Free Words by Ginny L. Yttrup Page B

Sierra, why do I put up with you? Tell me. Why?"
    By now I'm laughing so hard that I can barely answer her question. "You put up with me"—I gasp for air—"because you love me. Remember?"
    "No. I don't remember. I seem to have forgotten that for the moment." Irritation etches her face.
    Van, who's been a perfect gentleman thus far, paws at Ruby's leg. I see her irritation vanish as she bends to scratch behind his ears. "Well, you are a cute boy, I'll give her that. She has good taste. Come on in, Van. I have a piece of bacon for you."
    With that, Ruby and Van head for the kitchen, leaving me alone on the porch.
    "Hey, what about me? Where's my bacon?" I follow the sound of Van's nails clicking on hardwood.
    Ruby glances over her shoulder at me. "You don't get any."
    Once back in the kitchen I set Ruby's teapot to boil and then take the extra place setting from the table and put the dishes and silverware away. I pour juice for both of us as Ruby beats eggs and cuts vegetables for an omelet. Van rests at her feet hoping for more bacon.
    "So, why a dog? Why now?"
    Ah, the inquisition begins. "Wait a minute, Ruby, before you get going . . . am I forgiven?" Of course, I know her answer, but rather than coming right out and apologizing, it seems easier to hint at it by asking for forgiveness.
    Ruby turns and looks at me. She attempts a firm expression, but I see the smile she's trying to hide.
    "I'll let you know after breakfast." She turns back to the omelet she's working on and, undeterred, returns to her line of questioning. "So, why a dog? Why now?"
    "Do I need a reason?" Admittedly, I didn't think through the "why" of Van before getting him.
    Ruby slides the omelet from the pan onto a plate and then cuts it in half.
    "I don't know—it just seems out of character—you being the Lone Ranger and all." I roll my eyes and then consider her question. I wrestle with the answer because I don't like admitting the truth it draws to the surface. "I guess . . . I guess I get lonely sometimes. I want company." Ruby softens. "Oh, well, that makes sense. We all get lonely sometimes. Does he sleep on the bed with you?"
    "Good grief, Ruby. No. He has a crate. I said I'm lonely, not desperate. I don't want dog hair everywhere."
    "Right. Well, I'm proud of you. I think he'll be good for you. It's a good step—it's progress."
    "Progress? He's a dog, Ruby, not progress. Don't make such a big deal over nothing. He's just good company. So"—I change the subject before she delves into all the psychological reasons that getting a dog shows "progress" in my life—"what are you working on this week?"
    Our time over breakfast includes a hilarious discourse from Ruby about her latest subject—or "victim," as we like to call them. Ruby sculpts the human form in all its varying states—men, women, children, the elderly. But somehow she captures more than form—she sees her subject's soul and translates that in her work. Hers is a rare gift. It just so happens that the soul of her latest subject is a bit warped, or so she says.
    After breakfast I decide to take the lead and tell Ruby about my return to the clearing above Bonny Doon. I decide I'll save her the struggle of pulling it out of me. I figure I owe her that after my little stunt this morning. Anyway, I find myself wanting to talk—wanting to process what I found.
    While Ruby pours me another cup of tea and herself another cup of coffee, I mention my discovery yesterday. "Hey, I went back up to Bonny Doon. Looks like I'm not crazy after all."
    "You saw her again?" Ruby sits back down across the table from me.
    "No. But I saw evidence of her." I fiddle with my spoon as I think about what I'd found.
    Ruby leans forward, "What do you mean?"
    "It looks like that tree I told you about is her place—like a fort, or something."
    "Nobody lives up there, do they? Why would she play there?"
    "She might live up there. Who knows? You hear about people like that. They find a deserted logging cabin and