WISHBONE

WISHBONE

By

Brooklyn Hudson

Special Edition

2
^nd
Edition

Copyright © 2010 by Brooklyn Hudson.

LCCN: TXu001730561 / 2010-11-30

WISHBONE/Brooklyn Hudson: Los Angeles, CA

All rights reserved.

Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system without the prior written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or deceased, is entirely coincidental.

[email protected]

www.brooklynhudson.blogspot.com

Cover design by Brooklyn Hudson with
Indie Designz

Special Edition/Second Edition 

Published by Brooklyn Hudson April 2012

ISBN-13: 978-1475236361

ISBN-10: 1475236360

Editor: Jessica Burt

Acknowledgements

This book is dedicated to
he
who inspired my Julien.

And to Jessica Burt, there are no words... Thank You.

Marylu Kohler

Melissa Schiavo

Patti Williams

Cindy Baricza

Faith Godwin

Alyssa Hudson

Dafeenah Jameel

YOU ROCK!

CHAPTER ONE

Crouching on a sun-bleached step, Julien delicately stroked a caterpillar with a crisp blade of grass. Its hairy length instantly curled into a spiral then rolled haphazardly off the edge of the weathered blue porch. Behind him, the familiar clacking of his paternal grandfather’s pipe meeting the old man’s teeth was reassurance Julien was not alone. Aromatic puffs of apple-laced smoke filled the warm evening air, delicious to the nine-year-old’s senses. Not so much as a subtle breeze reached the porch tonight; the French countryside was still and heavy with humidity.

Julien stared down at the long, hairy bug. Just when he began to worry he might have killed the green creature, it allowed itself to uncoil and return to its journey. Satisfied he had done no harm, Julien glanced back at Papi. The old man’s hazel eyes, clouded by cataracts, were transfixed on something off in the distance beyond a few grazing cows. Julien knew immediately what had captivated his attention. He chose to follow his grandfather’s gaze regardless, craning his neck and nearly losing his footing, just as the caterpillar had. He grabbed his toes for balance, rocked forward and clocked himself in the chin with his knees, crushing his fingertips beneath his weight.

“
OW!”
he shrieked, shaking his hand wildly in an attempt to rid himself of the sting. 

Barreling through the trees at the edge of Grand-père’s dairy farm appeared the figure of his father, with his unmistakable lumbering swagger; as recognizable as his burly frame. On most nights Papi would stare, refusing to take his eyes off Jérome, who would drunkenly pass by them and make his way up the lengthy path. It would seem they were invisible to him as he mumbled angrily beneath his breath and headed directly for the shed out back, beside the old barn. Jérome chose to hide away there, pretending they did not exist, and drink himself to a slow death. Most of the time, Julien would watch Papi remain seated, struggling to contain his fury, but now and then, the old man’s deep disappointment in his grown son would cause his emotions to overflow like a swollen river, sending the old man after Jérome. Julien could feel it in the air… tonight would be one of those nights.

Watching his father walk closer, Julien could not help but envy the man’s physique. The ex-pugilist had managed to retain a fighter’s body despite years of drink and self-abuse. Regardless of youthful optimism, Julien knew he would never have a build like Jérome. His Grand-mère reminded him often that he had not been blessed with the initial nourishment of mother’s milk, as his mother had died giving birth to him. According to Grand-mère, this tragic fact rendered him slightly small for his age. In fact, Grand-mère believed his lack of breast milk was to blame for just about everything: why he caught cold each winter, why he failed an occasional math test, why he broke his arm falling from the roof last summer, and even why his hair had a tendency to stick up in one spot at the back of his head. Nevertheless, Julien understood that he would always be the smallest in the Grenier bloodline. Even Papi, at seventy-three years, was a powerful man only slightly less burly than Jérome, with hands capable of playfully cupping Julien’s face in its entirety, swallowing him up with a calloused grip. He was a hard-working man with snow-white hair thick as sheep’s wool, and skin tanned brown as seasoned leather, except for the thin, white creased wrinkles, only visible when the old man’s face relaxed during sleep. Jérome was a
carbon copy of his father, magnified by twenty-eight fewer years.

The shed door slammed. Julien looked back at Papi and watched him empty his pipe into an old rusted coffee can, tapping it twice against the tin. He got to his feet silently. Without taking his gaze off the horizon, he stepped over Julien and down to the grass, propelled by anger and frustration.

Julien hopped down behind him. “Non, Papi…” he warned in a whisper.

His grandfather ignored him and continued down the path toward the old shed.

Julien hurried back onto the porch, darting to the far end to peer around the side of the house. He waited until his grandfather was at a safe distance before leaping over the rail, landing on the plush grass below. Squatting, he scurried to a stack of aluminum milk barrels halfway between the house and the shed. He crawled as far as he could to allow himself a fair view, though careful not to reveal himself. It had been several months since their last confrontation and Julien wondered how the exact same routine, night after night, could at times be less forgivable to his grandfather; while on other nights, Papi could continue smoking his pipe, watching, but controlling his urge to confront Jérome. The last account had ended with an irate Jérome disappearing into the trees and missing for several nights. When he eventually returned, Papi said nothing, once again exhibiting self-control. Jérome also pretended nothing had happened; resuming his usual routine of stumbling home at dusk, appearing through the trees with a half-consumed bottle of bourbon. Although Jérome rarely spoke to Julien, there was something comforting in knowing his father was out there in the dark shed at night.

Julien glanced back toward the house wanting to be sure that his grandmother was not heading in his direction, ready to drag him from the scene. He turned back quickly, startled by his grandfather pounding on Jérome’s door until the door suddenly flew open, slamming against the barn wall with a loud crack of its brittle wood. Immediately, Jérome stepped close to his father, arrogantly taking a swig of bourbon only inches from the old man’s face. Julien could hear Papi’s intonation, but could not decipher his words. It did not matter; they were always the same.

His grandfather held his ground, refusing to back away. He shook his head and pointed back toward the house. Julien ducked deeper behind his camouflage momentarily before cautiously peering again. Something felt unfamiliar about the scene tonight. His father was immediately more aggressive. He was not holding the doorframe to steady himself as he usually did. He was not sloppy on his feet, or yelling back incoherently, as he always had. Instead, he took slow, purposeful steps closer, forcing the old man backward. Julien could not put his finger on it, but tonight his father was different. He wished he could hear their words. He looked for a closer place to hide and watch, though only open space remained. Before he could turn his attention back to the men, a scuffle erupted. 

Jérome clutched his father’s throat with one enormous palm. The old man stumbling backward, arms flailing wildly, and they both fell to the ground. Jérome began pounding his father’s head against the hardened earth, still clutching tight to his throat. Julien could not believe his eyes. He scrambled to his feet, running at them, screaming, pleading for Jérome to stop. He launched himself at the girth that was his father’s back, beating him with child-size fists, seemingly unnoticed. Frantic, Julien scanned the area. An ax, a rock, and there, on the ground beside them, was the bottle. He grabbed the half-empty bottle of bourbon, resting on its side where Jérome had dropped it. His hand gripped the glass vessel by its neck. He brought it up high above his head, spilling the remaining liquid down his hair and face. Julien had the sensation that everything was moving in slow motion as, with all of his might, he swung the bottle downward through the air, landing it against the back of his father’s skull.

Silence instantly enveloped them, all but the hollow sound of the tumbling undamaged bottle, empty and rolling over dry pebbled dirt. Jérome fell with a thud over his father’s lifeless body. Julien’s eyes burned from a mixture of spilled alcohol and tears; he could not see a thing.  Seconds later, Jérome was up again. Julien, rubbing at his searing eyes, could hear him coming closer, the smell of bourbon on his warm, huffing breath. His father was looming over him now, causing Julien to back blindly away in the direction of the barn doors. He could hear his grandmother’s screams far off in the distance.
She is coming to help,
he thought. Then, with a vice grip, Jérome grabbed hold of his son’s right bicep, forcing the child up onto his toes. The sightless boy froze; his arms fell to his sides in submission. Jérome drew his elbow far back and with a fist meant to knock out a prizefighter, delivered one crushing blow to his son’s diminutive face. The sound of crushing bone was the last thing Julien would remember.

* * * *

Julien, panting like a trapped animal and awoken by his own gasp, sat up in bed.  Surrounded by darkness, the familiar sounds of Manhattan below the bedroom window reminded him that he was safe, grown, and far from France.

“Jules?” Rachael said, sitting up and quickly taking his back into her arms. She gently kissed his shoulder. “Just a dream, Jules…another dream.”

Julien, embarrassed, made a quick attempt to regulate his breathing. He was positive he would randomly relive that moment in his sleep until the day he died, and he wondered if it would ever become easier or less of a shock. He leaned back, forcing Rachael to release him and scoot over, as he resumed his position against the pillows. She pulled the covers up over them and snuggled close to his side.

Though she knew the answer, she asked him anyway, as she did after each of Julien’s nightmares: “Do you want to tell me about it?” 

* * * *

Julien found her hand resting on his bare chest beneath the blankets and entwined his fingers with hers.

With his distinctive French inflection, he gave her the same answer he always had, “I want to go back to sleep.”

He closed his eyes. 

CHAPTER TWO

S
now fell upon Manhattan, large flakes like down feathers blanketing New York City. The rush-hour foot traffic turned the sidewalk into watery gray slush beneath the stampede of furrow-browed pedestrians. It was just before six p.m. and Julien had a couple of hours to kill before meeting Rachael at the Metropolitan Opera. 

Opera,
he thought.

He was not a fan. Julien could be found listening to anything from Sinatra to Blues. More of an old school kind of guy who believed he was born in the wrong era. For work, Julien wore pricey suits, impeccably tailored with a retro flair. He spent his weekends in white tees and jeans, occasionally adding his black leather motorcycle jacket, broken down to a soft texture from decades of wear; the only vestige of his youth in France, and the polar opposite of his work persona. Julien cultivated the two styles to perfection, a modern day combination of Bobby Darrin and James Dean, complete with an antique Zippo (his grandfathers, given to him by Grand-mère as a going away present on the day he left for America; his most prized possession) and a serious chain-smoking habit.