“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 S
anta 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.
Seventeen
“I talked to Joe today,” Carol said. “Jerri’s starting more chemo. By Christmas she won’t be able to see anybody, including her kids, for fear of infection. Her morale’s in the toilet, she’s only done a little decorating, and she hasn’t got either the strength or the taste to bake. Her husband’s trying to do all the holiday things she loves and keep up the house, go to work, and take care of her. He’s doing it all, just like yours would do if you needed them to.” Carol looked around the table, pinning each of them with her angry glare. “You should all be bitch-slapped.”
She gathered her yarn into her knitting bag and stood.
“Where are you going?” Laura asked.
“Someplace where the air smells better,” Carol said, and left them staring at each other.
Joy felt like she should be wearing a T-shirt that said MRS. GRINCH. She looked at her fellow strikers. Laura was biting her lip and staring at her lap. Kay’s eyes were just about to overflow with a major tear spill and Sharon didn’t look far behind her.
Debbie closed her cash register and came over to the table. “What’s going on?”
“We just got bitch-slapped,” Sharon said.
“And we deserved it,” Kay added, then brought Debbie up to speed.
“Oh, no,” Debbie said. “Of all the rotten timing.”
“She wasn’t even on strike and her husband is doing everything,” Sharon muttered.
“I feel like poop on a stick,” said Laura.
“You know,” Joy said thoughtfully. “There’s nothing that says we have to be on strike from helping a friend.”
Sharon looked at her. “Are you suggesting what I think you are?”
“Why not?”
“I could decorate for someone who might appreciate it,” Sharon said, excited.
“I’ll help you,” Laura offered.
“I’ve been dying to bake,” Joy said. “We could make a real party of it and do our gift exchange.”
“Well, if you do, let me know,” said Debbie, “and I’ll send along a gift certificate for her.”
“A party, great idea. When should we do it?” Laura asked, and everyone looked at Joy.
“I’ll call Carol,” she said, and they all looked relieved. “She can find out a good time for us to come when Jerri won’t be too tired.”
Conversation took a turn to higher ground the rest of the evening as the women discussed plans for injecting Jerri with Christmas spirit. Joy planned to bring frosted sugar cookies as well as a big pot of veggie soup to the work party, and Laura offered to supply salad and rolls to go with the soup. Sharon volunteered to bring several boxes of her best decorations and Kay said she’d take care of the shopping if Jerri’s husband would give her a list of names, ages, and sizes.
“Ask Carol if she’ll go with me,” she said to Joy. “She knows Jerri best and would have a better idea what her family would like. And while we’re out,” she added thoughtfully, “maybe I’ll see if I can talk Carol into a Christmas makeover.”
Sharon nodded. “Good idea. That poor gal looks like human leftovers.”
�
��She probably feels like it,” Joy said. “She’s been through a lot, and the last two years can’t have been easy.”
“Still, I think she needs to rejoin the human race,” Sharon said.
“Maybe she’s not ready,” Joy suggested.
“Maybe it’s time we helped her get ready,” Kay said, a determined glint in her eye.
Good luck in your mission, Joy thought. Getting people to change was no easy feat. Her situation with Bob was proof of that.
She came home to find him in the family room, camped out in front of the TV, a remake of A Christmas Carol providing background noise while he fiddled with a crossword puzzle.
“How was your knitting club?” he asked.
“Jerri’s going through more chemo, so we’re going to go over to her place and Christmas it up.”
He took off his reading glasses and cocked an eyebrow at her. “No strike at Jerri’s, huh?”
“No need for a strike at Jerri’s,” she retorted.
“No need for a strike here, either.”
“Because you’ve seen the light?”
“You mean the light at the end of the tunnel?”
Joy kicked off her shoes, then plopped down on the couch next to him and playfully burrowed her toes under his thigh. “That doesn’t sound like a man who’s gotten a new attitude for Christmas.”
“I like my old attitude just fine. No need for a new one,” he said, slipping a hand up her pant leg.
“You are so irritating,” Joy said in disgust. “I’m beginning to think you’re completely unteachable.”
“What is it I’m supposed to learn again?”
“That is so not funny. You know all I want is for you to try and appreciate the time we spend with the people who are important in our lives. I mean, really. Is it too much to ask you to step outside your comfort zone just for special occasions so I don’t have to feel like I’m experiencing them alone?”
Bob rubbed his forehead. He looked like he was in a headache commercial.
Joy pushed on. “You beg off from as many social gatherings as you can, and when you do come to one you stay on the sidelines. And then you want to leave early. I’ve cut back a lot over the years just to make you happy. I would just like you to give up a little, too, especially this time of year.”
On Strike for Christmas Page 18