On Strike for Christmas (14 page)

Uh-oh, thought Joy.

Joy felt slightly sick. This was all becoming a nightmare.

The phone rang, making her start.

Bob, who had been hovering nearby, grabbed it. “Hi, Mom. Yeah, she's right here,” he said and handed over the cordless. “I'll leave you and your mother to talk about me in peace,” he sniped, then left.

Meanwhile, Mom was teasing, “Is this my inspiring daughter?”

“That's me,” Joy said, “the inspirer of tripe.”

“That one grump,” Erna said, easily dismissing Jack Carter. “Sounds like his wife needs to go on strike permanently.”

The last thing Joy wanted was to be responsible for the failure of someone's marriage. “Geez, Mom. Don't even say things like that. Anyway, he's not the only one who's not impressed.”

“Oh, big surprise about Beth,” scoffed Erna. “Everything in her place is overpriced, anyway. Any woman with half a brain is going to join you.”

“So you made it sound in your letter to the editor. A little over the top, wasn't it?”

“I didn't think so.”

“How does Dad feel about this, by the way?”

“He's not happy, believe me. He's off at the store buying cookies right now.”

Joy couldn't help smiling. “If you thought joining the strike was going to give you an excuse to pull out Dad's sweet tooth, I guess you thought wrong.”

“I guess,” her mom agreed. “And speaking of sweets, does this mean you're not going to host the cookie exchange this year?”

Disappointment settled in Joy's stomach like a heavy sauce. She was on strike and that meant no baking, and no baking meant no family cookie exchange. She'd been hosting it at her house for the last ten years. “Probably not,” she said miserably. Phone to her ear, she went to her baking cupboard and shook out a handful of chocolate chips. She popped them in her mouth, then slumped back down at the table.

“Oh, that's a shame,” said her mom.

“That's an understatement,” Joy said and started drawing a Snidely Whiplash mustache on the picture of Bob she'd found in the paper.

“Well, we can do it here this year, or at Lonnie's. And nobody will tell on you if you sneak over for a little while.”

“Thanks,” Joy said, “but that would probably be considered crossing the picket line.” She tried to imagine the cookie exchange at someone else's house. She couldn't.

You have to sacrifice for the cause, she reminded herself. And no sacrifice was too great to give Bob a George Bailey–style epiphany. She flashed on an image of Bob running down Main Street calling, “Merry Christmas everyone!” and smiled. For that, she could give up a cookie exchange. For that, she could give up a lot of things.

“Sweetie, are you sure you want to do this? I mean you've had your fun. Why not call off the strike now and get back to normal?”

Bob normal? No way. “Did Bob pay you to say that?” Joy teased.

“Of course not, and I'm with you one hundred percent.”

“Good. I'd hate to have my own mother deserting the cause, especially after she'd written a letter to the editor.”

“I'm no deserter. Well, sweetie, I'd better let you go. I'm sure you're going to have lots of people calling. Anyway, I want to get a few things done before I officially start my strike.”

“Like what?”

“I'm decorating the tree today and there's no way I'm letting your father near it.”

“With me one hundred percent, huh?”

“All right, ninety-nine percent, and the other one percent needs to get busy. Love you, sweetie. Bye.”

That was Mom. Only on strike one day and already crossing the picket line.

If Joy hadn't been determined to inspire Bob to change, she would have crossed it, too. This was all getting out of hand, and the lack of holiday baking smells in the house and the empty social calendar were beginning to get to her. And, to make matters worse, Rosemary Charles was showing up for another interview later that morning.

This was one Bob, Mr. I'm-Not-Available-for-Comment, had scheduled. What he could possibly have to say Joy couldn't imagine. And she wasn't even sure she wanted to try.

She wished she had something to report.
My husband's caving. Just the prospect of a bleak Christmas is more than he can stand. He finally realizes how much everything we do means to both of us.

She was beginning to think that would happen the day she found Rudolph and the other reindeer playing on her front lawn. So far, no matter what she said or did, Bob kept his Scrooge armor firmly in place. He'd done nothing but remain holed up in his office with his imaginary friends. So, basically they were going to give Rosemary Charles a nonarticle to go with their non-holiday.

Rosemary arrived promptly at ten with her photographer in tow. Joy tried not to look at the Charlie Brown tree as she led them into the living room where Bob was waiting to hold court.

“How would you say the strike is going so far, Mrs. Robertson?” Rosemary asked, her pen poised over her steno tablet.

Sucky
. “I think we're gaining in numbers,” Joy said, fishing for something to report.

“Oh, it's definitely growing,” the reporter said, and gave her photographer a look that was positively devilish.

Joy wondered what that was about, but the reporter didn't give her a chance to ask. She was already querying Bob, wanting to know if the strike had affected him adversely yet.

“So far so good,” he said amiably, filling Joy with a desire to dunk his head in a punchbowl of wassail and give him a swirly. “I just finished sending out Christmas cards,” he added.

Joy's jaw dropped. “You did Christmas cards?” The king of bah, humbug?

“I like Christmas cards,” he said.

“When?” Had he been up working at midnight? Had elves been addressing the envelopes for him? “I didn't see you working on them.”

“Well, they're done,” Bob said.

“That's impossible,” she informed him. It took her forever to do Christmas cards. It was a huge project, the one thing on her Christmas to-do list she dreaded every year.

“It's a cinch when you do e-cards,” Bob said.

“E-cards,” Joy echoed. Oh, she had to have misheard.

“Very efficient,” Rosemary Charles said diplomatically.

“Very tacky,” said Joy. Never mind that she hated writing Christmas cards, never mind that Bob's way was more efficient. It was sick and wrong and…cheating.

“May I quote you on that?” asked Rosemary.

“You sure may,” Joy said, glaring at Bob.

Bob shrugged. “Just because it's technology it's tacky?”

Rosemary was scribbling frantically now.

“Well, yes,” Joy said. “What thought goes into sending a Christmas card over the Internet? That's so impersonal. Where's the connection? Did you get that?” she asked the reporter.

Rosemary nodded, smiling like she'd found gold in her Christmas stocking.

“I connected,” Bob insisted. “I told everyone we were doing fine and wished them a merry Christmas, which is pretty much what you say in your cards every year. And it took plenty of thought. I had to go to the site, pick the card, type the message, get it sent.”

Joy shook her head. “That's pathetic.”

“It's efficient,” Bob corrected her.

“But everyone on our Christmas list doesn't have e-mail,” Joy informed him.
Ha! Got him there.

“Who?”

“Aunt Evie.”

“Who else?”

There had to be more than that. “I don't know right off the top of my head,” Joy said. “I'll have to check my address book.”

“Let me know who's left and I'll send them a card,” Bob promised.

“I will,” Joy said, and vowed to give him a list as long as her arm, even if she had to lift names from the phone book.

“Okay, how about a picture?” Rosemary suggested.

“Of what?” asked her photographer, looking at her like she was nuts.

“Let's get a shot of Mr. Robertson with his computer, sending an e-card and we'll put Mrs. Robertson in front of him, reading a traditional card. Have you got a pretty one?” she asked Joy.

Her mother had already sent hers out, and this year's was gorgeous. “I sure do,” Joy said. This would be a great picture. Joy would be looking at something beautiful while Bob sat with his cold, tacky technology. Joy liked it.

After they had posed for the picture, Rosemary turned to Bob. “Now I'd love to hear about that plan you said you had to help the husbands of the strikers.”

So that was why Rosemary Charles was here. And what plan was she talking about? Whatever it was, it was news to Joy. What was Bob up to now?

“I thought your editor might like a list of suggestions for the men on how to survive the strike. I'd be happy to provide one.”

Rosemary Charles nodded slowly. “I'm sure my editor would go for that. How soon could you e-mail it to me?”

“Right away,” Bob said, looking disgustingly self-satisfied. He probably had it done already, had probably written it while his e-mail cards were going out.

Next to him, Joy smiled politely. The only way she'd been able to dredge up that smile was by envisioning her husband out in the garage, tied to a chair with strings of Christmas lights and being forced to listen to Alvin and the Chipmunks singing “Christmas Don't Be Late” over and over and over again.

“Real cute, Bob,” she said to him after Rosemary Charles and her sidekick were out the door.

He held out both hands in a typical male don't-blame-me gesture. “The men need help.”

“The men need to shape up.”

“Maybe my suggestions will help them,” Bob said.

“Maybe you should just worry about your suggestions helping you,” Joy snapped. She left him to think that over and shut herself in the bedroom with the phone.

“We have complications,” she said as soon as Sharon answered the phone. “Bob is dishing out advice for the men now. It's going to be in the paper.”

“Well, bless his heart. Isn't he just the clever one?”

“Too clever.” Now Bob not only was deliberately missing her point, he was publicly declaring war.

“Don't worry, sugar,” Sharon soothed. “A man writing advice on how to do Christmas is like a rooster trying to give a hen lessons on how to lay an egg. We're fine.”

“I sure hope so,” Joy said, but she was having serious doubts.

 

“The chicks are gonna lose this one,” Rick Daniels predicted as he and Rosemary drove back to the paper.

“It's still early in the game. I've got faith in the women,” Rosemary said.

“Gee, I wonder why.”

Rosemary gave him a playful punch in the arm. “Not just because we're all women.”

“Sure.”

“No, seriously. I think the strikers have got a point. Women bring something to special occasions that just wouldn't be there if the guys were in charge.”

“Yeah. Extra work.”

She frowned at him. “How'd you get to be such a cynic? You're not even married.”

“I'm not a cynic,” he said. “I'm a realist.”

“No, you're a cynic. And, mark my words, before the women are done these guys are going to have a whole different outlook.”

“Even Robertson?”

“Even Robertson.”

“Wanna bet on that?” he said.

“Okay. Why not? What should we bet?”

“Loser buys the winner dinner at one of those all-you-can-eat places.”

“A cheap restaurant. Boy, I can see you really believe in putting your money where your mouth is,” Rosemary taunted.

“Okay. Fine. Loser buys the winner dinner at—”

“Chez Louie's.”

Rick turned to stare at her, bug eyed. “Chez Louie's! You don't get out of that place for under fifty bucks a person.”

“Like I said, you really believe in putting your money—”

He cut her off. “Okay, okay. Chez Louie's it is. So, when do we decide who won and who lost?”

Rosemary considered. “Christmas Day. The strike will be over then and we'll know who won.”

“Okay. So, if she gives up.”

“If he gives in.”

“He won't.”

“It's not over till it's over,” Rosemary said.

Rick was grinning. “Man, I'm gonna enjoy my dinner at Chez Louie's. Let's do it New Year's Eve.”

“New Year's Eve? What if someone has a date?”

The look Rick gave Rosemary sent a zing all the way from her chest to her panty hose. “They break it.”

Glen wound up working late on Friday. Naturally, this had to happen on the day of the big party. Friday night for a party, now there was a winning idea. Laura could have picked a Saturday, but no, she had to pick a night at the end of a long workweek, a night when some people often had to work late. Real considerate. But he had his game plan in place. No problem. He could do this.

His secretary, Kathleen, had poked her head in his office door before abandoning him. “See you later,” she said. “I'd offer to bring something tonight, but Laura says you've got it all under control.”

“I do,” Glen assured her. “Piece of cake.” He was running late, but it wouldn't take that long to swing by the store and get party fixings.

There was nothing to this party stuff. At the Town and Country he grabbed a supply of Hale's Ale, some Bud, a couple bottles of white wine, a case of pop, and half a dozen bags of various kinds of chips. There. That should do it.

He came home, laden with grocery bags and announced, “Okay, we're set.”

“Good job, babe,” Laura commended him as he stowed the beer and wine in the fridge. “Hurry up and eat. You've got to get the kids in bed and everything set out before the company comes.”

Glen stopped in the middle of emptying a bag and looked at her. “Wait a minute. Why can't you put the kids to bed?”

“I want to come to the party,” Amy said.

“No, baby, this is a grown-up party,” Laura told her.

“Girls can come to grown-up parties,” Amy suggested.

“Not this one,” Laura said firmly, and hauled Tyler's hand out of his mashed potatoes. To Glen she said, “I'm not putting the kids to bed because I'm you. You never clean up dinner or put the kids to bed before a party.”

“I sure as hell do.”

“You come and kiss them good night after I've given them their bath.”

“And I clear the table,” Glen reminded her. “That's something.” He wasn't a total bum.

“Okay,” Laura said. “I'll clear the table. But I'm not loading the dishwasher.”

“Geez, you're hard.”

“I'm not hard, I'm on strike. So be glad I'm even clearing the table.”

“And what are you going to be doing while I'm getting the kids in bed and doing the dishes?”

She smiled at him. “Getting ready. I wonder if there's a game on TV I can watch while I'm waiting for the company.”

“Ha, ha. Hey, go ahead. I can handle this,” Glen said in his double-dog-dare voice.

“I know you can,” she said as she put a pile of plates in the sink. “Well, I think I'll go take a bath.”

She patted his cheek as she went by. She might as well have said, “Neener, neener, neener.” He almost growled in response.

Look at that cute butt, he thought as she left the room. When it came to bodies, his wife's was perfect—a nice small package, curved in all the right places, and she had a smile that a man would do anything to win. And what was hidden inside all that great packaging? A real sick puppy who loved to see a guy squirm.

Stay in the game, urged Glen's inner coach, bringing him back to the moment at hand.

Right. Stay in the game. Keep your eye on the goal.
He sprang into action and dished up his dinner from the stove, wolfing it down like he was in some kind of speed-eating contest. A guy shouldn't have to hurry through his dinner like this. But, if he wanted to get everything done and prove to his wife that he could handle whatever she threw at him, he would. Heck, at this point to prove to Laura that he could handle this holiday stuff, he'd eat ground glass.

“I want to come to the party,” Amy said again, as he put his dish in the sink.

“Yeah, I know, but you've got to go to bed.” Glen heaved a heavy sigh. He was really draggin' his wagon, and right about now, going to bed along with the kids sounded pretty good.

He hurried the kids upstairs and into their jammies. Laura usually gave them a bath before bed, but, hey, a kid didn't need a bath every night, and especially not this night.

“Okay, guys. Into bed,” he said. “Mommy will come hear you say your prayers.”
If she can spare the time in between her bubble bath and painting her nails.

He found Laura in the master bathroom, standing in front of the mirror looking totally hot. She'd put on perfume. Oh, man, it smelled good and it made him think of sex. Perfume and sex went together like milk and Christmas cookies. She was wearing his favorite slinky, black dress and putting on a kick-ass red lipstick. Her hair was all down and sexy. She looked like just what he wanted for Christmas. She set down the lipstick, then pulled a bottle of red nail polish out of one of the drawers and began shaking it. Red, his favorite color.

Glen developed instant amnesia and all his earlier irritation slipped away. He came up behind her and put his arms around her. “Let's have a quick party of our own before everybody gets here.”

She looked at him in the mirror and gave him a flirty little smile that really raised his hopes, then said, “You have too much to do.” Then she slipped away, saying, “I'm going to go kiss the kids. You'd better hurry up and change.”

“You're cruel. You know that?” he called after her.

“Yes, I am,” she called back. “Be a good boy and get dressed, and if you're lucky I'll chain you to the bed later and get out my whip.”

“You're already whipping me pretty damned good,” Glen muttered. He climbed into his jeans, then grabbed a polo shirt and ran downstairs to party central.

The kitchen clock assured him he had twenty minutes before the guests came. He heaved a sigh of relief. Good. He was going to make it. He went out to the garage for the big bucket they always put the drinks in. Oh, yeah. Ice. He looked in the spare freezer in the garage for the party ice. Nothing.

He hauled the bucket in and set it on the work island in the kitchen, then went and called upstairs, “Hey, baby, where's the party ice?”

“You didn't pick any up?” she called back down.

“Don't we have any?” Laura always got ice for the parties. Except he was Laura now. Oh, boy.

“Not unless you got some.”

Well, okay. He'd make a quick run to the 7-Eleven and still be back in time. He piled the bags of chips on the island next to the bucket with no ice. The dinner remains were still on the stove and the dirty dishes sat in the sink. Who cared? It made the place look lived in.

He grabbed his car keys, pulled a coat from the closet, and rushed out the door. The clock on the minivan dash told him he had fifteen minutes before the first guests arrived. Laura would come down and see the messy kitchen, see him not there, give him a bad time when he got back. And if so much as one single party guest sneaked in before him, she'd really give him a bad time. “Not gonna happen,” he vowed, and squealed away from the curb.

It had started to snow since he got home, and cars were cautiously tracking along a slippery sheet of white. It didn't bother Glen, though. He could drive in anything. And right now he needed to drive fast.

The cop got him half a block from the 7-Eleven. Glen swore. Now he'd never make it back in time. He slumped in the front seat, a beaten man.

The officer came up to the window and Glen let it down. “Sir, could I see your license and registration?”

Glen obliged. He hated to think how much this ticket was going to cost. This was turning out to be an expensive party.

“Do you know how fast you were going, sir?” the cop asked.

Sadly, he did. “Too fast.”

“You were doing forty in a thirty-mile zone, and the streets are slippery. Is there some emergency?”

“Party ice.”

“Party ice?” The officer's polite smile leveled into a straight, narrow line.

“My wife's on strike for Christmas,” Glen blurted. “I'm doing everything. Last night I burned cookies. I'm in charge of the party tonight. I forgot the ice. Everyone will be there any minute. I've got mashed potatoes and green beans on the stove and dishes in the sink and I didn't give the kids a bath and she's painting her nails.” Glen took a deep breath. “Just give me the ticket. I deserve it.”

But the cop was now looking at him like he'd confessed to losing his job.

“I'm going to give you a warning this time, sir. But you need to get the lead out of your foot, especially on a night like this.”

“Oh, man, thanks,” Glen breathed. “I really appreciate it.”

The officer nodded. “My wife's on strike, too.”