Free Jennifer Johnson Is Sick of Being Single by Heather McElhatton Page B

ceramic Mexican hat bowl.
    Nobody says anything and you can hear the stove fan whirring.
    My mother rushes into the dining room, and when she comes back into the kitchen she has a bright red face, but very calmly, like Clint Eastwood, she asks, “Girls, where is my pickle dish?”
    Silence.
    I examine a fingernail. “Ask Hailey, Mom.”
    â€œHailey”—she turns around—“where is my pickle dish?”
    â€œMom, I was going to tell you.”
    â€œTell me what?”
    â€œLenny sort of bumped into the table at Christmas.”
    â€œBumped it?”
    â€œHe just bumped the table and the pickle dish fell. It broke.”
    My mother closes her eyes and slowly puts one hand on her forehead and the other one over her heart, and the yellow duck stitched on her sweater, as though she’s just been told one of us has cancer. “Leonard broke the pickle dish?” Before Hailey cananswer, Mom reaches for the counter as if for support, as if she might fall down. “HAROLD!” she yells. “Harold, your daughter broke the pickle dish!”
    â€œNo, I didn’t,” Hailey whines. “Lenny did!”
    Ha. She’s already turning him in. Some marriage.
    â€œWhat now?” My father comes into the kitchen holding his newspaper.
    â€œLeonard broke the pickle dish,” my mother says.
    â€œYou got any ham sandwiches?” he asks.
    â€œHarold, the pickle dish your mother came across the Atlantic Ocean with is gone .”
    â€œThat’s the one!” I chirp. “Smashed.”
    â€œThat thing?” he says. “Who needs a pickle dish? You want a pickle you get a pickle. Use a jar like everybody else.” Then he leaves. I love my dad.
    Hailey explodes at me. “You just want Mom to hate Lenny! Well, guess what? Mom loves Lenny. I love Lenny! Everybody loves Lenny! The guys at the factory love Lenny so much they gave him a freaking world’s-best-boss lifesaver ring for his fishing boat!”
    â€œWell, Hailey,” I say calmly, “I don’t think Mom’s pickle dish loves Lenny.”
    Hailey throws her special edition of Cape Cod Weddings on the floor.
    â€œEnough!” my mother says. “Your grandmother managed to cross an ocean with that pickle dish and yet now it is broken.” She nods grimly. “You girls have to learn.”
    You girls?
    â€œAnd you knew about this, Jennifer Anne?” she asks.
    Crap. Crap. Crap. The barrel of the gun has repositioned. When middle names are used, punishments are imminent. This is what always freaking happens. No matter who doeswhat, it will be my fault. If Hailey roasted my mother’s Wedgwood figurines on the propane grill, my mother would ask me what I did to upset my sister. I employ evasive tactics. “Didn’t you say Grandma saved that pickle dish from the Nazis?” I ask, knowing full well Grandma Hannah saved the pickle dish from the Nazis by hiding it in her very ample bosom.
    â€œYes,” she says. “Your grandma left Denmark during the war. She got on one of the last boats leaving Copenhagen when Hitler invaded and all she brought was a few things, and one of them was that pickle dish.”
    â€œI loved Grandma,” I say. “I miss her.”
    â€œFaker!” Hailey shouts.
    â€œWell,” my mother says, “that’s a loss for the whole family. An irreplaceable heirloom lost to carelessness.” Everyone in the kitchen is silent. “All right,” she sighs, “let’s try on the dresses. I’ll visit Grandma’s grave tomorrow to explain.”
    We all wash our hands before trundling out to the sun porch where our dresses are hanging. I find the white garment bag that says JENNIFER and unzip it. There it is. The infamous kimono. I hate this dress. I actually did drive all the way to the mall to try it on, but I wouldn’t let the seamstress take it out or fix the hem or even look at me, for that