I found Sara standing in front of a butcher’s truck, examining a skinless creature that hung upside down from the top of the window. “What is it?” I asked.
“Lapin. A rabbit. What if I made a delicious fricassée instead of the turkey roulade? Rabbit is such a classic.”
I hid my horror. A whole rabbit? Really? With the head still on it? I tried to dissuade her. “Isn’t rabbit stew a winter dish? You know, for long cold nights in December? It’s so hot right now.”
“Naw, it’ll be cooler by tonight. Let’s go for it.” She pulled a wad of euros from her purse. The butcher rolled the rabbit in paper and placed it in a bag. While I love to watch Sara cook, I wasn’t sure this was an operation I wanted to observe.
The sun had arched around to the far side of the house. The light from the shaded courtyard came through the windows to give the kitchen a cold cast.
Sara stood with a chef’s knife in her hand. A skinny pink body lay on the cutting board, positioned horizontally under the halogen track lamps. She placed the blade of the knife against the rabbit’s neck. Using the heel of her hand she shoved down hard. Crunch. The blade cut deeply, but the head stayed on. I was standing back against the kitchen door with my hands over my face. I peeked through my fingers. “Did it come off?”
She felt around the rabbit’s neck and peered into the gash made by the knife. “I’m not sure I found the space between the vertebrae.” She repositioned the knife and got ready shove it downwards. Her hands were shaking.
“Everything okay?” I said, squinting through my fingers. She stood staring at the rabbit, both hands on the knife. “I can’t do it. I can’t. It looks too much like a cat.” She looked at me imploringly, lips mouth-ing a silent s’il te plaît.
“Oh, jeez. You want me to cut the head off a cat? Can’t we just bring it back and have the butcher do it?”
“M-O-M!” she yelled, quickly casting me as the weak, ineffective parent, which in this case was accurate. “Mom, the head won’t come off!”.
Eileen came in from the salon. She looked at Sara, then at me, then at the rabbit. She took the knife from Sara and set it on the countertop. “Step aside,” she said, pulling a heavy cleaver from the knife rack.
Sara and I backed slowly towards the bedroom door. Eileen raised the cleaver, using both arms for maximum force. Sara and I slipped into the bedroom and closed the door and waited for axe to fall.
Silence.