35

Ruby drives slowly along Main Street. It is a relatively short drive, six uneven blocks, if that, anchored on one end by a bank and on the other by the library. In the middle, the park and the municipal parking lot. At this hour, a midmorning weekday, the town is fairly busy, mostly moms in Lululemon, holding Starbucks cups and pushing racing baby carriages, and women of a certain age, shopping bags hanging from angled elbows. Here a workman, there a pair of Mormon boys on their mission work, white shirts and black ties, backpacks perfectly aligned on their shoulders. Everyday people on their everyday errands. Are you my cousin? It makes her think of that sweet children’s book: Are You My Mother?

Ruby opened up the DNA Matches tab on her computer and discovered that she has cousins all over New England. Up into New York State and beyond, all the way to California and even in Hawaii. It was a knee-weakening moment, seeing those little marks that indicate someone shares a part of her, not just a trait, but possibly even a history. That maybe one of these markers shaped like little green trees leads to someone who can tell her what she wants to know. If she has the courage. The website suggests treading lightly in cases where there might be a potentially explosive—her word not theirs—family dynamic. Ruby is pretty certain that dropping herself and her mystery origins into some distant cousin’s life could be a delicate process and fraught with all manner of emotion. She has to choose her first contact wisely. In her mind, Ruby composes a possible message to an unknown, unsuspecting relative: My name is Ruby … no Mary Jones, I was dropped off at a convent orphanage in Canada fifty-five years ago. Know anything about a knocked-up teenager in the family? On either side of the border?

As Ruby drives along the street, she finds herself looking at all the small businesses that line either side. Harmony Farms has managed to preserve most of the look of Main Street since the early twentieth century, in that the facades and doorways are mostly original or good reproductions. There are even a few buildings that date back to the nineteenth century, preserved by Harmony Farms’ twenty-first century discovery of how to be trendy. Ruby can fault Cynthia Mann for her attitude and snooty behavior, but she knows that Cynthia has long been a part of Harmony Farms’ revival. So, which one of these storefronts once held a head shop? A place where a middle-aged hippy prognosticator might have practiced her dark arts and advised poor Cynthia into picking a cruel a-hole for a husband? Ruby wishes that she could get a vibe, a feeling of connection, but so far, not so much. All she feels right now is the heavy head of Boy as it rests on her lap, making shifting gears a tad difficult.

With so much whirling around in her mind and imagination, Ruby decides that she should just focus on the task at hand, getting in a few groceries for herself and the dogs. Sometimes there is great relief in thinking only about the quotidian.

Elvin the proprietor is in his usual position, behind the meat case, chatting up the old boys. It seems odd not to see Bull there among the green pants and Carhartt jackets. When he’s not holding up the wall at Cumbie’s, he’s here jawing with his cronies. Assuming that none of them know what’s going on with Bull, Ruby approaches the group to fill them in. As Ruby has discovered, in the way of small towns, they know who she is, how she fits into Bull’s life: The lady with the Westfalia, parks it in Bull’s yard. Reads dogs’ minds or something. That’s Ruby Heartwood.

“Oh jeez,” says Elvin.

“That’s a shame,” says the nonagenarian of the group, Deke Wilkins.

“Them cigarettes. I told him time and again. Gonna kill him,” says a guy whose name Ruby doesn’t know.

As Ruby steps away from the group, she is struck with a thought. “Any of you gentlemen remember a kind of a hippy store in town, late seventies, early eighties?”

“Like with incense and those ugly woven ponchos?”

“Exactly. Except that this one had a psychic in the back, did people’s fortunes, tea leaves, that sort of thing.”

Elvin sets a package of pork chops on the counter for a customer and then rejoins the group. “Like you do?”

“Yes.”

“Deke, who was that who ran that weird little place over by Heralds? Long-haired guy, skinny as a rail. Always wishing you ‘peace, man’ even when you just walked by.” This from the guy whose name she doesn’t know. “Far out, man.” He does a credible hippy accent, although, thinking about it, Ruby believes he’s exactly the right age himself to have been of the counterculture.

Elvin says, “Oh, yeah. Glen and Lucy Atkins’s kid. Antiwar protester. He ended up in real estate. Done well for himself. Why the question, Ruby?”

“I’m trying to track down who that psychic might have been.” Ruby hopes she doesn’t sound foolish.

Deke pulls a phone book out from behind the counter. Thumbs it open. “Here you go. Robert W. Atkins Real Estate. Huh, same location. Fifty-one Main. Go visit him.”

And just like that, as easy as pie, Ruby is gifted with a breakthrough.

The long-haired skinny-as-a-rail hippy has become a bald, stout man dressed in a blue blazer and beige chinos, a popped collar on his light blue polo shirt. He looks the image of a real estate salesman. Ruby realizes that she’s seen his image in advertising all over town so meeting him is almost like speaking to someone she knows.

He is alone in his office, although there is a messy desk on the opposite corner from where he is sitting when Ruby comes in. Robert W. Atkins leaps to his feet at her entrance, hand already extended, as if he’s been waiting for her, and she thinks that maybe he has been expecting someone, just not her. “Robert Atkins, welcome. How can I help you today?” Ruby gets it then: This is his persona. He greets everyone this way. She likes him.

Ruby introduces herself. “Well, this may seem a bit strange.…”

“Please, have a seat.” Atkins gestures to a pair of comfortable-looking chairs set up in the window, a window that is plastered over with listings for homes and land in the area. As she sits, Ruby is startled to recognize the Dew Drop Inn as one of those listings.

“What can I do for you, Ms. Heartwood? We get all kinds of strange requests in here, so don’t feel shy.”

“Was this once a head shop? A hippy store?”

If he’s surprised, Atkins keeps it together. “Well, you might classify it as that. When I was younger, I did have a little store here, we sold some goods that might be considered a little outré. But it didn’t last long. I got my real estate license.” That is, entered the mainstream, Harmony Farms style.

“While you had it, did you also have a woman here who read tea leaves?”

Now Atkins sits back. Rubs his chin. “It’s been so long, but I did have someone come in from time to time to work for me. If she did that kind of thing, tea leaves, it was without my knowledge. I was a hippy but not interested in mysticism. I’m a Catholic.”

“Well, it’s not necessarily mysticism, but it is fortune-telling. Do you remember her name?”

“Wow. Gosh, I don’t think that I do. Why are you so curious?”

Ruby stands up and hands Atkins one of her old business cards. Madame Ruby, Seer and Fortune-teller. Tea leaves, Tarot and Palms. “If you should think of her name, would you please give me a call?”

Outside, Ruby feels such a weakness in her knees that she thinks she’s going to have to sit on one of those benches that bear Robert W. Atkins Real Estate advertising images. So close. So very close. Was it her imagination, her suggestibility, that she felt the presence of that other, long-ago psychic in that room? As clear as day, Ruby remembers the moment she knew that she was pregnant with a child conceived out of violence.

She’d thrown up the meager breakfast she’d had, a cheap McDonald’s breakfast sandwich that had turned vile almost as soon as she’d choked it down. Since her sheltered orphanage life, she had been educated in the ways of the adult world and knew what a missed period and a vomited breakfast indicated. She sat down on the curb, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Still inside were her traveling companions, two of the girls from the carnival who had decided to hitchhike west to Las Vegas, try their luck at working casinos. Ruby foresaw a different kind of working life for them but kept her mouth shut. She wasn’t ready to travel alone just yet. That morning, in some town she can’t recall, the sky had turned a different color, a gauzy mauve, the air around her felt saturated with a novel hope. Against all logic, all sense, this new reality felt like magic, like inspiration, not the worst that could befall a young girl. This was her miracle. This was her chance to get it right. This was her chance to show her absent mystery mother how it could be done.

Just as Ruby gets her van settled back into its space in Bull’s yard, her phone dings with an incoming text. Much to her surprise, it’s Doug, texting during a lull in his meeting schedule. She guesses that the no cell phones during the day rule does not apply to school staff. Can I tell you that it doesn’t break my heart that you’re still in HF?

That brings an unexpected warmth to Ruby’s cheeks. She’s not sure what to answer. If she should answer. But then she does. It’s not such a bad thing.

Thumbs-up from Doug.

What, are we fifteen? Communicating in emoticons?

Considering that’s the age group I mostly hang out with … I speak emoticon pretty well. You should see my TikTok.

What if you just dialed me?

Can’t now, later this afternoon?

LFTI

??

Looking forward to it.

Xo

Ruby doesn’t hesitate, does her own xo. No hearts, no kissy face. Just a nice sign off between friends with a little skin-to-skin history.

The dogs play for a bit in the yard and then Boy asks to go into the house. Ruby follows behind, mostly to make sure that he has fresh water in his bowl, and maybe to see if Bull’s washer works. Considering she’s only ever seen him dressed in the same or similar clothes—sweatshirt, workpants, ball cap—she’s a bit skeptical that he might even own such a thing. But with her current state of finances, she could use a free wash and dry, so she looks around. She’s in luck— tucked into a nook off the kitchen is a stacked washer and dryer, and, hallelujah, even a bag of detergent pods. Fabric softener. It seems odd to think of Bull as someone who thinks to buy fabric softener. How little we know one another until we peek into one another’s homes.

Laundry started, Ruby finds herself tidying up the kitchen. She’s sure Bull won’t mind someone doing the dishes, wiping the counter, the table, the floor if she can find a mop. She won’t do enough to imply the place is a health hazard, but enough to feel comfortable maybe eating her lunch at the table instead of in the van. The rain has started in earnest and the van can feel dank and cold on such days. She’ll bring in her laptop and fiddle around with an opening paragraph in her query message that she will send out to selected green tree matches. Something benign. But compelling. Interesting, but not shocking. Casual, not pleading.

Ruby sees that she’s got a reply from Joe Benini. He’s not encouraging.

“Heading to Presque Isle tomorrow (Friday) will only be there two days, then heading back through Vermont and points south.”

Timing sucks. She won’t be able to catch them in Maine before they head to Vermont, and she may not even catch them there. By that time, the agricultural fairs will pretty much be done with.

The email ends: “Not to worry. Maybe next year, Ruby. Say hi to Sabine for me, Joe.”

If it’s a disappointing message, it also has the effect of releasing Ruby from an obligation. Enough with the distraction of carnivals. There is a growing sense of closing in on her quest and that bears far more weight than her compulsive desire to keep moving. For the first time in her life, Ruby doesn’t balk at staying put. For the first time it feels like the right thing to do. That this is the right place to be.

As if reading her mind, the Hitchhiker runs up to Ruby and drops her forepaws on her lap. “Yes. Stay. Happy.” Her tongue is lolling and her woolly bear caterpillar eyebrows bounce up and down her dark forehead. Her tail beats so hard Ruby can feel the breeze on her ankles.

“Yes, we’ll stay. For now.” Ruby kisses the dog on the head. “For now.”