There is one good reason to stay put, if only for another few days. Ruby ordered her DNA kit and had it sent to Bull’s address. Once she’s got the kit and has sent off her sample, then she’ll get back on the road. She’ll give Joe Benini a call and see where they’re headed, hook up with the carnival for a few weekends. The Farmers’ Market and Makers Faire continues into early October, but she has no intention of sticking it out that long. By September she wants to be gone. She’s always had itchy feet, always obeyed an instinctual call to migration, and fall has always been the hardest season to be still.
Doug called last night. Ruby filled him in on the DNA ordering, emphasizing that she’ll send in the sample and be gone; as the results will be emailed, there is no need to sit tight to wait for an envelope to arrive. The conveniences of modern life. He countered by asking if she’d like to go on a picnic. She said yes.
Doug is still on summer break from the high school, so they choose Wednesday afternoon for their picnic. The day is, as promised, clear, less humid, and not as hot as it’s been over the past couple of weeks. The little beach at the lake is packed so they venture farther on to a grove with an available table. The Hitchhiker approves and scampers about as if they have planned this day for her.
Without benefit of a kitchen, Ruby’s contribution to the meal is from the Country Market, a selection of deli salads and cold cuts. Doug has made fried chicken and potato salad. Fresh lemonade. Ruby thinks, but doesn’t say, he’d make some woman a great husband. Probably has. There is a suggestion that Doug is one of those divorced men who married too young, or to the wrong woman, or both. He doesn’t mention kids.
Plates filled, Ruby and Doug settle on opposite benches of the picnic table. The Hitchhiker stations herself under it, ready and willing to clean up should something edible fall to the ground. Conversation is easy and they bat opinions and observations around for a bit, mostly touching upon favorite television programs and bands. They laugh a bit about eighties styles, high-waist jeans and high hair, boxy jackets and mullets. Grunge bands and Star Wars.
“It really doesn’t seem that long ago.” Doug snaps a lid on the container of potato salad.
“I know. And yet it seems a lifetime ago. My daughter’s first decade of life. I was eking out a living and then I kind of hit my stride, figured it out and made it work.” Ruby slides the ham back into its deli bag, reaches for the roast beef and “accidentally” lets a slice drop toward the ground. It is gone before it hits the dirt.
“How did you do it?”
“Most people ask me why I did it. Short answer is because that’s all I knew. I was given a gift, of sorts, and I exploited it.”
“So, and don’t think I’m trying to be insulting, you really are a psychic?”
“Most of the time. It comes and goes.”
“And the animal thing?”
“I’m hoping that it’s here to stay.” Ruby reaches down and the Hitchhiker licks her hand. The vibe of connection is pure and quick. “You taste like meat,” says the dog.
“Do you think your mother was a psychic?”
Ruby doesn’t remember mentioning this to Doug, only the fact of wanting to find her, or find out what happened to her. “I don’t know. I want to assume she was. I am, and my daughter is, and it’s beginning to look like my granddaughter has some ability. That’s something I would really love to know.”
“That and why she left you?”
Ruby reaches across the table and takes Doug’s hand in hers. Not as a psychic, but as someone who is growing fond of him. “Absolutely. I’ve lived with this mystery all my life and I’d like to solve it.”
“When you get the results back from the DNA company, you should let them post them. There’s a whole world of people trying to find their relatives out there. Who knows, maybe she’s looking for you.”
Isn’t that exactly what she has been hoping? “I’ve been hiding in plain sight, Doug. I can’t imagine that she couldn’t find me if she had wanted to.”
Doug comes around to Ruby’s side of the picnic table. He sits beside her so that they are both facing the lake. The Hitchhiker takes stock of them and then wanders down to the water’s edge. Ruby waits for him to tell her that she was a runaway, with an assumed name and no permanent address—how could she be found when she worked so hard not to be? He doesn’t. They sit quietly like that for a moment until Doug slaps his knees, pushes to his feet. “Let’s take a walk.”
There is a lot of food left and, as Doug is heading to his mother’s in Stockbridge for the rest of the week, Ruby has the leftovers. It’s too much for her tiny cooler fridge, so she thinks that maybe Bull would like a nice dinner of leftovers and she’ll keep what she can fit. She’s on her way to his back door when the mail truck shows up. She pauses. Watches as the lady mail carrier pulls down the door of the dented mailbox, leans through the mail truck window, and slides in a day’s worth of junk mail, bills, and, lordy, could it be? A white box.
It’s not her mailbox. Ruby feels a bit sketchy to just help herself to Bull’s mail even if there is something in there for her. She’s always been a stickler for obeying the law, parking tickets, theft of personal property, and begging on the streets notwithstanding. It’s not the eighties anymore. She has scruples. She turns her back away from the mailbox and marches up Bull’s back steps. His bike is gone, as is Boy, so she braces herself and opens his unlocked back door.
As unkempt as the outside of the house is, the inside is no surprise. A short hallway is more coat closet than passageway, coats of the Army/Navy variety hang from pegs. Boots and sneakers are kicked to the wall in a mismatched helter-skelter fashion. Entering the kitchen, she notes a massive old wood-fired range takes up most of one wall. It is piled high with all manner of things, papers, pots, a mitten. Ruby makes her way across to the yellow-hued fridge, not certain if it’s vintage seventies yellow, or just yellow from decades of Bull’s cigarette smoke. She hesitates before opening it, imagining all kinds of science experiments that lie behind that rusted door. Surprisingly, it is nearly empty. Cans of Mountain Dew and a single plastic container. She has plenty of room to insert her contribution to Bull’s nutrition.
Ruby goes back outside to wait for Bull, sitting on the top step of his sagging back porch. The Hitchhiker joins her, staring off into space as if she is thinking deep thoughts. For fun, Ruby lays hands on the dog and listens to what’s going on in her head.
“I could have enjoyed more meat.”
“Maybe for dinner.”
“Is there a cat nearby?”
“Why do you ask?” This is interesting. Ruby looks around to see if there is a feline stalking the sparrows pecking at the leaf mold beneath the bushes.
“You are quivering inside, like you want to chase something.”
“Anticipation. That’s what that is called.”
“Like hoping for a treat?”
Ruby runs her hand down the length of the dog’s back, marveling at its softness. Marveling at the perceptive nature of this little beast. Marveling, most of all, at this gift of canine interpretation. That the concatenation of scent and sound and senses form such clear thoughts in her own mind and in that of the dog. “Yes, like hoping for a treat.” Ruby digs into her pocket and pulls out a Milk-Bone, fingers it into the dog’s mouth, and is rewarded by a wagging tail. Is there anything more gratifying?
It is only a few minutes later when Bull pedals into the yard, his faithful yellow dog at his side. Ruby notes that the dog isn’t even panting, but his owner is. Ruby stands up. She holds back from running up to Bull, urging him to quick! quick! open his mailbox, extract that white box that she is certain will contain the DNA kit. Ruby makes herself calm down. In her whole life, this is as close as she has come to being a kid on Christmas morning. And this is only the first step, it’s going to be waiting for the results that will truly test her patience. The Hitchhiker knows that something is afoot, and she leaps and cavorts and yips as if she’s the one encouraging Bull to mosey over to the mailbox, never mind lighting up that cigarette, and pull out the mail.
Bull finally notices Ruby standing there, eager-eyed. “Oh, hey, you check the mail?”
“No. It’s not my box.”
“So? You’re the only one around here expecting anything.”
So much for scruples. Ruby dashes to the box, yanks open the dented door and pulls out the mail. Nestled in the valley of a folded grocery store flyer, there it is. Family History Labs.
“That it?”
“It is. Now what do I do?” Ruby surprises herself by saying that out loud.
“Go stick a Q-tip in your mouth, I guess.” Bull does that coughing/laughing thing.
Ruby studies the directions, pulls out the swab kit but doesn’t open the package. She holds the swab kit in her hand and wonders if it behaves like a crystal ball or more like tarot cards that look backward instead of forward. Is she falling for a different kind of fortune-telling than that which she has practiced for forty years or more? Will this little object give her any answers at all to her questions? Should she ask it not only what it sees in her past, but in her future? She shakes off the thought as a bit of a stretch. Focus. A good cheek scrub and a run to the post office and she’s done. Gone. Free to hit the road. Goodbye, Harmony Farms, hello … where? Ruby sets the kit down, pulls out her phone. Scrolls through her contacts looking for Joe Benini’s number and can’t find it. She could have sworn she’d saved it, but maybe not. She’ll have to hunt the carnival down online and hope that Joe meant it when he said she could set up with them. And if it doesn’t work out, then maybe she’ll do something else.
My friend kept that odd little object in her hand, studying it sort of like how I study a stuffed toy, trying to determine the best way in to get the squeaky out. Finally she opened the packaging with a delightful crinkling sound. Made my teeth just want to gnash at something. Then she did exactly what I would have done had I been given the chance: she stuck it in her mouth. Oh, but I was mighty curious about that, and very much wanted her to let me have a taste. I have found those little white sticks that fall to the ground and bear a hint of sweet and more than a hint of human. I thought perhaps that’s what this was. Imagine my surprise, then, when she took it out of her mouth and carefully inserted the little stick with its bulbous tip, into a thing and then into another wrapper and sealed it up. “That’s that,” she said, and I thought that it was really about time for dinner.
The post office in Harmony Farms is a typically New England–style sturdy brick building, foursquare and two stories. The handrail is bronze, and the black shutters are held back by wrought iron straps. It could have been a bank at one time, or a jail. Ruby doesn’t really have to go to the post office to mail her package back to Family History Labs. It’s in a pre-paid envelope; she could drop it off at any of the free-standing mailboxes around town. But she feels as though this particular piece of mail is so weighty as to need special consideration. This isn’t some RSVP to a party; this is her essence. As if in welcome and encouragement, there is a parking space right in front of the building.
Inside, Ruby slips the mailer into the brass slot, hoping for a satisfying thud but hearing nothing. She turns to find Polly Schaeffer right behind her.
“I hear you’re going out with that guy, the breeder’s son.”
“‘Going out’ is a fraught term, Polly. We’ve had a date, well, two, I guess you could say.”
“And…”
“You and Sabine. Honestly, we’re two middle-aged people enjoying a meal or two. That’s it.”
“Humphf.”
“Humphf yourself.” Ruby shoulders her purse. “Nice to see you. Have a lovely day.” She won’t tell Polly that she’s finally about to drive away from Harmony Farms. She has avoided goodbye scenes all her life. Appear and then disappear. Leave them wanting more.
“Hey, can I ask you a big favor?”
Ruby’s purse slips off her shoulder. “Sure.”
“The volunteers at the shelter have come up with an idea for a fund-raiser.”
“Go on.”
“Would you be willing to read pets for an owner’s contribution to the shelter?”
“And when would this be?”
“Well, they wanted to get your commitment before they set a date, but probably the end of the month.”
Two weeks.
“Would a new washing machine be the target goal?”
Polly grins. “Yes.”
Ruby thinks of that beautiful horse, his desire for being unfettered. His willingness to compromise. “Of course. Set your date.”
They walk out into the August sunshine arm in arm. Ruby’s van is just out front of the post office. The Hitchhiker sits in the passenger seat, patient as always. On the windshield, tucked neatly beneath the windshield wiper, is yet another parking ticket. Somehow Ruby has neglected to notice that that handy parking spot was designated a handicap space. As she has done with all the rest, she tucks it into the glove box to deal with later.