A Small Town Christmas

by Sheila Roberts

  “I should have checked the bag.”

  Because, of course, she knew her dumb shit husband would screw up? Okay. That was it. He screeched the minivan to a curbside halt and turned to face his wife. “Hey, I’m doing the best I can.” He stabbed a finger at her. “You want things to go the way you want them? You end this dumb-ass strike of yours. Otherwise, you take what you get.”

  Laura blinked, then clamped her lips tightly together. From the back seat Amy softly said, “Daddy?”

  Great. Now he was like George Bailey in It’s a Wonderful Life, having a complete meltdown. “It’s okay, baby girl. Daddy and Mommy are just having a little talk,” he said calmly, and put them back on the road.

  Next to him, Laura looked ready to pop like a string of Christmas lights. Merry Christmas, Glen thought glumly.

  They completed the trip home in silence. Glen broke it as they walked in the door. “I’ll put Amy to bed.”

  “Fine.” Laura bit off the word like it was his head and walked away with Tyler.

  He put Amy in her princess jammies, then supervised the tooth-brushing ritual. He almost cried when she said her prayers asking God to bless Daddy. Daddy didn’t exactly deserve blessing right now.

  Glen tucked her in and stayed on his knees by the bed. It was so small, covered with pink blankets and pillows and stuffed animals. Kneeling there he felt big and clumsy. And dumb—a big, dumb doof.

  “Daddy’s sorry he blew it and you didn’t get to wear the tree costume Grammy made for you tonight,” he said miserably.

  She smiled at him, such details unimportant. “I liked being a holly bush.”

  “I think Santa’s going to have to bring you something special for doing such a good job saying your part. What do you think?”

  “I just want my Shopping Babe doll Santa promised,” she said sleepily and snuggled into her pillow.

  “Then I know you’ll get it. I love you, baby girl,” he whispered and kissed her forehead. That was one thing he wouldn’t screw up anyway.

  Laura was still in with Tyler when Glen came out of Amy’s room, so he went downstairs and hid out in the family room, aiming his remote at the TV like a gun and flipping channels. She never came downstairs and he didn’t go up. When he finally went to bed, she was turned with her back to his side. He doubted she was asleep, but he didn’t ask. Instead, he just slipped into bed and lay with his back to hers. He didn’t like lying facing this way. It felt unnatural. So, what else was new? His whole life felt unnatural.

  Horrible dreams chased him through the night. In one he was in stocks in the Green, wearing nothing but a pair of red long johns. Everyone he knew had gathered there to throw snowballs at him, and Laura stood at the head of the line, stuffing a rock inside her snowball. Right in back of her stood his mom, who scolded, “I went to all that trouble to make costumes for you and look what you did!” And then he was out of the stocks and floating alone on an ice floe somewhere in the Arctic. All he had was his burned Christmas cookies. He kept hollering for Laura, and his voice got hoarser and weaker. Finally he lay down on the ice floe. “Just let me die.”

  The words were still on his lips when he woke up. And the bed was empty.

  He pulled on socks and jeans, grabbed a T-shirt, and went downstairs, anxious to negotiate a truce. They’d never before gone to bed mad. This had to get fixed.

  The kids were in the family room, doing their Saturday morning cartoon ritual, and Laura was in the kitchen, on the phone, probably talking to that reporter from the Herald. She glared at him, effectively zapping his desire to make up. She’d thrown him in the deep end of the pool and now she was acting like it was his fault he couldn’t swim.

  If he stayed here one more minute, he was going to…Okay, time to leave, right now. He stormed out of the kitchen, grabbed his coat and car keys, and went out the door.

  It was snowing outside and it looked like it was going to stick, a sure guarantee to bring out all the bad drivers. The way things were going it would be just his luck to run off the road and hit somebody’s tree. He got in the minivan. Destination: church.

  He drove by the Green on his way and saw there was already a good crowd collecting for the Hollydays arts and crafts fair. It looked like one of the school PTOs had set up a booth to sell Krispy Kreme doughnuts again this year, and they were already doing a brisk business. Couples strolled among the booths, holding hands. Some men were alone, wandering aimlessly like they were lost—obviously the guys who hadn’t used Bob’s Internet shopper. Thank God he’d at least done that right, Glen thought. Amy would have her Shopping Babe doll.

  The memory of the previous night’s debacle jumped on him like a mugger, making him feel almost sick.

  Ten minutes later he was at church, in the confessional with Father Thomas. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been two weeks since my last confession.”

  Glen began to go down the list. “I’ve taken the Lord’s name in vain, I’ve had impure thoughts. And I wanted to kill my wife.”

  There was a long silence on the other side of the screen.

  Glen suddenly wished he were a Protestant. They didn’t have to do this stuff. “Just for a second, though,” he rushed on. “I mean, it was one of those thoughts that goes through a guy’s head when he’s going nuts, just one of those I-could-kill-that-woman kind of thoughts. I wasn’t really going to.” He wasn’t making it better trying to explain. No matter how he said it, it still sounded bad. Anyway, how could you explain to a man who didn’t have a wife how insane women could make a guy? Glen gave up. “I can’t take it, Father,” he said. “This strike is making me crazy. I’m a guy. I’m not wired to do all this woman stuff.”

  “But you committed yourself to go along with it. You promised to do everything on your wife’s list. Isn’t that what I read in the paper?”

  Whose side was Father Thomas on, anyway? Glen frowned. “Look, Father, I know I shouldn’t have had that thought. I love my wife. I really do, and I’m not planning on bumping her off. Just give me my penance, okay?” A million Hail Marys ought to do it. He’d go find a nice, quiet bowling alley to say them and stay away all day.

  “Go home and do everything your wife asks you with a smile,” Father Thomas instructed him.

  Glen almost fell off the seat. “What?”

  “I think that will be penance enough,” said Father, and shut the window.

  A sleepless night, two cups of coffee, and one good talk with her mother had helped Laura see that she’d been wrong. Of course it wasn’t fair to blame Glen for an honest mistake, one she could have fixed by just taking a sneak peak in that bag, and it had been both mean and stupid to keep harping on it. Yes, she’d started this strike because she wanted to prove a point, but she sure hadn’t wanted to prove it at her child’s expense. And if it hadn’t been for Mrs. Green, Amy would have paid the price. Somehow, when Laura went on strike, she’d seen it as really involving only her and Glen. She’d been wrong and that mess the night before was as much her fault as his. No, more. She was a rotten mother, a rotten wife, and a rotten person.

  She dumped the morning edition of the Herald with its incriminating picture of Glen and the cop in the garbage—someone would wave it in his face before the weekend was over, but it wasn’t going to be her—then left the kids in the family room playing under the blanket tent she’d made them and wandered into the living room to watch by the window for him. While she waited, she studied the tree he’d decorated with them. He hadn’t done a half-bad job. In fact, if she were honest, she’d have to admit he’d done a pretty good job of decorating both the tree and the house. He’d done a pretty good job at most everything she’d dumped on him, especially considering the fact that he’d gone into the whole experience completely clueless.

  Which, of course, had been her point when they started this. But whose fault was that, really? Who always picked up the slack, making it easy for Glen to do nothing? She’d ask him to help, but then, when he didn’t get around to doing it f
ast enough, she’d just step in and take over. No wonder Glen thought all the parties and dinners he dumped on her were no big deal. She’d made it no big deal for him. And by being his little holiday enabler, she’d stoked the coals of her own aggravation.

  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 ri
ght 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.