A Small Town Christmas

by Sheila Roberts

  “No, not at all. I’m just wondering if you’ve gotten so locked in to what the season should look like that you can’t see other possibilities. Maybe your husband represents those possibilities.”

  Horrible possibilities, if you asked Joy.

  “It’s just something to consider,” Carol said.

  Laura had joined them now, and Carol ended the conversation and gave Joy a hug.

  “That looked like a serious talk you two were having,” Laura observed once they were in the car. “She’s still trying to convince you to end the strike, right? Make you feel guilty?”

  “I guess I can’t blame her. She doesn’t want to see anyone create problems in their marriage.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s easy to tell other people what to do when you’re not walking in their Jimmy Choos. She has no idea what our marriages are like. It’s not a crime to give your husband a wake-up call, and you don’t have to feel guilty. Got it?”

  Joy nodded. Still, she found herself turning over Carol’s words as she turned over the engine. She wasn’t the problem, she decided as she and Laura drove away. She’d been paring down her life for years, always containing her personality in smaller and smaller spaces, pruning guest lists, leaving functions early or going alone because Bob didn’t want to climb out of his shell. She didn’t want to pare down any more. There’d be nothing left of her.

  Anyway, Bob was the one in the wrong here. She loved him dearly, but she wanted him to realize that spending time with family and friends was important, especially at the holidays, and that they needed to participate in those gatherings together, as a couple. She wanted him to see what happened when someone simply checked out.

  Let the Carols and Jerris of the world shake their heads, but at her house, the strike had to continue, no matter what people thought. And if they thought she was enjoying this they were nuts. Proving a point was sucking all the fun out of her favorite time of year. Picketing was the pits.

  “Have you seen the letters to the editor?” Bob asked the next morning, handing Joy the paper. She set aside the recipe clippings she’d been sorting through and took it and began to read.

  Dear Editor,

  Hats off to Joy Robertson for her brave stand. It’s about time women shook off the shackles of holiday planning and gave the men something more to do than eating cookies and making a run to the store on Christmas Eve. Count me in.

  Erna Johnson

  “I’m surprised you were able to convince your mom to go in on this,” Bob said, sounding half-accusing.

  “You’re not nearly as surprised as me,” Joy said. “I didn’t recruit her, believe me.”

  “She could have at least mentioned that men put up the Christmas lights,” Bob said in disgust. “I don’t know a single woman who does that. You’ve opened Pandora’s box,” he added in a voice of doom.

  Joy envisioned all manner of cackling, little gremlins hopping out of a big, beribboned box. She could see them rushing in front doors and hopping down chimneys, all the while screeching, “Joy Robertson sent us. Ha, ha, ha, ha.” Don’t be ridiculous, she told herself. “I refuse to feel guilty,” she said, more for her benefit than Bob’s. She peeled off her sweater and turned her attention back to the paper.

  The letters-to-the-editor page was crammed. It seemed everyone in Holly had an opinion about the strike.

  Dear Editor,

  I’m positively inspired by this strike. These women are brave and Joy Robertson is a genius.

  Susan Steinham Johnson

  Cute, Suki. Had everyone in her family written to the paper?

  Dear Editor,

  A strike at this time of the year hardly matches Holly’s wonderful Christmas spirit, and I’m sorry to see the paper encouraging it with so much publicity.

  Sincerely,

  Beth Samuelson

  Big shock that the owner of The Pantry, a popular kitchen shop in town, would be down on the strike. Every year Beth Samuelson gave classes on how to make the perfect gingerbread house, then displayed her students’ art work in her store window. She also sold a ton of gingerbread house–building materials. No ulterior motive in that letter, huh, Beth?

  Dear Editor,

  My wife has joined the strike and now I’m in charge. How about getting your food editor to put some Cookies for

  Dummies recipes in the paper this weekend?

  Glen Fredericks

  Poor Glen. Joy almost felt sorry for the guy. Almost.

  Dear Editor,

  Is the Herald having trouble finding real news? Is that why they have to print this kind of tripe? Husbands work hard enough all day trying to make a living without having to come home and find out they’ve been put in charge of

  Christmas.

  Jack Carter

  Uh-oh, thought Joy.

  Dear Editor,

  I’m glad my wife is on strike. This is the first Christmas in years she hasn’t pestered me about getting the lights up.

  Keep it up, ladies.

  Pete Benedict

  Joy felt slightly sick. This was all becoming a nightmare.

  The phone rang, making her start.

  Bob, who had been hovering nearby, grabbed it. “Hi, Mom. Yeah, she’s right here,” he said and handed over the cordless. “I’ll leave you and your mother to talk about me in peace,” he sniped, then left.

  Meanwhile, Mom was teasing, “Is this my inspiring daughter?”

  “That’s me,” Joy said, “the inspirer of tripe.”

  “That one grump,” Erna said, easily dismissing Jack Carter. “Sounds like his wife needs to go on strike permanently.”

  The last thing Joy wanted was to be responsible for the failure of someone’s marriage. “Geez, Mom. Don’t even say things like that. Anyway, he’s not the only one who’s not impressed.”

  “Oh, big surprise about Beth,” scoffed Erna. “Everything in her place is overpriced, anyway. Any woman with half a brain is going to join you.”

  “So you made it sound in your letter to the editor. A little over the top, wasn’t it?”

  “I didn’t think so.”

  “How does Dad feel about this, by the way?”

  “He’s not happy, believe me. He’s off at the store buying cookies right now.”

  Joy couldn’t help smiling. “If you thought joining the strike was going to give you an excuse to pull out Dad’s sweet tooth, I guess you thought wrong.”

  “I guess,” her mom agreed. “And speaking of sweets, does this mean you’re not going to host the cookie exchange this year?”

  Disappointment settled in Joy’s stomach like a heavy sauce. She was on strike and that meant no baking, and no baking meant no family cookie exchange. She’d been hosting it at her house for the last ten years. “Probably not,” she said miserably. Phone to her ear, she went to her baking cupboard and shook out a handful of chocolate chips. She popped them in her mouth, then slumped back down at the table.

  “Oh, that’s a shame,” said her mom.

  “That’s an understatement,” Joy said and started drawing a Snidely Whiplash mustache on the picture of Bob she’d found in the paper.

  “Well, we can do it here this year, or at Lonnie’s. And nobody will tell on you if you sneak over for a little while.”

  “Thanks,” Joy said, “but that would probably be considered crossing the picket line.” She tried to imagine the cookie exchange at someone else’s house. She couldn’t.

  You have to sacrifice for the cause, she reminded herself. And no sacrifice was too great to give Bob a George Bailey–style epiphany. She flashed on an image of Bob running down Main Street calling, “Merry Christmas everyone!” and smiled. For that, she could give up a cookie exchange. For that, she could give up a lot of things.

  “Sweetie, are you sure you want to do this? I mean you’ve had your fun. Why not call off the strike now and get back to normal?”

  Bob normal? No way. “Did Bob pay you to say that?” Joy teased.

  “Of course not, a
nd I’m with you one hundred percent.”

  “Good. I’d hate to have my own mother deserting the cause, especially after she’d written a letter to the editor.”

  “I’m no deserter. Well, sweetie, I’d better let you go. I’m sure you’re going to have lots of people calling. Anyway, I want to get a few things done before I officially start my strike.”

  “Like what?”

  “I’m decorating the tree today and there’s no way I’m letting your father near it.”

  “With me one hundred percent, huh?”

  “All right, ninety-nine percent, and the other one percent needs to get busy. Love you, sweetie. Bye.”

  That was Mom. Only on strike one day and already crossing the picket line.

  If Joy hadn’t been determined to inspire Bob to change, she would have crossed it, too. This was all getting out of hand, and the lack of holiday baking smells in the house and the empty social calendar were beginning to get to her. And, to make matters worse, Rosemary Charles was showing up for another interview later that morning.

  This was one Bob, Mr. I’m-Not-Available-for-Comment, had scheduled. What he could possibly have to say Joy couldn’t imagine. And she wasn’t even sure she wanted to try.

  She wished she had something to report. My husband’s caving. Just the prospect of a bleak Christmas is more than he can stand. He finally realizes how much everything we do means to both of us.

  She was beginning to think that would happen the day she found Rudolph and the other reindeer playing on her front lawn. So far, no matter what she said or did, Bob kept his Scrooge armor firmly in place. He’d done nothing but remain holed up in his office with his imaginary friends. So, basically they were going to give Rosemary Charles a nonarticle to go with their non-holiday.

  Rosemary arrived promptly at ten with her photographer in tow. Joy tried not to look at the Charlie Brown tree as she led them into the living room where Bob was waiting to hold court.

  “How would you say the strike is going so far, Mrs. Robertson?” Rosemary asked, her pen poised over her steno tablet.

  Sucky. “I think we’re gaining in numbers,” Joy said, fishing for something to report.

  “Oh, it’s definitely growing,” the reporter said, and gave her photographer a look that was positively devilish.

  Joy wondered what that was about, but the reporter didn’t give her a chance to ask. She was already querying Bob, wanting to know if the strike had affected him adversely yet.

  “So far so good,” he said amiably, filling Joy with a desire to dunk his head in a punchbowl of wassail and give him a swirly. “I just finished sending out Christmas cards,” he added.

  Joy’s jaw dropped. “You did Christmas cards?” The king of bah, humbug?

  “I like Christmas cards,” he said.

  “When?” Had he been up working at midnight? Had elves been addressing the envelopes for him? “I didn’t see you working on them.”

  “Well, they’re done,” Bob said.

  “That’s impossible,” she informed him. It took her forever to do Christmas cards. It was a huge project, the one thing on her Christmas to-do list she dreaded every year.

  “It’s a cinch when you do e-cards,” Bob said.

  “E-cards,” Joy echoed. Oh, she had to have misheard.

  “Very efficient,” Rosemary Charles said diplomatically.

  “Very tacky,” said Joy. Never mind that she hated writing Christmas cards, never mind that Bob’s way was more efficient. It was sick and wrong and…cheating.

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

  “You sure may,” Joy said, glaring at Bob.

  Bob shrugged. “Just because it’s technology it’s tacky?”

  Rosemary was scribbling frantically now.

  “Well, yes,” Joy said. “What thought goes into sending a Christmas card over the Internet? That’s so impersonal. Where’s the connection? Did you get that?” she asked the reporter.

  Rosemary nodded, smiling like she’d found gold in her Christmas stocking.

  “I connected,” Bob insisted. “I told everyone we were doing fine and wished them a merry Christmas, which is pretty much what you say in your cards every year. And it took plenty of thought. I had to go to the site, pick the card, type the message, get it sent.”

  Joy shook her head. “That’s pathetic.”

  “It’s efficient,” Bob corrected her.

  “But everyone on our Christmas list doesn’t have e-mail,” Joy informed him. Ha! Got him there.

  “Who?”

  “Aunt Evie.”

  “Who else?”

  There had to be more than that. “I don’t know right off the top of my head,” Joy said. “I’ll have to check my address book.”

  “Let me know who’s left and I’ll send them a card,” Bob promised.

  “I will,” Joy said, and vowed to give him a list as long as her arm, even if she had to lift names from the phone book.

  “Okay, how about a picture?” Rosemary suggested.

  “Of what?” asked her photographer, looking at her like she was nuts.

  “Let’s get a shot of Mr. Robertson with his computer, sending an e-card and we’ll put Mrs. Robertson in front of him, reading a traditional card. Have you got a pretty one?” she asked Joy.

  Her mother had already sent hers out, and this year’s was gorgeous. “I sure do,” Joy said. This would be a great picture. Joy would be looking at something beautiful while Bob sat with his cold, tacky technology. Joy liked it.

  After they had posed for the picture, Rosemary turned to Bob. “Now I’d love to hear about that plan you said you had to help the husbands of the strikers.”

  So that was why Rosemary Charles was here. And what plan was she talking about? Whatever it was, it was news to Joy. What was Bob up to now?

  “I thought your editor might like a list of suggestions for the men on how to survive the strike. I’d be happy to provide one.”

  Rosemary Charles nodded slowly. “I’m sure my editor would go for that. How soon could you e-mail it to me?”

  “Right away,” Bob said, looking disgustingly self-satisfied. He probably had it done already, had probably written it while his e-mail cards were going out.

  Next to him, Joy smiled politely. The only way she’d been able to dredge up that smile was by envisioning her husband out in the garage, tied to a chair with strings of Christmas lights and being forced to listen to Alvin and the Chipmunks singing “Christmas Don’t Be Late” over and over and over again.

  “Real cute, Bob,” she said to him after Rosemary Charles and her sidekick were out the door.

  He held out both hands in a typical male don’t-blame-me gesture. “The men need help.”

  “The men need to shape up.”

  “Maybe my suggestions will help them,” Bob said.

  “Maybe you should just worry about your suggestions helping you,” Joy snapped. She left him to think that over and shut herself in the bedroom with the phone.

  “We have complications,” she said as soon as Sharon answered the phone. “Bob is dishing out advice for the men now. It’s going to be in the paper.”

  “Well, bless his heart. Isn’t he just the clever one?”

  “Too clever.” Now Bob not only was deliberately missing her point, he was publicly declaring war.

  “Don’t worry, sugar,” Sharon soothed. “A man writing advice on how to do Christmas is like a rooster trying to give a hen lessons on how to lay an egg. We’re fine.”

  “I sure hope so,” Joy said, but she was having serious doubts.

  “The chicks are gonna lose this one,” Rick Daniels predicted as he and Rosemary drove back to the paper.

  “It’s still early in the game. I’ve got faith in the women,” Rosemary said.

  “Gee, I wonder why.”

  Rosemary gave him a playful punch in the arm. “Not just because we’re all women.”

  “Sure.”

  “No, seriously. I
think the strikers have got a point. Women bring something to special occasions that just wouldn’t be there if the guys were in charge.”

  “Yeah. Extra work.”

  She frowned at him. “How’d you get to be such a cynic? You’re not even married.”

  “I’m not a cynic,” he said. “I’m a realist.”

  “No, you’re a cynic. And, mark my words, before the women are done these guys are going to have a whole different outlook.”

  “Even Robertson?”

  “Even Robertson.”

  “Wanna bet on that?” he said.

  “Okay. Why not? What should we bet?”

  “Loser buys the winner dinner at one of those all-you-can-eat places.”

  “A cheap restaurant. Boy, I can see you really believe in putting your money where your mouth is,” Rosemary taunted.

  “Okay. Fine. Loser buys the winner dinner at—”

  “Chez Louie’s.”

  Rick turned to stare at her, bug eyed. “Chez Louie’s! You don’t get out of that place for under fifty bucks a person.”

  “Like I said, you really believe in putting your money—”

  He cut her off. “Okay, okay. Chez Louie’s it is. So, when do we decide who won and who lost?”

  Rosemary considered. “Christmas Day. The strike will be over then and we’ll know who won.”

  “Okay. So, if she gives up.”

  “If he gives in.”

  “He won’t.”

  “It’s not over till it’s over,” Rosemary said.

  Rick was grinning. “Man, I’m gonna enjoy my dinner at Chez Louie’s. Let’s do it New Year’s Eve.”

  “New Year’s Eve? What if someone has a date?”

  The look Rick gave Rosemary sent a zing all the way from her chest to her panty hose. “They break it.”

  Twelve

  Glen wound up working late on Friday. Naturally, this had to happen on the day of the big party. Friday night for a party, now there was a winning idea. Laura could have picked a Saturday, but no, she had to pick a night at the end of a long workweek, a night when some people often had to work late. Real considerate. But he had his game plan in place. No problem. He could do this.