White Picket Fence

A Story by Deborah Dhue

Perfect homes are always the most broken.

    Jenny Lockhart rushed into the kitchen to pull the casserole out of the oven. Her husband, Harold, would be home from the law firm at any moment, and she wanted him to be welcomed by a warm and hearty meal. Heat blasted her face as the oven door came open, and the aroma of browned cheese, vegetables, and spices wafted out into the room. Just as she was placing the dish on a wooden trivet, she heard the white picket fence squeak. Jenny hurried to serve out the warm baked dinner onto her grandmother’s china.
    “Honey, I’m home!” Harold’s baritone voice crooned out as he placed his hat on the rack. Jenny came into the living room and welcomed him with a kiss.
    “Welcome home, darling. Dinner is on the table,” Jenny said, taking Harold’s coat and hanging it along with his hat.
    “Smells like another one of your flavorless concoctions,” he flatly stated, pushing Jenny aside and seating himself at the table. She swallowed and recomposed herself.
    “Is there anything I can get for you to drink, dear?”
    “Yeah, could you pour me a bit of that sour mash your father gave us?”
    “Oh, Harold, wouldn’t you be satisfied with something else? You know I don’t like when you drink.”
    “You asked what I wanted, and I want some whiskey,” he looked at Jenny and snickered, “Drinking’s the only way I can stomach your food and looking at that ugly mug of yours.”
    Jenny swallowed back her tears and went into the kitchen for a glass. Nothing could stop the neighbors from talking. The Lockhart home was a broken one. The white picket fence and perfect lawn couldn’t fix it, and Jenny’s thick makeup definitely couldn’t cover it up.