He stepped aside at the door of the pantry so she could get out (she smiled up at him; his heart fluttered a little, as though they were courting again!) and he stepped in, placing his jar on the pantry shelf next to where she had placed hers.

Returning from his ninth trip, he took her in his arms and began waltzing with her.

“John!” she said, her waltz step clumsy with surprise at first, then melting into grace as she set the jar of pickles she had been carrying on the butcher block in the center of the room. “What’s gotten into you?”

“It’s the summer, Wilma,” he said. “Having you here in the summer. It’s like we’re young again.” Or, could be, he added, to himself.

“It isn’t either, John,” she scoffed, but she continued dancing with him.

“It is,” he insisted. “And we’re not that old, really, when you think of it.”

“Speak for yourself.”

“I will. I’ll say you’re just as beautiful now as you ever were.”

She laughed. “John.”

“I’m glad you made pickles, Wilma. You seem happier now. Just be careful that you don’t overdo.”

“That would be impossible. As long as the boys are over there, I can’t do enough.”

“Still, though, Wilma, they wouldn’t want you taxing yourself like this.”

“Well, I have to do something!”

“Yes, but—” Mid-waltz, he felt the back of his hand brush against the cool, firm surface of a canning jar. There was a terrific crash. Liquid splashed onto his ankles.

“Oh!” Wilma said. She dropped his hands and sank to the floor. “Oh.”

“Wilma,” he said, crouching next to her. For a moment he thought the pickles might be salvageable. He would run to the store, get a new jar, they’d repack them, good as new. Then he saw the shards and crystals of shattered glass mixed with the pickles as finely as spice.

“My pickles, John,” she said. “I worked so hard.”

“Wilma, I didn’t mean to,” he said. “It’s just one jar. I’ll clean it up.” He reached for the metal band around the lid; the top half of the jar was still attached, hanging from it with jagged edges. He picked it up quickly, and just at the same time, she reached for it. A bottom edge of the glass sliced her palm like a knife; a breath later, bright blood showed in a thin line.

“Wilma!” John said, straightening quickly to his feet, broken jar still in his hand. “Where’s a towel? We have to stop the bleeding.”

“Don’t,” she said.

He looked down at her. She had closed her hand into a fist over the shattered pickle jar and was watching it. A drop of blood fell from her hand, mixing with the liquid on the floor. “Wilma, we have to get you a bandage.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said.