by Susan Lubner
“No costume,” Mom says. “But we each need to bring something that symbolizes a new beginning. A fresh flower, maybe?” she suggests.
“Where are we supposed to get a flower in the dead of winter?” Dad asks.
“Oh for heaven’s sake, use your imagination!” Mom tells him. “We can get one at the grocery store, or the girls can make them out of tissue paper.”
“Well, hopefully this new beginning will be the end of Larry’s crazy ideas,” Dad says.
“I think that’s the plan,” Mom agrees. Dad hangs the little fireplace broom back on the stand and carries the bucket of ashes out to the garage when he leaves for work. Zelda finishes baking cookies for the homecoming party tonight, and Mom and I trek out to the pickling barn.
“I’ll help pack the pickles,” I tell my mother. I am hoping to search for Ro’s ring, which I still haven’t found—not even when I labeled the jars the day after I ran into Uncle Larry. I haven’t looked for the ring since. Mom was with me in the barn all day Tuesday, and yesterday she let me off the hook so I could go skiing with Nina and her family.
“I’ve packed the pickles,” she says, flipping the light on.
“All of them?” I ask.
“Honey, the Pickle Palooza starts tomorrow and we have Larry’s party tonight. I don’t want to be up late packing pickles,” she says. “The dills, hot-and-spicies, pickled veggies, bread-and-butters, and piccalilli are all set. I only have a few jars of the pickled red pepper relish,” Mom says as she reaches for a small box, “a jar for the judges and a couple more for sampling. That’ll work, you think?”
“That sounds good to me,” I say. Though I’m only an expert when it comes to reality shows, not pickles.
“I don’t have labels for the relish yet,” Mom continues. “I won’t sell a product without a label. It doesn’t look right.” She places the box on the table. “We need to pack the sample serving cups and tasting spoons, and my tablecloth, too.” Mom dodges around the barn opening cabinets and drawers. “Oh, and napkins!”
“I’ll get the relish for you,” I tell her. I sprint into the storage room.
“Thank you, Jermaine,” she says.
Inside the tiny storage room the walls are covered with shelving from floor to ceiling. There are hundreds of jars of my mother’s pickle products. I search the shelves where the dills are stacked. I am surrounded by images of my mother’s smiling face wrapped around all of these jars. She won’t be smiling when she discovers a skull in her pickles.
“What’s taking you so long?” The sound of Mom’s voice makes me jump. She laughs. “Sorry! Didn’t mean to scare you! The relish is over here, silly. Let me help you carry out the jars.” Then something dawns on me. Maybe the ring isn’t in the pickles, I tell myself hopefully. Maybe it’s somewhere else. Maybe it got washed down the drain. Maybe I have nothing to even worry about. It’s possible. Anything is possible, I suppose.
In the evening at Uncle Larry and Aunt Edie’s, we gather in the den after dinner. A fire roars in the fireplace. I wonder if Uncle Larry will toss the glove into the flames as a symbol that he’s done with his crazy invention ideas once and for all. But he doesn’t. I am able to zoom in on the burning logs before my mom tells me to put the camera away.
“For heaven’s sake, by all means keep on filming,” Aunt Edie tells me. “This is a momentous occasion that should be recorded. Besides, what do all famous show-biz folks say … the show must go on!” Dad looks at Mom. “It’s a party! A celebration! Roll the camera!” Aunt Edie says.
“I suppose when Jermaine is ready to have her family showing, this will be nice to see,” Mom says hesitantly.
“The whole world is going to see this!” I tell her. Dad and Uncle Larry laugh.
“Let’s not get too carried away,” Mom says gently. I notice the skin on Uncle Larry’s forehead is shiny. I wonder if he’s nervous or if it’s the heat from the fire.
“Let’s get started,” Aunt Edie says.
One by one we place our tokens of new beginnings on the coffee table. Zelda and I each lay a rose that we bought at the grocery store in the center of the table. Mom holds an egg. She places it in a small bowl before she puts it down so it won’t roll off. Dad holds up an unopened bottle of glass cleaner.
“It’s brand-new … never been opened,” he boasts. He plunks it next to the roses.
“So bizarre,” Zelda whispers.
“I have this,” Melinda smiles. She opens a black book and fans through its empty white pages. “It’s a new journal,” she tells us, sliding it onto the table. Aunt Edie and Uncle Larry together have a new bottle of sparkling apple cider and a fancy glass for everyone. Uncle Larry makes a toast.
“To my family,” he says, holding his empty glass, “Edie, Melinda, Nora, Clark, Zelda, and Jermaine.” He pauses for a moment while he looks at each of us. Then he continues. “I am so happy to be home and I am so very sorry that I worried you. Thank you for forgiving me.” Uncle Larry’s voice cracks. “I love you all,” he says, sweeping his arm out in front of him. I focus the camera on Aunt Edie. She pats Uncle Larry’s shoulder. Melinda wraps her thin arms around her father’s thick waist.
Then Uncle Larry fills up everyone’s glass.
“To new beginnings!” he says loudly. There’s clinking and more cries of “To new beginnings!” Uncle Larry catches my eye and winks. I smile back at him. I decide at that moment that once I become rich and famous I’ll buy Uncle Larry the biggest and best pop-up camper he’s ever seen. We sip the fizzy apple drink. There’s a long, awkward stretch of silence.
“Let’s clean up from dinner and have dessert,” Mom says. “Zelda made chocolate chip cookies.”
“And I’ve got a lemon sponge cake,” Aunt Edie tells us, “and fruit cocktail.” Everyone helps. I film Aunt Edie as she slips the dishes neatly between the prongs of the dishwasher. My mom dries a large roasting pan with a towel and Zelda and Melinda spoon leftovers into Tupperware. Louise walks along the kitchen counter and I zoom in on Dad shaking his head in disgust.
“Jermaine isn’t helping,” Zelda announces. “As usual, she only cares about her camera and getting famous.” She pumps her index and middle fingers into quotation marks.
“Jermaine,” my mother says, “put the cookies on a plate and find some more napkins.”
“Nora,” my aunt says, “are you ready for the Palooza?”
“I am,” Mom tells her.
“You girls will be there Friday night to help?” my aunt asks over her shoulder. “Melinda is going to help us decorate your booth. We found some wonderful Mylar balloons … green pickles!”
“You’re kidding!” Mom laughs.
“I read in the newspaper there’s going to be a mystery judge,” Aunt Edie tells Mom.
“Yes, I heard,” Mom answers. “I wonder who.”
“We’ll find out tomorrow night.”
“Hopefully he or she likes pickled red pepper relish!” Dad adds.
“I think it deserves first prize,” Uncle Larry says. “By the way, do you have enough business cards for the two days?”
“Oh yes,” Mom answers. “I printed out a whole bunch on the computer.” I arrange the cookies on a plate. I should consider business cards for myself. I am positive famous reality-show producers carry them. My cards will have to be huge to fit all my titles. Jermaine Davidson: director, creator, producer, camera person, guest star … my phone number, I’ll probably have several, and my address, I may have several of those, too. And I’ll definitely have an email address so my fans and other really famous people can reach me easily. Unlike Rufus Carmichael, who obviously hasn’t bothered to read his mail.
Back at home, Mom tells us to have an early night.
“We have two very busy days and we need to be bright-eyed and all smiles starting tomorrow afternoon!”
Upstairs in my room, I place my camera on my desk. Before I have a chance to get undressed there’s a knock on my door.
“This is the first time
today I’ve had a chance to check the mail,” Mom says, poking her head around the door frame. She holds out her arm. A letter is pressed between her fingers. “This looks important.” She winks at me. I snatch the letter out of her hand. “Good for you, Jermaine. I’m so impressed! What a savvy girl you are, seeking advice from a big-time producer for your little reality show!” Mom blows a kiss and leaves.
Little reality show?
The return address looks fancy. The letters and numbers are white like the envelope, and are stiff and bumpy, but easy to read. My first thought is, Rufus Carmichael’s famous fingers touched this envelope. Then, with trembling hands, I open the letter.
21
Dear Jermaine
Dear Jermaine,
It was very nice to hear from you. I wish you lots of luck with your reality show. Starting at such a young age I have no doubt one day you will be successful if you stick with it.
The best advice I can give you is to follow your dream. If producing reality-TV shows is what you are passionate about, I encourage you not to give up. The TV business can be difficult, but also very rewarding.
Thank you for your suggestion for The Country Life. We are always searching for new locations. You never know, perhaps our paths will cross one day soon. It would be a pleasure to meet you.
Please be well.
Yours very truly,
Rufus Carmichael
22
Palooza
“You did not!” Nina shrieks excitedly.
“Did too!” I shriek back.
“What’s it say?” Melinda asks.
“That my show is going to be a huge success!” I hand Nina the letter.
“Really!” Nina holds the letter so Melinda can see, too. I watch their eyes dart back and forth over the page.
“This is so awesome,” Melinda squeals.
“Don’t tear it or get it dirty,” I warn. Nina holds the letter gently, touching only the very edges. “See where it says I’m going to be a great success, because I’m so young? I knew it,” I tell them. “I knew I’d be doubly famous because of my age.” I film the two of them reading the letter. Imagine! Rufus Carmichael has a part in my show. His letter to me, anyway … just being able to use his name … I feel myself getting more famous by the minute!
“Girls, you’re here to help, right?” my father reminds us. I turn the camera onto Dad. He’s unpacking jars and stacking them in a pyramid on top of the table. Mom’s yellow checked cloth for special events covers the tabletop and hangs just above the floor. A brass easel holds a sign. NORA’S PICKLES is scrolled in bold black letters across the top, and the assorted products from her pickle line are listed underneath. At the bottom of the sign is my mother’s smiling face, the same happy face from the labels.
Aunt Edie and Uncle Larry fasten green balloons onto the legs of the easel, and a cascade of curled white and silver ribbon spills down the sides of the sign. A tall bouquet of shiny Mylar balloons shaped like pickles is anchored to the corner of the table behind the pyramid of jars. A special weight is tied to the end of the ribbons to keep the balloons from floating away.
“We’re coming!” I say to Dad. I carefully refold the letter and slip it back inside the envelope. I tuck it inside the long zippered pocket on the outside of my jacket where it will be safe. Zelda and Katrina organize the little sample cups and spoons. I pan my camera around the room. There sure are a lot of pickle-makers here. They’ve come from all over … some from as far as Colorado, but mostly from Maine or other parts of New England.
The community room inside the Penobscot River Inn is lined with rows of tables. All pickle-makers have their own square space just like ours, separated by walls that are basically white curtains pulled taut and held steady by metal poles.
“Do you want to unpack the brochures and business cards?” Mom asks me. She chops pickles on a plastic board into sample-sized pieces. “They’re over there.” She points with her chin to some open cartons. Mom wears a yellow apron that matches the cloth on the table. Her red curls are pulled back away from her face and sit in a springy mound on the top of her head.
“Okay,” I tell her. I find the brochures and cards in one of the smaller boxes. “Fan them out like this.” I show Melinda and Nina. On the other side of the room near the back entrance is a food court. The smell of something yummy makes me hungry. I see a popcorn machine from where I stand, and a sign for baked beans and brown bread. There’s pizza, too. I saw it when we came in the back exit from the parking lot. It’s right next to where Uncle Larry left his extra helium tank.
At three o’clock, the doors open to the public. The Winter Pickle Palooza has officially begun! Right away the room is crowded and starting to feel hot. All of us will take turns “working the booth”—handing out samples, business cards, and brochures. Aunt Edie and Uncle Larry offer free balloons imprinted with Nora’s Pickles to the passersby. There are people everywhere. Some come to taste, some to buy. Grocers seek out new products for their stores.
“This is a wonderful turnout!” Mom gushes to Dad.
Later on, Mrs. Fairly, Nina’s mom, pushing Granny Viola in her wheelchair, stops by the booth to say hi.
“Hello, Viola.” Mom reaches out and holds Granny V’s hands. She looks up at Mrs. Fairly. “The girls have been a great help. I was just going to suggest they walk around and get something to eat.”
Mrs. Fairly turns to look at the food court. “Mother,” she says to Granny Viola, “let me get you some supper.”
“I just ate,” Granny V answers. Mrs. Fairly gives Mom a sad look and shakes her head.
“No, Mother, you didn’t,” she tells her.
“Didn’t I?” Granny Viola frowns. “What time is it?”
“It’s okay. We can wait if you’re not hungry.”
“She gets confused sometimes,” Nina whispers. I rub Granny Viola’s shoulder gently.
Mom hands money to Zelda and Katrina. “Here,” she says to me, pushing a twenty-dollar bill into my hand, “you treat.” Zelda and Katrina head off to the food area.
“Let’s get some stuff first,” I say to Nina and Melinda. We stop at each booth, collecting free key rings, rubber jar openers, pencils, and magnets, all with different pickle-maker logos. We taste-test the competition: sours and half-sours, sweet gherkins, Polish dills, German dills, and kosher dills.
“I like these,” Melinda says, dangling a bread-and-butter chip over her mouth.
“I don’t like sweet pickles, I only like sour,” Nina tells us. There are piccalillis; most, in case you didn’t know, do not contain a single pickle. There are relishes, some sweet and some spicy, but none with red peppers. The Palooza is fun to film, but I must be careful not to overdo it … my reality show is about my family. I don’t want this to come off like a pickle documentary.
By the time we finish tasting all the pickle products, we’re not at all hungry.
“I don’t think I’ll eat another pickle as long as I live!” Nina tells us. “The inside of my mouth is all puckery.”
“Mine too,” Melinda says.
Back at the booth, a crowd stands in front of Mom’s table. Aunt Edie is passing out brochures and Dad is spooning samples into the little white cups. Melinda and I inflate balloons, while Nina and Uncle Larry hand them out.
An hour or so of this and I’m thinking about asking Mom if we can hitch a ride home with Nina’s mother. But suddenly, there’s a commotion at the front of the room. Two men, each holding a TV camera on his shoulder, wait by the doors.
“What’s going on?” I ask. Mom looks toward the cameras.
“The TV news is here … the mystery judge is arriving!”
“Where?” Melinda asks, standing on her tiptoes.
“Who is it?” Aunt Edie asks excitedly. Then a voice booms over the loudspeaker.
“Laddddddiiiies and Gennnttttlemen … pickkkkllllle maaaaaakerrrrrrrs and pickkkkllllle loverrrrrrrrs”—there’s laughing and then more booming voice—“the Palooooooooza m
ystery judge has arrrrrrrrived …” The door swings open and several men in long dark coats enter. Whoever it is must be important. The mystery judge has an entourage! I stuff the balloon I’m holding and about to inflate into my front pocket and reach for my camera lying on a box.
In the center of the “posse” is another man. The crowd recognizes him and bursts into cheers and applause. It’s the mystery judge, and he’s wearing a dark hat. It’s not a baseball hat or a ski hat. It’s soft with a dent on the top and a rim like a cowboy’s hat, but smaller. He raises his arm and waves to the cheering crowd. His leather-gloved hand, shiny and important-looking, turns from side to side. The crowd is excited and noisy. I focus the camera on the back of his hat. A swarm of people continue to shuffle to the center of the room. Dad stretches his neck up to see over the crowd.
“He must be pretty famous, this place is going wild!” Aunt Edie announces. All of a sudden I freeze. I feel a pounding sensation against the inside of my stomach and up into my chest. The room starts to sway. My brain is pedaling faster than I can keep up with it. Thoughts spin furiously—a whirlwind that forces me to catch my breath. They come at me like a pounding rainstorm, one heavy drop after another … an important-looking man, an entourage, TV cameras … a small town … Dear Jermaine … hope to cross paths … someday soon …
“Rufus Carmichael!” I shout. The secret judge! He’s here to scope out the location for The Country Life reality show! What could be more country-like than this Pickle Palooza … and the Penobscot River Inn! Not to mention the fact that my mother makes her pickles in a barn! I know I mentioned that in my letter! “Mr. Carmichael!” I shout louder.
“Are you SURE?” Nina bellows. “Is it really him?” Her eyes practically bug out of her head.
“What are you talking about, Jermaine?” Uncle Larry asks.
“It has to be him! It makes sense! Let me by!” I say. Uncle Larry shifts over into the curtain wall. “Let me by, let me by!” I squeal. But there’s not enough room. I rush around to the other end of the table. “MOM!” I yell. “Push over! Let me out!”