Susan Wilson

What a Dog Knows

What a Dog Knows

WHAT A DOG KNOWS is the story of Ruby Heartwood, who has spent her life running away. She ran away from the Canadian orphanage where she had been left as a newborn; she ran away from those who would exploit her; and from the man who raped her. She ran from child welfare authorities as a runaway teen and as a teenage mother. She’s never allowed herself, or wanted, to stay put in any place. She’s never felt connected. Until now.

Ruby is a psychic, a fortune teller. She has spent most of her life telling fortunes at street fairs, carnivals and the odd Renaissance Faire. Of late, her abilities to tell a person’s fortune have been declining, and she’s been left riffing on what she sees in the tea leaves or on palms. She’s on her way from one place toward an undetermined other when she is forced to seek refuge from a powerful storm. With her less than dependable Westfalia parked at Lake Harmony, Ruby is settled in for the night when there is a terrific bolt of lightning. As the storm clears away and dawn breaks, a voice outside the van demands: “Let me in.” There is no one there but a little tri-colored spaniel. As plain as day Ruby hears the little dog’s thoughts, she too wants shelter. The little Hitchhiker becomes Ruby’s fast friend and her familiar. And Ruby hopes that this new skill, to communicate with animals, will revitalize her career.

Despite a history of never staying put, Ruby finds herself lingering in Harmony Farms, almost against her will. She is haunted by strange dreams which lead her to wonder if she’s not been running away all this time, but running toward something–or someone.

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What a Dog Knows
By Susan Wilson.
June 2021. 368p. St. Martin’s, $25.99 (9781250077264).
Surrendered as a newborn to Sacred Heart School, Mary Jones never knew her birth family. She felt doubly lost as her psychic abilities developed, and she had no one to turn to for guidance. Punished for possessing knowledge she couldn’t explain, she ended up on the streets, calling herself Ruby Heartwood. She never settled in one spot for long, even after becoming a teen mom, but she did learn how to use her gifts to make a living at local fairs and with traveling carnivals. Arriving in Harmony Farms, Massachusetts, during a storm, Ruby parks her trusty Westfalia camper van and finds herself opening the door to a small stray dog. When a series of events strands Ruby in this small town with big secrets, it might not be just a
coincidence. Readers will find it difficult to put this book down, even briefly, lured on to discover what the next chapter might reveal about Ruby’s past or this small town filled with blossoming friendships. And then there are the thoughts of her clever and irresistible canine companion. In Wilson’s latest dog-centric novel, following The Dog I Loved (2019), the emotional connections feel authentic as  interactions between characters propel Ruby’s unusual and intriguing journey of self-discovery. -Stacey Hayman

Excerpts

PROLOGUE

Back in the day, Ruby Heartwood—fortune-teller, seer, psychic—seemed exotic, mysterious, slightly dangerous. Now, for someone who dresses in a gold-brocade caftan and reads tarot cards in a conical tent with a pennant flapping in the breeze, she looks, well, dated. Madame Ruby isn’t drawing them in like she used to. The trouble with setting up at these Renaissance Faires is that it has become more Game of Thrones cosplay than an homage to the era of Camelot. Nowadays people seem to like seers with pyrotechnics. Today, one customer, dressed like a cross between a barbarian (as imagined) and Jared Leto, offered to let her read the chicken bones from his order from Ye Olde Pub Grub. Complete idiot. She declined, asked for his hand and read him a completely bogus fortune that included attracting a woman who would appear gnomish at first, but then be revealed as a femme fatale. Happily, the hairy jerk planted a sticky twenty in her hand and sloshed his Ye Olde Pub authentic “mead” all over the rug she had beneath her table. Even if she had actually been able to glean a real prognostication from his palm, she would have lied to him anyway.

Ruby tries not to dwell on the fact that for the past few months it’s all been bogus readings. Her powers of interpretation seem to be on the decline—as in gone.

The truth is, Ruby is ready to move on. If this had been a more lucrative gig, she’d stay through the rest of the weekend; but, really, there is no point. Another hundred bucks, and that’s being optimistic, won’t make or break her budget. It’s more imperative to listen to her instincts. This Renaissance Faire is tapped out. Time to go. The itch to be gone has evolved, as it always does, from a niggling idea to a compulsion.

As she always does when it’s time to go, Ruby pulls out her atlas and opens it to the next state from where she happens to be. It’s not quite as random as, say, closing her eyes and dropping a finger on a page, but not too far off. Some would suggest that a fortune-teller might consult her tarot cards or tea leaves, but Ruby prefers a degree of planning over allowing fate to take the wheel. Forty years on the road, and she has learned that it’s better to move one hop at a time than take big strides. Better to have at least an idea of where she’s going. Both she and her VW Westfalia have aged out of eighteen-hour drives.

Ruby packs up her tent, stows everything into the camper van that has been her home on the road since it was almost new, ever since her daughter, Sabine, went off to college and never returned to their wayfaring lifestyle. A decision that made it possible for Ruby to quit any pretense at needing a stationary place to call home. As she has said before, if you have a van you aren’t homeless.

Since the advent of direct deposit and ATMs, cell phones and online bill pay, Ruby hasn’t spent more than a few weeks in any one place. She could. She could take up her daughter Sabine’s offer to use the little garage apartment attached to their house; settle into grandmother-hood and being useful to Sabine and her busy family. Those few times when she’d done that, made a concerted effort to be a normal mother, the claustrophobia descended. Not the kind of claustrophobia that would make one nervous about elevators, but the kind that gives Ruby the sense that she is being followed. Observed. As if she’s an object of someone’s curiosity. Not in the way that as a psychic she has cultivated curiosity. That kind of curiosity she stops attracting simply by taking off the gold brocade caftan, sweeping her hair back up into a twist and throwing on jeans and a T-shirt. Poof, just your average lady. Nothing to see here.

This sense of being watched is neither ominous nor benign. Not comforting; not frightening. It is more a shadow or a glint in the corner of her eye. A presence that keeps Ruby’s hands on the steering wheel and her foot on the gas. Don’t catch me. When she was a kid, a runaway, she sometimes thought that it was her unknown mother looking for her, a fantasy only a little different than the imaginary reunions she and her fellow orphans indulged in. Different in that, even as a teenager, Ruby was pragmatic; her survival required her to focus on the here and now; keeping ahead of the law. Now that feeling of being sought has evolved into a simple habit—keep moving.

Last night, for the first time in many a year, Ruby had a dream about her mother. She had no face, no voice, no presence, but Ruby had awakened knowing that the dream had been about the woman who left her behind.

Ruby doesn’t bother to let the management know of her retreat. Some people call it an Irish goodbye, but for Ruby it is what she has always done. To simply vanish. Even on paper, Ruby doesn’t exist.

 

Excerpt from Chapter Two

Ruby opens her eyes, pushes back the café curtain in the Westfalia. The light gracing the lake shimmers in the dawn. The blue sky above the lake’s surround of green pines is cloudless. It’s a pretty day. The dream has dissipated, but not the sense of hearing a voice.

 Open the door.

“Oh geez.”

Not her dream-mother, but some stranger outside her van asking for admittance. Jumping up, Ruby slips a sweatshirt over her T-shirt, pushes open the café curtain on the door side of the van, and looks out. No one there. Then she hears a rough scratching against the side of the van, too rhythmic to be a branch. She slides the heavy door a few inches and looks out, then down. Looking up at her is a small black and white dog. It has a goofy grin on its face, as if it’s brought her a surprise.

 Please let me in.

Ruby sinks back onto the bench. Scowls. She slips the derringer into the palm of her hand, then pulls aside the café curtains on the  other side of van, looks out. Still no one. No one human.

 In, please.

Ruby jerks open the van door to its fullest and steps out, looks for the ventriloquist who has woken her with his foolish parlor trick. But it is only the dog. Taking her silence for permission, the dog jumps into the van, jumps onto the bench, circles three times and is instantly asleep.

“Hey, you can’t do that. Out.”

The dog opens one eye. “You invited me in.”

It’s not like the dog’s mouth is moving, or even that she’s hearing its voice with her ears, it’s more like she’s being inhabited by some kind of auditory mist. It’s all in my head, she thinks. And yet it doesn’t feel entirely unfamiliar. It is almost exactly the same misty sense that she gets when she has an actual intuitive moment with a client. Or when she was a child, just finding out about her clairvoyant powers, and would see the future or the pain or the conflict residing within a person. In this case, she is hearing what the dog thinks. It’s not even that what’s bouncing around in her mind are actual words, it is the language of images and senses, not speech. Gingerly, she reaches out and touches the dog on its furry back. There is a mild vibration, a tingling that courses up through her fingertips and suddenly her mind is filled with sounds which feels like she’s breathing them in. It’s like a sudden onset synesthesia, where scent translates into colors. In this case, the olfactory becomes visual. She hears grass and macadam; the way a child’s skin is soft; the way loss is unspeakable. She pulls her hand away. Her heart is racing, her hands shaking. Ruby is suddenly dry-mouthed. She leaves the van, leaving the door wide open and runs to the park’s restroom. Scooping water from the faucet, she drinks and then splashes her face. Catches her breath. “This is crazy.”

If she can understand what this dog is thinking, what does it expect of her?

Refreshed from its brief nap, the dog greets Ruby outside the van, bows and stretches. Shakes. Squats, and Ruby sees that this is a little girl dog. Ruby sits down, pats her knee and the dog bounds over. “What do you want?” She doesn’t touch the dog, wanting to see if this phenomena will happen without a physical connection. She leans down, and the dog gives her a tiny kiss. “I want to be with you.”

“Why?” Ruby hopes that she is truly alone in this state park; she would hardly like to be observed asking a dog questions as if she expected answers.

“You are alone.”

“I’m not looking for a companion.”

“Yes, you are.”

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Susan Wilson