Jennifer Johnson Is Sick of Being Married Read Online Free PDF Page B

hungry enough to eat the balls off a low-flying duck.”
    We sit at the table and Brad raises his glass for a toast. “To Mom and Dad,” he says. “You’re the best. ”
    Mother Keller basks in her son’s glow. “It’s our pleasure, dear,” she says. “Your father and I realized you couldn’t stay in the guesthouse and raise a family.” My cheeks turn pink. I hate it when she starts in about Brad and me having a family. She’s always insinuating that I don’t want a baby, or worse, that I can’t have one, and I do want one and I can have one. She never gives me a chance to tell her how much I want to have a baby, she just starts harping on how we better hurry up and start trying before my ovaries are like dried-up beef jerky. I have half a mind to tell her that I deliberately stopped taking birth control even before Brad proposed to me. That might shut her up. Then maybe she’d finally believe that I want to have her son’s baby.
    Ed leans over. “Have I ever told you how much you look like my cousin Ada?”
    I nod at him. Ed’s told me many, many times that I remind him of his cousin Ada. Almost every time he sees me. Ed has this weird relationship with his cousin Ada, and every time he mentions her, Mother Keller gets very quiet and looks like she does right now. Like she swallowed a bee. “Ada’s a real beauty,” Ed says. “And a wonderful cook.”
    Mother Keller stares down the table at him. “A wonderful cook?” she snaps. “She once set fire to the stove on Christmas morning.”
    Ed ignores her. “Ada can sing too,” he says. “Did I ever tell you about Ada’s voice?”
    â€œYou did, Ed.” I smile politely. “You definitely did.”
    Suddenly the swinging door opens and an ancient-looking woman shuffles in. She has dark yellow skin that’s deeply creased and wrinkled. Her face looks like dried apple. She’s wearing a black burlap sack; the waist is tied with a piece of yellow cord. We all look at her and the table falls silent. “Heavens, I nearly forgot about little Bi’ch,” Mother Keller says.
    â€œWho?” I sit up. It sounded like she said “little bitch.”
    â€œBi’ch!” Mother Keller repeats. “Since poor Jennifer here has no experience running a house properly, I wanted to make sure she had enough help.”
    â€œHelp?” I repeat.
    â€œYour maid,” Mother Keller says. “Everyone, please meet Mrs. Bi’ch Fang.”
    The woman’s last name is “Fang,” as in wolf fang. Her first name is “Bi’ch” and rhymes, unfortunately, with “ditch.” She’s Hmong; she came from the Bridge Program at church, which Mother Keller says relocates displaced immigrants looking for a new home. Bi’ch will be our maid. “Oh, I don’t need a maid!” I say. “Thank you, but . . . it’s not necessary!”
    â€œOh my, yes it is.” Mother Keller smirks. “Bi’ch is going to help you keep your house in order. For once. I had to get you a maid, Jennifer. We all know how you keep a house!”
    The whole table chuckles together happily as I glower.
    â€œBut where will she . . . live?” I ask gloomily.
    â€œRight here,” Mother Keller says. “In the little guesthouse out back.”
    â€œShe’s going to live here ?”
    â€œOf course. It’s all been arranged.”
    So there it is. The super-awesome cherry on top of my super-surprise sundae. Not only has my mother-in-law decided where I’ll live and how I’ll live, she’s even selected who I’ll live with. A woman who looks like her last position was cleaning up the prehistoric cave of some Neanderthal man. Fine. At least she won’t be afraid of Brad’s laundry. Some of his socks stand up for themselves. Literally. Especially the ones he