It is too hard to wrap her mind around the various generations and how they may fit against the framework of the last fifty-five years. Was this missing daughter lost in 1964 or 1934? Is the allusion to females “prevailing” in this family a coded message on a particularly female tendency toward fortune-telling? Ruby taps in a quick thank-you and a promise to be patient. “So many questions!” she writes, again including her cell phone number in the reply.
The Hitchhiker rests her chin on Ruby’s knee as Ruby sits and ponders the imponderable. The dog sighs. Yawns. Wriggles her chin deeper against Ruby’s leg, exerting an attention-getting pressure. Woof. “It’s time for dinner. Feed me.”
“You think that it’s always time for dinner.”
“It is.”
“No, it is not.” Ruby has to be firm with this little muncher. “Maybe time for a cookie.”
“Okay. Many.”
“One.”
“More than one.”
“Two.”
The dog agrees in principle and moves to allow Ruby to get up and fetch the box of Milk-Bones. Ruby’s wooden box holding the deck of tarot cards is beside the box of dog biscuits. She feels a strong need to consult them on her own behalf, although she is never quite sure if her self-interpretations are of any use. She should get someone else to do it for her, but there is a critical shortage of psychics in town. Instead, she thumbs through her contacts list. Maybe Lily Parmenter or Sylvia Truelove would be willing to do her a favor. Ruby has never been a fan of remote readings, but any port in a storm, as they say. Lily answers on the first ring, “Ruby Heartwood! As I live and breathe, I just knew you were about to call.”
“Right. And the same back to you, you old fraud.”
They laugh. Lily was always fun to be around. Not a true psychic, Lily is a wizard tarot interpreter. She can weave a fortune like nobody’s business based solely on what the cards reveal. Ruby and Lily bring each other up to date enough on their lives to allow Ruby to get to the point of her call. “I’m looking for someone. I need to know…”
“Uh-huh. Don’t give me ideas. Do you have FaceTime?”
In a moment, Ruby and Lily are virtually face to face. Lily shuffles her cards, a nice set that looks fairly new. Ruby compliments them. “Got them from a retiree. Barely used them.”
“Only on Sunday, that kind of thing?”
“Sort of. Hey, I think you knew her, way back.”
Ruby can watch Lily lay out the cards. “Who?”
“Celeste Fox. Went by Madame Celestine back in the day.”
“Yeah. I knew her.” Ruby hopes that Lily is too busy with her cards to see the look of surprise on Ruby’s face at the mention of her erstwhile mentor, but Lily is too good at her job not to make sure she looks up at exactly the right moment.
“History?”
“You could say that.” Ruby has never told anyone the circumstances of Sabine’s conception, only that she had learned the trade from Madame Celestine (who knew that her real name was Celeste Fox?). But now Ruby is riven by curiosity. What had become of Buck, he who she had cursed so potently?
Lily’s eyes on the tiny screen bore into Ruby’s. “What do you want to know?”
“Tell me about her.”
Lily describes an elderly woman with a bad dye job, dressed in a velour track suit that might have come from the eighties. “A little lady. Not over five feet tall, I bet, although most of that was hunch.”
In Ruby’s memory, Madame Celestine towered.
“She handed me the box of cards and I handed her the money. She was clearly lonely and wanted me to stay for a cup of coffee, but I had to go.”
“Did she mention her son?”
“In passing. I felt bad about leaving her alone, but she said that she was expecting her son to visit, that he came every Saturday. But, Ruby, I had the feeling that this was a lie.”
“How so?”
“The screen door needed fixing, the grass in the yard was in dire need of cutting. Little things a devoted son would take care of. You know what I mean?”
“I do.” Ruby then thinks to ask, “When was this?”
“Oh, gosh. Maybe a year ago.”
“Where?”
“Providence.”
Ruby can’t believe that. The last place she pictured Celestine was in New England, much less an hour or so away. Celestine seemed much more the type to end up in Florida.
“At any rate, how can I help you, Ruby?”
“You know what, give me Celestine’s address if you remember it and let’s forget the reading.”
“Okay.” If Lily thinks this odd, she doesn’t show it.
Ruby is never going to trust a deck of tarot cards that once belonged to Buck’s mother.
She forgot my other cookie. She doesn’t think that I can count, but I can count when I haven’t gotten more than one. Those little boxes that people cling to are so distracting, much like finding a new scent on a blade of grass when you are on a walk. Suddenly that scent grabs your nose and you can’t think of anything else until … squirrel! At any rate, Ruby is so distracted by the little thing that she must be reminded of my missing treat with a sharp yappy bark. I accept her apology.
Polly called to let Ruby know that Cooper has brought Bull home, that the old guy is doing pretty well, and taking his medicine and keeping away from the cigarettes and Mountain Dew. Ruby says she’ll drop in on him after her appointments. Déjà vu again. Leaving Harmony Farms Part II, or III or whatever it is. Stop at Bull’s and keep going. That was the plan a week ago, that is the plan today. She’s settled up with Ravi, wished him luck with the sale of the motel, called Sabine to let her know that she’s heading to the South Shore to the Ren Faire near Plymouth. Doug says he’d kind of like to join her there, spend the upcoming weekend. He’s even offered to find a nice hotel, what he laughingly said might be a step up from the Dew Drop. At first Ruby balked at the idea of company. She’s working, not sightseeing. But even before she objected, Ruby realized that the idea of having someone to eat with, to talk to about the day and the foibles of the gullible masses would be kind of fun. When Sabine was her constant companion, even during her cranky adolescence, it was nice to sit down to a meal and tell stories. Having another person across from her made her life seem close to normal. So she’s told Doug, sure. They won’t get a ton of time together, what with a ten-hour day in the tent, but some.
What she’s also thinking is that Providence is about forty-five minutes from where she’ll set up her tent under the pines on the grounds of the Renaissance Faire. The weekends-only event itself stretches until Columbus Day, and Ruby is hoping to be able to keep her tent up, avoid any more wear and tear on the fabric. She’ll have lots of time for a visit with Madame Celestine. Assuming she can gin up the courage.
Ruby finds the hobby farm with the unhappy miniature donkey with little difficulty. It’s a tidy little place on the outer edge of the posh Upper Lakes Estates where Cynthia Mann lives. A twenty-by-thirty pen delineates the creature’s space. A groove ten inches deep edges the interior perimeter of the circle. The pen itself is made of neat post and board, a scrim of green cage wire obviously intended to keep the animal within the confines of its space. Surrounding this corral are gardens of both the vegetable and floral variety. Stone walls outline a curvilinear cinder path that leads to a koi pond. All in all, more in keeping with Better Homes & Gardens than Farm World Magazine.
Even before she sees the subject of her morning consult, she hears it. A sound more like someone choking to death than a bray. The sound precedes the appearance of a moldy brown foursquare animal with the most enormous ears and the saddest eyes she’s ever seen. A black stripe runs the length of its back and a brush of mane sticks up as if it’s been electrocuted.
A woman comes out of the back door of the house. “This is Mr. Bates.”
“Really? Interesting choice of name.”
“Well, there was a Mrs. Bates, but she kicked the bejesus out of him.”
“That hardly sounds like Anna Bates.” Ruby gets the Downton Abbey reference and likes this lady’s style.
The woman introduces herself as Madeline and hands Ruby a carrot to try to entice the donkey over to the gate. “He used to be really friendly, practically dog-like, but lately he just paces and brays, paces and brays.”
“I’m thinking that he misses his tormentor. Is that possible?”
“Yes. I thought that too, but she really was miserable with him.”
“Maybe he’d like another companion, perhaps a boyfriend?”
“Is that your psychic evaluation?”
“Nope, just guesswork. If he’ll let me, I’ll see if I can get a more professional read on him.”
Madeline manages to get a halter on the donkey and rather than drag him over to Ruby, Ruby goes into the pen. She strokes his ears, mostly because she just wants to see how soft they are. His coat is bristly, but his ears are soft. He folds them back and Ruby steps away. Steps back, lays hands on his face, covers his massive brown eyes with her palms. He immediately relaxes. She can feel the long, long eyelashes against her hands, a little tickly, like caterpillar hair. There it is, a gentle rumble of vibration emanating from his skull. Ruby’s thoughts are filled with a deep loneliness that reaches right down and into her own heart. Loneliness and boredom. She releases the donkey’s face, lays her hands over her own heart. “He’s not lonely for Mrs. Bates; he’s lonely for someone else. Someone who played with him.”
Madeline bursts into tears.
Back in the van, Ruby turns to her dog. “Well, that was interesting.” Madeline, between sobs, had told the story of her husband abruptly leaving her. Completely unexpected, although she should, she said, have been reading the signs for months. Off he went, without more than a half hour’s warning, off into the arms of a woman he’d met online. Only Madeline hadn’t called it plain “online,” using a rather powerful descriptive in between “on” and “line” to establish her feelings about such things. Evidently, the miniature donkey missed the son of a bitch. Shocked into retreat, Ruby had given the only advice she could think of: Madeline should either start being the donkey’s playmate or find someone who can. It’s only when Ruby reaches the main road back to town that she realizes she hasn’t been paid. “Crap.” She does a quick Y-turn and heads back to the hobby farm.
Now she’s late for her second appointment before leaving town.
Ruby is careful not to stay too long at Bull’s, not wanting to tire him out and not wanting to find herself on Route 495 as commuter traffic ramps up in the late afternoon. He looks good, as good as a man who has spent a week in a hospital can appear. Boy looks better too. He has that old happy swing back in his tail that she’d missed the whole time she was taking care of him. He won’t leave Bull’s side even to greet her properly, letting her come to him.
“Hey, can’t offer you a Dew anymore, but wanna cup o’ tea or something?” Bull has tried to thank Ruby for her help, but she’s put a stop to that with a generic “It’s what friends do.”
“Friends. That kinda sums it up.” He gives her his big grin.
In the end, Ruby makes the tea and they sit and watch afternoon television for a bit before she announces that it’s time to go.
“See you soon?” It isn’t a plaintive question from Bull, but an affirmation.
“You bet.” The tentacles of belonging wrap themselves around Ruby’s psyche. For once she is incapable of pulling loose. “I’ll be back Monday.”
Traffic is indeed thick and slow as Ruby heads south on 495, but it gets better and she’s to her destination by four o’clock. All the way past Franklin, Medford, and Wrentham, she is mulling over her quick agreement to return to Harmony Farms on Monday. That had not been her intention, not at all, and it’s almost like she’s been inhabited by some woman who is comfortable staying in one place. It doesn’t help that Sarah Grace’s quick reply to Ruby’s last email included her telephone number with a 508 area code, suggesting that Sarah Grace lives in—who’d’a thought it?—Massachusetts. Is it possible, probable, or just weirdly coincidental that Ruby’s only known relative lives in the same state? The same state her daughter insisted on settling in. The one she herself seems to be incapable of getting out of lately. Ruby’s own area code is proudly random, having bought her first cell phone while passing through New Orleans: 504, signifying three wildly successful days during Mardi Gras when everyone wanted magic.
The grounds of the Renaissance Faire are unchanged from the last time she was here a number of years ago. Cranberry bogs bordered by a forest of tall pines, within which is a collection of permanent buildings that, when open, will house a blacksmith shop, a costume emporium, crystal sellers, dungeons and dragons–themed souvenirs and, of course, food. Less permanent structures will include the stages for acrobatic acts and the storytellers, the booths for mini archery and games of chance. On the outskirts, the grandstand that will host the day’s big event, the make-believe jousting. She can hear the horses stabled beyond the palings, one calling to another. Somewhere out of sight, two combatants are practicing their choreography; she can hear the chime of metal against metal. There is the oh-so-familiar scent of pine chips that are freshly raked over the paths that, in a little while, will be trampled into pulp.
The Hitchhiker at her heels, Ruby heads to the administrative offices located upstairs from the costume shop. There is nothing the least bit Medieval about the offices. Two women are sorting through file folders and a youngish man with close-cropped hair presides over a computer. He looks up as she comes in and Ruby gets the immediate sense that since the last time she worked this gig, there is new management.
Ruby introduces herself and her services.
“Oh, gosh, Ms. Heartwood, we’ve had all our acts lined up since last year. We don’t generally take anybody on this late in the game, and generally nobody new. We open tomorrow morning.”
One of the women fiddling with folders puts in her two cents. “Besides, we have a fortune-teller already.”
“Oh? May I ask who?” Ruby is surprised at her own lack of foresight. Of course it might be too late to get in on the action. She’s been stuck in Harmony Farms at the Makers Faire while the rest of the world has been making plans.
“Um, let me see.” The woman moves to a spot on the office wall where a map of the area is pinned. Squares, rectangles, and ovals each have a number within, and she finds the one she’s looking for, checks the number against a hand-printed key, pulls out a file folder with the corresponding number, and opens it. “Okay, here it is. Her name is Annie Felton.”
Hardly the name of a practicing psychic. “And what’s her professional name?”
“Doesn’t say. The business is listed as Clairvoyant and Seer. Pretty generic. Probably uses different names for different gigs.”
“Yes. Probably.” A suggestion that makes Ruby think this interloper—as she can’t help but view her—is a lightweight. A weekend dabbler. A fraud. “Well, if she doesn’t work out, please”—Ruby hands the youngish man her card—“call me. I’m not far.” Not far at all, having no place to go. “And I’m not new. I worked this Ren Faire for years.” She doesn’t get as snarky as she feels and keeps the “before you were born” out of her riposte.
Back in the van, Ruby fires off a quick text to Doug to let him know that her weekend plans have opened up. She gets one back almost immediately letting her know that he’s gotten a booking at a pet-friendly Airbnb in Sandwich, just a hop, skip, and a jump over either the Sagamore or Bourne bridges. He’ll meet her there in time for dinner. He’s made reservations for them at the Dan’l Webster Inn.
“Well, Hitch, looks like we get a mini vacation.”
The Hitchhiker seems to approve.
After a lovely dinner at the Dan’l Webster, old-fashioned Yankee pot roast for her, the special of the day for him, Ruby and Doug stroll around Sandwich village, admiring the antiquity of it and the pond with its old mill. The Sandwich Glass Museum is closed, so they plan to visit it the next day. Even as they make plans, Ruby keeps thinking about the relative proximity of Madame Celestine. Providence is less than fifty miles away. But the idea of a gentle adventure, a visit to the Heritage Gardens and Museums, a walk on the beach with the dog seems so much more attractive than facing down an old, what? What was Celestine to her now?
Doug takes her hand as they walk. “What’s on your mind, Ruby Heartwood?”
Had anyone ever asked her that question before?
So, she tells him. About Celestine, about Buck. Somewhere along the line, they find a bench and sit down while she digs back into old memories. “And now, all of a sudden, I know where she is. I’ve had her relegated to the past for so long it’s shocking to think that she actually exists.”
“Why do you think you need to confront her?”
“I’m not sure if confrontation is what I’m looking for, Doug. Maybe just see for myself that this woman is, like all of us, capable of bad judgment. That denying that her son was anything other than a monster was simply parental blindness.”
“Did she think you were lying? About what he did?”
“I think she told herself I was. She simply couldn’t see what was in front of her eyes.”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“She’s never known about Sabine? Never known that she has a granddaughter?”
“As far as I know.” Ruby pushes her hair away from her face where it’s caught in the light breeze and pulled free. “I suppose she does know about Sabine, in general. Not that she is who she is. It’s an interesting world, that of carnies and people in our profession, lots of gossip.”
“Everything hits the grapevine?”
“Something like that. People move from place to place and join this carnival or that circus. They regroup, find old friends, talk about who’s alive, who’s dead, and who’s hanging on by a thread.”
“Do you think Sabine wants Celestine to know about her?”
“You must be very good at your job.”
“I am. What I’m working around to, obliquely, I agree, is that it really isn’t Celestine you want to confront.”