WISHBONE

by Brooklyn Hudson

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Julien spent the entire day in the loft, taunted by each tick of the clock. While his mind alternated, playing out the variables and their potential outcomes, he felt sure what he had decided that morning was the right decision and he knew exactly what they needed to do. He knew it would not be easy for Rachael to wish the baby away and he was prepared to devote all of his attention and time to her while she worked through the after effect. She had spent enough hours in the house alone thinking and he hoped she had come to the same conclusion. If she had not, he would do whatever it took in order to make her understand. He would also make it clear that the wishbones were over. He would no longer participate in the game, but he would not mention this until after they had righted her wrong.

  He took his time shutting down the office for what could turn out to be several days, depending upon Rachael’s reaction. He remembered that he had not returned Matt’s call and vowed that he would call tomorrow to take care of delaying their visit—he could not add another difficult task to his list today. He heard the chickens burst into their cacophony. For a moment, he thought to corner Sarah and make clear that no more chickens were to be slaughtered, that whatever had been happening to them had to end now or she would no longer be allowed on the property. Then he thought better of rushing down the ladder after the girl who would surely disappear before he reached her. He descended the ladder at a relaxed pace, but at the bottom, as he turned to leave, he caught a glimpse of something coming out of the shadows; a figure moving toward him.

  Jérome grinned with his broken-tooth smile. A rattling breath escaped him as he paused in the dim light several feet from Julien.

  Julien froze.

  A dream.

  It’s a dream like the other day in the pool.

  Then he remembered the result of that dream and began to back away—fear mounting within him, just as it had when he was a child faced by this man. He struggled to reel in his thoughts, reminding himself that while Jérome was a bigger, more menacing presence, he was no longer a weak little boy.

  I am no longer twenty-five and in shape either.

  His confidence wavered. He stopped retreating and stood beside the ladder waiting for Jérome’s next move.

  Jérome toyed with him, lurching forward in a mock attack, and then laughing heartily as Julien flinched.

  “De qui as-tu peur?” Jérome asked his son if he was afraid.

  Julien did not respond.

  “Léves donc tes poings, allez!” He ordered Julien to bring up his fists, questioning his manhood. “Viens si tu es un homme.” He spit down upon his son’s boot then lunged forward again, stopping just before he reached Julien, who managed to hold his ground this time.

  Jérome took a few steps back and put up his fists. He began weaving, egging his son to fight back. “En garde et viens,” he demanded.

  Julien remained paralyzed, watching his father move—the only time Jérome was ever graceful had been in the ring. Jérome danced around Julien, who kept his eyes straight ahead even when his father disappeared behind him. The larger man made several slow circles around his son, building tension and allowing Julien’s fear to fester. Julien did not move a muscle; he couldn’t.

  Jérome continued to taunt him, eventually putting on an exaggerated pout, disappointed by his son’s refusal to fight back. “Pourquoi ne te bats-tu pas?” He asked him why he wouldn’t fight.

  Outwardly, Julien tried to appear unafraid, but his mind was whirling with every unwarranted beating and verbal annihilation he had experienced as a child at the hands of this man. He could feel sweat trickling down the center of his back as, from the corner of his eye, his father came back into view before him.

  Jérome showed off a spectacle of footwork and an unexpected laugh escaped Julien; both men were caught off guard and Julien all but slapped a child-like hand over his own mouth.

  Shit!

  The sight of his father’s ridiculous performance penetrated Julien’s fear, only angered his father all the more. Jérome was not having it; his eyes narrowed. He dropped his hands low, stepped in close to inspect his son. He looked at his handy-work, the dark blue bruise along Julien’s jaw line. He traced the tip of a wide finger over the deep split in his son’s lip. Now it was Jérome’s turn to grin. He tauntingly forced his son to look away, slowly pushing his face to the side with an open palm. Immediately, Jérome’s legs parted and he crouched into a fighting stance. Julien flinched again—it was time. He found a stance of his own, braced himself, and the two men, neither of which had fought in decades, began to circle, eyes locked.

  The dance went on long enough to lull Julien into a false calm, rendering him ill-prepared for his father’s first punch. Julien stepped back to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand before preparing for his father’s next throw. He never took his eyes off a weaving Jérome as he spit a mouthful of blood to the ground.

  His father threw another punch and Julien ducked; Jérome missed, his balance thrown off. Stunned, but pleased, Julien grinned at Jérome over blood-smeared teeth. His father threw another punch that narrowly missed Julien and allowed him the opening to land an upper cut to Jérome’s side. Jérome came back and landed several good shots. The same haze of adrenaline he had experienced as a teenager came over Julien and he stood his ground feeling nothing.

  The two took turns, punch for punch, Jérome equally bloodied now, but seemingly tireless. Julien felt his legs grow weak and movement became more difficult as exhaustion and his father were getting the best of him. Jérome delivered an uppercut to Julien’s chin, then a left to his stomach, which dropped him to his knees. Hunched over the ground, Julien watched blood trickle down from his mouth in a thin stream, pooling in the dirt below. He could feel his front teeth shift slightly as he licked at them. Jérome refused to back down. He grabbed hold of Julien’s hair and yanked his head back violently, forcing him to look into his father’s eyes. He drew back his fist and delivered a blow no different from that day so many years ago when his grandfather lay dead by the barn. It leveled Julien, his cheek settling in the puddle of blood beneath him.

  Julien lay there gasping for a moment. He could hear Jérome’s heavy footfalls close by, but his vision was blurred. He slowly regained his breath and lifted himself drunkenly up onto his knees. Jérome backed off, giving him a fair chance to get to his feet. He brought up one leg, bracing himself to stand slowly. He came up, staggered to the side then steadied himself with help from the ladder. As Julien’s vision began to clear, his eyes found focus on Sarah, who stood watching them in the barn door.

  Jérome moved toward him again and Julien was forced to put his hands up once more. He managed to throw a few weak jabs at his father until he realized Jérome was feeding the opportunity to him. When Jérome was ready, he delivered another solid punch, this time to Julien’s chest, knocking him backward. Jérome hit him again and again, knocking him from side to side, held up only by a stack of hay bales that he fell back into. Julien had no doubt that Jérome planned to kill him. He fell to the side, crashing into a row of tools and knocking a pitchfork from a hanger on the wall. He hit the ground hard. For a second he prepared to give up, then without conscious thought, he reached for the tool fallen beside him. He turned onto his back just in time for Jérome to lunge toward him and impale himself on the tines. Julien watched blood stream down the wooden handle in a steady path, the pitchfork braced against the ground between Julien’s elbow and ribcage. Jérome looked into Julien’s eyes, his mouth agape and noiseless. He dropped to his knees between his son’s legs, his hefty weight driving the fork deeper through him. Julien used the last of his strength to crawl out from under his father. Scrambling to get as far away as he could, on all fours, he fell to his stomach at the base of the ladder, his eyes resting on Sarah, scurrying out the door. Julien thought she had run, perhaps to find Rachael, to get help, but she only ducked to hide momentarily, then peeked back around the doorjamb, still watching him. The room began to
spin and everything went black.

  * * * *

  Sarah hummed to herself in a choppy singsong tone. She stepped back into the barn and rocked on her heels several times before walking toward Julien’s unconscious body. She kept her eyes on him, ready to run if he should wake, but continued past him in the direction of the hay bales. She reached the pitchfork, its handle trenched several inches into the dirt, jutting up at a forty-five degree angle into the air. She pushed the tool over allowing it to fall then glanced back at Julien who had not moved. She picked up the pitchfork and leaned it neatly against the hay bales then took a rake from its hook. She danced around tidying the ground with fresh tine marks. She replaced the rake in its rightful place and stood facing the wall. In her usual impulsive and unpredictable manner, she moved swiftly to Julien’s side and dropped down beside him with sudden urgency. She studied his motionless body, cooing and tilting her head. She held her hand out hovering an inch above his back, her flat palm trembling as if meeting resistance. Her brow furrowed and she battled some sort of inner turmoil before finally laying her hand upon him; she shivered. Pleased with herself, her vocalizations grew excitable and she touched at her palm with the other hand as if to examine it for any change. She placed the hand upon him again, this time without hesitation and slid it up and down his back for several, methodical passes.

  Julien’s face was turned away from her and she suddenly leaned forward, her upper body arching over his back. She pressed her cheek to his then shrank back again. Sarah hummed louder and tilted her head from side to side, pulling Julien over on to his back between her outstretched legs; he was completely oblivious of her manipulation. She worked hard to draw him up into her arms, his back to her chest; she cocooned him. Confused by her internal feelings, she buried her face in his hair and took in his scent with a long, slow inhale. She rocked him and pressed her cheek to his. She mumbled softly in her made up language.

  Growing bored, she took his hands into her own and clapped them together several times. She seemed to like this game and laughed jubilantly. He was heavy against her and his body began to slide lower in her arms, staining her shirt with a small smear of blood. Sarah gasped and examined the stain. Angrily, she moved out from under him, allowing him to drop to the ground carelessly, as a child would toss an uncooperative toy. She turned her back to him, having a look around when Julien’s hand unexpectedly slipped to his side; Sarah scrambled out of view. She waited, but he remained silent and motionless. She crawled back out from the shadows and approached him slowly. On his back, she could study him better now. Her expression wrinkled and she placed her small hands on either side to cradle his face. She pouted over Jérome’s achievement and moved his face from side to side as if to be sure it was truly Julien. She looked around and spotted a filthy rag on the ground. She disappeared into the coop for several moments and reappeared with a bowl of water. She wiped his face clean, wanting to see the real him. Overzealous, she mopped at him with the rag until he began to choke on the water. Sarah dropped the rag into the bowl and ran off as Julien came to.

  * * * *

  Julien woke gagging. His eyes opened to the wood beam ceiling at the center of the barn, looming high above him. Beside him he found an old ceramic bowl filled with bloodied water and a stained rag. He rolled onto his side, his body aching.

  Jérome…

  He spun around on the ground in the direction where he had watched his father die. Nothing was out of place and there was no sign of Jeróme.

  Sarah…

  He looked back over his shoulder at the door, but Sarah too, was gone. Awkwardly, he managed to stand. He was saturated with water. A chill ran down his spine; he was sure the girl had been interacting with him while he was unconscious and the idea repulsed him. Sore but intact, he stumbled through the first few steps, but managed to walk out of the barn heading for the house through the murky darkness. He rocked at his loose front teeth with the flat of his thumb; there was no way he could avoid telling Rachael what he had been experiencing now.

  This cannot be.

  None of this can be happening...

  He reached the porch and took the steps slowly. The house was dimly lit and Rachael was nowhere to be found on the ground floor. The chicken he had left to defrost in the sink was gone, but it was not in the refrigerator, nor visible anywhere else.

  She will fight me on this.

  In the laundry room beside Rachael’s studio, he stripped out of the blood-stained clothing and with bruised knuckles; he pushed them down deep into the garbage, finding clean clothes in the dryer. He headed straight for a shower.

  The hot water flowed. He could hardly find the strength to wash, but made his best attempt. The soap got away from him and he left the bar bubbling above the drain. He stood beneath the rush of water, leaning against the tile and lost in his thoughts.

  I killed the fucking bastard.

  No more nightmares.

  He felt a twinge of doubt.

  He was already dead and managed to come.

  Who is to say he isn’t coming back?

  This is insane.

  He dried off and dressed. He had to find Rachael; though he hadn’t the energy to convince her of anything tonight.

  How can she look at me like this and not understand that we are in trouble here?

  He moved slowly up the steps reaching the hallway. Halfway to the bedroom, a light glowed from one of the extra rooms. He walked toward it and stopped to look in the doorway where he found a fully decorated nursery. Rachael sat rocking the baby in a white chair. She placed a finger to her lips to silence him then got to her feet, gingerly walking toward the crib to lay the baby down. He watched her position a teddy bear to face the sleeping infant.

  She wished for this room.

  It must be a wish.

  How did she wish for it?

  There’s no way she could have done all of this without the game...

  But how could she make the wish alone?

  Julien backed away from the room. Rachael moved into the hallway and closed the door all but a few inches.

  She pointed to the stairs and shooed at him, wanting him to go back down. “We need to talk,” she whispered.

  Julien did not bother with whispers. “How did you do this?” he questioned. “How did you wish alone?”

  “Shhh!”she walked past him. If he wanted to talk, he would have to follow her.

  Trailing behind, Julien asked, “Do you care…are you even curious how I ended up to look like this? Do you see me, Rachael?”

  Rachael calmly entered the kitchen where she found a pack of cigarettes and lit one.

  “I see you, but why should I ask? You won’t tell me the truth anyway.” She poured herself some coffee and sat at the table.

  Julien sat across from her, watching her intently. “I never lie to you,” he insisted.

  She stared him down, daring him with the most exaggerated expression she could muster.

  “Rachael, when have I lied?” He lit a cigarette for himself and softened his tone. “I’m not good for talking about the past. I don’t always tell you everything, but I never lie to you.”

  “What happened in the pool, Julien?” She sipped her coffee, looking at him above the rim.

  He skirted her question. “Rachael, we’re in trouble here.”

  She asked again, more adamantly, “What happened in the pool?”

  Julien knew there was no way around it. He would have to tell her, at least some of what he had seen, both in the pool and tonight in the barn.

  “Rachael…do you see me? Do you care? Are you even curious?”

  “Yes.” She flamboyantly tapped her cigarette above the ashtray, “But you won’t tell me the truth so why should I ask?” She sighed, “Is it me, or are we wasting our time repeating ourselves here?”

  “I just went twelve rounds with my father in the barn,” he sputtered angrily and waited for her response.

  Rachael sat there watching him.

 
“The pool,” he had trouble confessing, “…the same thing…my father.” Julien looked down at his wrecked hands. “I can’t explain it, Rachael.” He shook his head.

  He continued, “I can’t explain any of this, but my father…he appears…manifests. In the pool…tonight in the barn. Rachael, we are in very much trouble here.”

  She huffed in disbelief, “Your father manifests and kicks your ass.” She looked at him with a dry expression of doubt and disappointment. “Julien, I don’t know how you’re doing this to yourself and I’m not sure why…is this like some sort of Munchausen’s Syndrome or something?” She put out her cigarette. “One mental case in the house is all we can take Jules, and I called dibs on that title six months ago. You’re shit out’a luck.”

  Furious, he slapped his hands down on the table. “You think I am doing this to myself?” he yelled. “You are fucking crazy! Rachael, please think…think clear of me. That is not me to do somethings like this to myself. You know me better than to say this things.”

  “Do I? Do I really know you? Know anything about you?” She paused to let him think then continued. “Oh, I am thinking clearly.” She raised her eyebrows and huffed, “All of this is about the baby…our baby. You are so…so deranged by the idea of having a child that you will do anything to scare me into doing what you want.”

  He felt like he was losing his mind and bounced a warning finger in her direction. “You need to be scared.” He lit another smoke and admitted, “I’m scared! Something is not right here. Something very wrong is ‘appening here.” He took a long drag from his cigarette.

  Rachael watched his hand tremble as he inhaled. “How did you do this to yourself?” she wanted to know.

  He shook his head in defeat. “I didn’t do this, Rachael,” he insisted. “You will believe that a wishbone can give you a brand new nursery, a swimming pool, but not that something evil happened to me in that barn tonight.” He stared into her eyes.