Wishbone
by
Mike Wilson
“May I have the wishbone?”
Sarah looks up from her plate at this guest; Rachel’s name is pretty, blonde, a writer like John, her husband. We were on the college literary magazine together.
“What’s a wishbone? Is it like a leg?” Bobby, Rachel’s six-year-old son, wonders whether he should want the wishbone.
“It’s a little bitty bone shaped like a Y,” Sarah says. “No meat on it. You wouldn’t like it.”
“Then why does she want it?”
Rachel smiles at Bobby and leans forward and down like a kindergarten teacher.
“You pull on the wishbone to get your wish.”
John is tearing the chicken apart. She was at the writer’s retreat a couple of weeks ago. I hadn’t seen her in ages. He finds the wishbone and holds it up triumphantly. Rachel reaches with her left hand, which has no ring.
“Thank you.”
“So, what’s your wish?” Sarah asks. She checked Rachel’s posts on social media this morning. No sign of a significant other, just literary stuff – publications, promotions of her book, and selfies at poetry readings. And one with John at the writer’s retreat, both grinning, cheek-to-cheek, though they both could have fitted in the picture without getting so close. Rachel is studying the wishbone. She looks up at Sarah.
“If I tell you the wish, it won’t come true.”
“That’s correct,” John says, but looking at Rachel, not Sarah. His tone conveys that Sarah would have known this, were she literary like he and Rachel. That Sarah’s salary as a dental assistant exceeds what the university pays John as a T.A. doesn’t matter – John and Rachel are on one side, in the know, and Sarah has been grouped with Bobby on the side that’s ignorant about wishbones.
“Oh, of course. That’s part of the superstition, isn’t it?”
“What’s superstition?” Bobby asks.
“Sarah!” John thunders, glaring at her. “You’re ruining it for Bobby!”
That’s what John says, but Sarah is sure that it’s not Bobby that Sarah is ruining it for. I said if she was ever in town to come by. I hope you don’t mind. For a second, Sarah’s breath catches. Then she asks, “What brings you to town, Rachel?”
Rachel and John look at Sarah as if this attempt to change the subject is a faux pas on par with loudly passing gas. John intervenes so Rachel doesn’t have to answer.
“Go ahead, Rachel. Pick someone to pull with.”
“Why does she need someone to pull with?” Bobby asks.
“Two people pull,” John explains. “When the wishbone breaks, whoever has the larger piece gets his wish.” He looks at Rachel. “Or hers.”
Rachel smiles. “Why not you, John? Aren’t you sending off a manuscript?” John hadn’t mentioned this to Sarah.
“I thought you can’t say what the wish is.” John glances at Sarah, then back at Rachel. “You’re right. I’ll have to wish for something else.”
Rachel extends the wishbone. John grabs one end. Sarah watches, as John and Rachel prepare to pull the wishbone apart.
Sarah looks up from her plate at this guest; Rachel’s name is pretty, blonde, a writer like John, her husband. We were on the college literary magazine together.
“What’s a wishbone? Is it like a leg?” Bobby, Rachel’s six-year-old son, wonders whether he should want the wishbone.
“It’s a little bitty bone shaped like a Y,” Sarah says. “No meat on it. You wouldn’t like it.”
“Then why does she want it?”
Rachel smiles at Bobby and leans forward and down like a kindergarten teacher.
“You pull on the wishbone to get your wish.”
John is tearing the chicken apart. She was at the writer’s retreat a couple of weeks ago. I hadn’t seen her in ages. He finds the wishbone and holds it up triumphantly. Rachel reaches with her left hand, which has no ring.
“Thank you.”
“So, what’s your wish?” Sarah asks. She checked Rachel’s posts on social media this morning. No sign of a significant other, just literary stuff – publications, promotions of her book, and selfies at poetry readings. And one with John at the writer’s retreat, both grinning, cheek-to-cheek, though they both could have fitted in the picture without getting so close. Rachel is studying the wishbone. She looks up at Sarah.
“If I tell you the wish, it won’t come true.”
“That’s correct,” John says, but looking at Rachel, not Sarah. His tone conveys that Sarah would have known this, were she literary like he and Rachel. That Sarah’s salary as a dental assistant exceeds what the university pays John as a T.A. doesn’t matter – John and Rachel are on one side, in the know, and Sarah has been grouped with Bobby on the side that’s ignorant about wishbones.
“Oh, of course. That’s part of the superstition, isn’t it?”
“What’s superstition?” Bobby asks.
“Sarah!” John thunders, glaring at her. “You’re ruining it for Bobby!”
That’s what John says, but Sarah is sure that it’s not Bobby that Sarah is ruining it for. I said if she was ever in town to come by. I hope you don’t mind. For a second, Sarah’s breath catches. Then she asks, “What brings you to town, Rachel?”
Rachel and John look at Sarah as if this attempt to change the subject is a faux pas on par with loudly passing gas. John intervenes so Rachel doesn’t have to answer.
“Go ahead, Rachel. Pick someone to pull with.”
“Why does she need someone to pull with?” Bobby asks.
“Two people pull,” John explains. “When the wishbone breaks, whoever has the larger piece gets his wish.” He looks at Rachel. “Or hers.”
Rachel smiles. “Why not you, John? Aren’t you sending off a manuscript?” John hadn’t mentioned this to Sarah.
“I thought you can’t say what the wish is.” John glances at Sarah, then back at Rachel. “You’re right. I’ll have to wish for something else.”
Rachel extends the wishbone. John grabs one end. Sarah watches, as John and Rachel prepare to pull the wishbone apart.