WISHBONE (4 page)

She pushed the door open and dropped her shoes on the marble foyer floor. Tossing her coat over a chair, her eyes fell upon the clock resting on a buffet table and reminding her how late she really was. She hurried to the bedroom. There was no time to shower, only to dress and go. 

Why didn’t I pick out an outfit this morning?
She chastised herself as she stepped into the closet groping quickly through her clothes. She found her favorite black dress and wondered if she had worn it too many times. Frustrated and with no time to waste, she decided to wear it anyway. She unbuttoned her shirt and let it fall to the carpet. Wriggling, she slipped her pants off, performing a little dance to slip out from them then reached for the dress. As she turned to leave the walk-in closet, she came face to face with the shadowy figure of a man. Dressed completely in black, his flattened palm held up before him; as if to blow a kiss, he blew hard, sending powder in a cloud around her face then instantly slapped a hand over her mouth. Her eyes burned instantly from the foreign substance. She felt him grab hold of her, slamming her onto the ground. She had nowhere to go in the modest, well-stocked walk-in. Blinded, she felt shoes knocking around her as her head hit the far wall. She could not see, could not scream.; the man was stripping her of her underwear. She kicked wildly.

“You fucking move and this gun’s in your mouth, bitch.”

He has a gun.

The man worked rapidly, somehow keeping his hand firmly over her mouth while breaking the elastic strap of her thong.

Don’t fight him. Don’t fight. Please, dear God, please help me, God. Julien, please…  God, please…

“You fucking cunt. You know you want it, you rich bitch!” 

His breath smelled like a mixture of corn chips and coffee, rancid and warm on her cheek. He forced himself inside of her, pounding her head into the far wall repeatedly. The noise they made must have concerned him and he yanked her closer between his thighs and away from the wall. He continued until she felt him finish.

“I’m taking my hand off your mouth, bitch. If you make any fucking noise I’ll blow that pretty face off…those titties too, you hear me?”

Rachael couldn’t find her voice.

“You fucking hear me, bitch?”

Yes, s
he thought.

“Yes!” She said out loud, sobbing uncontrollably. “Please, don’t … please…”

“Shut the fuck up, I said.”

Rachael flinched at the sound of his voice.

“Now that I look at you, you ain’t all that. You’re one ugly bitch.” He looked her over again. 

Rachael still could not see. Her eyes were on fire, watering, stinging from the powder. He slid his fingers inside of her and she clenched her thighs tight.

No, please God. Not again. Make him leave. Please leave…

Suddenly he was leaning over her again. She felt his lips meet hers and she jerked her face away.

“What..?” He grabbed hold of her face with a death grip and kissed her hard.  Rachael bit down on his lip until she tasted his blood; a ample chunk of his flesh fell into her mouth. He cried out, pulling away from her. Rachael spat. She tried to open her eyes. She wanted to kick at him, but she was deathly afraid of making it worse, making him angrier, and her swollen eyelids refused to part.

“My fucking lip! You fucking bit my lip you fat fucking cunt.” He grabbed hold of her legs, violently pulling her toward him again, forcing them to spread and dropping them at his sides. Rachael tried to scream, but he punched her in the chest. knocking the air out of her.  She choked, frantically trying to take in air. 

Bleeding, her attacker got to his feet. Rachael turned over to crawl into a corner, but with a powerful thrust, his boot met her side, knocking her sideways like a flimsy toy.  Everything went black.

* * * *

Julien paced by the fountain. It was 8:40 p.m. Surely, Matt had gone home and told Lily what he had done. He figured Lily had then called Rachael, and now she was late, delaying the inevitable and not wanting to face him. Snow was falling harder now, leaving a thick mantle of white over the quieting city. Getting home would be a challenge. He cleared a section of snow from the fountain wall and sat down. He checked his phone again.

Nothing.
 

He texted her a fourth time…

Rachael, we need to talk.

Answer me.

Another ten minutes passed before Julien decided to walk away.

This is ridiculous
.

Freezing to death!

He was heading home. He turned off his cell phone. If Rachael did decide to call him, he would not want to talk in the cab; he would be home soon enough.

It took longer than expected for him to find a taxi in the snowstorm, but eventually one did stop, and as Julien thawed in the backseat of the heated car, he worried that this could mean the end of their marriage.

How could she keep this from me?
 

He was furious and could only imagine how the evening would go.

We’ll argue and she’ll talk the topic into the ground.

She’ll want to debate this for hours.

She’ll cry.
 

His mind whirling; he pondered his own views and tried to play devil’s advocate.

Why does the idea of having children make me so irate?

Why can’t I explain myself calmly… rationally?

We’re no longer discussing the idea of having children…

…now there is a child. 

His fury resurged. He would have to regain control of his emotions before having this conversation, or once again, Rachael would play armchair psychiatrist, analyzing his every word. 

Maybe she is right? 

Maybe I do need to see a shrink?

Maybe I should be on medication?
 

Perhaps his mood swings, which Matt often explained away as part of Julien’s Parisian charm, were getting harder for him to control.  

Stop it!

 
He reprimanded himself.

That’s bullshit!

I should be angry with Rachael for this. 

I should not back down. 

This is my life too, and I don’t want children.

I made this clear from the beginning.

She agreed!

Julien’s eyes fell upon a commotion half-a-block away. Red lights were flashing in the distance as the taxi rounded the corner. Julien saw the fire engine, ambulance, and three police cars blocking one side of the street directly in front of their apartment building. The cab was at a standstill, unable to turn onto the clustered avenue.

“This is good…let me out here.” Julien glanced at the meter and handed the driver some cash. A snowplow had already visited their street and getting out from the car, he had to climb over a packed mound of snow; he nearly lost his footing then regained his balance before stumbling into a group of gawking pedestrians. 

He pushed through the crowd and headed for their address. He spotted Arthur talking to an officer. The doorman noticed Julien and gestured him over emphatically. Someone off to the side mumbled something about burglary … three apartments … someone was hurt.

Arthur was heading straight for him now with an obvious urgency and the officer trailing at his side. Julien unconsciously picked up his pace.

“Mr. Grenier, we’ve been trying to reach you for the last half-hour, Sir.” Arthur’s pallor and expression was a sure giveaway; something was very wrong.

Rachael?

On autopilot, Julien walked through Arthur and the cop, forcing them both out of his path. The officer lunged after him, grabbing hold of Julien’s arm. Julien jerked himself free, his shoes skidding in the trampled slush, he bolted for the apartment building.

What did she do?

His mind was racing. He thought he knew his wife better, but could only rationalize that Rachael had talked to Lily… been upset…taken pills… hurt herself somehow. 

She wouldn’t…She wouldn’t do that.

He reached the lobby doors just as they flew open, nearly knocking him down the cement stairs. 

Two EMTs ushered out a gurney forcing Julien to step aside. It took a few seconds for the scene to register. It was Rachael, an oxygen mask secured to her bruised and severely battered face. She appeared to be unconscious.

Julien grabbed hold of the gurney. “Rachael?” he cried; she was nearly unrecognizable. 

One of the EMT’s stuck out his arm, forcing Julien to step back. 

An officer hollered from the sidewalk, “That’s his wife.”

Julien, stunned and confused, looked on in disbelief. 

What is happening?
 

He followed the gurney to the back of the ambulance. He wanted to grab hold of her hand, touch her, speak to her, but the gurney swiftly forged ahead.

A gruff voice startled him. “Mr. Grenier, we need to ask you some questions.” An older man stepped up beside him.

“Detective Ed Bale, Mr. Grenier.” He flashed a badge from the inside lapel of his faded brown sports coat. Julien never saw the badge, but rather a substantial brown stain, still damp, on the man’s powder blue shirt.

“Chilidog,” the detective admitted, following Julien’s gaze. He flicked at it with the tip of a wide, cuticle bitten finger.

The gurney slid into the back of the ambulance. Julien tried to get in with Rachael, but the detective stopped him.

In shock, he stammered, “I have to go with her.” Again, he attempted to climb into the ambulance, but Bale took his arm kindly.

 “Your wife was attacked in your apartment, Mr. Grenier.” The detective knew that giving him some answers now would refocus Julien’s attention his way. 

The ambulance doors slammed shut and the vehicle immediately began to roll away.

“Ride with me. I’ll take you to the hospital myself. We can talk along the way.”

Julien watched the ambulance lights spin; its siren spewing a deafening wail.

 Detective Bale stepped closer. His cigarette-damaged voice dropping to a whisper, he said, “Right now, the best thing you can do for your wife is help us find the guy who did this to her.”

CHAPTER FOUR

Julien waited, impatiently sitting on the floor in the alcove between their bedroom and the master bath. The faint metallic taste of blood met his tongue and he realized he was once again chewing his nails to the quick. Now aware of his throbbing fingers, he examined his hands.  Even in dim light, he could see the damage left behind by his newly acquired nervous habit. Gone were the days of bi-weekly manicures.  

It was just over three months since their world had come crashing to a halt. Rachael, brutally attacked and losing the baby; Julien having to quit his job and become a full-time caregiver to his now emotionally-unstable wife. Suddenly, neither he nor Rachael had a viable income and their bank accounts were depleting as fast as their card balances grew. He attempted a leave of absence, the agency willing to meet his every need, but as the weeks turned to months, it became obvious to everyone that returning to work would be far off in the future—if ever. For Rachael, the art gallery, which ran predominantly on fundraisers and money she brought in through occasional sales, could not support a leave of absence. Her disability insurance had eventually kicked in, but the checks were minimal and hardly worth the ink in comparison to what they were used to living on.

A hot ash fell onto Julien’s bare chest and he quickly brushed it away, sending cascading embers, like fireworks, instantly burning a dozen pinprick holes in the lap of his old gray sweatpants as they landed.

“Jules?” Rachael’s muffled voice escaped through a narrow space beneath the bathroom door.

“Yes, Rach, I’m right here.”  It had been several minutes since she last asked for reassurance and he tried to take this as a promising sign.

Her voice cracked, “I’m so sorry.” Rachael was well aware of how much she asked of Julien. She wanted to stop herself from being so needy, but something else had a hold over her now. She no longer felt in control of her own thoughts; spewing them without forethought or edit.

“Uh-uh!” He despised the condescending tone of his own voice and tried to lose it. “What have we said? No more apologizing.” Julien ran his fingers through his hair, stopping to clench his fist and giving it a good, hard tug. He mumbled softly, “Docteur’s orders, remember?”

Rachael stopped herself, about to apologize for apologizing, but thinking better of it.

Julien slumped forward, his elbows resting on drawn up knees, hair tumbling into his eyes; another personal need he had let go. He had not allowed his hair to grow past his ears since his early twenties, while attending NYU. He rubbed at his face, exhausted and strained by Rachael’s endless and powerful anxiety, which he often felt was contagious. He studied himself in the full-length mirror lining the walls of the alcove.

I need to shave.

He scratched at his chin.

Tomorrow.

He promised himself for the second time that week.

It was the first time Julien truly looked at himself in quite some time. His almond-shaped hazel eyes set deep in darkened circles, small lines splayed at the corners. His skin appeared slack now with deep creases on either side of his mouth; a sign he was losing weight. There were random silver hairs mingling among the black stubble on his chin, and more gray hair at his temples than he remembered. He looked away; tried to shake off the realization.

You’re getting old.

He laughed nervously, giving himself a second glance in the mirrors; his sheepish grin dissipated.

It is not very funny
. 

The bathroom door opened suddenly and Julien had to throw his arms out to catch himself on the doorframe and keep from falling backward. The alcove filled with the smell of floral soap and vanilla lotion.