On Strike for Christmas (18 page)

“Thanks.” He set the platters on the dining table, then went in search of the punch bowl while Joy answered the door.

There, in all their glory, stood Harold and Linda Bradbury. Harold was sporting a blue velvet cap with a feather in it. A matching velvet cloak hung over his beefy torso, and his legs were encased in some sort of leggings. He looked like Henry the Eighth without the turkey leg. Next to him stood Linda, equally large in a black velvet cape over a royal blue gown. She wore a headdress that made her look like the Queen of Hearts, freshly escaped from Wonderland.

“We're here,” Harold announced. “‘Let the games begin.'”

Well, at least he'd said the word “games.” Joy hoped he hadn't brought his axe with him.

“Come on in,” she said. “May I take your, uh, coats?”

They stepped inside and Harold removed his cape with a flourish. “Thank you, my lady.”

“You're welcome…Lord Harold,” she said, and took Linda's cloak. “Bob is just getting the food set out.”

“Ah, food. I'm famished,” Harold declared.

Wasting away to a shadow, Joy thought, as she hung the capes in the coat closet.

Harold and Linda went to hover by the table and watch Bob work. “You've done a great job, old man,” Harold congratulated him.

“Of course, I'd have been glad to bring something,” Linda put in. “I'm not on strike. I like to eat too much to do that,” she added, patting her rounded middle. “I make a wonderful moose mincemeat pie. It's the hit of the medieval fair every year. Isn't it, Har?”

“Oh, yes,” he agreed, nodding his head.

“Har tells me you're doing everything,” she said to Bob. “I could give you some recipes.”

And what did Linda think Bob, the most kitchen-challenged man in town, would do with them? “I'm still doing the cooking. Bob's just in charge of Christmas this year,” Joy said as she went to answer the door.

This time it was the Pendergasts. Don Pendergast was a tall, thin man with a thin mouth, and his wife, Darla, was short and plump. She looked around as she stepped inside the house as if wondering what she was doing at the Robertsons'. Well, that made two of them, Joy thought.

Unlike the Bradburys, the Pendergasts had dressed in slacks and sweaters in muted colors knitted in a pattern of trees. Darla regarded Linda, who was sailing out to the living room in full medieval regalia with a plate of rolled meat and cheese like she was an alien invader.

“Well,” Joy said after she'd settled the Pendergasts in the living room with some eggnog, “it's nice to get to meet the wife of my husband's genius bookkeeper. Are you good with numbers, too, Darla?”

Darla shook her head. “Oh, not really,” she said in a quiet voice.

“So, what is your specialty?”

“Specialty?” Darla repeated.

“I mean, what are you good at?”

Darla thought a moment. “Well, I…” She stuttered to a stop and looked like she was going to cry.

Joy tried another tack. “What do you enjoy doing?”

“I like tropical fish.”

Come to think of it, Darla's voice reminded Joy of a tropical fish tank: soft and burbling—the kind of voice that could put you to sleep. Just like the subject of tropical fish. Joy nodded, trying to look interested.

“And I like to read,” Darla added.

Oh, good. Common ground. “Me, too,” Joy said. “What do you like to read?”

“Nonfiction.”

Would it be too much to hope that Darla enjoyed cookbooks? Joy nodded encouragingly.

“I'm especially fond of true crime,” she said quietly. “Serial killers.”

Joy kept her smile pasted on and nodded.
Serial killers, how cozy
. “I'm sure you and my husband will have a lot to talk about then, since he writes murder mysteries.”

“I'm not fond of mysteries,” Darla said, frowning and shaking her head.

Okay.

“I'm with you. When you've read one mystery, you've read them all,” Linda said with a flick of her pudgy hand. “You should try fantasy. Now, there's a genre worth reading. My husband's work is brilliant.”

Well, that took care of Bob in one sentence, Joy thought, and tried to make her smile look genuine. It was getting harder by the second.

Harold joined them, his plate piled high, and sprawled on the couch. “Now, this is my idea of a good time. Good food, good conversation, good friends.”

Good friends? Oh, please, dear God, no.

Bob came up to him with a plate of the Christmas bonbons. “You might like these. I made them with my daughter.”

“Oh, how sweet!” Linda exclaimed, digging in.

Bob beamed. “It's a Christmas tradition.”

Really? Since when did being forced once to do something with his daughter qualify as a tradition? Bob was becoming a legend in his own mind.

“Joy usually does it,” he added, picking up on her not so good vibrations.

“Of course, you didn't this year because of the strike.” Linda leveled a how-could-you? look at Joy.

“The strike is exposing Bob to all kinds of new experiences that he's missed out on all these years,” Joy said in her own defense, “including this party.”

“And you're doing a bang-up job, old man,” Harold boomed. “I'll have another of those candies. Great stuff.”

Harold was expanding on the delights of good food when their last guest made his appearance. Lyle Forsythe was younger than the rest of them, a nice-looking man in his late thirties, wearing jeans and a sweater under a leather jacket. He offered Joy a box of Godiva chocolates, giving her false hope that the evening wouldn't be a total wash.

But, sadly, he didn't stay more than an hour, claiming yet another party to attend. Joy was tempted to ask if she could go with him.

Bob's soirée hadn't exactly been swinging so far. The food was abysmal: dried-out veggies and dip from a plastic container, cold cuts and cheese—big deal—and store-bought cookies. The only highlight was the big jar of truffles Bob had purchased at Costco. Conversation had been no better than the food, just a dull road of tax deductions and family holiday plans, with a quick, interesting detour instigated by Lyle into brainstorming how Joy could turn her catering experiences into a book. But Linda had cut that short when she got inspired with an idea for a book of her own and hijacked the conversation.

And that was when Lyle had remembered his other social obligation. He was backing toward the door like a hunted man even as Linda was still talking. She flung her final words at him as he bolted for freedom. “I'll keep you posted on my progress with
Life in the Kingdom
.”

With Lyle gone it was back to the six of them, and the party lost what little shine it had. Harold waxed eloquent over the joys of crossbow competition while the Pendergasts sat in a stupor.

Joy was going to lose her mind. They needed a diversion, something to do to breathe life into the evening. She looked at Bob. “So, what have you got planned for us?”

“Planned?” He gave her a quizzical look.

“Entertainment, fun and games?” she said lightly.

“Oh, not games,” protested Darla in a weak voice. She looked to her husband as if she might need him to protect her from some kind of attack.

“We don't have to do anything but talk,” Bob assured her, and Joy sank back against her seat. Not more conversation with these people, please.

The polite expression still on his face, he looked expectantly at Joy, like she should somehow turn this into a successful evening.

Was he crazy? Superman himself couldn't rescue this flat affair. Anyway, it was Bob's party. It was up to him to save the evening. She looked expectantly back at him.

He cleared his throat and asked the Pendergasts, “So, do you have family coming over for Christmas?”

“We're actually going to have a quiet Christmas this year,” said Don.

This year? Joy was willing to bet every year at the Pendergasts was a quiet Christmas. There were probably mortuaries noisier than their house.

“I think people go overboard too much at the holidays,” added Darla, her expression prim.

It took Joy a moment to recover from her shock. Other than her terrified reaction to the prospect of doing something fun, this was the first time all evening Darla had actually offered an unsolicited opinion. And it wasn't a very welcome one. “But it's such a wonderful time of year,” Joy protested.

Darla shrugged. “It's all become so commercial. And people get so silly this time of year.”

This from a woman with trees on her sweater. “Well, I think a little silliness is good,” Joy said. “They say laughter is the best medicine. And you really don't have to spend a lot of money to enjoy the season.”

“Oh, we don't,” put in Don.

“Anyway, we're not too into parties and other frivolous things,” Darla added, helping herself to another one of Bob's bonbons.

She was sure enjoying those frivolous bonbons. Joy smiled on, wishing all the while she could kick the woman.

“We're just as happy staying home reading a good book,” Darla continued.

“Well, that is an option,” Joy agreed.
Why didn't you?

“Of course, it's always nice to get to know a good client better,” Don said, coming along behind his wife to do cleanup.

His words weren't quite enough to sweep the uncomfortable silence out of the room.

“I know some card tricks,” Harold offered. “Got a deck, Bob?”

Bob produced a deck and Harold did a tolerable trick. Okay, Joy thought hopefully. The evening was picking up. She encouraged Harold to do some more. He did. Several more. By the eighth trick Joy felt her eyes glazing over.

“Should we be going?” Darla finally asked her husband.

Joy always begged her guests to stay longer. Tonight she kept her mouth shut. But as soon as they were gone, she intended to open it and give Bob an earful.

“Good time, old man,” Harold told Bob as he and Linda walked out the door after the Pendergasts.

“We'll do it again next year,” Bob promised.

We? We who? Joy stared at her husband. He was grinning.

He was insane.

“That was fun,” Bob said after he shut the door on their guests.

Joy gaped at him. He had to be joking. That was the most boring, awful party they'd ever had. “That's your definition of fun?”

“Like Harold said, good food, good conversation, good friends.”

“Good food?”

“Well, not as good as yours,” Bob amended.

“And good friends of whom?”

“Of mine.”

“You are not good friends with your accountant,” Joy said, disgusted.

“We're friends,” Bob insisted.

“You can't want to be good friends with any of those people. Harold may be a great writer, but he and Linda are just too self-centered and weird. And if you thought it was good conversation listening to them drone on about life in the ‘kingdom' I'm going to have you declared legally insane. I thought I was going to throw up when Linda started talking about the big search for the fairest maiden. I mean, a kingdom, Bob? It's a bunch of people who all go camping together and sell Robin Hood outfits to the tourists.”

“It's a bunch of people who enjoy exploring history. That's no stranger than grown-ups getting together and acting out titles of books and songs.”

“You can't compare playing charades at a party to dressing up in fake suits of armor and shooting arrows at each other,” Joy argued. “What normal person does that sort of thing?”

“Normal people will do lots of strange things for fun,” Bob said, “like chase each other with cans of whipped cream.”

“Well, at least my family doesn't dress up in costumes to do it,” Joy retorted.

“Only because they haven't thought of it.”

He could be right. She decided to steer them in a different direction. “Look, I'm not saying Harold and Linda aren't nice. But how can you connect with people like that? I tried, but I couldn't. And the Pendergasts aren't any better. There was no real interaction with any of them, certainly no laughter. Oh, except when Harold laughed at his own witty remarks. That's not my idea of a party.”

Bob's gentle smile fell away and he looked at Joy soberly. “Now you know how I feel.” He picked up an empty platter and took it out to the kitchen, leaving Joy standing speechless in the living room.

He didn't belabor the point. He didn't need to. She got the message loud and clear. And his words gave her plenty to think about as she lay in bed that night. She vacillated between guilt that she made him attend things he hated and irritation that he hated the important things she wanted him to be a part of. And it really irritated her that he'd had the nerve to put her family in the same category as the Bradburys.

The whole night had been a bitter pill to swallow. And she really choked on it when she thought about what life would be like if they lived it according to Bob Robertson specifications, the man's whose theme song could have been the Beach Boys' “In My Room.” So, why had he bothered to throw a party at all?

She found her answer when she walked by the Charlie Brown tree in the morning. Of course, once more Bob was on a passive-aggressive rampage.
Bob Humbug strikes back
. She ground her molars. Well, Bob Humbug had just earned a lifetime supply of coal for his Christmas stocking.

 

Joy was grim-faced and tight-lipped Sunday morning, a sure sign that she wanted to talk. But Bob didn't want to talk. All they'd been doing lately was talking. And all that yakking had taken them in so many circles he was getting dizzy.

Much of their married life had been a dance, one that was perfect when they were moving together. But often, when he just wanted to slow-dance, she had to speed them up and pull them into some wild hip-hop that left him confused and breathless. He loved his wife dearly, but why was she always trying to change the steps? Or maybe it wasn't that she was trying to change the steps. She'd always preferred fast steps. In fact, her very liveliness was what had attracted him to her in the first place. Was it her fault he couldn't keep up?

Bob frowned. After all these years, you'd think she'd understand him. But maybe men and women never really understood each other. They just pretended they did. Or maybe they understood more than they liked to let on. Maybe they just didn't care.

That seemed more likely. Okay, so last night had been a little lacking in luster. At least they'd had a party. He'd tried, but what had his wife cared? He'd gone to the trouble of hosting a party and all she'd done was complain, just like she accused him of doing. There was no pleasing her. He went to take a shower and found her pantyhose dangling from the showerhead.

Dangling pantyhose, wifely silent treatment—Bob suddenly felt smothered in estrogen. He needed to get out, needed to breathe. He bagged the shower and pulled on some jeans and an old sweatshirt, then went to announce his departure from the hen house.

He found Joy standing out on the back porch in the freezing cold, talking on the cordless. “He did it out of spite,” she was saying.

He did not. He tapped her on the shoulder and she jumped and turned. It was hard to tell if the flush on her face was embarrassment or a hot flash. He sure couldn't tell anything from her expression. She always had a smile and a kiss for him, but not this morning. She looked at him with a face devoid of emotion. No anger, but no love, either.

“Who are you talking to?” he asked.

“My mother.” She might as well have added, “So there.”

It was definitely a good idea to leave. “I'm going to the hardware store,” Bob said. “I'll be back in a couple of hours.”

“Fine,” she said in a dull tone of voice that made her sound like a character from
Invasion of the Body Snatchers
.

Great, he thought as he got in the car. He was already coping with Menopause Joy, now he had to deal with Alien Invader Joy. When would the real Joy, the carefree, happy one come back? Was his life ever going to be good again?

Everywhere Bob looked as he drove downtown he saw Christmas cute. Who had come up with the idea of garlanding and lighting everything? Surely not a man.

He couldn't find parking close to Hank's so he had to walk. He passed the florist shop with its window filled with displays of frilly holiday arrangements. What would life look like in a world without women? Would everything be plain and utilitarian, black and white, colorless? The door opened as a customer came out, and a gentle snatch of laughter slipped out on the woman's heels. He thought of all the laughs he and Joy had shared over the years.

He ducked into the bakery and the aroma of gingerbread and yeasty rolls danced up his nose. The frosted biscotti caught his eye, and he ordered one and a cup of coffee. Joy always made biscotti for him this time of year. The girl behind the counter handed over the bakery special and he took a bite. It wasn't as good as Joy's and he wound up tossing it in the garbage.

Wait a minute. What was he getting all sentimental over? It was only biscotti. He left the bakery and picked up his pace, marching past the jewelry store and the women's clothing boutique and straight into Hank's Hardware.

No gingerbread smell here. It smelled like sweat and lumber. He could hear the shoop-shoop of the paint mixer, and the voices of the sports commentators on Hank's TV, warming up for the day's game.

He saw Pete Benedict, the guy with the baseball cap, over in the aisle with the Christmas lights. He had three boys with him, and the littlest one was bouncing up and down like he had springs on the bottom of his feet.

Not sure how he'd be greeted, Bob ducked down the nearest aisle and started to check out the drill bits. But he could hear the other man and his kids.

“Come on, Dad. Hurry up.”

“Don't worry,” Pete said. “There'll be plenty of trees left. And plenty of time to surprise Mom.”

He sounded okay, almost happy even. Well, good. At least somebody was sailing through the strike.

 

By Sunday night Joy and Bob had made up. They always did. But they had postponed negotiations and the strike was still on. And Joy was still wondering how they would smoothly navigate their golden years when she went to meet with the Stitch 'N Bitchers Monday night.

Laura had come straight from work, and she was already there, showing the others her children's picture with Santa when Joy walked over to their table.

Sharon took it and cooed, “Bless their little hearts. That is absolutely priceless.”

“Is that what you call it?” Laura said with a scowl.

Kay peered over Sharon's shoulder. “Oh, my gosh. That looks like something that should get passed around the Internet.”

“Thanks,” Laura said with a frown. “That makes me feel so much better.”

“It really is cute in a perverse sort of way,” Sharon assured her. “Reminds me a little of Norman Rockwell.”

“Norman Rockwell on drugs,” Laura sneered. “What a disaster.”

“Oh, honey, people will love this,” Sharon said. “The kids are just plain adorable. And at least they got new jammies,” she added with a frown. “Pete says the boys don't care about getting new ones for Christmas Eve so he's not bothering.” She shook her head. “Nothing's getting done right. My tree is a terror. It's full of tinsel rats' nests, and they put every toy car the boys ever owned in its branches. And, naturally, they're entering the thing in the
Herald
's decorating contest.”

“Well, obviously they're happy with it,” Laura said.

“Oh, they're happy all right. They're turning my house into a horror,” Sharon said in disgust. “I swear, every day I go to work at the flower shop it's like getting a sabbatical from hell. The whole house is filled with those awful singing trees and snoring Santas. The worst is the reindeer that sings ‘Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer.' I know my mama will love that when she comes out to visit. And I can just imagine what she'll say when we have turkey ordered from Town and Country and stuffing mix out of a box instead of Grandma Patrick's recipe for cornbread stuffing. I can tell you, that will be about as welcome as a skunk at a lawn party.”

“Eew, gross,” said Kay.

“That is my life,” Sharon said, deadpan. “Gross. But that's enough of my misery. Tell us about Glen's party, Laura.”

Laura's expression turned impish. “Let's just say that Glen is on a steep learning curve.” Her delight suddenly got swallowed by concern. “Although I've got to admit I'm beginning to feel sorry for him. He actually fell asleep at the computer yesterday, ordering Christmas presents.”

“Oh, boo-hoo,” said Kay, rolling her eyes. “Shopping the Internet is so hard.”

“Thanks to the Bob Robertson article he had a step-by-step tutorial,” Sharon added. “And a recipe for cookies.”

“Which he made,” said Laura. “The kitchen looked like Florida at the peak of hurricane season. Did Bob think that up all by himself?” she asked Joy.

“You've got to be kidding. It was something I did when the kids were really little. He must have found it in my kid recipes file.”

“And passed it off as his own? That's lower than a snake's belly,” Sharon said in disgust.

“It's plagiary. Sue him,” Kay joked.

“No,” Laura said. “Hit him where it really hurts. Don't have sex with him.”

“Honey, you should never withhold sex as punishment,” Sharon said, sounding like Dr. Laura. “Unless he really deserves it,” she added with a guffaw.

“I should make my husband pay for sex. That would be one way to get money out of him,” Kay said, and everyone giggled, everyone but Carol.

Joy realized they were being insensitive and decided it was time to turn the subject. Except it would be easier to turn a Carnival cruise ship with a rowboat. She couldn't ask how everyone's week had been; that would only bring up more talk about the strike and everyone's husbands. Questions about shopping and baking were equally out since the husbands were now in charge of that. This was one instance where it would be nice to be more like Bob, who was a verbal gunslinger, able to draw the right words faster than you could say dictionary.

“You know, I'm beginning to think I should…” Laura stopped and bit her lip.

“If you say ‘end the strike,' I'm going to smack you,” Kay told her. “The whole idea is to get him to really get how much you have to do so that next year you won't be pulling the load alone.”

“She's right,” said Sharon miserably. “If you cave now and bail him out you'll be back to doing everything faster than my dog can say bone. We have to stay strong.” She smiled at Joy. “You don't see our fearless leader talking about ending the strike, do you?”

Their fearless leader should never have started this in the first place. What had she been thinking, anyway? She had to have been under the influence of hormones. “Oh, let's talk about something else,” she begged.

“Good idea,” Carol said in a crisp voice. “Maybe someone could ask where Jerri is.”

Everyone grew quiet; then Sharon said in a small voice, “She's usually here by now. I wonder if she's all right.”

“No, she's not all right,” Carol snapped.