On Strike for Christmas (16 page)

“May I see your driver's license and registration? Again,” the cop added.

“Again?” Mac echoed.

“Don't ask,” Glen said as he pulled out his license. “How far over the speed limit was I this time?” he asked miserably.

“Only five,” said the cop, “but I'm going to have to write you a ticket this time.”

Glen nodded, and the cop returned to his patrol car.

“Boy, this is fun,” Mac grumbled, slumping against the door.

“What are you griping about? You didn't get the ticket,” said Glen.

The cop returned with Glen's license and registration and an early Christmas present from the police department. “Maybe you should forget the party ice from now on,” he suggested.

“It was food this time,” Glen said with a sigh.

“Boil some eggs,” suggested the officer.

“Hey, good idea,” Mac said.

Glen glared at him. “Shut up.”

Mac gave an apologetic shrug. “Okay, no eggs.” He glanced at his watch as Glen pulled out (nice and slow). “Man, we've been gone over half an hour. Are we gonna actually spend any time at this party?”

If they hadn't had a cop right behind them, Glen would have popped him one. “We are having fun,” he said between gritted teeth. “This is the best party we've ever had. Got it?”

“Yeah, right,” muttered Mac. “Want me to wake you up now?”

 

“It looks like this strike is working pretty well for you,” one of the women observed to Laura.

She took another cookie off the plate. “It's been the first Christmas in years that I've actually had time to enjoy myself a little. I've got to hand it to Joy. She's a genius.”

“Where is she?” asked Tiffany. “I thought maybe she'd be here to sign autographs,” she added, and the other women giggled.

Laura gave her gum a snap. “She wanted to come, but since she's on strike her husband's in charge of the social calendar and he didn't want to go out.”

“She should have come without him,” said Tiffany and some others echoed their agreement.

“Yeah, she should have,” Laura said. “Poor Joy. I hope she's managing to have fun, whatever they're doing.”

Joy wished she'd never looked out the window at the Frederickses' house down the street and seen all the cars parked along the curb and the windows strung with Christmas lights framing the revelers inside. It had left her feeling sour. Bob had decided a nice, quiet evening at home would be much better than their suffering through a noisy gathering of relative strangers. Then he'd had the nerve to tell her he was only doing what she did every season—making social decisions without consulting him.

That wasn't true. Well, okay, so she did the neighborhood party without asking his majesty's permission. They'd been hosting it for years. It had become a tradition. Since when did you have to consult someone over a tradition?

She crossed her arms in front of her and glared at the TV. Nicolas Cage was busy becoming a family man. She loved this movie, loved Nicolas Cage. But if she had to choose between Nick and a real, live party…

What were they doing over there right now? Exchanging recipes? Stealing silly white elephant presents back and forth from each other?

“This isn't my life,” Nicolas was saying. “It's just a glimpse.”

Joy shot a glance at Bob, slumped next to her, happy in Escape Land. She hoped this wasn't a glimpse of her future.

 

Bob didn't have to ask to know Joy wasn't happy about his decision to avoid the Frederickses' party. He could feel irritation coming off her in waves.

Well, he'd gotten what he'd wanted, a nice quiet evening at home. There was only one problem: the quiet was lacking serenity. It felt more like the calm before the storm.

An olive branch might be nice about now. He paused the movie. “Want some popcorn?”

She shook her head and said, “No, thanks.” Very polite words in the very polite tone of voice she always used to let him know she was not happy. Wrong-size olive branch. Of course, she was hoping like crazy he'd give in even at this late date and say, “What the heck. Let's just pop in for a little while.” But if he did that, it would be all over for him. No, this was his chance to make a statement and he didn't dare lose it.

“I bet you'll change your mind if I make some,” he said, and went to the kitchen to build up his emotional resistance.

It didn't quite feel like their kitchen this year. Usually by now Joy had baked up a storm and it was full of containers of fancy cookies to raid. He had to admit, it felt a little odd to find it goody free. Popcorn is just as good as cookies, he told himself. He pulled a microwave bag out of the junk food cupboard and started it popping.

As he stood in front of the microwave watching the bag expand, he found himself wondering how Fredericks was doing over at his place. What kind of food were they having over there? Poor guy. He was going crazy trying to outdo his wife. Of course, the secret was to keep it simple, show the woman a party didn't have to be a big production. A person could have a perfectly good time with just a small number of friends. That was something Joy needed to learn.

Hmmm. Maybe he should give her a demonstration.

Fortified with popcorn and a new plan he went back into the living room. He offered her the bowl. “Sure you don't want some?”

She shook her head.

Poor Joy. Going on strike from a good time didn't agree with her. Well, she'd be feeling better soon. And maybe he'd actually be able to enjoy himself, too. There would be a novel experience. Bob smiled to himself as he started the movie.

“There's nothing worse than a gloater,” she said grumpily.

“Maybe I wasn't gloating. Maybe I was planning something nice.”

She frowned at him. “And maybe I'll tell Santa you've been a good boy this year.”

“The year's not over yet,” he said.

The only response he got was an irritable “Humph.”

 

“You and Bob are becoming quite the local celebrities,” Joy's mom said the next morning.

Joy propped the phone receiver between her ear and shoulder and went back to sorting socks. “Being a celebrity isn't all it's cracked up to be.”

“Well, there's one quick way to get out of the limelight.”

Joy knew exactly what her mother was suggesting. “I'm not ending the strike.” That would send the wrong kind of message to Bob.

“Joy, what is going on? What's the real reason behind this strike of yours?”

Empty nest panic
. Joy slumped back on the family room couch. The morning paper lay in front of her on the coffee table, open to the Living section, which was full of updates on the strike.

She sighed. “I thought, somehow, if I didn't do anything Bob would see how flat the holidays are without the events and people we love. I just wanted to teach him a lesson so he'd be more…there.”

“I'm sure you've proved your point by now.”

“Not really,” Joy said glumly.

“Bob's never going to be as social as you. You know that. He's a quiet man.”

“I know, but what bothers me is he's getting quieter every year. Well, except to me. To me he complains.”

“Oh, come on, now. You're exaggerating.”

“No, I'm not. Every year he pulls a little farther away, and complains a little more. It was different when the kids were little. He tried harder. Now they're grown and it's just the two of us and…” She stumbled to a stop, unable to articulate her fears for the future. A vision of Mrs. Anderson, her friend's lonely mother, popped into Joy's mind, dressed up like the Ghost of Christmas Future.

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line; then her mother said, “Honey, marriage is about compromise. You know that.”

“I think I've compromised enough.”

“He's probably compromised a little, too.”

“Whose side are you on?”

“I'm on both your sides, and I hope by the time you're done with all this you'll both have learned something.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” Joy demanded. “What am I supposed to learn?”

“How should I know? I'm just your mom, not your shrink. But I'm sure you'll learn something in all of this. You're a smart woman.”

Too smart for my own good, Joy decided as she said good-bye to her mom and hung up. Was Mom right? Was Joy being unfair, expecting Bob to be something he wasn't? If she just gave up the fight and let them drift where would they end up?

She picked up the paper and scowled at it. They'd added a sidebar to this latest article—Bob Robertson's suggestions for surviving the strike. Joy ground her teeth and read.

Just a friendly competition? Had he really managed to convince himself that was all this was about? She'd been too easy on him, too nice. That had to change.

Bob's idea of taking life easier: Sit in front of the TV and watch holiday specials and old movies. Well, that certainly made the holidays merry and bright. Maybe he could invite the Grinch over to join him.

Or you could do it yourself and have the world's ugliest Christmas tree.

How condescending! How obnoxious! How very Bob of him!

He'd even had the nerve to offer cooking advice.

Bob Robertson's Easy Bake Christmas cookies

Take two halves of a graham cracker. Put canned frosting on one half and dump on colored sprinkles. Top with the other half of the graham cracker. Do this until you run out of frosting. Kids love these.

 

He should know. Their children had loved that treat when Joy was first letting them play in the kitchen. (Only she'd made the frosting from scratch.) How completely tacky of him to use her kindergarten cookie recipe and pass it off as his own. Bob Robertson, Recipe Raider.

She was just beginning to crumple the paper into a ball for the trash when he came into the room.

“What are you doing?” He snatched it from her and began to smooth out the wrinkles. “I want to save that.”

“Are you going to put it in your trophy case along with your college tennis cup and your mystery writer award?”

“I might.”

Joy frowned at him. “You should be ashamed of yourself.”

He went to the kitchen and dug a couple of cookies out of a bag he'd bought at the store. “I don't see why. You didn't think it was good?”

“Oh, it was quite the masterpiece. I don't know what I liked best—the part where you stole my recipe or where you insulted my baking.”

Bob sat down opposite her on the couch. “I didn't insult your baking.”

“No one can tell the difference between home baked and store bought? If that isn't an insult, I don't know what is.”

He frowned and set aside the last of his second cookie. “You know I didn't mean that. It was just for the article.”

“Everyone who knows us knows I'm a caterer. They'll think you meant me.”

“And they'll also think I consider you a great cook because I suggested hiring a caterer.”

“That's why that was in there?” How stupid did he think she was?

He shrugged. “Just trying to be nice.”

“You're not trying to be nice. You're not taking any of this seriously. I was really trying to prove a point and you're making a joke out of all of it.” Joy's voice was turning wobbly on her now and she could feel tears rising to the surface. They came so easily these days. She dumped the socks in the laundry basket, then headed for the laundry room.

“Come on, hon, don't cry. Maybe I'm trying to prove a point, too,” Bob called after her.

Oh, how like him to try and turn the tables! She whirled around. “What? That you can be a complete beast when you want to be? Well, you're doing a really good job of it.”