WISHBONE

by Brooklyn Hudson

  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 methodic
ally 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.

  He flicked at the carcass, tossing bones to the side and revealing the wishbone. He looked at her peripherally; she was watching his hand intently. He picked it up from the platter and held it toward the light. There was an oily sheen on the pale, taupe-colored bone. He held it by one forked end, rolling it back and forth between his thumb and index fingers, watching it flip quickly from side to side.

  Rachael cleared her throat. “Do you know what you want to wish?” she asked softly.

  He shook his head and continued to twirl the bone. “Not a clue,” he responded.

  Rachael sat back. “Well, be careful with it,” she warned.

  A faint huff of laughter escaped him. He placed the bone gently on the rim of the platter and lit himself another cigarette.

  “I’ll go make us some coffee while you think.” Rachael left him. She knew exactly what she would wish.

  Julien gave a second thought to having some wine, but once again decided against it. All the drama and anticipation was only making it harder for him to partake in the childish game. If he could bring himself to follow through at all, he would follow the rules and truly make a wish so he could finally put the argument to rest for Rachael.

  But, what to wish for?

  He wanted to choose something that could disprove her theory beyond any doubt. If he chose something common, such as for it to rain, there could have been a storm brewing already. He could not bring himself to consider wishing for anything very meaningful to him—that would be even more ludicrous than playing along in the first place.

  What do I want?

  Peace.

  I have everything I want except for that.

  He could hear her pouring coffee into mugs and began to panic. He was thinking too hard. There was only a fifty/fifty chance that he would even win the larger half of the bone, and hoped the proof would be in Rachael’s hands in the end, regardless.

  She walked through the doorway with two steaming cups, a small pad and two pencils. She placed a mug before him and took a sip of her own. Silently, she began clearing the table. Julien was about to help but she stopped him.

  “No, I’ve got this.” She made several trips back and forth until the only thing left was the wishbone sitting on the bare wood tabletop.

  She took her seat once again. “Are you ready?”

  “I want for you to promise me that when nothing comes of this, you will accept that there is no hocus pocus. This discussion dies here tonight.”

  She looked at him, still sullen, then nodded slowly and child-like.

  He reiterated, “No pouting, no pondering the leg, the docteur, the barn…it all ends here, tonight.” He found her eyes; his brow rose quizzically.

  “Yes, I said yes.” She took the pad and tore a sheet of paper away before pushing it and one pencil toward him. “Write it down,” she requested.

  He looked down at the blank white sheets.

  She pushed the pad closer to him. “Go on…write down your wish. That way, if either of us has any doubt…”

  He reluctantly took the pencil into his hand. “I thought you could not tell what you wish?”

  “We won’t, but if there’s any question, it’s right there on paper.” She continued to write then folded her paper into a neat square, taking time to deliberately crease its edges. She laid it before her, resting the pencil on the small square of paper. “Did you write?” She had not paid attention.

  Julien wrote quickly, cupping his hand to block her view. He then folded the white sheet just as his wife had.

  He looked at Rachael. “I want you to open your paper and read it to yourself again.”

  “I know what it says, Julien,” she retorted, giving him a confused look.

  “Good. Open it and read it to yourself. Look at the words. Trace over them again with the pencil even harder.”

  Rachael narrowed her eyes and gritted her teeth. She thought he was mocking her.

  He continued to insist, “If you want me to play your game then you have to do what I am asking. I will turn away. Trace over the letters you wrote and darken them.”

  She could not make sense of his request.

  “Do it!” He snapped. “Or we do not play.”

  Rachael unfolded her paper, watching him from the corner of her eye. She had no idea what he was trying to do or why.

  Julien turned sideways in his chair and busied his eyes elsewhere. Rachael picked up the pencil and obediently traced over her wish, letter by letter, coating the sheet in a dusting of graphite powder. Her pencil snapped from the pressure and she finished using Julien’s. She blew away the mess and refolded the sheet.

  “Done,” she announced.

  Julien picked up the wishbone and held it between them. Again, he tried to give her the advantage, holding the bone by the tip of one fork. Rachael took the other side. He beat her to the instructions: “I will not pull until we both agree it’s time.”

  Silently, they closed their eyes and made their individual wishes. Julien was finished first. He waited for her eyes to open. “You are ready, no?”

  Rachael nodded and he nodded back telling her to pull. He kept his hand still and only provided resistance.

  Tink!

  Once more, he was left holding the larger half. Rachael was not pouting over her loss this time. Instead, she sat looking into his eyes, apprehensively.

  Julien tossed the broken bone back to the middle of the table. “Open your paper,” he demanded.

  “No! Why? I didn’t win.” She clenched the paper in her hand protectively.

  He was not about to argue. Julien grabbed his own white square and unfolded it quickly. He tossed it toward her. It landed upside down, on top of her wishbone piece.

  She craned her neck then took the paper. She read it aloud…

  “I wish the paper Rachael wrote on is blank.” She was not sure if she should laugh or be angry with him for not taking the game seriously.

  “This is what you wished for?” she asked.

  “Open your paper,” he urged.

  “This isn’t a wish, Julien.” She shook her head disappointed. “This is a magic trick. You’re making fun of me.”

  “Open the paper, Rachael,” he commanded.

  “No! This isn’t fair,” Rachael pleaded, terrified to reveal her wish.

  “Why, because you know the paper will not be blank. That there can be no misunderstanding of this so we can pretend we have some magic things going on. That this is ridiculous that we have wasted an entire evening acting like fools and…”

  Rachael began frantically unfolding the paper. “It can’t work now, Julien. I’ve read your wish, so even if it had worked…the words would be back on the paper.”

  She froze staring at the sheet in her hands. Julien tried to read her expression, but could not be sure. “Show me, Rachael.”

  “I can’t.” She whimpered. “Please don’t make me…please.” Her lip began to quiver and tears ran down her cheeks.

  “Are there words on the page?” He demanded again.

  She nodded and turned the paper just long enough for him to see the black lettering before she ran off to the hall bathroom, locking the door behind her.

  Julien dropped his head into his
hands and ran his fingers through his hair. He sat back and looked up at the ceiling taking a deep breath before going after her.

  He knocked on the bathroom door.

  “Go away!” Rachael knelt before the commode, watching the torn bits of paper, circle and disappear into the septic system. She was on the verge of hyperventilating and scooted back against the wall behind her. She fanned at her face with her hands trying to give herself more air.

  “Rachael, let me in.”

  “Just go away!” She begged through uncontrollable sobs.

  “You promised me, Rach. You promised to accept that this was just a silly game.” He banged his forehead softly, rhythmically, against the door several times. Restrained, nervous laughter escaped him and he rested his forehead to the door.

  Now I will lose my mind.

  “Rachael…the roller coasters,” his voice took a distressed, singsong tone. “I need to get off it. I need to get off this things, okay? No more rides.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  A deafening rumble vibrated the house. Julien opened his eyes; his vision blurred by the near proximity of a dangling wishbone held too close for focus.

  Putain de merde!

  “Shit!” He moved backward, startled and trapped by the headboard.

  She giggled. “I didn’t mean to scare you,” she said.

  Julien could smell the roasted meat wafting from the ground floor. “Rachael, what are you doing?” he groaned and turned over, dropping back down into the pillows. “What time is it?” he asked, closing his eyes.

  Rachael formulated her argument with prefaces. “Now, I don’t want you to be angry, but I’ve given this a lot of thought…”

  Thunder rattled the walls again causing Julien to lift his head for a look. His eyes narrowed, the windows were a blur of grey sky, heavy rain rushing down over the glass in a solid sheet.

  He glanced at his wife. “Rachael, you scary the shit out of me.” He turned away, burying his face in the pillow again.

  She played with his hair and said, “Let me finish.”