On Strike for Christmas (2 page)

“Well, here,” said Susan, holding up the can. “Open up and I'll give you a shot for the road.”

Joy obliged and Susan gave her a whipped cream fill-up. She wished she had the rest of that piece of pie to go with it. She ought to have finished it. It wouldn't have done her steadily widening hips any good, but it might have made her feel better about leaving before she was ready.

She hugged her mother and Lonnie's mother, and all the little great-nieces and nephews, waved good-bye to the wrestlers, and, finally, hugged her big brother, Al, who was getting ready to referee a new wrestling match.

Now the gray-haired patriarch of the family, Al had been hosting the festivities ever since he and Lonnie married, and no one ever considered going anywhere else. Who would want to? Their house was always decorated to the hilt and filled with laughter. It was the quintessential holiday house.

“Glad you came, kiddo,” Al said, and kissed the top of Joy's head. Kiddo. She was a middle-aged, overweight woman whose brown hair color now had to come from a bottle and her brother still called her kiddo. She loved it.

“Me, too,” she said, and thought, and sorry I'm leaving. The last to arrive, the first to leave. What else was new?

If only she could take some DNA from her neighbor Laura's husband and inject it into Bob. Knowing Bob he'd only morph into a two-hundred-pound hermit.

They retrieved their coats from the pile on the bed in the guest bedroom in silence, Bob's relieved, hers slightly miffed. Lonnie met them at the front door with Joy's bowls and platters, now empty and clean. “Thanks for bringing all the goodies,” she said. “It pays to have a caterer in the family.” Lonnie hugged her, then Bob. “Good to see you Bob,” she said. “See you at Christmas.”

“I'm afraid so,” Bob muttered as he and Joy went down the front walk toward their car.

Joy pretended not to have heard. Oh, well, she told herself, you did have a wonderful time; be thankful for that. Pollyanna, playing the glad game, sneered the Joy who was miffed.

They got into the car. The good Joy ignored the miffed Joy and attempted to get Bob to join her in the game. “That was fun,” she announced, forcing good humor into her voice.

As soon as the words were out of her mouth she realized this was as much a holiday tradition as anything that happened at her brother's house. Every year she tried to convince her husband that he really loved these holiday traditions. And every year he said something rude, like…

“Well, it was typical, I'll say that.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” As if she didn't know.

Sure enough. “It's the same every year: same people, same jokes, same pranks. Someone always sticks their finger in the whipped cream on someone else's pumpkin pie; someone always gets in a fight with the whipped cream cans. Boring and juvenile.”

“My family is not boring.”

Where did Bob get off, anyway? Her husband, the brilliant mystery writer, superior to the rest of the world—bah, humbug. Her family could hold their own against anyone, even a writer. It ran the gamut from car mechanics to law students, with interests ranging from sports to travel. Surely somewhere in that mix of people her husband could find something or someone to interest him. She knew what the deal was. He was secretly jealous because her family was close, caring, and exciting—while his was distant and dull. They didn't even want to live near one another. Now, that said a lot.

“It's like a bad movie that gets replayed every year,” Bob continued as they drove down the street. “And every year it gets bigger.”

“Well, what do you expect? The family is growing.”

“Like mold. I can only imagine what it will be like in another five years.”

That did it. “If my family's holiday celebration is so unsatisfactory, why don't you ever do something to make it interesting? All you do at the holidays is complain.”

“Maybe I wouldn't complain if you didn't have to turn these gatherings into a marathon. Geez, Joy, considering how much I hate them, I'd think you'd be glad I at least show up.”

He showed up all right. And grumbled all the way there. And, as if that wasn't bad enough, now that the kids were grown he even complained in front of them, poisoning the well of family solidarity.

But he didn't stop with complaining about being with her family. He grumped his way through all the season's activities. The annual neighborhood Christmas party, New Year's Eve—whatever it was, if it involved a group of people and a good time Bob approached it like a man headed for the electric chair.

“Show up?” she retorted. “You're a ghost. You may as well not be there.”

“So does that mean I don't have to go back at Christmas?” he cracked.

“Very funny.” Joy frowned and looked out the window as they made their way through downtown Holly back to their house on the other side of town. It was dark now, and icy rain sliced through the streetlight beams, falling into puddles on the asphalt. The downtown stores were closed and, in spite of their holiday decorations, wore a deserted, sad look.

Joy sighed. Would Bob even have a life if he hadn't married her? What would his Christmases have looked like without her and the kids?
You've really had a wonderful life, Bob.
But he didn't realize it, and that was his problem.

“You should thank me,” she informed him. “If it wasn't for me hauling you out to things like this your life would be so dull.” He'd be as mummified as his parents, who were spending their retirement in solitary in Yuma.

Bob smiled. “Sounds good to me. All that chaos and noise, who needs it?”

“Everyone. People need to feel connected, feel like they matter. The holidays make life special. They lift people out of their humdrum, everyday existence and remind them that it's good to be alive.”

“Well, maybe people need to improve their humdrum, everyday existence. Then they'd be glad to be alive and we could avoid all this.”

Joy frowned and shook her head at him. “You are so lucky I don't have a whipped-cream can in my hand.”

What had happened to the man who, when they were first married, helped her trim the tree and sat next to her on the couch in her brother's living room and sang Christmas carols? He'd disappeared like the Ghost of Christmas Past. And, somewhere along the way, this soured version of Bob had moved in and taken over.

When had Bob's Christmas disconnect started? Maybe it was when the kids stopped believing in Santa. Maybe Bob had decided if they could stop pretending, so could he. And now Joy was the only one left pretending. But Winter Wonderland was meant to be shared. Bob's attitude made her feel like he had let go of her hand and was leaving her to walk on alone.

Now that they were empty nesters, was he figuring to pull farther back until he edged himself completely out of the picture? If he did, what would Christmas Future look like?

Joy remembered Mrs. Anderson, the mother of her best friend in grade school and junior high. Mrs. Anderson and her husband pretty much lived separate lives. Mrs. Anderson had come alone to everything from school concerts to parties while Mr. Anderson stayed home in his easy chair and watched TV. The Andersons had sometimes seemed more an oddity than a couple. Would that be Joy and Bob in a few more years?

She got a sudden vision of herself and her husband drifting slowly apart until they could only experience life's important moments from opposite sides of a great chasm. What a terrible thought! She couldn't let that happen.

He shot her an apologetic look. “Come on, hon, you know it's not that I don't like your family. It's just that, well, they go overboard on these occasions. Things don't always have to be done the way the Johnsons do them.”

“My family knows how to make the holidays great,” Joy retorted. “And, in case you haven't noticed, I do a lot of the same things they do, things you'd miss if I didn't do them.”

“Wait a minute,” Bob said. “Now we've moved from your family to you. Not a good idea.”

“I am my family,” Joy said. “And, unlike
some
people, who should be glad they married me—”

“They? Do you have more husbands hidden somewhere I don't know about?” interrupted the smart-mouth sitting behind the wheel.

She frowned at him. “Are you trying to tick me off?”

He reached a hand over and patted her leg. “I
am
glad I married you. Very glad.”

“Are you?” she asked, arching an eyebrow. “Sometimes I wonder.”

He looked shocked. “Of course I am. I couldn't imagine my life without you.”

“Same here,” Joy said, softening.

Her husband was a good man, loyal and dependable. He still had a great smile and a great sense of humor to match.

But sometimes the extreme differences in their personalities really bothered her. Her idea of a great life was good times with lots of people. Bob, on the other hand, was shy and hated big, noisy gatherings, and over the years she'd shrunk her social style to fit his. Except this time of year. Some things had to remain sacred. And she didn't think participating in a few celebrations at Christmas was too much to ask considering how much she denied herself the rest of the year. She thought of those camping trips Bob dragged her on every summer—sleeping in the middle of nowhere in a tent with only mosquitoes for company. Ugh. And then there were the mini book tours and writers' conferences. Although she enjoyed attending those with him, she often sacrificed catering jobs and missed important social events. Last year they'd been gone on her mother's birthday.

“But just because we love each other, it doesn't mean I have to like everything you do, does it?” Bob said, hauling out one of his favorite arguments.

It was the opening salvo for a fresh verbal battle and they started in again. Finally Joy said in a huff, “You don't have a clue how to celebrate Christmas.” Although God knew she'd tried hard enough to teach him over the years.

“There's no secret to celebrating Christmas. Any idiot can put up a tree and play some Christmas carols.”

“Listen to you, Mr. Merry Christmas,” Joy scoffed. “You don't realize that all the things you complain about are really what make the holidays memorable.”

He shook his head. “Memorable by whose definition? If we're using yours, I'd as soon experience some memory loss.”

“Oh, you don't mean that,” Joy chided. “This is supposed to be a season of joy—the food, the decorations, the being together—”

“Is all a big pain in the neck. Ever hear of ‘Silent Night'?”

“Ever hear of ‘Joy to the World'?”

Bob gave a shrug. “We all experience that in different ways. And just once I wish the Grinch would steal Christmas.”

Joy crossed her arms over her chest and fumed. Bob Robertson, direct descendant of Ebenezer Scrooge. It was a good thing he wasn't in charge of Christmas.

Wait a minute. What if he was? She studied him. Bob could plan the perfect murder, but could he solve the mystery of what made a happy holiday? What would he learn if he was given a George Bailey-like Christmas? What if he had to sample life as if he'd never been married, if he was given a taste of the holidays without all the traditions and festivities he enjoyed complaining about?

He couldn't read her mind, but he'd grown pretty good at reading her moods. They stopped for a red light and he turned to look suspiciously at her. “What?”

“I was just thinking.”

Now he looked wary. “Uh-oh.”

Uh-oh was right, because a plan was forming in Joy's mind. She grinned, feeling incredibly wicked. This could prove very interesting.

Long after Bob was snoring, enjoying the blissful sleep of the ignorant, Joy lay awake, her own unique version of sugarplums dancing through her head in between hot flashes. She could already see it—Bob jumping out of bed Christmas morning like a reformed Scrooge, proclaiming himself a new man, then excitedly preparing to rush out and enjoy the day's festivities (after falling at her feet and thanking her for bringing him to his senses, of course). Oh, yes, she had been positively inspired.

The next morning Bob came into the kitchen in search of his morning coffee, which he would take with him to his computer.

Joy was busy frosting minicakes for a party she was catering the following night, and mentally fine-tuning her big announcement.

“I should be done in time for us to go see a matinee later if you want,” he offered.

“Mmm,” she said noncommittally.

Happily unaware of what was about to happen to him, he kissed her on the cheek and disappeared into the bonus room that served as his office.

She smiled as she piped frosting wreaths on the little cakes.
You might not have as much time as you think
.

She finished her decorating, then stored the cakes in the pantry. She checked the kitchen wall clock. Bob had been in his office almost an hour now and would be well into his story. He hated being interrupted when he wrote. Well, Scrooge hadn't thought he had time for all those ghosts, either. Sometimes, the vital intruded on the important.

He turned as she entered his office, looking slightly perturbed, and draped an arm over his chair. Except for the frown, he could have been posing for a publicity shot, wearing a turtleneck and jeans, his computer sitting behind him. His face was taking on that aura of maturity men got when they hit middle age. He looked oh so wise, but Mr. Know-it-all still had a lot to learn.

“Something wrong?” he asked.

“No, not at all. I just thought I'd better let you know about my new plans for the holidays.”

His eyes shot heavenward. “Oh, no. What horrible torture have you planned for me now?”

“Absolutely nothing,” she answered sweetly.

“I know you just said something in another language. How about a translation?”

“I've decided I'm going to give you nothing to complain about this year because we're going to have a very Bob kind of Christmas.”

Bob's expression went from perturbed to relieved. And then it got suspicious. He pulled back like a man preparing for a slap in the face. “What do you mean?”

“I mean this is going to be a Bob Humbug holiday. I'm not doing anything.”

He stared at her like she'd gone completely insane. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“Hearing and understanding are two different things. Joy, you're not making any sense.”

“Okay, let me clarify. I'm not doing any of it this year. No baking, no shopping, no present wrapping or stocking stuffing, no decorating, no cooking, and certainly no entertaining. You are going to get your wish for a non-Christmas.”

Bob stared at her, at a loss for words. Bob caught without a clever comeback; now, there was a rare sight. Too bad she hadn't thought to record this moment for posterity.

“You can't do nothing, Joy,” he finally said in a voice that showed he was already weary of the conversation and anxious to get back to his world of dismembered bodies. “In case you've forgotten, our son will be coming home in three weeks and he'll expect Christmas.”

Bob Junior, whom they still called Bobby, her darling and his father's pride and joy, was a freshman this year, attending college two states away. He'd expect to see decorations up and old family friends and neighbors coming and going, and, of course, to find several batches of Joy's Christmas cookies waiting for him when he arrived.

She had a sudden vision of her son marching out the door, suitcase in hand, calling over his shoulder, “If this is your idea of Christmas, I'm out of here.” Okay, maybe this wasn't a good idea.

“Although if I had my way that's how it would be,” Bob said.

There he went again, Mr. Sour Milk, spilling over everything. Well, you are going to get your way, Joy decided. She promised the angry son in her vision that she would make this up to him somehow. To Bob she said, “Guess we'll just have to tell Bobby that the Grinch hit town.”

“Come on now, hon. You know you love this time of year,” Bob reasoned.

“But you don't, so this is my present to you—a Christmas of nothing.” And boy, she hoped he quickly came to see what she was really giving him. She thought of Clarence the angel in
It's a Wonderful Life
.
You've been given a great gift
. She turned and started back down the hall.

Bob followed her. “Okay, you can stop. I get your point. I'll go to your brother's on Christmas Eve without complaining.”

“Too late,” she said, waving away his plea bargain. “It's gone beyond that. I've had an epiphany and you're going to finally get your wish for a peaceful Christmas—no parties, no people, no hassles. This year you're going to be living in a holiday desert.”

“That sounds more like an oasis to me,” Bob retorted. “Most of that stuff is stupid and silly and has nothing to do with the meaning of Christmas. Anyway, in case you've forgotten, I've got a January thirty-first deadline on this book. I don't have time to play along with this little game.”

What a crock! She knew he had only a couple chapters left to write. “Trust me, Bob. It's not a game. I'm not doing anything this year.”

He trailed her all the way into the kitchen. “You can't just do nothing.”

She went to work unloading the dishwasher. “Listen to you. I'm about to give you the kind of un-Christmas you've been dreaming about for years. I should think you'd be doing cartwheels about now.”

“I'm only thinking about the kids. It makes no difference to me.” He started helping, putting glasses in the cupboard every which way. After all these years, he still paid no attention to the well-planned order in her cupboards. It was her own fault; she'd trained him poorly.

For a moment Joy had a picture of her house all Bobbed up for Christmas, a holiday mausoleum with no tree, no happy guests, and no laughter. Her pretty, apple green kitchen, with its double oven and abundance of counter space, would sit useless, empty of the aroma of spices and baking chocolate. How badly did she want to make a point, anyway? She could see that holiday desert stretching before her and a weatherworn hand-painted sign that read
TURN BACK. YOU'LL BE SOOOORY.

She averted her gaze and forged on. “I'm willing to live with whatever you're willing to do.” And he'd have to do something.

“Hey, I'm willing to do nothing. I can live without all of it. Peace and quiet will be nice for a change.”

And with that parting shot, he left, just as the cuckoo clock on the wall struck the hour. “Cuckoo,” said the little bird, “Cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo….”

“Oh, shut up,” Joy told it and started setting her cupboard to rights. What in the name of figgy pudding had she done? And, more to the point, how was she going to be able to stay strong and stick to the plan?
Note to self: Stock up on extra chocolate. You're going to need it.

 

“What were you thinking?” she asked herself as she drove across town Saturday night, her car packed full of goodies for someone else's party. “What do you think you're going to accomplish, really? Bob's not going to change, not after all these years.” And it was probably unfair to expect him to. They were opposites and that was that.

And most of the time their differences complemented each other. Bob brought order and security to her world, kept their finances humming along smoothly, and kept calm in the face of trouble. She gave him love and emotional support and put spice in his life.

Except this Christmas. There would be no spice. It would be like cookies without the salt. Yuck.

Frowning, she pulled up in front of a two-story tract mansion and opened her car trunk. Nestled inside it were Tupperware containers filled with bite-size wraps, chocolate-dipped fruit, white chocolate shortbread, the minicakes, and Joy's stuffing-filled phyllo appetizers, only needing a quick reheating. She never provided drinks, which was fine with the woman who had hired her. Julie's husband, Dave, had that under control.

Joy barely had her first container out of the trunk when the front door opened and Dave came bounding down the walk. “Hi, Joy,” he called. “Let me help you.”

A man eager to celebrate the season—what a stark contrast to Bob!

“Thanks for doing this,” he said as they carried goodies up the front walk. “Julie told me you normally take December off.”

“I do,” Joy replied. Usually she was busy baking cookies for her own family and friends and neighbors, throwing and attending parties, and enjoying the season. With Bob in charge this year there might not be much to enjoy. She sighed inwardly.

“Well, I'm glad we got you,” Dave said, ushering her up the front walk. “This is our first Christmas in the new house and we wanted to do it up right.”

We. That was how celebrating the season should be done. Not as a me and a reluctant he.

They were in the house now. Dave set down his pile of containers on the kitchen's granite countertop and rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “Boy, I can hardly wait to try some of this.”

His wife smiled indulgently. “How about first bringing in the rest of it for Joy?”

“I'm on it,” he said, and bolted out of the room.

“He's so excited,” Julie confided.

Joy felt a stab of jealousy. Bob had never gotten excited about a party, not in all the years they'd been married. Of course, he always had fun once the guests arrived. But excited? No.

Well, she reminded herself, he got excited about the things that mattered. The birth of their children, her first catering job. She still had the chef's apron he bought her for the occasion. And he always got excited when it was time to plan a vacation, throwing himself into the details of the planning. All she had to do was show up and have fun.

If only he would show up when she planned things for the holidays.

“Okay, that's the last of it,” Dave announced, setting Joy's box of serving trays on the counter. “What else can I do?”

“Make us both a drink,” his wife suggested. “How about a peppermint fizz?” she asked Joy.

“It's my own invention,” Dave bragged.

“It's sounds lovely,” Joy said, “but I never drink when I'm on duty.”

“I'll have one,” said Julie, and he brightened and hurried off to where he'd set up a bar in the living room.

“This is going to be wonderful,” Julie predicted as Joy began pulling out trays of goodies.

Joy smiled. Even if her Christmas wasn't going to be much, she could at least make someone else's special.

Soon the house was full of guests, all talking and laughing, and raving over Joy's food. As she set out a tray of chocolate-dipped fruit she couldn't help noticing how Julie and her husband shot smiles back and forth across the room. Like Mr. Fezziwig and his wife, she thought.

There was a Mr. Fezziwig inside Bob somewhere, Joy just knew it. But he had no desire to get in touch with his inner Fezziwig. What would Charles Dickens do?

She had no idea. Bob was the writer.

 

Joy ran errands on Monday. Her first stop was the drugstore to take advantage of the in-store special and get some therapeutic chocolate. She was strongly tempted to buy one of the really cute rolls of wrapping paper she saw at the end of the Christmas aisle. But she resisted. She had some left from last year stored in the garage, and if Bob decided he wanted Christmas presents he could wrap them in that…if he could find it.

She went to the grocery store next, then stopped at Skeedaddles, her favorite gift shop, and bought a present for her knitting group's December gift exchange.

When she returned home Bob met her at the door, all smiles. “Did you change your mind and do some Christmas shopping?” he asked, pointing to her bags.

“No, I just picked up something for my knitting group's gift exchange. I'm not shopping this year. Remember? I'm not doing Christmas.”

Bob frowned. “That again.” He plopped on a chair and watched her hang up her coat. “So, what else did you do today?”

She shrugged. “Oh, just this and that. I must say it's rather nice not to have to worry about making the holidays merry.”

“Joy, you can't ignore the season,” Bob chided sweetly.

“Why not? If you can't share the Christmas spirit with me, there's no sense in doing any of it.”

“I share it,” he insisted.

You and Ebenezer Scrooge.
“I really meant what I said, Bob. I'm not doing anything.”

“Well, I don't have time,” he said, the sugar coating slipping from his voice.

“Then I guess Christmas will be canceled for lack of interest this year,” Joy said with a shrug.

Bob was looking very pouty now. “I have to get back to work,” he said, and retreated to his office.

Joy just smiled and put away her groceries. She found a station playing Christmas music on the radio and turned the volume low—no sense letting Bob think she was getting in the mood to do something. Then she started a chicken stir-fry, humming as she worked.

At six she tapped on his office door. “Dinner.”

“I need to keep writing,” he called. “Go ahead without me. I'll eat later.”

He was still pouting. She could hear it in his voice.
Very mature, Bob.

“Suit yourself.”

She dished up a plate for herself, then settled in front of the TV. Bob stayed away through the entire six o'clock news, and was still holding out when she left for her knitting group. She opened his office door and found him slumped at his desk, staring at the computer monitor. She noticed he had very few words on the screen. Poor Bob. Maybe his muse had left town for the holidays.