On Strike for Christmas

by Sheila Roberts

  She heard a car door shut and looked out the window to see him coming up the walk. She jumped off the couch and rushed to the front door, ready to tell him she was sorry for putting both Amy and him in such a humiliating situation and that the strike was done. She’d had enough. She got to the front hall just as he came in.

  He looked at her sheepishly. “Hey, baby.”

  She rushed him and threw her arms around him. He was such a big goof, the world’s biggest kid, really. And she loved him to death. Her throat tightened, and for a minute she couldn’t speak.

  “I guess this means you’re not pissed anymore, huh?”

  “You big goof,” she said tenderly.

  He grinned. “So, what am I doing today?”

  He was ready for more, after last night? “Doing?” she repeated.

  “I’ve got a lot to make up for. I’m ready.”

  “Well, I’m not. I think we need to end this.”

  He frowned down at her. “Hey, I can handle it. Anyway, I need to. I’m under orders.”

  “What are you talking about? Whose orders?”

  “God’s.”

  “What?”

  Glen frowned. “Don’t ask.”

  Oh, boy. He was cracking up. He looked so determined she didn’t have the heart to insult him by telling him she didn’t think he could cut it. At least there wasn’t much left he could mess up, she told herself. Well, except the shopping, the cooking, Christmas morning. It was a lot to risk. “I don’t know,” she said.

  “I can handle it,” he insisted, but she noticed he left off his usual cocky “piece of cake.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely. Anything you dish out, I’ll eat.”

  “All right,” she said, unable to hide the skepticism in her voice. “You’re going to get the full holiday experience.” To herself, she added, but from here on, boy, you’ll be working with a safety net.

  Joy and Carol strolled the Green, visiting the various arts and crafts booths and sipping hot chocolate. Other people passed them, bundled into winter clothes. Joy saw a lot of hand-knit scarves, hats, and mittens, testimony to the women of Holly’s new fascination with knitting. Multicolored lights festooned the bandstand at the center of the Green, and a bunch of kids were running around it, laughing and throwing snowballs at each other. All the booths were swathed in red and green bunting. The snowflakes drifting down on the whole scene made Joy think of snow globes.

  “I think this snow’s going to stick around,” Carol said.

  “I hope not,” said Joy. “We’re picking Bobby up at the airport later this afternoon, and I hate driving in the snow.”

  “Won’t Bob be driving?”

  “Yes, and that’s why I hate driving in the snow.”

  Carol chuckled. “So, are you excited to see your baby?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Did you break down and make cookies for him?”

  Joy nodded. “I ran over to Laura’s and did it while Bob was out running errands. Now there’s a tin of gumdrop cookies under Bobby’s bed.”

  Carol just shook her head. “Aren’t you ready to give this up yet?”

  “Not yet.” Although what good it was doing Joy couldn’t say. Bob wasn’t even fazed and she was on chocolate overload.

  They passed a booth selling homemade cookies that had a long line of men waiting at it. “I wonder if all those men have wives on strike,” Carol mused.

  “If they do, it’s turning out to be a good thing for the cookie business,” Joy said. “And good for a story,” she added, watching Rosemary Charles approach one of the men in line. As usual, the reporter had her personal Jimmy Olsen in tow. Of course she’d be here covering the fair, looking for strike stories. Interested to hear what the man would have to say, Joy stole a little closer to eavesdrop.

  “Sir, I see you found a creative way around the strike,” said Rosemary.

  He smiled. “Home-baked cookies and I didn’t have to bake them. I like it. Between the Hollydays booths and Bob Robertson’s advice, we’re sailing through the strike.”

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

  “Sure,” he said.

  Goody, thought Joy, more male propaganda. Why had she bothered? Why had any of them bothered?

  “Less people this year,” Rick observed to Rosemary.

  “The women are on strike and a lot of guys shopped the Internet.”

  “UShopTillIDrop.com? Interesting site.”

  “It seems a little impersonal,” Rosemary said. “Having somebody pick out the presents for the people you care about. I mean, where’s the thought in that?”

  “Hey, do you really care as long as you get a cool present?” Rick countered.

  “What makes a present cool is the fact that someone picked it out specially for you.”

  Rick shrugged. “Well, I did eBay, so everybody on my list is getting something special.”

  “Used,” Rosemary said in disgust.

  “But special.”

  “Did you get your white elephant gift for the party tonight on eBay?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Rick said with a grin.

  Rosemary looked suspiciously at him. “Geez, what tacky thing are you bringing this year?”

  “You’ll just have to wait and see,” he said. “But I’ll give you a hint. It makes gross noises and all the guys are going to fight over it.”

  “Lovely.” Like the setting for the party. Well, what could a girl expect with the men in charge? Rosemary shook her head. “I don’t know where we’re going to put the presents, since that sports bar probably won’t even have a Christmas tree up.”

  “We can put ’em on a pool table,” Rick said.

  “Men,” she said in disgust. “You put so much thought into things. I hope somebody learns a lesson from this strike.”

  “Don’t hold your breath,” Rick said. “And anyway, talk about tacky, that rotten errand you sent me on at the school program probably rates pretty high on the tack-o-meter.”

  She made a face at him. “That was not tacky, that was news. And didn’t I tell you it would be all right? I wouldn’t have made a story out of that screwup if I knew their little girl was going to be embarrassed.”

  “Okay, all-knowing one. How did you know that Teach was going to come through?”

  “Easy. Miss Weis.”

  “Who the heck is that?”

  “My kindergarten teacher. She kept spare clothes on hand in case someone wet their pants or fell in a mud puddle. And then there was Mrs. Sonstroem. She kept string cheese and crackers in case someone forgot their lunch. And Miss Hoyle—”

  Rick cut her off. “Okay, okay. I get your point.”

  “You can always count on teachers. They’re always prepared.” Rosemary gave his arm a playful poke. “And all good reporters know that.”

  “I think I’m gonna hurl.”

  They passed a booth peddling hand-beaded jewelry, and Rosemary stopped. One particular necklace using a fat, pink quartz bead as a centerpiece caught her eye and she picked it up. The tag was a little pricey, so she put it back down.

  “Everything here is overpriced,” Rick said at her elbow.

  “You’re paying for the artist’s time and talent,” she told him.

  “I guess,” he said. “Hey, if we’re done I think I’ll put my camera away and get some elephant ears. Want one?”

  She’d rather have had the pink quartz necklace. She stole a look at Rick. He was standing with his hands shoved in his jacket pocket, his camera dangling from his neck, looking around like he was bored. Mr. Christmas. Whoever ended up with him would wind up just like these other women, frustrated and on strike.

  Rosemary suddenly didn’t feel all that companionable. “Not right now. I see Kay Carter. I’m going to go talk to her.”

  “Suit yourself,” Rick said and let her go.

  As she passed a strolling quartet of carolers dressed in Dickens costumes, she found herself wishing she hadn’t
committed to going out with Rick on New Year’s Eve. He really wasn’t her type.

  Joy and Bob met their baby at the airport. Bobby was six feet of gorgeous; well muscled, with even features, a strong chin, and heartbreaker blue eyes. His face lit up at the sight of them and he gave them a huge wave. As if they hadn’t already spotted him, as if they hadn’t both been looking for him since the first passenger from his flight had disembarked.

  “Hey, guys,” he said cheerfully, stepping out of line. He hugged Joy, then left an arm draped over her while he gave his father’s hand a hearty pumping.

  Joy smiled up at her son and thought she’d explode with happiness. This was all any mother needed for Christmas. “You look great,” she said. He looked so grown up now. Just one year at college and he’d completed the transformation to manhood. Where was that tiny baby she’d rocked during 2:00 A.M. feedings, the little boy who had climbed trees, skinned knees, and sat in her lap whenever he had the chance? It wasn’t a new question and she still didn’t have an answer. Life went too fast.

  “You’ve shrunk,” he told her.

  “No, you’ve grown.” And he looked just like his father had when she first met him, right down to the smile.

  “Yeah, another inch. Weird, huh?”

  “You’re just a chip off your old man, a towering presence,” Bob joked.

  Bobby looked down at him and grinned. “Whatever.”

  They started toward the baggage claim. “I have to go to Melia’s after dinner,” he said to Bob. “Can I borrow the car?”

  “It’s snowing,” Joy protested.

  “Don’t worry, Mom. I haven’t forgotten how to drive in the snow,” Bobby assured her. “Anyway, Melia will kill me if I don’t get over and see Sarah.”

  They weren’t even to the house yet and he was already talking about taking off. This was how it was with grown kids. They came home to visit, but the parents were never at the top of the list. Right after dinner it would be just her and Bob and the TV. Ho, ho, ho, humbug Christmas. Yet again she saw a long line of unsatisfying holidays stretching far into her future and sighed inwardly.

  The road was crusted with a thick layer of snow as they wove in and out of airport traffic on their way to the freeway. Bob was skating along, following the car in front of him too closely as always.

  “We’re toast if that car stops suddenly,” she warned.

  Bob reached over and gave her a condescending pat on the leg. “It’ll be okay.”

  She shook her head. “We’ll be roadkill before Christmas.”

  “Speaking of Christmas, what’s going on, Mom?” Bobby asked. “Melia said you’re on some kind of strike. You even made the paper over where I am. What’s the deal? I don’t get it.”

  Silence fell like a bomb in the car. At last Bob spoke. “Your mom doesn’t think I enjoy the holidays enough. She’s on strike so I’ll see how much I appreciate what I hate.”

  Not fair, Joy thought. Bob was twisting this into pro-Bob propaganda and as good as asking their son to take sides.

  “What does that mean?” Bobby asked.

  “It just means your father’s taking care of Christmas this year,” Joy said, trying to put a smooth facade over the whole holiday mess.

  “Dad in charge of Christmas, huh?”

  “It should make things interesting,” Joy said, trying to keep her voice light.

  “Sounds like a reality show or a sitcom to me,” Bobby said, sounding disgusted.

  “No TV, just a never-ending newspaper story,” Bob said.

  “That’s kind of sick,” Bobby said.

  Joy wasn’t sure if he was referring to her strike or the fact that the paper was following it. “I’m not the only one,” she said in her own defense.

  “Mass hysteria,” Bob cracked.

  If their son wasn’t with them in this car right now…She clamped her lips together and glared out the window. They really were going too fast. Why didn’t her husband listen to her?

  “Bob, slow down,” she commanded.

  “Hon, we’re fine. Cool it.”

  He was trying to kill them but he was telling her to cool it. She shut her mouth and did a slow simmer.

  Bobby was silent for a moment, then asked, “Um, does this mean we’re just going to sit around and do nothing for Christmas?”

  “It means we can have a nice, quiet holiday,” Bob corrected him.

  “We’re not going over to Uncle Al’s?”

  Bobby actually sounded concerned. Joy took hope. Maybe Bob hadn’t poisoned their children’s minds after all.

  Bob’s brows knit. “You want to go to Uncle Al’s?”

  “Well, yeah. I haven’t seen anybody since I went away to school.”

  Bob nodded thoughtfully.

  “And what about cookies?” Bobby wanted to know.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll buy some,” Bob promised.

  “Mom, is he kidding?” Bobby asked, going from sounding concerned to panicked.

  Joy smiled over her shoulder at him. “Don’t worry, sweetie. It’ll be okay,” she added, and patted Bob’s leg. Bob frowned.

  “Who’s shopping for presents?”

  “I am,” Bob said, “and it’s already done.”

  “Cool,” Bobby said, sounding impressed.

  He was equally impressed when they got home and he saw the Bob Christmas tree. “Holy crap!” he exclaimed, eyes bugging.

  “It’s up,” Bob said. “That’s what matters.”

  Joy just shook her head and went out to the kitchen to heat up the clam chowder she’d made earlier.

  She was slicing French bread to go with it when her son came out to the kitchen. “You all squared away?” she asked as he opened the fridge.

  He stood there, surveying its contents. “Oh, yeah.” He shut the door and rooted around in the pantry, coming out with a lunch-size bag of chips, then leaned against the doorjamb and began to pop chips in his mouth. “So, are you and Dad…” He petered to a stop.

  “What?” Joy prompted, still slicing.

  “Are you guys okay? I mean, you’re not having problems, are you?”

  “You mean as in about-to-get-divorced-type problems?”

  Bobby shrugged. “Well, this strike stuff is a little weird. I thought maybe…I don’t know.”

  “We’re fine,” Joy assured him. “We’re just renegotiating our contract, that’s all.”

  “So what happens if you can’t renegotiate?”

  Joy shrugged. “I’ll kill him.” Bobby made a face and she smiled. “I was just kidding. Don’t worry. It will be all right. Just a little different this year.”

  “A little different,” he said in disgust. “What was Dad smoking when he did the tree? And is he really making the cookies?”

  Joy stopped on her way to the table with the French bread and lowered her voice. “Check under your bed.”

  Bobby looked relieved and grinned. “Thanks. At least that’s something I know is going to be right this Christmas.”

  So far it was the only thing.

  Twenty-one

  The Holly Herald’s staff party was in full swing, and Rosemary Charles had to admit the guys hadn’t done a half-bad job planning it. As it turned out, Bruno’s Sports Bar did have a tree they could put their white elephant game presents under—a gigantic fiber optics number that sat parked in a corner of the bar. Under it lay a pile of gag gifts. A few were wrapped in Christmas paper or nestled in gift bags, but most (the men’s) had come wrapped man-style in brown paper or plastic bags. The newspaper’s Web guy, Dustin, had actually used red ribbon to tie his bag shut. But Dustin was new. Next year would probably be another story. The party food consisted of Bruno’s buffalo wings and miniburgers, and some bowls of nuts, but there was plenty of beer so nobody seemed to care. Country music kept a steady beat going under the clack of balls on the pool tables and bursts of laughter, and right now some country singer was belting out a number that had Santa driving a 747.

  Jonathan Hawkins, their publi
sher, strolled among the tables, chatting with the reporters and secretaries who weren’t bellied up to the bar. Their editor, Walt, was ordering fresh drinks and joking with a cute bartender in a Santa hat. Rick, who was playing pool with Rosemary, Martha, the food editor, and another reporter, stood waiting his turn and stuffing his face with nachos.

  “They don’t even miss my red velvet cake,” Martha lamented to Rosemary as she chalked her cue stick.

  Rosemary leaned on hers and watched as Rick set down his nachos and prepared to take his shot. “Oh, well. Your baking skills are wasted on these guys, anyway. Pearls before swine, girl.”

  Rick sank his ball and positioned himself for another shot.

  Martha sighed. “Why do we bother? No one would miss it if we all stopped doing what we do. We just proved it.”

  Rosemary thought of how her dad rubbed his hands together in anticipation before sitting down to eat Christmas dinner, how he always managed to find where her mom hid the snowball cookies and snarf down every one before anyone else could get a chance. “Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “I think a lot of guys appreciate it.” Then she thought of how pooped her mom always looked by Christmas Day. “But I don’t think women need to do as much as they do. And maybe they shouldn’t be such martyrs. They should recruit more help.”

  And speaking of help, those snowball cookies weren’t that hard to make. Maybe she’d bake a batch tomorrow and drop some off for her dad. Give Mom a break.

  Rick made another shot, smacking a ball into a side pocket.

  “You could save some for the rest of us,” Rosemary complained.

  He walked past her and waggled his eyebrows. “I’m good. What can I say?”

  “Something modest?” she suggested.

  He ignored her, bending over and setting up for his next shot. He had a nice butt. And great aim. He made that shot, too.

  “Beginner’s luck,” she goaded.

  “In pool, there’s no such thing as luck,” he informed her. “You need a precision eye and a steady hand. And I’ve got great hands,” he added as he sauntered by her.