WISHBONE (15 page)

Rachael sat back frustrated by his refusal to discuss the matter further.

She glared at him. “I’m cooking that chicken in there and we’re going to eat it and break the wishbone again.” She waited with folded arms, a child-like look of defiance on her face.

His chin dropped to his chest; he shook his head then turned to face her “Rachael,” he said. “Please, you can’t honestly believe this game has anything to do with this.”

“Humor me,” she countered.

“What?” He was unsure of the expression.

“Humor me…go along with it for my sake.”

“No.” He wanted her to understand where
he
was coming from. “For your sake, I will
not
go along with this.
That
is what is for your sake!”

She filled her glass again. “What’s that supposed to mean?” She drained half in one swallow.

“It means that there have been enough hysterics.”

“So I’m hysterical now?”

She is looking to fight. 

She is frustrated…worried about her own mental state. 

 “I do not want to fight this with you,” he insisted. “I am trying to protect you.” His patience reached its peak. “Enough.” He ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. “I cannot do the god-damned roller coasters like this…” His voice trailed off. She would keep this going forever unless he agreed there was something more going on here, but once he did, there would be no telling where she would go with it.

“Then what are you afraid of? Just eat the fucking chicken and crack the fucking wishbone and the theory is disproven…never to be discussed again.”

“You cannot be serious. This is your theories? The fucking wishbones healed me and repaired the ladder? Do you hear yourself?”

“And your theory is…?” she held her palms up in the air, mocking him with a tight grin. “At least I
have
a theory.”

“My theories is that the stupide docteur make a fucking mistake. There was a mess-up with my x-rays and Randall came and fix the ladder today…
Sarah to the rescue again
.” He reached for the wine bottle and poured a second glass.

She will win this. 

I will fucking give in to her insanity for the sake of my sanity.

So why do you bother to argue?

She pointed at his shirt pocket. “Okay, call Randall right now.”

“And how do I say it?
Randall did you come fix the broken ladder, or did the wishbone do it?
I have to think about this first.”

Rachael sneered. “Just ask him if he came and fixed the ladder…,” she mumbled under her breath, “…
fucking asshole!
”

Julien reached into his pocket for the phone and scrolled for Randall’s number. The line rang; Randall answered.

Julien, his voice laden with trepidation, “Hi, Randall, this is Julien Grenier. How are you?”

“I’m good…yourself?”

“Very well, thank you.” He shot Rachael a look. “Listen, were you up here today in the barn?”

 “No, was I supposed to be?”

“No, no. We had no plan. You weren’t here last night or today?”

Randall laughed insecurely. “No, why?” he asked. “What’s going on? Is there some sort of problem?”

“No problem, no. It’s a long stories, but I wanted to call and be sure.”

Randall paused before continuing. “I haven’t been on your property since I did the work,” he said somewhat defensively, feeling he was perhaps about to be accused of something.

“No, I’m sure you have not. It is not a big deal. While I have you, I need to talk to you about hauling some of the garbage away in the barn. Do you do this kinds of things?”

“Sure, I can do that. Anything for a buck these days, right?” He laughed.

Rachael waved at the air, hurrying him off the phone.

Julien continued, “I will call you next week and we can set up a day for you to come.”

“Sounds good. Call me when you’re ready,” Randall agreed.

Julien hung up. 

Rachael was anxious. “Well? He wasn’t up here was he?”

“No, he was not.” Julien drained his wine.

“So that rules out at least part of your theory.”

He knew it was hopeless and he gave in. “Rachael, go cook the thing and we’ll play your game. I don’t know what else to do to appease you.”

Julien stood up. “What will you do when nothing happens and no wishes are granted?” he inquired. “Where will you get your answers then?”

“I’ll agree that the bones are ridiculous,” she offered, “but no more so than you waking up fully healed this morning.”   

Julien walked away from her, entering the house and allowing the screen to slam between them. “I am going upstairs to lie down,” he informed and walked away.

Rachael felt a twinge of pain in her jaw and caught herself clenching her teeth. She hated that they were fighting about any of this and for a moment, standing alone, she agreed she was being foolish. Then the events played out in her mind once more and she felt her frustration with Julien rise again. She could not fathom how something so incredible could happen right before their eyes, and yet he could sweep it under the rug with no questions asked. 

She heard the ducks and looked over toward the barn. Several moments later, she found herself standing at the base of the loft’s ladder. She was not about to climb the thing, but she wanted to have a better look. There was no sign of repair and it gave none as hard as she shook. She stepped further away and looked up at the top. Each rung perfectly spaced and in place. She dropped her arms to her sides, baffled. The soft murmur of the chickens caught her attention. She looked over her shoulder at the coop door.

Inside, the birds danced about. She stepped into the addition for the first time ever, and the deafening chatter surprised her. A hen stared down at Rachel from its nesting box. It watched her; it was the only one watching her. Rachael studied the bird and could see it was old, perhaps the oldest hen there. It stared back at her intently and Rachael felt compelled to look away. To Rachael, it felt as if the old hen knew what they had been doing.
Maybe I am going crazy again,
she pondered. She decided to ignore the bird and walked to the far end of the coop where she could see their home. She laced her fingers through the wire and rested on one hip as she scanned the property.
It really is beautiful
, she thought. She looked to the upper level of the house and hoped for one glimpse of Julien, but the windows were dark and there was no sign of him. She turned to head back when her left foot sank into a soft patch of dirt.

“Shit. That’s all I need is to break my neck out here,” she told herself. She ran the tip of her sneaker back and forth across the ground. It was clearly loose, not packed hard like the rest.  She looked over at the old hen, its eyes still upon her. It made a soft cooing sound and Rachael forced herself to look away again. She knelt down, causing some of the chickens to scatter, and scraped at the soft dirt with the knuckle of a bent finger. She dug deeper, inch by inch, until she was using both hands. She felt something and yanked her hand back then poked at it again.

“
Ewww,”
she let out, cringing as she pulled a black plastic grocery bag from the ground.  Dry dirt fell away from its creases and folds. She opened the bag only about an inch and peeked inside with only one squinted eye.
Bones.
She closed the bag and tossed it into the hole.

“
Gross
. Dead chicken burial ground.
Ewww
.”  She curled her lip and wrinkled her nose. “Disgusting.” 

She scraped the dirt back into the hole covering the bag quickly. Getting to her feet, she stomped on the loose dirt to pack it as tight as she could.

“Rest in peace, little chicky,” she muttered. “Sorry I disturbed you.” She dusted herself off and headed back out of the coop. As Rachael closed the door, the old hen watched. Now lying on its side, the bird’s plump breast heaved with a delayed contraction. Her eyes still fixed on the coop door; she took one final, slow draw of air and fell still, her eyes set in a frozen stare.

* * * *

Julien climbed the ladder, taking his time and moving slowly. He could feel the smooth polished wood beneath his palms. An owl fluttered, its enormous wingspan gliding overhead then disappearing from view past the loft floor above him. He looked down watching his boots hit their mark before taking the next rung. He felt like the world was moving in slow motion. He could hear the muffled cackle of chickens emanating from the coop below. He reached the top of the ladder and looked up, coming eye to eye with Jérome.

Jérome’s broad shoulders jutted past the edge, lying on the loft floor, looming over Julien. Their faces inches apart, the smell of bourbon engulfed Julien. Jérome reached over the ledge now, a chicken, dead and dangling from his grasp. He held the mangled bird, its neck broken and clenched tightly in his smallest finger. The chicken’s body flopped lifelessly through the air as Jérome’s remaining fingers swallowed up the top of Julien’s skull. The decaying bird brushed up against Julien’s cheek and he tried to pull away as he struggled to hold onto the ladder. Jérome manipulated Julien as if he were still a small child; his unyielding grip relentlessly steering him from one side to the next like a toy. 

All Julien could do was hold on and brace himself, but with one fast shove, Jérome threw Julien backward away from the ladder. 

The fall seemed to last forever until he was aware of the ground rushing up behind him…

* * * *

Julien woke suddenly. Out of breath, he sat up and frantically scanned the bedroom.

Rachael yelled from the base of the stairs, “Julien, dinner
.
”

He looked at the clock.

7:09 pm.

It was the first time he had dreamt of Jérome since their relocation. It was also the first time he had ever dreamt of his father in a scenario that had never happened in real life. His years of nightmares had always been reenactments of childhood experiences with the man, memories playing out in his sleep. This had been different and Julien was particularly disturbed by the occurrence. 

He entered the bathroom and splashed some water on his face.

Get it out of your mind. 

It is alone a ridiculous dream.

He looked at himself in the mirror. As he remembered from the only photograph of her on his grandparent’s mantle, he had his Mother’s eyes; Jérome’s eyes, now fresh in his mind, were empty and hollow. He was a killer, a sociopath who may still be rotting in Prison Saint-Michel in Seysses or, by now, perhaps dead, his decomposing liver finally doing him in. Julien came out of his trance still staring into the mirror. He relaxed the tension in his jaw and dried his face and hands with a towel.

* * * *

Rachael placed the serving platter in the center of the table. She prepared a complete meal tonight; wild rice, warm rolls, mushrooms with gravy and fresh green beans. Julien looked over the spread as he sat down across from her.

A fresh start…be kind.

He knew no one would be joining them, but he asked for the sake of conversation, “Just for us?” Rachael did not respond, but sat unfolding a napkin in her lap. 

He tried again. “It looks very good.”

“I thought we should have a proper meal for once.” She shrugged with a
no big deal
air.

“It’s nice.” He tried to catch her attention, but she never looked up. “This is good. I like it.”

“Do you want some wine?” She was ready to jump up again.

He stopped her and said, “No, no, I think I have enough wine for today. I sleep like the logs.” He sipped from a water glass then served himself some mushrooms before passing the bowl to Rachael.

She asked, “Are you going to carve it?”

Julien helped himself to a roll. He looked at the bird they were both avoiding, its crisp skin oozing juices. He nodded emphatically, not wanting to show any sign of concern.

Don’t be an imbicile. 

Carve the fucking bird.

He dragged the plate closer to his side of the table and looked at the knife and fork resting beside it. An overwhelming urge to tear away at it with his bare hands was kept at bay only by the knowledge that Rachael was watching him closely. He began to salivate. He glanced toward Rachael who was transfixed on the roast. She licked her lips and swallowed. They could not have cared less about the wishbone; the only thing on their minds was the succulent meat. Julien took the carving knife and fork and began slicing into its flesh. A perfect oval slice fell to the plate. Rachael’s hand lurched forward and she snatched it immediately, Julien nearly stabbing her with the blade. He watched her for a moment as she bit into the slice of meat. His own urges brought his attention back to the bird. He cut another portion. His hands began to tremble and he dropped the carving knife and fork to tear at the bird by hand. Rachael reached across the table, their fingers slick with grease and in each other’s way.

Before either knew what they had done, it was over. They had no concept of time. It might have been hours, or just moments, but the only thing left was a pile of separated bones, some on the serving platter, some on their plates and a few scattered about the grease stained tablecloth.

Julien reached into his shirt pocket and lit a cigarette. He sat back. He took a drag then studied it between his fingers while he methodically drummed the table with his other hand. He had not noticed the radio playing softly in the den until now. For a moment, he kept a slightly-off beat to Bobby Darin’s
Beyond the Sea,
then stopped drumming to take another drag. He looked at Rachael who was silently staring at her plate. Scanning the table, serving bowls full of untouched side dishes, a basket of rolls still wrapped in a linen towel. He had no recollection of eating, but was well aware that he had. He took a closer look at Rachael. 

Leaning forward, he knocked on the table in front of her to get her attention. “Wake up,” he told her. 

She slowly looked at him. He was surprised to find sadness in her eyes. He tapped at the corner of his lip letting her know she needed to wipe her mouth.  She smiled nervously and took her napkin up to clean her face.