WISHBONE (16 page)

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.”

Julien stuck his head between two pillows, mumbling, “Finish. I’m listening.” He did not want to fight today. All he really wanted was more sleep.

She rolled her eyes. “Well…what I was thinking is, we do it one more time and follow every rule and…”

Julien’s voice still muffled by the pillow, “We did this. We followed the rules last night.  Please, no fighting again.”

Rachael’s voice hit a high note and she forced an exaggerated happy tone. “Who’s fighting? I’m not fighting. Jules, turn around and look at me.”

“Errrrrr…”  He groaned then turned his head, but only peeked out from beneath the pillows to squint at her. It suddenly dawned on him. “Where did you get that?” he asked.

We used the wishbone last night…

She looked at the wishbone glistening between her fingertips. “Sarah,” she answered. “Well, I asked Sarah for another chicken and then I cooked it and…”

Julien laughed heartily. “
You
asked Sarah to kill the chickens?” He scoffed then hoisted himself up and left the bed. His body felt heavy and sluggish. He bumped drunkenly against the walls en route to the bathroom.

Rachael sat quietly waiting until he reappeared a few moments later and dropped back onto the bed nearly bouncing her off its edge. “Careful,” she warned. “You’ll break it.”

Rachael, in her own defense, continued, “She would have brought us one anyway.”

He laughed again and pulled the comforter way up over his ears before mumbling, “…and then you cook the bird at the crack of dawn and tear the bone out to wake me with?” He closed his eyes.

Please let me sleep.

I need to sleep.

“The crack of dawn,” she retorted. “Julien, it’s 4:30.”

Julien opened his eyes. He looked past her to the clock.
4:38 p.m.

“No. Impossible,” he balked.

Rachael smirked and nodded, “Uh-huh! 4:38…
p.m
.”

He had slept several hours the previous afternoon, ate and now slept an additional eighteen hours over night.

What is wrong with me?

Who worries about me?

Exhausted, he felt he had no choice but to force himself to get out of bed. He turned over and pushed himself upright. On the floor, just out of reach, lay his clothes. He attempted to reach, still groggy and moving sloppily. Rachael decided to give him a hand and picked them up, placing them on the bed beside him. He dug in the shirt pocket for his cigarettes.

Julien sat back against the headboard and asked, “Why did you not wake me?” The smell of his burning Zippo cut through the sweet, roasted aroma that was overwhelming the room.

“We didn’t exactly end on a good note last night.” She tipped her head sarcastically then held up her arm to remind him. “Besides,” she went on, “I thought you
were
awake and just didn’t want to talk to me.” She sat facing him, her legs folded, the wishbone resting on her knee.  She seemed to be petting it, stroking the bone gently with the tip of her finger. “Maybe you were hiding from me or something.”

Lightening streaked past the window; the storm was directly on top of them now. 

In the brief illumination, Julien saw the dark purple bruise around Rachael’s wrist, an imprint of his own grip. Consumed by guilt, he leaned forward and took her arm gently. He had never hurt her. He had never laid a violent hand on any woman in his life. 

“It’s okay. It looks worse than it feels, trust me. I bruise easily,” she said matter-of-factly.

“No, it is not okay.” He shook his head, his eyes wide and questioning, “I did this to you?” 

“Jules, it’s okay…really. I was kind of asking for it…” She winced, embarrassed by her behavior. At that moment, it was more important for her to butter him up than to teach him a lesson on domestic violence.

Julien gave her wrist a light squeeze, examining the damage he had done. 

She pulled away. “Well, it hurts if you do that.” She laughed. “It’s fine. Forget it.”

He tried to remember the incident. The previous night was a blur. Rachael locked herself in the bathroom crying, asking him to leave her alone. Eventually she let him in, but immediately launched into the nagging, insisting they play the game again. She had been adamant they had broken the rules of the game by reading his wish.

“I hurt you?” He questioned again in disbelief. He had no recollection of laying a finger on her. “I fucking did that to you!” he said, more to confirm the fact to himself.

Rachael took a more serious tone, “Julien, don’t get hung up on this.” She wriggled her fingers and moved her wrist in exaggerated movements, proving he had not done any lasting damage. To Julien, it did not matter if there was residual impairment; this was not something he could easily get over. He was disappointed in himself, worried, shocked to have obviously lost control and worse, to have no recall.