelf behind her. “Maybe. There was a shop with incense and candles, Indian print skirts. That kind of stuff. I suppose it might have been a head shop, but I never went in there. I’m well past the era of hippiedom. I was raising kids in the seventies. And they all wore clothes and shoes.”
“I sometimes believe that I should have been a part of the counterculture, but as my whole life was counterculture, I never felt the need to celebrate it.”
Full-figured Polly admits, “I did go braless for a bit. I didn’t like it.”
Ruby laughs, dunks her teabag up and down. “Where was that hippy shop, if that’s what it was. Do you recall?”
Polly considers the question. “I’m thinking the same block with the hardware store. Bet they’d remember. Heralds Hardware has been there since Harmony Farms was founded.” She shakes some sugar into her tea, tastes, shakes in some more. “Course, I bet Bull Harrison would know. He was very active around here in the late sixties, early seventies. If you know what I mean.”
“A bad habit brought back from Vietnam?”
“For a long time.”
Ruby glances at the wall clock; it’s after two. “Oops, I’ve got to go.” It wouldn’t do to be late picking Doug up from school after he’s been kind enough to loan her his car.
Polly walks Ruby out and notices the car. “I thought you got the van out of jail.”
“I did. But, well, long story. That’s why I’m in a hurry, I’ve got to return this car to its owner.”
“You mean Doug Cross?” One Volvo might look like another, but Doug’s is a distinct shade of red.
“Yes.”
“You’re a dark horse, Ruby Heartwood.”
Ruby arrives in the circular driveway of the high school a few minutes after three. She has a ready excuse for her tardiness: the highway had been bogged down by road work seemingly every three miles. Ruby wishes that she’d taken the longer, much more scenic back roads and will say so, but then she gets a text from Doug apologizing in turn for being caught up in a meeting he cannot ditch. She finds a parking space, switches to the passenger seat, lowers the seat back, and settles in to wait. She hasn’t waited for anyone in a very long time. The dog climbs over the console and onto Ruby’s lap. It isn’t unpleasant, this forced stillness. Ruby entertains herself with watching the students on their way to various after-school activities, being picked up by parents, slinging overweight book bags over their shoulders. They look so young for high schoolers. She wonders if she would have seemed that young had her life not taken the route that it did. At fifteen, Ruby was no child. She was a survivor and a summa cum laude graduate of the school of life.
Before long, her eyes begin to droop and Ruby finds herself drifting into a doze, not quite asleep, not quite awake. She is aware of the sound of cars starting, traffic in the street, voices of students grumbling about assignments, but all of that seems muted, an understory to her own patternless thoughts. She dreams voices speaking softly. She looks like you.
It’s what they always said about Sabine; but who, then, could she have possibly looked like if not her only parent? On very bad days, Ruby could sometimes see a shadow of Buck in Sabine’s jawline, the rise of her cheek.
She looked like you. Everyone says Molly looks like Sabine. Auburn hair just wavy enough. Green eyes, just a shade more turquoise than hazel. Brownish flecks. But Ruby can see her daddy in her lean athletic body, her single dimple.
She’s looking for you.
“Sorry I’m late.” Doug’s very real voice startles Ruby out of her suspended animation.
Ruby pushes the seat back upright and hands Doug his keys. “I was actually enjoying the break. It’s been a busy day.”
Through the open window, the Hitchhiker greets Doug like a returning hero, or maybe like she thought she’d never see him again. Her hind legs on Ruby’s lap, her forepaws on the open window, her tail fans Ruby’s face. She shoos the dog back into the rear of the car. Doug climbs in, pushes back the driver’s seat, and off they go, once more to Harmony Farms.
“So, how was your day?” Ruby hears herself ask this most couple-ish of questions. As if they’ve been together since forever.
“Good enough for a first day. No crises.”
“Nobody complaining about their class schedules?”
“That’s not my bailiwick. I tend to their emotional needs. Broken hearts. Broken homes. Bullying.”
“When you said counselor, I naturally thought guidance.”
“Nope. I’m a psychologist.”
“Should I call you Doctor?”
“Only people I wouldn’t lend my car to have to do that.” Doug knows detours around the worst of the road work, and they are on back country roads passing lovely old homes and farmland. Ruby sees the pretty little yellow house with the maple trees, now commencing their autumnal transformation. She points it out to Doug. “I noticed that place the night I arrived in Harmony Farms. Just perfect.”
“Oh, I’ve always loved that place. I tell you, if ever a for sale sign went up…”
“I was hoping it might be a bed and breakfast.”
Doug comes to a full stop at the T-intersection. Looks left and right. “You got your van out all right?” Turns right.
“Almost without incident.” Ruby lays out her confrontation with Cynthia. “It’s hard to imagine someone having that much animus for a complete stranger based on an experience so long ago.”
“So, she really said that you looked like this fortune-teller?”
“She did. But I think that she’s conflating me with this likely charlatan.”
“Why charlatan?”
“Because she was so specific. At least according to Cynthia. That’s hardly a true psychic’s stock in trade. We keep to shadowy pronouncements. No one wants to be blamed.”
“Pitchforks and torches?”
“Exactly. Who among us in the profession hasn’t been accused of witchcraft at one time or another?”
“I’ve never dated a witch before,” Doug deadpans. “That could explain a lot.”
“About what?”
“You put a spell on me…” Doug sings in a pretty serviceable baritone.
“Ha-ha.”
“The bigger question is, are you thinking that this woman might be related to you in some way? Based on what Cynthia said.”
Ruby waits; a left turn and then a right. The Dew Drop Inn is in sight. “Yes. I can’t help but wonder…”
“If she’s who you’ve been looking for?”
“I thought I was the psychic.”
“I’m pretty good at reading people. Kind of my job.” Doug pulls into the parking lot and into a place beside the Westfalia. “Can you bear another trip back to my place?”
“Well, you see…”
“You’re booked in here?”
“Yes. I think it’s best.”
Doug nods. “Of course. Wise.” He leans in and gives Ruby a friendly kiss. “Thanks for picking me up.”
“Thanks for lending me your car. And for, well, for last night.” Ruby gets out of the car, opens the rear door for the Hitchhiker, who immediately runs around to her favorite rest area. As she shuts the passenger door, Ruby leans in. “Do you have to rush back?”
“No, ma’am.”
33
Ruby pulls into the Cumberland Farm
s gas station to fill up her van. The Hitchhiker puts her paws on the dashboard, little spaniel nose pointed in the direction of the wall that usually sports Bull Harrison leaning against it like some kind of urban mural. There’s no sign of him or his dog. Normally that kind of thing would hardly be worth noticing, but at this time of day, Bull, a creature of habit, is notably missing. Ruby was hoping to see him this morning so she could ask him if he has any memories of a psychic in a local head shop. Now there is a trickle of premonition zizzing into Ruby’s heart.
She’s on her way. Finally. If she can get a decent start this morning, Ruby plans on catching up with Joe Benini and his crew late today. He’s already in Maine, but not too far up. Doug fiddled with the muffler and the rumbling has diminished, so she isn’t that worried about the Westie being up to making the journey. Ruby taps the last drop out of the nozzle and locks in the gas cap. That blank wall seems so much bigger without Bull leaning against it.
“I need a coffee,” she says to the dog. “Hang on a minute.”
“Treat?” thinks the dog.
Inside Ruby grabs a Farmhouse blend and a granola bar. She adds a package of Pup-Peroni, an indulgence for sure, but it’s going to be a long ride.
“Is that all today, ma’am?” The usual clerk is behind the counter.
“It is.” Ruby puts a ten on the counter. “Have you seen Bull around lately?”
The boy hands her her change. “Can’t say that I have. Not for a few days anyway. A week maybe?”
Ruby sets her coffee in the cup holder, opens the package of Pup-Peroni for the dog, who is yipping in excitement at the scent of the fake jerky. She’s thinking about the last time she saw Bull herself and cannot. Was it in the Country Market? Pushing his bike along County Road? She and Doug went to the Lakeside last night and he wasn’t there, nor had she seen him there the first time they went out. Ruby pulls out her phone and calls Polly. She’ll know what’s going on.
“Nope, can’t say that I’ve seen him either.”
“Is this normal? It seems to me that he’s always around. Does he go anywhere?”
“Not that he’s ever said. His son Cooper comes up and sees him from time to time.”
“Maybe that’s it. Maybe he’s had company.” But even as she says it, Ruby knows that’s not the case. “Maybe I’m a worry wart, but I’m going to swing by on my way out of town.”
“Good idea. Out of town, huh? For long?”
For long. Forever probably, but Ruby doesn’t say that. It’s why she never says goodbye. And then she thinks, she’s never really had anyone she’d needed to say goodbye to before. And now she seems to have collected a trio of them. “I don’t know. At least through the fall.”
“Will you come back?”
Ruby says, “I don’t know. I usually go south in the winter.”
Doug hadn’t asked that question, not the one of how long, or the other one, will you be back. Doug had been nonchalant about her declaration of intent. All he’d said: “You’ll keep in touch?” And all she’d said was “Yes.”
Boy is sitting outside on the back steps. No sign of Bull in the yard. The dog fairly lopes over to Ruby as she gets out of her van. He and the Hitchhiker nose each other briefly before he reaches Ruby. He sits, waits. Knows that she will touch him and what he has on his mind she will understand. Ruby does, cupping both hands over his skull, over his eyes, along his cheeks. Her mind is filled with the sour sweet odor of fever. The images coming from the dog prompt her to run to the back door, shoulder it open when it sticks, and call out Bull’s name.
“In here.”
Ruby finds Bull in his one soft chair, the television on but muted. Mountain Dew cans litter the side table, surrounding an ashtray full of butts. Dressed in stained sweats topped with his favorite Patriots sweatshirt, he is more gray than usual and clearly gasping for breath.
“Pardon me if I don’t get up.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Just a bug. Nothing.” But the look on his face belies this attempt to downplay the pain he is obviously feeling. He suddenly looks at Ruby with panic on his face. “It hurts.”
The dogs have followed Ruby into the living room. Boy sits with his head on Bull’s lap, his powerful nose pressed against Bull’s middle. He moves away, sits in front of Ruby to tell her something. “Deep sick. Inside him.”
Ruby has heard that there are dogs who can sniff out illness, cancer, epilepsy, diabetes, but they are trained in what to look for. She doesn’t discount that the dog might have an instinctive sense of trouble within, but she cannot imagine that he has diagnostic capabilities. “You need a doctor, Bull. Let’s get going.”
It is no mean feat to haul a hefty guy like Bull out of a soft chair, but Ruby does. She points him toward the back door, grabs his wallet sitting on the counter, and guides him toward the van. He is wobbly and stops every few steps to bend over in pain. She struggles to counterweight him when he leans too far to the right. Just when it begins to seem like an impossible effort and she’s going to have to call an ambulance, she manages to get him into the van, not into the front seat but up onto the bench seat where he doesn’t fit. His feet are still on the floor, but he can presumably be more comfortable in a mostly reclining position. The dogs jump in, Boy to lie on Bull’s big feet and the Hitchhiker to take up her usual passenger seat position.
There is no hospital in Harmony Farms, so she heads to the local urgent care facility. By the grace of God, she gets him out of the van and into a wheelchair and into the building. The dogs stand in the open doorway of the Westie, and she points a finger. “Stay, do not move.”
Bull is quickly taken out of Ruby’s hands. She can answer no questions, she knows nothing more than what she has seen, so they quickly dismiss her as the good Samaritan and the hiss of automatic doors concludes her part in the drama. She goes back to the van and is pleased to see both dogs framed in the open slider. And then it hits her. If something happens to Bull, if he’s hospitalized, what is she going to do with Boy? She can’t leave town with him. She can’t leave now at any rate, not until she knows what’s going on with Bull. Once again, Ruby finds herself trapped by circumstance. She looks at her watch, relieved to see that it is only just past ten o’clock. If she can get on the road by noon, one o’clock at the latest, she can still get to Maine by nightfall. She and the Hitchhiker can sleep in the van, meet up with Joe Benini in the morning. “Okay. We’ll just head out a little late. No biggie.” She strokes Boy’s head. “It’ll be fine, big guy. He’ll be fine.” Even as she says this to the dog, she has a hard time believing it herself, and he picks up on her doubts, heaving a great sigh and a soft whimper.
Ruby sits on the edge of the van between the dogs and calls Polly to let her know what’s up. Polly is on patrol, so within a few minutes she shows up in the animal control vehicle. “Any word?”
“Not yet. You know how these things are. Besides, they aren’t going to tell us anything. Do you have a way to get hold of that son of his?”
“I already did.” Polly settles her utility belt around her broad hips. “Unfortunately, he’s not going to be able to get here any time soon. He’s on a missing-persons search with his K-9. I promised we’d keep him posted.”
“This could be serious, Polly.” Ruby is thinking of Boy, of how he pressed his nose into Bull’s belly, how he spoke of “deep” sickness.
Polly’s radio crackles and she reaches into the cab of the truck to pull it out. Ruby doesn’t pay close attention to the back and forth, keeping her hands on the dogs, reassuring Boy that she’s there for him. Letting the Hitchhiker know that she’s a good girl.
“I’ve got a dog versus car incident, so I’ve got to go. I’ll come back as soon as I can. Call me if, well, just call me if you need to.” With that, Polly heaves herself into the truck and speeds off. Boy raises his head to watch her go. Ruby checks her watch. Still only a little past ten.
Herein lies the rub of being in one place for too long, the complication of
other people. The complication of human decency. She could just drop the dog off at his house and get going, but Ruby knows that she won’t. These are no longer strangers. After leaving Madame Celestine’s camper van lo those many years ago, Ruby has not allowed herself to become attached to anyone other than her family. The clinging strings of friendship serve only to contain her forward movement. Case in point, sitting here in the parking lot of an urgent care facility with a dog not her own, miserable in his separation from his person, dashing any escape plans for today. Ruby cannot leave without knowing what is going to happen with Bull and she hasn’t got even the slightest glimmer of psychic intuition—good or bad—to release her from this vigil.
Occasionally, she has dealt out a pattern of tarot cards suggesting a bad illness to come or one already there and unknown. She is not a doctor, a shaman, or a healer, and predicting an early death is not her style. She might suggest a visit to the doctor but couch it in terms of maintenance, not bad news. The one thing she has come to accept in her business of reading the futures of other people, almost no one ever lets her know if she’s been right. Never any follow up. She is left to sit at her table and wonder if that man with the card pointing to death will heed her advice and seek medical attention. Or, even if getting help, will die anyway.
Ruby shakes the grim thoughts out of her head. “You stay put.” She slides the door mostly shut, not confident that the pair of dogs won’t get out of the van. She notices that the wheelchair she had commandeered for Bull is back in its place as she walks up to the reception window, taps to get the attention of the woman behind the glass. “I’m here to check on Bull Harrison.”
“I’m sorry, who?”
Ruby realizes that she has no idea what Bull’s real first name is. “The older man, gray sweatpants, Patriots sweatshirt. Great pain? I brought him in an hour ago.”
“Are you a relative?”
Why not? “I’m his cousin.” It just pops out.