WISHBONE (6 page)

The Catskills were an hour further north than Julien had planned to live. He sat beside his wife in the back seat of the real estate agent’s car, wondering if Rachael would be willing to get out and have a look this time. Their last trip had been a wasted one; arriving at their destination, only to have Rachael refuse to try; neither willing to leave the car nor allow Julien to leave her side. They had made the three-hour trip only to turn back around, returning to the city having not explored a single home. There was no way to predict how she might react today. He studied her now, watching her stare blankly out the window of the speeding vehicle. She had not said a word all day. 

Arlette Vandermark propelled the Mercedes S65 over pitted dirt roads and endless winding knolls without concern for its two-hundred-thousand-dollar price tag. Julien thought it strange; a small town real estate agent able to afford a new Mercedes, and a top of the line model, at that. 

The car jerked and bounced, carrying them over nothing more than glorified hiking trails.

This house better be amazing.

So far, all Julien had seen through the windows were rundown shacks and decaying barns, peeking out from the dense landscape. Knowing that Rachael was having one of her
bad days
, he wondered if he should have cancelled the trip after all. This was their third trip Upstate, now over four-hours from the city, in search of the right home. He was not entirely sure what would constitute the
right home
, but in his heart, he felt he would know it when they found it. Julien looked up to see the agent watching his wife’s reflection in the rearview mirror. It was getting harder to keep people from noticing Rachael’s odd behavior and he was growing self-conscious about it; embarrassed for them both and protective of what would have been Rachael’s feelings had she been herself.

He immediately deflected her gaze. “Are we getting close? This house is a little further than we wanted to live.” He let his disapproval be known.

“Oh, this home is worth it, Mr. Grenier. I assure you.” Arlette found Rachael in the mirror once again. “Are you alright, Mrs. Grenier?”

Julien jumped into action once more. “She’s fine. We had a long drive up this morning.” 

Arlette shifted her gaze to Julien’s reflection; his eyes clearly warning the woman to mind her own business. Arlette claimed to be a local yet she dressed like old Park Avenue money. Her stylish red hair and tastefully applied make-up were flawless. During their telephone conversation, she mentioned living in Kings Hollow for sixty-six years, her entire life, yet meeting her face to face, Julien thought she did not look a day older than fifty. Upon further examination in the mirror, he thought there might be a subtle hint of a slight nip or tuck in her recent past.

Arlette was not one to heed warnings. “Is Mrs. Grenier also French?” She had not heard the woman utter a word since meeting the couple at the office hours earlier.

“American,” Julien responded. “How much further to the house?” He was losing patience.

As if on cue, Arlette turned the Mercedes at the base of a steep mountain incline. “We’re just about there now.”

The road began to narrow and one side fell off to a jagged cliff; the other, dense forest.

“Kings Hollow is a beautiful town, Mr. Grenier. Most of my family lives out this way,” she announced as if it were a selling point. “Only an hour from Schenectady and about ninety minutes to Albany yet nestled away in the rural countryside. Your home is surrounded by a nature preserve. Even the deer are safe here.” Arlette grinned into the mirror.

My home? 

Presumptuous, no?

“It’s only fifteen minutes from our town center. Shops, restaurants; we even have our own movie theater. Very quaint; very convenient.”

“It is also one-‘undred-thousand dollars above our budget,” Julien reminded.

“As I mentioned on the phone, the price is negotiable.” She smiled. “Please, Mr. Grenier, trust me. You’re no longer in the city. No one here is out to sell you a bridge. When you see all that you’re getting for the price, you’ll be quite pleased, I assure you.”

I certainly hope so.

Julien found Rachael’s hand and gave it a testing, gentle squeeze; she did not reciprocate. 

The car continued to climb the dirt path, higher and higher, haphazardly clipping the cliff’s edge; too close for Julien’s comfort. 

Where the hell is she taking us?

Arlette continued to make unwanted conversation. “Kings Hollow is a wonderful place to raise a family. You said you have no children yet?”

Don’t talk of children…imbecile.

Julien glared into the mirror again, but Arlette was now focused on turning the car at the top of the mountain, maneuvering around a tight bend, she broke through a clearing. They came out onto a lengthy, curving driveway. Looming one-hundred-yards away stood an enormous stark-white Victorian home. As they moved closer to the house, Arlette slowed the car to a crawl, allowing them time to take in the vast scene over the sound of crunching, newly laid, pea-gravel beneath the tires.

“Isn’t she incredible?” Arlette’s sales pitch continued. “Built in the late 1800’s.”

Julien said nothing as the car rolled onward, gradually approaching the spectacular manor. Into his view came the ornate detail of the jet-black trim, the wraparound porch and porch swing, instantly reminding him of his grandfather’s dairy—
though his childhood home had been very modest.
Atop the second story loomed a widow’s walk, which Julien felt sure would offer an endless view of the Catskill Mountains.

Two ducks followed by a trail of ducklings crossed the road ahead. The small yellow figures fumbled over one another, scampering to catch up with the adults. A smile spread across Julien’s face and he quickly caught himself; he didn’t want to appear overly impressed before they had a thorough look around, and negotiations were done and amicable. His eyes fell upon an old barn about sixty yards to the left of the house. It was weathered, but from a distance, it appeared to be in decent shape. Something caught his eye and he looked to the back, behind the barn. His father, coming through some trees and heading toward them, a bottle held low at his side, slapping against his leg. Julien felt his chest tighten and looked away. He shook the vision off violently.

What was that?

What the fuck is wrong with me?

Arlette watched him in the mirror. “The barn could use a little TLC, but all the previous owners have only used it for storage.”

Slowly, Julien turned back to the barn.

Nothing.

No one.

My eyes, they are playing tricks.

Julien’s mouth went dry. He returned to the conversation. “All…?  How many times has the house been sold?” He asked; his heart still beating fast.

Arlette, disappointed by her own careless choice of words, thought quickly, “Well, you know how it is… we get city folk moving up here with their romantic notion of country living. Then they move in and before you know it, they miss the bustle of the city. Now
you
have experience with country living, correct?”

“Yes. Like I told you, I grew up on a dairy farm in France.”

Arlette smiled. “Then there shouldn’t be a problem.”

Julien thought briefly about his childhood in the country and the many differences from city living. One did not know darkness until experiencing a country night. It was amazing how much light the city gave off; it was never truly dark. He looked over at Rachael, surprised to find her bright-eyed, attentive, and scanning the old impeccably maintained Victorian. 

Arlette brought the car to a stop directly in front of the porch. Rachael immediately opened the door, rushing out of the car and leaving Julien behind.

Stunned, Julien slid out after her, but Rachael was already up the steps and opening the front door. Even Arlette seemed surprised when Rachael disappeared inside ahead of them. The agent rushed after her.

Julien lit a cigarette and remained by the car, scanning the property and all its glory. Between the home and the barn, he could see the ducks wallowing in a small pond; a decorative wooden bridge stretching from one side to the other. He listened for Rachael, fully expecting her to cry out for him, but she didn’t. He continued to look around outside for a while. He walked to the back of the house where he found an apple orchard. He couldn’t tell how far back it extended, but there were trees as far back as he could see. He came around to the other side of the house where a long line of maple trees stretched out in one evenly spaced row, small taps protruding from their bark; containers over-flowing with collecting sap. Full circle, he came back around to the car. He listened, but the house remained quiet. He looked out toward the barn again then made his way to the pond. The ducks noisily waddled out of the water, surrounding his legs then following him over the bridge. He opened the creaking barn door, entering, and leaving the ducks behind.

Inside, the barn was dark with only small streams of light seeping through the cracks. He noticed light fixtures void of bulbs strategically spaced on the walls. There was garbage strewn about, old boxes and broken tools, dried out bales of hay, and a few old paint cans. Faint noise came from beyond a far wall. He noticed a door, and through it he heard a recognizable cackle.

Chickens?

Two dented metal garbage cans sat on either side of the door. He opened one, exposing cracked corn, then the other, filled with green pellets.

Animal feed.
 

He took hold of the door handle and gave it a turn. A cacophony filled the air, frantic cackling as loud as firecrackers exploding all around him. He stepped into the large coop and closed the door behind him. It was well constructed of wood and wire, half the length of the massive barn and immaculately kept. There were chickens everywhere; some sitting on nesting boxes, others were gathering around his feet, still others scattering at the sight of him. He turned around. Another flash of movement caught his eye. He was sure he saw something outside the coops’ wire walls dart swiftly behind the side of the barn. 

All we need is the two of us losing our minds.

He thought perhaps his eyes were deceiving him again, then shrugged it off and focused on the coop. No doubt the previous owners would be back for the birds or had made other arrangements for them. Chickens were messy and loud, and not anything he was interested in keeping. He wanted their lives to be simple now. The chickens would have to go. It dawned on him that, like Arlette, he too was referring to the property as if it was already his own. This would be a huge decision and making it rashly could be a disaster. For all he knew the inside of the house was dilapidated. Having seen enough of the surrounding property and its outbuildings, he decided it was time to tour the house.

Leaving the chickens behind, he stepped back into the barn. The birds quieted almost immediately. He headed off to find Rachael and the agent. On his way out of the barn, he noticed a tall ladder leading to a loft high above. He went to it, testing its integrity with a harsh shake.

Solid.

He gauged the loft to be about eighteen feet above ground and half the width of the mammoth structure. He tested the ladder again then ascended cautiously. About halfway up, he gave a fleeting glance downward. His grip tightened and he continued to the top; he wasn’t a fan of heights. Some of the rungs creaked beneath his weight and he wondered if he should even be attempting the climb, but continued on. Reaching the loft, he peered across the floor. Dust had settled thick, and cobwebs hung from all corners. Wings flapped loudly and an owl flew out of a large window, nearly startling him off the ladder.

Putain de merde!

Here is where you kill yourself.
 

He laughed it off and came up the final section of ladder, finding his footing high above the ground. He peered back down over the edge; his signature dive bomb whistle echoed through the air.

Now you have to get yourself back down.
 

He would figure out how after having a look around. The window, where the owl had escaped, was not a window after all, but rather a loading door. Just past the opening and hanging from the roof above was an old pulley, which Julien figured had been used to haul up hay bales back in the day. Holding on to the opening for dear life, he reached out to touch the rusted pulley and the apparatus immediately broke away, crashing to the ground below; startling him yet again. He laughed nervously and shook his head feeling foolish.

You broke it, you bought it, Julien.
 

He looked out at the breathtaking view. Green rolling hills, trees and mountains for miles.  Glancing downward once again, he experienced immediate vertigo, and quickly stepped back on the creaking floor, far from the opening. Reaching out cautiously, he swung open the other half of the loading door, broadening his view. The increased sunlight allowed him a better look around. Enamored by the space, he felt happier than he had in months; he began to formulate a plan.

If we decide to buy the place, I could make this my office.

Install a new pulley; get the desk up here…

A filing cabinet, my computer...

He moved back to the loft doors and looked in the direction of the house. There was no sign of Rachael or Arlette anywhere. He returned to the ladder, kneeling and maneuvering himself over the ledge. He descended slowly.

Note to self…
 

The wood snapped and Julien caught himself on the next rung, still twelve feet or more above the ground. “Nique ta mere!”

…replace the ladder.

We won’t tell Rachael about that.

Safely back on the ground, he headed off to the house. Coming up the front porch, he passed the hanging swing swaying delicately in the breeze. Again, he thought of his grandfather. He could almost smell the apple tobacco and hear the sound of cows mooing in the distance.