Debbie had finished ringing up her last sale of the evening and came over to join them. “What’s going on over here? It sounds like someone had a big announcement.” She pulled out a half-finished cable-knit sweater and started on it, needles flying.
“Joy’s not doing Christmas,” explained Sharon.
“Oh.” Debbie looked puzzled. “I never pegged you as one of those people who doesn’t want to see a Christmas tree in town square.”
“I’m not,” Joy said. “I love the holiday, and I think everyone can find something to celebrate in it.”
“Everyone but you?” Debbie was still trying to follow.
“She’s going on strike,” Sharon cracked.
“On strike?” From the expression on Debbie’s face, Sharon might just as well have announced that Joy was going to assassinate Santa Claus.
“I don’t know what else to do,” Joy explained. “Over the years my husband has evolved into a Grinch. He whines about my family traditions, balks at the Christmas parties, and basically complains his way through the holidays. I think it’s time he saw what his life would be like without all the celebrating he claims to hate.”
“Wow,” breathed Debbie. “You’re my hero.”
“But what will your Christmas be like?” protested Jerri.
Jerri’s question put Joy back in that holiday desert, surrounded by buzzards picking at empty gift boxes. She shook away the grim vision. “Probably pretty ugly, since I do it all.”
“How does that make you any different from any other woman in America?” Sharon quipped.
“It probably doesn’t, and that wouldn’t matter if only I could get Bob to participate.” Again Joy caught a vision of a Christmas Future where she moved through the holidays increasingly more alone. Joy Robertson, Christmas widow.
“It is an unfair division of labor,” Kay pointed out.
“I didn’t know that doing loving things for your family was a division of labor,” Carol murmured.
“At least if I do everything it gets done right,” Sharon said. “But I’ve got to admit I’m a little tired of having all my work go unappreciated. That man of mine has no idea how I work my fingers to the bone every holiday season,” she added with a flick of a well-manicured hand.
“I don’t think Bob realizes how much he really enjoys Christmas with all the trimmings,” Joy said. Oh, how she hoped she was right! “Anyway, if he sees what it would be like without them then maybe it will cure him of his bad attitude.”
Carol said nothing, just shrugged and went on knitting.
“Well, you go, girlfriend,” said Sharon. “I think you’re absolutely brilliant.”
At that moment Joy’s neighbor, Laura Fredericks, blew in. She was a tiny blonde who always managed to look great in spite of her perpetual harried state. Tonight she wore her favorite consignment-store leather jacket over jeans and a turtleneck.
“Hi, guys,” she said, throwing her bag on the table. A tangle of yarn fell out.
“You look frazzled,” Jerri observed.
Laura grimaced. “My usual condition.” To Joy she said, “Sorry I couldn’t car-pool with you tonight, but I had to work late. Then coming home and making dinner really put me behind. I left Glen a mountain of dishes.”
“I think it would be fun to work at the Chamber of Commerce,” said Jerri.
“Yeah, right. Today was a bundle of fun. We got back the brochures for the Hollydays Fair and the printer messed up on the dates. They all have to go back.” Laura got her cup of tea and fell into her chair with a sigh. “I hate this time of year. Anybody want a used husband? I’ll sell mine cheap.”
“Not me. I’ve got enough trouble with the one I’ve got,” said Kay.
“Sounds like you need chocolate therapy,” Joy said, and passed the plate of cookies to Laura. “Save me and eat that last Andes Mint cookie before I do.”
“No, thanks,” said Laura.
“I guess I’ll have to take it then,” Joy decided. “It’s the last of its kind. No sense letting it sit lonely on the plate.” And this, said her diet conscience, is why Laura is a size Twiggy and you’re a size…Never mind, she told it and turned her attention back to Laura. “What happened to you on Thanksgiving?”
“Just the usual invasion of the hungry hordes.” Laura shook her head. “I love Glen, but sometimes I really hate him. You know?”
Joy nodded and Sharon said, “You’re talkin’ my language, darlin’.”
Laura held up her tangled mess of yarn. “I need help.”
Debbie took the tangle from her hands. “Well, you survived the invasion, and that’s the main thing.”
“The big turkey’s going to do it all again to me on Christmas, I know it,” Laura said. She dug in her purse and pulled out a package of gum, popped a piece in her mouth, and started chewing. “And God knows what he’ll dump on me between now and then. Sometimes I wish my husband wasn’t so social. He comes up with all these ideas for things to do, invites the whole world over, and then I’m the one who has to make it all happen.”
“Y’all could do like Joy and go on strike,” suggested Sharon, and Kay giggled.
Laura looked across the table at Joy. “You’re going on strike?”
“I never thought of it that way, but I guess I am. I’m not doing anything.”
“She’s on strike for more appreciation,” Sharon explained.
Laura stared at Joy. “I don’t get it. How can you not do anything?”
“She can pretend she’s a husband,” Sharon said. “Do nothing all month, then just show up on Christmas Day. Of course, she’ll show up to nothing.”
“I hope not,” Joy said. The mere thought was enough to drive her to the cookie plate for comfort. Except she’d just eaten the last one.
“Can you live with showing up to nothing?” asked Jerri, channeling Dr. Phil.
“Yes, I can,” Joy said boldly. Even as she spoke, she was revisited by the image of a boring, Spartan holiday existence. A barren living room, no tree, no decorations, no goodies, no laughter. What had she done?
She tamped down her rising panic by assuring herself it was going to take that kind of radical bleakness to get through to Bob. And something had to get through to him. It was now or never.
“I think a strike is an awesome idea,” Laura said. “So, give us details. How’d you pull it off?”
Joy hadn’t meant to go public with this but, somehow, telling her friends felt good. It was obvious from the approving nods and the occasional snicker that the majority of the women present agreed with her in principle.
“A Christmas strike.” Laura smiled. “I love it. I’m in. I’ll go on strike with you, sister.”
“You’ve got little kids,” Joy protested. She could see it now. No Santa at Laura’s house, no Christmas cookies, no stockings stuffed with goodies. And it would all be her fault.
“My kids have a father, and he’s perfectly capable of doing something,” Laura said with a snap of her gum. “In fact, since he’s the one who loves all this so much, he can do it for a change.”
“That’s the Christmas spirit, honey,” cracked Sharon. “And the more I think on it, the more I think I need to get Pete to stop sitting around like an old bull in a pasture while I do everything. Maybe I should join you.”
“Jack’s always complaining that I spend too much money. Maybe this would be a good year to stop,” Kay mused. “You know, he doesn’t even shop for his own kids. He leaves that for me to do. And, of course, I’m the one who does all the wrapping. I even sign the gift tags. If it weren’t for me there wouldn’t be anything under the tree when the kids come to visit. I think maybe Jack needs a wake-up call.”
“You can’t not get presents for your stepkids,” Jerri protested, shocked. “They shouldn’t have to pay because you’re mad at their father.”
“Yes, the poor kids,” Carol agreed.
Laura gave a snort of disgust. “How sick is that? She says she’s going to not shop for the presents a
nd we’re shocked. Jack should get his own kids’ presents. Why should Kay have to?”
“Because she’s the mom,” Jerri argued, “the heart of the family, the designated love giver and holidaymaker. And what if he blows it and doesn’t get them anything? Or gets them something really dumb? They’ll have to pay and that’s not fair.”
“I can always get something for them and hide it, or take them on an after-Christmas shopping binge,” Kay said.
“That’s sick,” Jerri said flatly.
“No, that’s brilliant,” Laura corrected her. “I love it. Women of the world, unite.”
Sharon snapped her fingers. “That’s it!”
Laura looked at her, puzzled. “What’s it?”
“We really do need to unite, organize,” Sharon said. “That way we can help each other stay strong. And there’s strength in numbers, so we should let other gals know. There might be a whole bunch who want to join us.”
“She’s right,” said Kay. “Someone should call the paper.”
“Ha! I’d love to see a picture of Glen trying to bake cookies plastered across the front page of the Herald,” Laura crowed.
“I’d love to see all the men in this town trying to cope with Christmas shopping,” said Kay. “They all wait till the last minute to buy for us. Imagine what it would be like for these guys if they had more than one person on their list.”
“They couldn’t do it,” said Sharon.
“They’d go crazy trying,” added Laura. Her grin was positively evil. “This is going to be great.”
Little kids possibly missing out while women stopped the holiday machine all over town. Joy began to feel like Dr. Frankenstein. She looked around the table. Sharon, Laura, and Kay were on a holiday high-jinks high and Debbie was nodding her support. Jerri was shaking her head while Carol was looking downright depressed.
Joy left the store later feeling a little depressed herself. Here it was, the season of giving, of happy holidays and peace on earth, and look what she’d started. And where. The good citizens of Holly tended to take the holiday season seriously. The whole downtown was already festooned with swags and giant candy canes, and every shop window boasted some kind of holiday display. The big sign outside the Town and Country grocery store had the dates posted for performances of A Christmas Carol by the Holly Players, and the paper had just announced its annual Christmas tree–decorating contest.
Joy had only wanted to help Bob see the light. She had never intended to bring other women on board. She should call this off before it got really ugly. Anyway, she’d made her point and Bob had gotten the message.
By the time she let herself into her house she had repented of her wicked ways and was ready to go to Bob and promise to do it all. Christmas was too important to be held hostage by a disgruntled wife.
Then she saw the mess in the living room and her remorse hardened into resolve.
There, in the middle of the room with its warm and inviting overstuffed sofa and chairs and lovely Sheridan end tables, sat their Christmas tree, a testimony to the power of passive-aggressive behavior. Christmas tree, what was she saying? This wasn’t a Christmas tree, only a terrible parody of one. Bob hadn’t even bothered to spread the branches out to make it look more natural when he set it up, so they all shot straight toward the ceiling in one big, fresh-out-of-the-box, ugly tower. He’d slapped on the lights unevenly, hadn’t even bothered with the gold bead chains that had been her mother’s, and had hung only a few ornaments. The poor angel dangled from the top at a drunken angle, ready to topple any minute. The whole thing looked like the work of a madman.
Rage welled up in Joy. She threw down her purse and knitting bag and marched across the room. She was going to pick up this tree and hit Bob over the head with it. Oh, how could he? How childish, how immature, how very Bob of him! She reached out to adjust the branches.
“Hi, hon. How was your meeting?”
She yanked her hands back. Of course, that was exactly what he wanted. He was goading her, trying to get her to cave.
She buried the anger, then turned and forced a smile for her husband, who was walking into the room looking very pleased with himself. “Great. I see you got the tree up,” she added sarcastically.
He gave a faux-modest shrug. “I had a few minutes.”
It looked more like a few seconds. “I suppose you think this is funny,” she said.
He played dumb. “What?”
“Is this mess supposed to make me change my mind and rush to the rescue?”
He opened his eyes wide, the picture of middle-aged innocence. How had she managed to stay married to this man all these years without poisoning him?
“You know, you’re really being immature about this,” she said.
“Me? Who’s the one who decided out of the blue that she wasn’t going to do anything?”
“Not out of the blue. It’s been building for a long time. This weekend was just the last straw.”
He looked at her like she was a bratty little kid throwing a tantrum. Maybe she was, and maybe she shouldn’t have snapped. Menopause was doing strange things to her. But his behavior…it was simply inexcusable.
He came up to her, wearing a reconciliation smile on that John Grisham look-alike face of his and put his arms around her. “Come on, hon. Let’s forgive and forget and have a nice holiday. Okay? If you want, I’ll even hang the outside lights tomorrow.”
It was tempting. “Well.”
He kissed her. “This was all ridiculous, and beneath you, anyway.”
Her frustration over his abysmal, uncaring, antisocial attitude was ridiculous? No. Ridiculous was what he had done to a perfectly good tree.
She pulled away. “You just don’t get it, do you? Your whole attitude about the things that are most important to me stinks and I’m sick of it. You really don’t care, and this…” She waved her hands wildly. “…mess proves it.” Her voice was rising with each word. She was out of control. It felt good.
He studied her. “Hon, are you about to have a hot flash?”
“Have all your brains fallen out?” she roared. “What kind of thing is that to say?” This man worked with words. He wrote about complex characters. He was supposed to understand people.
“Joy, this isn’t you speaking. It’s your hormones. Here. Why don’t you sit down and I’ll get you some eggnog.”
“I’ll get my own eggnog, thank you.”
She left him in the living room with the disaster tree. Let it stay that way, she decided as she yanked the eggnog carton from the fridge. It could stand there all month, a testimony to her husband’s disregard for both the season and his wife. She opened the carton with a savage pull. Let the strike continue.
Three
Carol tried to cheer herself up by humming holiday songs on her way home. It didn’t work. She had only a five-minute walk from the Stitch In Time, and it just wasn’t enough time for her to lift her sagging spirits.
Her condo was part of The Green, a charming shopping area at the heart of town that sported housing above boutiques, bakeries, and small businesses. During holidays like the Fourth of July, the annual Halloween Trick or Treat Walk, and the Hollydays Fair, those condos were the place to be. Residents got a bird’s-eye view of the revelers and the concert bands that played in the bandstand down below on the actual green. It was handy to be close to shopping, and there was always something to do, someplace nearby where Carol could go and find people to hang out with.
Sometimes, the hanging out made her lonelier, though. Her only son, John, had been killed in a car accident when he was sixteen, and two years ago she’d lost Ray, her soul mate of thirty-six years. Both her parents were gone now, and her sister was getting ready to take a monthlong cruise with husband number two. Carol’s nephews and nieces were all busy with their own lives, and she didn’t want to impose herself on anyone, so this Christmas she had only…
She looked down at her cat, George, who had met her at the door and was now rubbing
against her ankle. “You’re happy to see me, aren’t you?” she crooned, and picked him up.
He squirmed loose and jumped from her arms, trotting toward the kitchen, his signal that she was to follow him and give him his evening snack, which followed his after-dinner snack. George had been svelte and gorgeous like his namesake, George Clooney, when Carol first got him, but he was fast losing his trim physique thanks to her overfeeding
She followed him to the kitchen. It was much too big for one woman, with more cupboards than she could fill, counters too long to work at alone, and a breakfast bar it depressed her to sit at. When she and Ray had moved in, though, they’d planned to do a lot of entertaining. These days she only entertained George.
“What would the people at PAWS say if they saw you now?” she asked him. “They’d probably have me arrested for cat abuse.”
George rubbed against her again, unconcerned with what PAWS thought about her cat-parenting skills. She knew from experience that he’d give her one more polite leg rub; then, if she didn’t cough up the food, he’d nip her.
She sighed. “Either I’ve trained you badly or you’ve trained me well.”
She dumped half a can of cat food in his bowl and crouched on the kitchen floor, watching him eat. “You and I are going to have to think up something to do with ourselves or this is going to be a very unmerry season,” she informed him.
She replayed the conversation at the Stitch In Time in her head and sighed. Joy and Laura and the others—who would have pegged them for Grinchettes? All that complaining about their lives when they had their health and their families—it was like whining about inferior caviar while just outside your door people were starving.
Jerri, like her, had remained silent, and as they followed the other Stitch ’N Bitchers out of the shop, she’d asked Jerri what she thought of the strike.
Jerri had shaken her head and said, “I wish I had the energy to do all those things they’re complaining about. They don’t know how lucky they are.”
A Small Town Christmas Page 29