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?”
“Yes. We saw his picture on the web and just fell in love with that face.”
“I see. So, he probably was in a kill-shelter.”
“That’s what we were told. He was one of the lucky ones, pulled out by the rescue team.”
“He’s never had people of his own, so he’s confused. It’s not that he’s unhappy, he’s just uncertain of how to be.”
“Doesn’t he know that he’s never going to be homeless again?”
“No, not yet.” Ruby touches the dog once more, simply running her hand along his spine. She gets a whiff of a deeper confusion, an empathic grief. “He’s picking up on some unhappiness of your own.”
When John doesn’t respond, she looks up at him and sees for herself that what the dog is absorbing from his new forever home is this man’s own despair.
“Let him help you.”
“I thought getting the dog would help. That he would fill a hole for me.”
Ruby doesn’t have to read John’s tea leaves or palm to know that the “we” he had used was really a force of habit. There was no longer any “we” in his life. Except the dog. So much pressure on an animal.
“It takes time. Patience. He doesn’t know how to help you.”
John squats and takes the dog’s head between his hands. “You are helping, Roscoe. Just by making me get out of bed.”
Roscoe’s stubby tail begins to tick tock and he gives John a quick, shy kiss.
“Oh! He’s never done that before! Good boy, Roscoe.”
It has been one of the unexpected benefits of this odd new talent, witnessing the wonderful care people have for their animals. Most of them, that is, with a couple of notable exceptions like the Great Dane woman and that other woman who wouldn’t let her little dog touch the ground. Ruby leans down and swoops up the Hitchhiker. The dog licks her face and the warm contented feeling of companionship soothes away the last of the vibrations.
Each time that tall skinny woman approaches, it feels like the air is being sucked out of my body. I am a lover of all humans, I have made a career out of being nice and friendly, cheerful and available, but I swear, this Cynthia woman is more wolf than dog. I fear her feet. I fear a kick that would send me into oblivion. I sense Ruby’s distaste for her, but I don’t detect fear, which is all I can take courage from. If my person is unafraid, then I am too.
It’s after six o’clock when Ruby pulls into her little space at Bull’s house. She’s been to the Country Market and to the wine shop. She’s ready to settle in for a pleasant evening of Netflix. Things had picked up after John and Roscoe so she’s feeling a little better about her prospects. She opens the side door of the van and the Hitchhiker jumps out to greet Boy heading in their direction, goofy Labrador grin on his face and feet failing to keep pace with his tail. Except for her grandchildren, Ruby doesn’t think anyone has ever greeted her with such enthusiasm as this dog does. Ruby gives him some love and then hunts around for the extension cord that will keep her—brand-new—battery from draining as she uses her laptop and the interior lights. She spots the yellow cord a few feet away. Bull waves from his kitchen window like a friendly neighbor as she picks it up. She waves back, equally neighborly.
After dinner Ruby makes a quick phone call to Sabine, checking in as she has promised her daughter to do, asking after the kids, listening more than talking. Sabine is living the life Ruby had long ago rejected—that is, utterly established. Sabine sits on committees and carpools with other moms. She has a permanent address in a house that is one of the oldest in the town. Married to a man whose antecedents founded the place. She is carefully growing a root system. Ruby thinks, more power to her. She tries not to think of it as a commentary on her own life of perpetual motion. Her chosen lifestyle.
Ruby opens up her laptop and moves to click open Netflix but hits the email icon first. Two emails. One is a come-on from an online retailer. The second bears the address of the Sacred Heart Convent and School for Girls. A moment of true psychic inspiration washes through Ruby, jolting her enough that the dog jumps up and presses her nose into Ruby’s neck. Opening this message will change everything.