WISHBONE (2 page)

A Broadway show would have been a more suitable compromise than the opera on this, their ninth anniversary. However, the last thing he wanted to do was to upset Rachael.

He was still feeling the emotional remnants of their morning argument that had ended breakfast on a sour note, and felt sure Rachael had not yet said her final peace on the matter.  He removed a pack of cigarettes from his black full-length coat, taking the time to tuck his scarf back in before lighting himself a smoke. He took a long drag and leaned against a leafless sapling, one of many lining New York’s Madison Avenue. Looking up, he squinted past the falling snowflakes to admire the enormous glass office building where he worked for more than a decade. Day in and day out, returning to the same address as head of Creative; an ad-man with potential to soon make partner at one of the largest, most prestigious, advertizing agencies worldwide—he loved his job. At first his accent had held him back, making it difficult to break into the industry, but his creativity and natural talent had prevailed and soon he was rising the ranks. The work was rarely boring and creating slogans, jingles and ad campaigns for shampoo, deodorant, and spaghetti sauce had afforded him and Rachael a relatively lavish life-style in what he considered the greatest city in the world
.

Why would Rachael want to change anything about our lives?

A girl, hardly past her teens, walked by humming. Her long red hair tumbled forward and her eyes locked with Julien’s; she tucked her chin to conceal her face, her lips spread into a coy smile, she blushed and she turned away. He watched the girl mingle in with a crowd; he could still hear her humming. Suddenly self-conscious, he ran a gloved hand through his black hair brushing away the falling snow. He was due for a trim—like clockwork, the third Thursday of every month. The redhead turned back, saw that Julien was still watching her; she grinned and continued on her way. He was used to the attention of women, though he never understood it. He thought about other men, his co-workers, some sneaking around behind their wives’ backs and bragging about it. While the excitement of the chase was enticing, the thought of lying down with any woman other than Rachael terrified him. She had a creative mind, a beautiful soul and the heart of a child. He believed Rachael was the only woman who could possibly put up with his moods, his stubbornness,
his
walls
. Over the years, he had had his share of one-night stands, but it was not until Rachael came into his life that he desired to enter into a committed relationship. Outwardly, it might not have made sense; her playful nature, her willingness to admit her faults. It appeared they had nothing in common. Though he never found it in him to share his past with her, she was an uninformed comfort to him and he sometimes wished he could offer her more of him. Rachael accepted Julien for the person he was, she knew his nightmares and emotional scars stemmed from a bad relationship with an abusive father, and that his mother had died while giving birth to him.  While she wanted to know more about this man she loved, she allowed him his secrecy without taking offense. She understood that Julien’s silence was his way of protecting himself from the daunting memories of whatever horrors he had survived long ago. 

Julien extinguished his unfiltered cigarette, grinding it into the snow with his shoe and then glanced at his watch.

Where is Matt?

What is taking him so long?
 

The cold evening air was beginning to get the best of Julien and he shifted to face the lobby doors. His mind wandered back to the morning as it had all intermittently all day. 

* * * *

The morning had been routine. He sat scanning the newspaper, sipping coffee, and smoking his first cigarette of the day. Rachael entered the kitchen wrapped in a short silk robe.  She straddled his lap causing him to drop the paper to the floor at his side. Rachael, a curvy girl, had plenty for him to hold on to, and he loved every ounce of her voluptuous body.  

“Happy Anniversary, Mr. Grenier.” Rachael said, planting a soft kiss on Julien’s lips.

A grin from ear to ear; he was not a great actor, “Oh, is it our anniversary today?”  

Julien had given up any attempt to lose his persistent accent years ago. After twenty years in the States, he still often had to repeat himself to others, and was at times accused of having a pompous attitude, both due to the incurable inflection of his speech.

“Yes it is.” Rachael gave him a mock punch and kissed him again. “We’ll meet at the Met at eight…”  She eyed him with a warning glare, daring him to forget.

She kissed him a third time. “Then dinner at Le Bernadin…” 

She pressed her mouth to his once more, “Then we come back here…”

Now a longer kiss; she went in for the kill, “Then we can talk about starting a family.” 

She leaned forward to kiss him again, but Julien abruptly turned his face away.

Ruthlessly yanked from the moment, he delivered his best bomb-drop whistle, then turned back to stare at her in disbelief. 

Her expression made it clear that there would be no playful end to this conversation.

He snapped at her sarcastically, “Really? Have you lost your mind?” He stared at her blankly. “No, I need to know. I think you have gone crazy now, no?”

Rachael knew his sarcasm would turn to anger fast and quickly switched tactics. She straightened his tie and whined, “Why is that so crazy? Why don’t you want children?”  She pouted, over-dramatic and child-like herself.

Julien hated when she used baby talk in a serious conversation. He pulled as far away from her as he could without breaking through the chair back. 

“We went through this a few weeks ago. What is it with you lately? Why do you want to upset the… how do you say in English…apple box?”

“Cart.”  Rachael rolled her eyes. “Apple cart.”

“Well, whatever the apples is in.” Julien stood up, sliding out from under her. He stubbed out his cigarette in the sink, leaving the butt to float amongst the soaking dishes—something he would only do in anger. 

“Rachael, we have a nice life…freedom. We don’t need to add
childrens
to this.” In the heat of an argument, he often got his plural endings confused. He lit another cigarette then placed his cup in the sink busily tidying up around him. He could feel her eyes on his back. She sat silently watching him from the table.  

“I have said this before,” He said and took a slow, thoughtful drag from his smoke. “Parents are toxic to the children and children are poison to the parents. No one with childrens is ‘appy.” He turned to face her again; his accent escalating with his anxiety.

Rachael looked away, still straddling the chair and facing backwards. Her brown hair, damp, held up by a black wooden chopstick. Her oval jaw slackened and her bottom lip quivered. Julien knew she was trying hard to hold it together and was fighting back tears. He knew she would fear he might storm off, which he sometimes did during conversations such as this. Her voice morphed into the soft, non-threatening tone one might use to talk someone off a ledge.

“Julien, just because you and your father…”

She broached the topic but Julien lost it in an instant, interrupting her immediately.

With emphatic, ingrained, European hand gestures, he bellowed furiously, “We made our decisions a very long time ago! You know how I feel about this. You can’t change
your
mind
then force it upon me. We agreed!” 

He grabbed his coat, tucked his keys into his side pocket then the cigarettes and Zippo in the inside breast. He watched her peripherally, her back to him, still sitting at the table with her head hung low.

Frustrated, he paused and thought,

Why do you have to bring this up on our anniversary?

For him, this subject would be equally upsetting, any day, but for Rachael, she would use the poignancy of this special date to make him feel worse.

She is ruining the day for herself.

I did not do this.
 

 “Rachael, I did not lie to you. I have make my feelings clear when we first meet. You agreed. I do not need to feel guilty about this now… as if I mislead you somehow, or am, am, robbing you of some feminine right.” 

Rachael remained silent. Julien’s ire festering; he had all to do not to say something that would salt her wounds. Even more so, not to rub her nose in the fact that she was younger than he—something Rachael hated and Julien often held over her; his favorite excuse for just about any disagreement. He wanted to remind her that ten-years-earlier he had warned that their age difference could one day become a bone-of-contention between them. Now, at forty-five, he was content with their childless lifestyle. Rachael had recently turned thirty-two, barely passed her self-centered youth, and just now beginning to hear her biological clock tick. 

Julien stared at her back as he put out another cigarette, nearly knocking the ashtray from the breakfast table. He stormed toward the front door confident she would follow.

Rachael rushed after him. “Wait!” she threw her hand past his shoulder and slapped a palm against the door, slamming it shut.

“I’m sorry…you’re right. Please, I don’t want to fight today.” She pressed up against him, hugging him from behind.

It was too late for Julien who was already overcome with guilt and anger. His sensitive mood swings, so easily triggered and difficult for him to get past. A conversation such as this could cost him a week of haunting intrusive thought. He had to find a way for both of them to let it go and get beyond this quickly. After all, he too wanted their anniversary to be a happy one.  He forced himself to turn and hug her back. He kissed the top of her head, holding her for a brief moment—as much a comfort for him as for his wife.

“I need to go, Rach. I have a meeting at 8:30.” He released her and glanced at his watch.  “You are alright?”

Rachael buttoned his coat in silence then reached behind him to open the door.  “I love you, Jules. I’ll see you at the fountain at eight o’clock.” She was sullen but affable.

Julien left their apartment closing the door between them.

He was sure Rachael had given in purely to keep him from leaving in a huff and knew she would bring the matter up again soon. 

Perhaps tonight.

Now, nearly ten hours later, their morning argument still heavy on his mind. He lit another cigarette just as Matt appeared beside him.

“Hey, give me one of those.”  Matt grabbed for Julien’s cigarette pack just as a hulk of a man knocked into him, never stopping to acknowledge or apologize as he lumbered swiftly away.  Julien’s first reaction was to go after the guy, grab hold of him, but he disappeared into the crowd too quickly.  Matt shook his head. “Fucking asshole!” he blurted.

“You’re okay. Forget about it.” Julien brushed off Matt’s shoulder, lit his cigarette then snapped his Zippo shut with a flick of his wrist before returning it to his pocket. 

His co-worker’s lanky frame placed Julien about half a foot shorter than Julien’s six-foor-three. Matt, at the age of thirty-five, had the perpetual look of an awkward teenage boy, complete with a blotchy complexion. His curly brown,
fall where it may
, hair; too shaggy for Madison Avenue. Cheap suits, scuffed shoes, and a denim jacket over a zipper hoodie; it was as if Matt had a neon sign above his head, flashing,
I don’t fit in
. For all of his idiosyncrasies, Matt was one of the most creative ad-men on Julien’s team—when he wasn’t playing video games on his iPhone. 

Julien did not make friends easily and usually avoided gatherings unless they were work related and unavoidable, but Matt managed to break him down, relentlessly following him around the office and inviting him to various outings and events.  With the exception of Rachael, Matt was the only person Julien spent time with outside of work.  Their wives, inseparable companions, had formed a bond after becoming acquainted at an office Christmas party three years earlier. Regardless of the time they spent together, Julien kept his conversations with Matt relatively mundane.  Matt, on the other hand, was an open book, wearing his emotions on his sleeve and including Julien in every thought, every minute detail of his life.

“What were you doing? What took so long?”  Julien asked as he led them through the crowded sidewalk.

“Phil,” Matt referred to one of the partners at the agency. “He stopped me on the way out about the pretzel ad thing. I think I might be getting that raise after all.”

“Yeah? Good for you.” Julien suppressed a grin.

“What the hell does that mean?” Matt said bumping into Julien on purpose.

Once again, perhaps for his accent, his intent was misconstrued.

“It means
good…for…you
,” Julien reiterated.

He found Matt’s paranoia both amusing and endearing. Besides, he already knew Matt was getting a raise. Julien had gone to Phil himself, letting him know how indispensable Matt had become to their clients and suggesting a pay increase was overdue.

They rounded the corner and entered their usual Friday night spot. The door to Brennen’s Pub opened and AC/DC’s
Back in Black
spilled loudly into the street. As always, the place was packed. Matt spotted three women getting up from a pedestal table. He reached between them and slapped a hand down on the tabletop to stake his claim. One of the girls shot him a disgruntled glare. Matt smiled at her, bouncing his eyebrows a few times for effect.

“Why don’t you stay and have a drink with us?” he suggested to the obviously repulsed blonde. 

The girl’s lip curled and Julien thought she might empty the last of her drink in Matt’s face. He stepped between them.

“Please, forgive my rude friend.” He worked the accent and looked deep into the girl’s eyes.

Her expression relaxed instantly. 

Julien continued, “Can we buy you and your friends a drink?”

The girl smiled, but before she could respond, one of the others grabbed her arm and dragged her away.