Ruth set down her heavy sack and turned to study the stone walls that lined either side of the road. She bent over and, starting from the ground, ran her hands up and over the big, two-man stones, then past the smaller cobbles nearer the top. All of it had been placed hither thither, without thought as to how the whole would last. Ruth frowned at the shoddiness of the work: without a trench, it would all tumble into ruin sooner rather than later. Of course, these were mere property lines, little more than rubbish heaps where some farmer had tossed up the fieldstones he’d plowed out before planting rows of corn and rutabaga, though rocks were by far the most reliable crop in those craggy parts.
Across the road, another effort showed the difference between one man and the next. The flat capping stones on top would keep rain and snow from loosening the wall
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below. Much better, Ruth thought, though she disagreed with his placement of one handsome rock, pale with black seams, almost like stitching on a quilt. He’d laid it too near the ground, which was, to her eye, a waste.
It would be good to work again, Ruth thought. The two vertical lines between her eyes eased as she bent down to reach for a smooth, white, egg-shaped pebble that seemed out of place in the dust. But as she began to straighten up, the hairs at the back of Ruth’s cropped head stood up: someone was nearby. She gripped the stone, ready to throw it, ready to run. With both fists clenched tightly, she turned, but found no enemy; only a brown dog of middling size.
He stood in the middle of the road, sniffing in her direction. Ruth remained braced for attack, but the cur stayed where he was, his eyes on hers. After a moment, he cocked his head to one side, and Ruth couldn’t help but smile.
The dog shook himself from one end to the other, stretched his front legs out in a long bow, sneezed, and set off up the path. The dancing tan flags on his haunches seemed to invite her to follow. Ruth shouldered her burlap bag and trailed after him to a rambling two-story house.
Though weather-battered and worn, it showed signs of life, with squash and beans growing helter-skelter, Indian-style, on either side of the open door into which the dog had disappeared. The next moment, a child wearing an outsize cap appeared at the threshold and wiped her hands on her apron, just like a grown woman. As she drew closer, Ruth realized it was a woman after all. And not a young one either, though she was barely more than four feet tall.
“I’m Easter Carter,” she said. “And what might I call you?”
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“John Woodman.”
Easter put her hands on her hips. “Come, come. That’s a man’s name. You got a woman’s name?”
“Ruth,
” she said and frowned. She’d meant to leave that name behind for good.
“Whither goest thou?” said Easter, grinning at he own joke.
Ruth made no reply.
“What brings you up this way, dearie?”
“I came to see Brimfield farm.”
Easter cocked her head to one side, a perfect imitation of the dog in the road. “Don’t see why. The Brimfields all died or moved away years ago. The fields were near the coast. Looks like someone sent you on a goose chase, dearie.
You should have walked Washington Street to get there.
You’re in Dogtown now.”
Ruth set down her sack. It had been two days since she’d slept and nearly as long since she’d eaten. A girl’s high giggle issued out the door, and a man’s laugh rumbled out after it. Ruth took a step back.
“I get the young ones up here for a good time,” Easter said. “I got no lodgings for strange men, though.” Then she winked as though they were sharing a joke.
Ruth had the feeling that the odd little woman was asking her a question, though she wasn’t quite sure what it was.
“Can you pay for room and board?” Easter asked.
Ruth pulled out her last coin and pointed at a pile of rocks that had once been a garden wall. “I can fix that.”