WISHBONE (9 page)

Rachael appeared with two mugs, handing one to Julien then crawling into bed beside him. She snuggled close and rested her cheek on his chest.

“Read to me.”  She asked, handing him a book.

“Read to you?” He looked at the copy of
Watership Down
. “Rabbits?”

“It’s
Watership Down
, Jules…Richard Adams. You’ll like it. It’s a classic. Very symbolic.” She nestled in closer. “Please read…”

Julien found the bookmark, opening the book to where she had left off. He took a sip of coffee, and then began reading.

Rachael did not care about the words, nor the story, but only the sound of his voice; she could listen to him speak day and night for the rest of her life and never get tired of hearing him.  She felt the same giddy excitement today as when she first laid eyes upon him, more than 11 years earlier in the art gallery. She had been twenty-one years old when they first met. Julien had not made it easy for her. He was thirty-four at the time and thwarting her every effort to get to know him better. Eventually he broke down and took her to lunch. They were inseparable ever since. And now, as Julien continued to read, exhausted by the long day of moving, his voice began to taper off and it wasn’t long before they were both fast asleep.

* * * *

Julien woke, startled by the thunderous pounding on their front door. Rachael sat up groggy and confused.

“What is that?” She asked.

“I don’t know. Go back to sleep.” Julien pulled his jeans on and grabbed a white tee shirt.  The pounding erupted again.

“Someone’s at the door,” Rachael said and got up to follow him.

Julien struggled to pull on his shirt as they made their way down the hall. At the bottom of the stairwell he passed the kitchen, glancing at the clock. 

6:53am.

The pounding continued…

Casse-toi!

Angry and hardly coherent, Julien grabbed the knob and swung open the front door, ready to tear into whomever was responsible for the racket.  

A portly woman, in her mid-sixties, rugged and worn, stood on the porch staring back at him. Beside her, a teenage girl with long, unkempt red hair rocked on her heels. Her body was mature and Julien guessed her to be in her late teens, but there was something very child-like about her.

“My sister, Arlette, told me to come introduce Sarah to you.” She gave the girl’s dress a tug, forcing her closer to Julien. 

The masculine woman continued, “This is Sarah. She takes care of the coop out back by the barn. Charges twenty-a-week. Does a darn good job of it too.”

Julien stood silent, baffled by the twosome. Rachael peeked out from under his arm to have a better look.

“Hello,” she said. “I’m Rachael and this is my husband, Julien.” She nudged him.

The woman nodded; a single head tilt of acknowledgement. A breeze blew up onto the porch swinging the bottom of her faded gray housecoat and revealing a pair of black orthopedic shoes and dingy white ankle socks.

Vandermark’s sister?

Julien could not find the slightest similarity or hint of relation between the women.

The woman focused her attention on Rachael now. “This is my daughter, Sarah. She ain’t much for thinkin’, but she does a darn good job on that coop.”  She repeated herself. “Twenty dollars is a fair price for the work she’ll put in.”

Julien finally found his voice, “Um, Mrs.….Vandermark?” He had trouble acknowledging her kinship to Arlette, even by name.

“ Estelle,” she corrected rather matter-of-fact.

“Estelle…did Arlette mention that other arrangements have been made for the chickens?  They’re not staying.”

Sarah began to rock more aggressively. Her fists clenched like mallets at her sides, she began pounding at her thighs with great force; strange, frustrated noises escaped her.

“My sister called last night…told me to bring Sarah by.” Estelle said, ignoring her daughter’s behavior.

Rachael could sense Julien’s frustration. She rubbed a hand over his back to sooth him.

“That’s fine, Sarah can keep caring for the chickens and we’ll pay her. What day does she come and what time?”

Julien shot a disapproving look in Rachael’s direction, which she ignored then stepped past him onto the porch.

Estelle took a step back. “Every day, six o’clock sharp. She’s already done for today.  Coops clean. Birds fed. She gets paid on Friday…every Friday. You can leave the envelope on the feed can Thursday night. Cash. She don’t sign her name none, so no checks.”

Rachael nodded, “Of course.” She looked up at Julien. Eyes wide, he was staring at the woman, though she did not seem to notice. “Right Jules?” She elbowed him in the side.

“Uh…yes, right,” He responded. 

This is a fucking joke?

Estelle continued, “Sometimes, she comes back later to check on ‘em again. Them birds mean the world to a girl like Sarah. She’ll be no bother. You’ll never know she’s here. Been caring for ‘em for years.”

Rachael nodded at the peculiar woman who turned to leave without as much as a goodbye.

Estelle took hold of Sarah’s arm, pulling her away from the porch. Sarah grunted and squirmed to break free, but eventually gave in and followed her mother down the steps. They cut across the driveway to the grass. Rachael and Julien watched, dumbfounded as the two disappeared into the tree line.

Inside, Julien closed the door; Rachael, holding her breath, fell back against the wall.  They stared at one another for several seconds before they broke into unified laughter.

“What the fuck was that?” Julien asked incredulously.

“The locals.” Rachael rested her forehead against his chest.

“Arlette’s sister? How? They don’t even look alike.”

“I know! They certainly don’t dress alike,” Rachael said. “Arlette is so put together. So…classy.”

They broke into laughter once again.

“Is that genetically plausible? And the daughter…” Julien threatened to go there.

“Oh no, don’t make fun...the poor thing.”

“I’m not making fun…well, maybe a little.” Julien admitted with a sly grin. 

Rachael’s brow furrowed, “Are you mad that we’re keeping the chickens?”

He shook his head and replied, “They will be your responsibility.” He led them toward the kitchen. “The first time she doesn’t show up to work
you
are cleaning that cage. You made the decision, now they’re you’re problem.”

“Fine.  If she doesn’t show, I’ll clean the damn coop.”  Rachael rolled her eyes feeling confident Sarah had never missed a day of work in her young life—she was correct.

Julien suddenly remembered that first day visiting the Victorian, how repeatedly he had been sure he saw someone lurking around the barn.

“She must be what I saw…
who
I saw…by the barn…when we first came up to see the place.”

“You didn’t tell me you saw someone out there.” Rachael poured water into the reservoir of the coffee maker.

“I wasn’t sure
I had
seen anyone. Now I know my eyes are not…how you say it… playing tricks?”

Rachael smiled. “No, you’re eyes were not playing tricks.”  She kissed him. “I’m running up to change while the coffee brews, then we’re unpacking this kitchen.”

Rachael jogged off. “I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore,” she called from the staircase, laughing and leaving Julien to wonder what other surprises Kings Hollow would have in store for them.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Rachael shaved paper-thin slivers of moist clay from the back of her sculpture. She had been working on the piece since sunrise; her first attempt since last fall, and was now adding some fine details. She began the sculpture blindly; unsure of what her hands might create. As the hours passed, almost out of body, she watched the clay transform into a sinewy woman while listening to the angelic sound of Sarah Brightman’s voice booming from the CD player beside her in the mudroom.

Rachael formed her creation with tears welling in her eyes. Her subject sat resting on a large boulder, her long legs straddling the rock. Rachael imagined the woman was taking a break from strenuous work. An angelic little boy stands innocently before her, hoisting himself onto one of her sinewy legs. He is grinning and pressing his ear to her large round belly, which she caresses with lengthy fingers. Her head is tilted lovingly, gazing down upon her children, born and unborn. She loves them both equally. 

Rachael felt her tears overflow, trickling slowly over her cheeks. She put down the ribbon tool, and turned away from the piece. She wanted to wallow in her sadness today. She longed to be lost in her grief to dwell on her immense loss. After the attack, Julien had been there for her every step of the way, but never had they talked about the loss of their child. Her husband had not been a part of her pregnancy, had remained unaware until the baby was already gone. She blamed herself and sometimes wished he would confront her and ask why she had not told him. She needed something, anything that would indicate that he cared, that he acknowledged their loss—positive or negative. Even her therapist and psychiatrist had not addressed the loss; it was too early in her treatment at the time and she had not been emotionally ready. They moved into their new home leaving the doctors behind and having never confronted the issue. It felt to her that having overcome such overwhelming anxiety on her own had somehow opened her up to the gravity of her despair and she wished she could talk to Julien about it now. At the very least, to hear Julien acknowledge their child’s senseless death would help to validate her feelings. Rachael had conceived the baby unexpectedly, but had quickly warmed to the idea of motherhood. In an instant, the baby was gone, murdered before it was ever born. She sobbed, her heart aching for their baby’s soul. For Julien, the child had never truly existed and attempting to draw him into her feelings of loss now, only for a shoulder to cry on, would serve to open wounds better left alone. She wondered from time to time if Julien never questioned her about the secret because he was still hurt by it, or because he was grateful not to have to deal with what could have been. Still, she supposed it was possible he never mentioned it because he was afraid to dredge up her anxiety. She wiped the tears from her face and blew her nose. She turned back to the sculpture. The CD ended and the room fell silent.

CRASH!

Like thunder, the sound echoed through the house. Her first inclination was to call out to Julien and ask if he was all right. She glanced out the window toward the barn. She could see his silhouette in the loft seated at his desk. She turned to look at the mudroom door. She heard the skidding sound of a chair being slowly pulled back from the dining room table only two rooms away. She rushed to the door and closed it fast, trying not to let her presence be known. She turned the lock slowly—
CLICK!
It was quiet for several seconds; Rachael nearly jumped out of her skin when loud footsteps erupted, bounding up the staircase and then immediately bounding back down.
He’s looking for me
, she thought
.

She traced his whereabouts with her mind’s eye as she listened intently for his movements. Her mouth went dry as the sounds grew closer. She could hear him rummaging through the kitchen. Her heart was pounding and she could hear her pulse swishing in her left ear, and then she remembered the smell of his rancid breath. The smell of corn chips and coffee suddenly seemed so real. She thought to break the picture window and scream out for Julien, but she did not want her attacker to know where she was. She fished for her cell phone in her smock but remembered having left it on the kitchen counter. The footsteps were softer now, less chaotic. The kitchen table was sliding slowly against the slate floor, a horrific drawn out screeching.

He knows I’m in here.
He had come for her; she was sure of it. 

She looked around for a place to hide, standing in the middle of the room staring at the closet, door wide open and inviting her, but she could not bring herself to go in.
Not in there
, she shook her head methodically; the thought of being trapped in the closet when he found her was unfathomable.

No, no, no…
she mouthed silently, terrified and fighting back tear
.
 

She crouched low to the ground, wide-eyed and frantic, she moved spastic and unsure, finally crawling beneath the worktable. She hugged her knees close to her chest and closed her eyes tightly.

 The smell of his breath,
that rancid breath
, returned to her imaginative senses. The taste of his blood, like pennies on her tongue, filled her mouth.
You fat fucking cunt,
she heard his voice as loud and distinct as when he lay over her that night. She began to shake uncontrollably, powerful, fear-driven convulsions wracked her body and her mouth fell slack. From beneath her workspace she lurched forward, grabbing the dangling edge of the drop cloth covering the table above and gave it a hard, fast tug, drawing it down to conceal her. With a loud thud, the still moist sculpture met the ground, instantly deforming. She flinched and then skidded quickly backward against the wall to wait for him to come. She mumbled to herself repeatedly, rocking and hugging her drawn up knees, lips moving around silent words. The doorknob rattled.

* * * *

Julien leaned back in his chair staring out at the view from the loft while talking to Matt on the cell phone.

“Just pick a weekend and bring Lily up to see the place. It will be like a holiday.”

“I’ll talk to Lily tonight and see what works. I know she misses you guys…she feels really bad about that day.”

Vivid glimpses of their final months in the city intruded upon Julien’s thoughts and his voice lost some of its zeal. “Please, tell her not to worry. Rachael does not remember any of it.” He paused to formulate his words. “She really is doing very well, Matt. It is of something like… a miracle...as if this never happened.” His broken English made his phrasing sporadically imprecise.