By now, Ruby has developed a routine, three days at Bull’s, two at the Dew Drop, staying away from weekends when Ravi has to charge more, and then back to Bull’s yard. The other day Ruby located a lawn mower in the side yard. She has never mowed a lawn in her life, but she got it started and pushed it around the front yard to see if she could do anything with the overgrown grass. Turns out, although the mower started, the blade was so dull all she succeeded in doing was matting the grass down and chipping away at the dandelions. She rolled it back to where it had been living happily, out of sight, out of mind.
Every day, even though she knows it’s going to take time, she hopes for an email from Family History Lab letting her know that her results are available. She’s opened the requisite account and studied the several ways she can maximize the information she will receive based on the raw material of her cheek cells. She schools herself: It’s only been five days. Barely enough time for the mailer to have gotten to Ohio. Patience, she tells herself. Fifty-five years of not caring has been supplanted by this sudden urgency to know what she is made of. If not from whom.
Every night Ruby takes the file folder Sister Bea had sent her and ponders the imponderables of some information but not enough. She chides herself for imagining that she would have opened up this folder and found a clear document with the reason for her abandonment writ large. Instead, she has only the impression that—perhaps—her mother was overwhelmed or coerced. The question that won’t go away is: Who the heck was this Williamson woman? An aunt? A grandmother? A friendly stranger? Surrendering agent. Ruby feels a thin trickle of psychic vibe work its way from hands to heart. The Hitchhiker has nosed her way under Ruby’s elbow and set her chin down on the file.
On impulse, Ruby hunts down her phone and dials the number for the convent. She has a question, probably unanswerable, but she’s going to ask it anyway. Although it’s after five o’clock, Sister Beatrice Johnson picks up. “Sacred Heart, how may I help you?”
Ruby plows right past the niceties. “Do you think you could find out if an Estelle Williamson brought other children to the orphanage?”
There is a moment of silence so perfect that Ruby thinks she’s been hung up on. Then, “Hang on.” There is the sound of a door gently shutting, the lock being engaged. “Ruby, I’ve been here my whole life, as a child and as an adult.” Sister Bea’s voice is one level up from sotto voce. “There are things buried in the past that would curl your hair.”
Ruby lets her former classmate talk without interruption, understanding that this is likely the first time that Karen Johnson as she once was has spoken these thoughts out loud. Suspicions and facts.
“After I sent you that file, I started getting a little curious about myself. I knew what I’d been told, accepted it, and never gave it much thought beyond the usual adolescent bouts of self-pity. Once I found that I had a vocation, it was more that I was deeply grateful that God had placed me here. I was meant to be here. But not all of us were. I kept a handful of files from that box where I’d found yours. The rest were sent away for shredding. Of the six or seven files I’ve pulled, five of them had Estelle Williamson’s signature as the relinquishing agent. Including mine. Including yours. The dates go from mid-fifties to mid-sixties. Three of us are still here at Sacred Heart. One died before high school graduation. It’s unclear of what cause. And then there was you, who eloped.”
“Was that the official term, elope?”
“Yes. Better than AWOL or escaped, I suppose.”
“Do we know anything of Estelle? Where she was finding these babies?”
“My gut tells me that she was running an unofficial safe haven for unwed mothers. Abortion in the United States wasn’t legal at that time, girls had to disappear for a few months.”
“So, girls in trouble were going over the border to find help?”
“It’s one theory.”
“That would explain the lack of a birth certificate in the file.”
“None of the files contained a birth certificate. I feel so safe here in the convent because I exist here. I don’t exist elsewhere.”
“I don’t exist on paper either. At least, not real paper. I’ve a bit of the manufactured sort.”
“We all do what we have to do.”
“You’ve been really helpful, Sister. I’m really sorry about predicting your fall in the playground.”
“Funnily enough, that may have been the beginning of my vocation.”
“How so?”
“Remember old Sister Clementia?”
“Maybe—little apple doll face, wimple always slightly grubby?”
“That’s her. Well, she got me to my feet and took me into the nuns’ cloister to wash my knee. It was the first time I’d ever been where they slept, where they ate when they weren’t with us. It was hushed and the light through the big windows was so lovely. I was awestruck by the beautiful bathroom they had. Then Sister Clementia took me into their private kitchen and gave me two cookies from the nuns’ stock of Oreos and a glass of cold milk. On our way back to the schoolroom I saw that each sister had a room of her own. Tiny, to be sure, a cot, a prie-dieu and a crucifix. But private. I wanted in from that moment on.”
“But haven’t you ever wondered about your mother?”
“Of course. And I thank God every day in my prayers that she gave me to Him.”
When Ruby is done with the call, she notices that the Hitchhiker has draped herself across her lap. Ruby has been stroking those long curly ears while she’s listened to Sister Bea’s story. She reaches for the file one more time, reads the intake report with a different view. It should be a lot easier to find an Estelle Williamson if she isn’t looking for her as her mother. She’s looking for a former midwife.
The laptop takes a moment to boot up. She types in Estelle Williamson again, but this time adds “midwife,” “nurse” and the name of the province she likely operated in. A couple of hits, but they are all too young. She tries adding an age range that could work. Nothing. Ruby removes the province. Listens to an inner voice, types in Niagara County, NY. Bingo.
Death Notice: January 4, 1990, Estelle Williamson, age 83, of Easter Village. Former nurse. Owner/operator of a private home for delinquent girls, 1951–1964. No survivors.
Ruby clicks on the fragment and finds out little else about the woman who transported her over the border and denied her the privilege of being an American citizen.
Delinquent indeed.
“I’ve got something for you.” It’s Dougie Cross, fresh back from his visit to his mother.
“What?”
“Your dog’s papers.”
“Oh.” Ruby hadn’t given the idea of the Hitchhiker’s papers a single thought. All she had worried about was being able to keep the dog. This is just gravy.
“How about I bring them when we have dinner tomorrow?”
“Oh, are we having dinner tomorrow?” Ruby lets a little flirtatiousness into her tone. Just a smidge.
“I’d like to, if you’d like to.”
“I would.” Ruby adds, “I have some interesting news.”
“What’s that?”
Because her discovery is so new, Ruby says, “It’ll keep till I see you.” She wants to think about it a little more before she tells anyone this intriguing clue to her origin story. She hasn’t even told Sabine and she certainly should hear this before a new friend does.
“Can’t wait to hear it. Now, would you be interested in Italian food?”
“Absolutely.” Ruby thinks that there isn’t a decent Italian restaurant in Harmony Farms; the closest is the Pizza Palace which is, technically, Greek. “Where?”
“North End of Boston. I’ll pick you up at five, if that’s all right.”
“Nothing too fancy, Doug. I don’t have dressy clothes.” She’s already worn her best blouse and jeans on their first date. Her space is so restricted that Ruby has always made it a practice to keep her wardrobe to a minimum. Some people know how to pack for a weekend, she knows how to pack for a lifetime on the road.
“Totally casual. Promise.”
What with all the summer activities, the regularly scheduled FaceTime call with their grandmother has been marginalized in the kids’ lives, but tonight she gets the call even before she realizes that she should have been waiting for it. The kids look tan and tired. Summer is almost as much work as winter. Molly is showing off new braces. When did she get old enough for braces? Tom pushes his sister aside, his own dental news to share, another lost tooth. He looks positively jack-o’-lantern. They talk a moment about the generosity of the tooth fairy and Ruby can see Molly in the background rolling her eyes, clearly no longer a believer.
Sabine shoos the kids away from the screen and off to find their shoes so that they can go get ice cream. “Okay, I’m getting a bunch of vibes about you. What’s going on? I’m getting a sense of discovery.”
Ruby tells her about her conversation with Sister Beatrice.
“And you’ve found this woman? So you have a starting place.”
“Yes. I do.” A starting place, what a lovely description. Ruby is no longer fumbling around in the complete dark. She’s got a keyhole letting in a bit of light.
“That’s really exciting. What do you do next?”
“I’m thinking that I’ll go there, to wherever this Easter Village is, poke around, see if anything comes to me.”
“Well, my other sense is that you aren’t ready to leave where you are just yet. Do I detect that you have another date coming up?”
“I do, but that’s not what’s holding me back.” Ruby tells Sabine about the animal shelter fund-raiser. “Every time I think I’m going to leave this place, something or someone prevents me.”
“Then stay. Maybe you have accidentally found your home port.”
This is the point in the week when Ruby is parked at Bull’s house. The Hitchhiker is welcome to stay with Bull and Boy while Ruby and Doug head to Boston for the evening so Ruby needn’t worry about it getting too warm in the van while she’s out. The August day has been thick with humidity, and there is the promise of rain later on.
Doug pulls into the yard at five o’clock on the dot. Taking Ruby’s request for casual to heart, he’s dressed in cargo shorts and a baby blue polo shirt, shirt tails out. Teva flip-flops complete the ensemble. She’s also in shorts and wearing her favorite ruby-red T-shirt. Ruby carries a light sweater anticipating that the restaurant will likely be over air-conditioned. She doesn’t own an umbrella, but Doug says he’s got one in the trunk in case the promised rain catches them. For the first time in ages, Ruby gets into a passenger seat.
With traffic, it’s after six o’clock when they reach the parking garage closest to the North End. Summer tourists clog the sidewalks, standing in line waiting for their turn at a cannoli from Mike’s Pastry or for a table to open up at any one of the dozen restaurants on Hanover Street. Ruby and Doug dodge and twist this way and that, and Ruby begins to worry that they will have gone too far afield. Finally Doug takes a quick left, a right, and heads up a flight of cement steps to a tiny place that looks less like a restaurant than a bar. “This is the place. Best food, no crowd.”
Ruby keeps it to herself that no crowd may not be a good indicator of the best food.
The hostess greets Doug by name and Ruby relaxes. Inside knowledge, isn’t that the way to guarantee a great experience? She seats them at a window table, the view, such as it is, is obscured by the potted plants crawling up the plate-glass window seeking what sun must be available for a couple of hours a day, given the shadow of the buildings opposite.
Settled, Ruby has to ask, “So, you come here often?”
“Every chance I get. I worked here during college. Bussed, waited tables. Tossed drunks. I stand by what I said about the food. Best in town. We’re not even going to order, just trust in the chef.”
They settle down with red wine, dipping pieces of warm bread into olive oil.
“Before I forget, here.” Doug hands Ruby an envelope. “Mom’s signed over the AKC registration to you. The dog’s pedigree is in there.”
Ruby studies the Hitchhiker’s lineage, which goes back generations. The superlatives of “Ch” along with a host of other initials that mean nothing to Ruby are affixed to each name. “Ch, I assume that means Champion.”
“Yup. Your girl comes from great stock; she’s even got obedience champions, agility, certified companion dogs, every degree a dog can earn except doctorate in her background.”
“Guess that’s what makes her special.” She says this with an odd sense of jealousy. A dog can trace her lineage and all its glory back generations, and she can’t even name her mother.
“You said you have some news?”
“A little piece of the puzzle about my mother.” Ruby dips another hunk of bread in the oil. “It looks like she was an unwed mother in upstate New York, Niagara County. She went to live with a woman, Estelle Williamson, who was a nurse or midwife running a”—she finger quotes—“‘home for delinquent girls.’” She would take these unwanted babies over the border into Canada to the convent.”
“The convent where you grew up?”
“Yes, Sacred Heart.” Ruby sips her wine. “It’s like I’ve finally found a chink in the wall of silence surrounding my origins.”
“I’m happy for you, Ruby.” He briefly covers her hand in his.
“Naturally the first thing I did was go on the internet armed with this new information and bing bang, I located this Estelle woman almost right away. She’s passed, of course, but she was in a little place called Easter Village.”
“What are you thinking of doing?”
“I’m going up there as soon as I can.” Unfortunately, in the immediate future, she’s committed to catching up with Joe Benini and his carnival in New Hampshire. “I want to see if I can get some more answers, make more progress.”
Doug raises his almost empty glass. Sets it down, fills it, raises it again. “To progress.”
“To progress.”
The promised rain comes down as they are leaving the restaurant and Doug apologizes for forgetting the umbrella in the trunk of the car. They arrive at the parking garage soaked but laughing, a little winded from race walking after such a big meal. It is a warm rain. Ruby is a little chagrined to see that she could now be a contestant in a wet T-shirt contest, as could Doug. They politely avoid noticing. Doug keeps the heater on so that they are nearly dry by the time they get back to Harmony Farms. The rain has stopped, or perhaps hasn’t begun here yet. The lawn chairs are dry. The van is just too small a space to comfortably invite a man Doug’s size in without getting tangled up in each other, and Ruby is not quite ready for that. Not yet.
“Would you like to sit outside for a bit? I can make coffee.”
“That would be very nice.”
Bull opens his back door and the Hitchhiker runs out to greet Ruby and Doug as if she doesn’t have royalty in her background but is just your average mutt. Ruby scoops her up in her arms, nuzzles her and gets the strong vibe of feelings of relief. “You didn’t think I wouldn’t come back, did you?”
“I didn’t know. I like them, but I love you.”
“I love you. But I do get to do things without you.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
Doug busies himself pulling the lawn chairs closer to the van, pretending he doesn’t hear an apparently one-sided conversation between woman and dog. Ruby still doesn’t know if he considers her profession legitimate or just a charming quirk of hers.