On Strike for Christmas (11 page)

Forty-five minutes later they were up to the fake snow lawn and one kid away from entering the red plywood shack to see Santa, and Tyler smelled funny.

“Tyler smells poopy,” Amy announced.

Great. Just one kid away and Tyler had to drop a bomb in his pants. If they left the line to change him they'd have to start all over again and no way was Glen going to do that. He considered changing Tyler right on the spot and decided against it. Laura was the kid expert, but even Glen knew that was a social no-no.

“He'll be okay until we get home,” Glen decided. He took off the kids' coats so they'd be ready for the big moment and studied them. There they stood, Amy wearing jammies that flopped over her feet and Tyler with a load in his diaper. Well, what could Laura expect? She was on strike and he was a scab. You had to take what you got when the scabs were on the job.

Santa got done ho-ho-ho-ing a kid who looked like she should be on a magazine cover and held out his arms to Tyler and Amy. Amy walked obediently up to him, flopping her way around her too-long pant legs, but Tyler suddenly got alarmed. He started to cry and turned to bolt.

“It's okay,” Glen told him, picking him up. “It's Santa. He's going to bring you cool stuff for Christmas.”

Glen tried to set Tyler on Santa's lap and Tyler's howl got louder. His feet began to pump and he tried to wiggle free. His deer antlers slipped sideways. Tyler wasn't crying in last year's Santa pictures. What had Laura done to make him stop? Drugged him?

“Come on, Tyler,” Amy said encouragingly, and perched on Santa.

Glen tried again. Tyler let Glen set him down, but he kept on crying. He looked like a kid who'd just had his candy cane stolen.

“It's okay, sweetie,” cooed a female elf with a camera. “What's this I've got?” She squeezed a squeaky toy duck at Tyler.

Tyler kept wailing.

“Can you smile for Santa?” she suggested.

She said it just as Santa made a face.

Glen couldn't blame him. Tyler smelled pretty ripe.

“Whoa there,” said Santa. “Somebody needs a clean diaper for Christmas.”

“Yeah, well. We're gonna take care of that,” Glen said.

The look Santa gave him promised Glen a lump of something in his stocking on a par with what was in Tyler's diaper.

The elf snapped away while Tyler cried and wiggled, popping loose the stuck-down tag from the neck of his pajamas. At least Amy smiled. She looked like a little angel…with no feet who was having a bad hair day. (The ponytail was mostly out now, and her antlers weren't exactly front and center, either.) And Santa kept trying to smile but mostly looked like he'd just been fed a lemon.

Somehow, Glen couldn't imagine Laura wanting to stick very many of these pictures in their Christmas cards.

As soon as the elf was done, Santa removed Tyler from his lap. “Whoa,” he said, fanning out his pant leg. “Next time bring your Mommy, kids.”

“Very funny,” said Glen.

“Not from where I'm sitting,” Santa retorted.

The minute they were away from Santa, Tyler stopped yelling. Glen noticed that the woman behind him was bringing up a couple of kids who looked like they'd been dressed by a fashion designer. Of course, that was the look Laura would have wanted for the kids.

Glen paid the hefty picture price and gave the Santa rip-off company the necessary address for sending the pics, then got out of there. He'd thought they'd have a computer set up that would give him a chance to see some proofs and pick the least awful one like the photographers did over at the place where Laura often took the kids for portraits, but no such luck. Maybe it was just as well, because Glen knew he'd never be able to find any picture his wife would approve.

By the time he got the kids home he was completely wrung out.

Laura was back, looking totally hot with a new hairstyle. “How'd it go?” she asked. She was watching him like she was half afraid to hear.

No sense ruining her day. “Piece of cake. Here,” he said, handing Tyler over to her. “He needs changing.”

She looked from one child to the other. “What's with the pajamas?”

“We went with a Night Before Christmas theme,” Glen said. “Now, if you're done torturing me for the day, I'd like to go back to being myself.”

She looked at him innocently, like she wasn't enjoying every moment of his misery, and said, “Sure.”

The sad thing was, Glen never completely got back to being himself. He was tired when the guys came, and wished he hadn't invited anyone over. And it ticked him off that they moved his decorations off the coffee table to make room for the chips and salsa. Then, when Roger and Mac started throwing the football around at halftime, he snapped, “Don't be throwing that in the house. You'll knock over my lighted village.”

Rog stopped, his arm in midair. Three pairs of jaws dropped open and the only sound in the room was the TV blatting out a beer commercial.

Mac was the first to speak. “Dude. What is wrong with you? You sound like Martha Stewart.”

Glen suddenly felt like he was going to puke.
Oh, God. What's happening to me?

The article about the strike appeared in Sunday's paper. The picture of his wife reclining amid the mess of ornament boxes didn't bother Glen, but what she said in the article sure did.

He gave the paper a disgusted thump. “You make me look like a jerk.”

Laura took it away from him and studied her picture. “I'm donating those pants to the Goodwill. They definitely make me look fat.”

“Never mind the pants. What about me and how I look?”

She peered at him over the top of the paper, both eyebrows raised. “All I did was tell the reporter how it is around here every Christmas, babe. How does that make you look like a jerk?”

He was about to step into some kind of verbal trap. He could sense it the way an animal could smell trouble on the wind. He decided to try a different strategy. “You could have said something good about me, you know.”

She gave him that sexy grin of hers and moved from her side of the kitchen table to sit on his lap, twining her arms around his neck. “Now, you know they can't print that kind of stuff in the paper.”

“What stuff?” Amy asked, looking up from her bowl of Tootie Fruities.

Laura left Glen's lap—darn—and started clearing the breakfast dishes. “Never mind. Finish your cereal. We have to get out the door.”

The last thing Glen wanted to do now was go to Mass. As of this morning, everyone in the entire parish knew that he was the holiday version of Mr. Mom. He had to have been out of his mind to go along with this. Either that or Laura was slipping drugs into his food.

That last thought gave him an idea. “I don't think I'll go today.” He rubbed his gut for effect. “I think I'm coming down with something.”

Laura looked over her shoulder at him. “Yeah? A case of
chicken
pox?” She started to cluck under her breath.

He scowled, sitting up a little straighter and pushing out his chest. “No. I just—”

“You're just chicken,” she taunted.

Amy, sensing a good joke, echoed, “You're a chicken, Daddy.”

He launched himself from his chair and growled, “Never mind. I'll go.”

Laura chuckled as he pushed past her to go brush his teeth. The woman would have made a good Spanish Inquisitor.

He'd been right about what it would be like at church. All through Father Thomas's homily Glen could feel curious stares burning into his back. They were barely out of the sanctuary when Derrick Matthews gave him a playful punch in the arm and said, “Hey, how's the cookie baking going, Mrs. Claus?”

“That's real funny,” Glen said with a frown.

Roger was with them now, and studying Glen with narrowed eyes. “Does that article have something to do with you weirding out over the lighted village yesterday? He was all worried about us knocking it over with the football,” Rog explained to Derrick.

“Whoa. So, what are you asking for this Christmas, a new vacuum?” Derrick teased.

Glen leaned over and lowered his voice. “One more word and you're black and blue for Christmas. Got it?”

Derrick took a step back and held up his hands, a joking smile on his face. “Hey, pal. Take some Midol.”

That was it. Glen was going to take him out right here in front of God and everyone. He pushed up his shirtsleeves and started for Derrick the dickhead.

The only thing that saved the guy was his wife, Gina, coming up to them. She wiggled in front of Derrick and looked up at Glen like he was Superman. “Glen, this is so cool. You're really doing everything?”

“It wasn't my idea,” Glen said sullenly. He'd been tricked. Or hypnotized. Or something.

“Well, I think it's awesome,” Gina gushed. She gave Derrick a look that said his turn was coming, and Derrick's smile slipped off, making Glen feel much better.

“Yeah, well, any man can handle that Christmas stuff if he puts his mind to it,” Glen said, making himself sound like a candidate for an upcoming season of
Survivor
.

Another husband walked past as this conversation was taking place. “Thanks a lot,” he said to Glen. “My wife ragged on me all the way here. Now I'm stuck with doing the Christmas cards.”

“Glen can't help it if he's whipped,” said another. The moron was doing a pretty good job of gloating until his wife came and told him it was time to get over to her mother's for lunch.

Glen couldn't help gloating a little himself. These clowns put up great facades, but when it came right down to it, they were all whipped. Women just had a way of taking a guy's life and turning it upside down.

Laura broke away from the group of women she'd been talking to and started toward him, Tyler in her arms, Amy skipping beside her. Watching them, he felt the familiar swell of love and pride rise in his chest and he had to shake his head and smile. Being whipped wasn't all that bad.

He changed his mind once they got home, though. He was just about to turn on the TV for the pregame show when Laura said, “Christmas cards need to get done today, remember.”

“The game's about to start,” Glen protested.

“So, address envelopes while you watch it. Multitask. That's what I do.”

Only a woman would suggest such a dumb thing.

Laura flipped on the radio and a cheery chorus came over the stereo system, telling him that he needed a little Christmas. Yeah, right. What he needed was a break from Christmas.

After lunch Laura put Tyler down for a nap. Then, while Glen sat in front of the TV swearing over the Christmas cards, she and Amy snuggled under the down comforter on Glen's and her king-size bed and read storybooks together. It felt great to spend a Sunday afternoon just relaxing with her daughter. Last year she hadn't had time for this sort of thing, hadn't even had a minute for herself because of everything she'd wound up doing. And there had been Glen, the Christmas drone, just relaxing and inviting company over at the drop of a hat, while she ran in circles. It felt good not to run. In fact, it felt so good that she knew she would never do it again. She and Glen would either be entering into some serious negotiations at the end of the strike or he'd be living at the North Pole.

At one point Glen called up the stairs, “I have to get something. I'll be back,” then she heard the front door slam. Poor Glen, he was probably going out to buy more Excedrin.

She finished the last page of
The Night Before Christmas
and shut the book.

“I like that book,” Amy said.

Laura kissed the top of her head. “I know you do.”

“Does Daddy want to come and read stories with us?”

“Oh, honey, I'm afraid Daddy's going to be busy for a while,” Laura said with a wicked grin. What a brilliant idea this strike was. Joy had been positively inspired when she came up with it.

 

The phone wouldn't stop ringing. It seemed to Bob that every woman Joy had ever known felt the need to call and talk about the strike. And that included his mother-in-law. Pretty soon Joy was dishing out advice like she was Dr. Phil in drag. By late afternoon Bob had to get out of the house.

He got some pop at the grocery store, then went to Hollywood Heaven for an order of escapism. That was where he ran into Karen Doolittle, their most obnoxious neighbor. Just hearing her bullhorn voice call hello from the other side of the store was enough to convince him it was time to sign up for Netflix. Of course he couldn't pretend he hadn't heard her. The whole store had heard her. He gave her a wave, hoping that would be enough, and turned back to the shelf of foreign films he'd been perusing.

Of course, it wasn't enough. Next thing he knew she was next to him, telling him and everyone in the place who wasn't deaf that she'd read all about him in the paper. “So does that mean you're in charge of fun and games for Christmas?” she asked in an attempt to be coy.

“It looks that way,” Bob agreed. Then added, “Which means we'll be having a nice, quiet Christmas. Guess you'll have to do the neighborhood party this year.” Like that would ever happen. Karen's husband was the cheapest bum on the block.

She looked at him like he'd just told her that Santa would be passing her house without stopping.

“Merry Christmas,” he said, and pulled a DVD off the shelf.

“Same to you,” she said in a tone of voice that wished him a lump of coal up his butt.

He couldn't help smiling as he walked away. For the first time since he'd gotten married, his wife wasn't running the holiday show. He could do anything he wanted. Anything. The holiday was his. He was writing the scenario this year.

He practically skipped to the comedy section and randomly picked something. Then he stopped by the action/adventure shelf and got an old Arnold Schwarzenegger movie,
The Terminator
. Bob felt a little bit like a terminator, himself—the Christmas Terminator, wiping out irritating, invasive traditions wherever he went. Ho, ho, ho and blast away. This really was going to be a great holiday. No neighborhood Christmas party at his house, no herds of chattering women traipsing through his living room and kitchen for teas and cookie exchanges. Just the peace and silence of a brave, new world.

On the way home, the Christmas Terminator made one more stop, and pulled his car into the parking lot of Hank's Hardware.

Hank's sat squarely in the middle of town, a good, strong dose of testosterone to balance the kitchen shops, women's clothing boutiques, toy stores, and other female-friendly stores that dominated downtown Holly. Hank didn't bother to cater to women. Shoppers would find no wind chimes, no picnic doodads, no cutesy gardening utensils or little stone frogs for the front yard in his place. The few small appliances he stocked were cool guy toys, like the George Foreman Lean Mean Grilling Machine. Hank's was Man Land, packed full of saws and hammers and nails, wheelbarrows, levels, screwdrivers, bits, and anything else a man could want, including male conversation. His only concession to the holidays was a limited selection of outdoor lights—no garlands or tinsel or lighted villages. In short, nothing to tempt the women of Holly to invade his territory. Bob always liked wandering around in there and seeing what was new.

He walked in to find a couple of men leaning on the front counter, talking to Hank and watching the last of the game playing on the TV mounted on the wall behind him. The big, beefy one Bob recognized right away as his neighbor, Glen Fredericks. Bob didn't recognize the man next to him. He was shorter, with the sinewy build of a runner, and was wearing a baseball cap on his head. It was obvious he'd taken the day off from shaving.

Hank, a grizzled, old bachelor, spat a streak of tobacco into the old-fashioned spittoon he kept by the cash register and said, “The problem with you morons is you've forgotten how to be men. Christmas cards,” he said in disgust, and spat again. And then he saw Bob. “Well, speak of the devil.”

The other two men turned to look in Bob's direction; then both frowned.

Bob nodded politely and scurried down the aisle with the flashlights. What was that all about? Of course, the article in the newspaper. But why give him the stink eye? Fredericks's wife was in this clear up to her pretty, blond curls.

Bob selected a flashlight and some batteries, then walked up to the counter, steeling himself for attack.

“My wife's trying to kill me,” Fredericks greeted him. “I just spent an hour doing Christmas cards and I'm still not done. The only way I could watch the game in peace was to come here.”

“I hear this was all your wife's idea,” the other guy accused Bob.

“This is Pete,” Glen began. “What'd you say your last name was?”

“Benedict.” The man was frowning like he wanted to punch Bob's lights out. Writing and an occasional round of golf hadn't exactly kept Bob in top fighting condition. The guy would have no problem.

Lucky for Bob, Pete took his proffered hand and shook it. “My wife joined that strike your wife started, and now, instead of driving me crazy making everything perfect, she's driving me crazy telling me that nothing's perfect.”

Glen shook his head. “So far this game is going to the women.”

“You should've stayed single,” Hank told him.

“So, did you do that tree in the picture in the paper?” Pete asked Bob.

Bob shrugged. “Just a little sabotage.”

Glen gave Bob a thumbs-up, but Pete let out a snort. “Passive-aggressive stuff doesn't work. It just makes 'em madder.”

“Well, I thought it was worth a try,” Bob said.

“Nothing works when they've made up their minds about something,” Fredericks said.

“Sick,” Hank muttered, and let fly with another stream of tobacco juice.

“The best we can do is stay strong,” Bob said. “Don't let them think they're getting to us.”

“Hey, I'm not letting this get to me,” Fredericks insisted. “I can take anything she can dish out.”

“Which is why you're down here,” said Hank.