He launched himself from his chair and growled, “Never mind. I’ll go.”
Laura chuckled as he pushed past her to go brush his teeth. The woman would have made a good Spanish Inquisitor.
He’d been right about what it would be like at church. All through Father Thomas’s homily Glen could feel curious stares burning into his back. They were barely out of the sanctuary when Derrick Matthews gave him a playful punch in the arm and said, “Hey, how’s the cookie baking going, Mrs. Claus?”
“That’s real funny,” Glen said with a frown.
Roger was with them now, and studying Glen with narrowed eyes. “Does that article have something to do with you weirding out over the lighted village yesterday? He was all worried about us knocking it over with the football,” Rog explained to Derrick.
“Whoa. So, what are you asking for this Christmas, a new vacuum?” Derrick teased.
Glen leaned over and lowered his voice. “One more word and you’re black and blue for Christmas. Got it?”
Derrick took a step back and held up his hands, a joking smile on his face. “Hey, pal. Take some Midol.”
That was it. Glen was going to take him out right here in front of God and everyone. He pushed up his shirtsleeves and started for Derrick the dickhead.
The only thing that saved the guy was his wife, Gina, coming up to them. She wiggled in front of Derrick and looked up at Glen like he was Superman. “Glen, this is so cool. You’re really doing everything?”
“It wasn’t my idea,” Glen said sullenly. He’d been tricked. Or hypnotized. Or something.
“Well, I think it’s awesome,” Gina gushed. She gave Derrick a look that said his turn was coming, and Derrick’s smile slipped off, making Glen feel much better.
“Yeah, well, any man can handle that Christmas stuff if he puts his mind to it,” Glen said, making himself sound like a candidate for an upcoming season of Survivor.
Another husband walked past as this conversation was taking place. “Thanks a lot,” he said to Glen. “My wife ragged on me all the way here. Now I’m stuck with doing the Christmas cards.”
“Glen can’t help it if he’s whipped,” said another. The moron was doing a pretty good job of gloating until his wife came and told him it was time to get over to her mother’s for lunch.
Glen couldn’t help gloating a little himself. These clowns put up great facades, but when it came right down to it, they were all whipped. Women just had a way of taking a guy’s life and turning it upside down.
Laura broke away from the group of women she’d been talking to and started toward him, Tyler in her arms, Amy skipping beside her. Watching them, he felt the familiar swell of love and pride rise in his chest and he had to shake his head and smile. Being whipped wasn’t all that bad.
He changed his mind once they got home, though. He was just about to turn on the TV for the pregame show when Laura said, “Christmas cards need to get done today, remember.”
“The game’s about to start,” Glen protested.
“So, address envelopes while you watch it. Multitask. That’s what I do.”
Only a woman would suggest such a dumb thing.
Laura flipped on the radio and a cheery chorus came over the stereo system, telling him that he needed a little Christmas. Yeah, right. What he needed was a break from Christmas.
After lunch Laura put Tyler down for a nap. Then, while Glen sat in front of the TV swearing over the Christmas cards, she and Amy snuggled under the down comforter on Glen’s and her king-size bed and read storybooks together. It felt great to spend a Sunday afternoon just relaxing with her daughter. Last year she hadn’t had time for this sort of thing, hadn’t even had a minute for herself because of everything she’d wound up doing. And there had been Glen, the Christmas drone, just relaxing and inviting company over at the drop of a hat, while she ran in circles. It felt good not to run. In fact, it felt so good that she knew she would never do it again. She and Glen would either be entering into some serious negotiations at the end of the strike or he’d be living at the North Pole.
At one point Glen called up the stairs, “I have to get something. I’ll be back,” then she heard the front door slam. Poor Glen, he was probably going out to buy more Excedrin.
She finished the last page of The Night Before Christmas and shut the book.
“I like that book,” Amy said.
Laura kissed the top of her head. “I know you do.”
“Does Daddy want to come and read stories with us?”
“Oh, honey, I’m afraid Daddy’s going to be busy for a while,” Laura said with a wicked grin. What a brilliant idea this strike was. Joy had been positively inspired when she came up with it.
The phone wouldn’t stop ringing. It seemed to Bob that every woman Joy had ever known felt the need to call and talk about the strike. And that included his mother-in-law. Pretty soon Joy was dishing out advice like she was Dr. Phil in drag. By late afternoon Bob had to get out of the house.
He got some pop at the grocery store, then went to Hollywood Heaven for an order of escapism. That was where he ran into Karen Doolittle, their most obnoxious neighbor. Just hearing her bullhorn voice call hello from the other side of the store was enough to convince him it was time to sign up for Netflix. Of course he couldn’t pretend he hadn’t heard her. The whole store had heard her. He gave her a wave, hoping that would be enough, and turned back to the shelf of foreign films he’d been perusing.
Of course, it wasn’t enough. Next thing he knew she was next to him, telling him and everyone in the place who wasn’t deaf that she’d read all about him in the paper. “So does that mean you’re in charge of fun and games for Christmas?” she asked in an attempt to be coy.
“It looks that way,” Bob agreed. Then added, “Which means we’ll be having a nice, quiet Christmas. Guess you’ll have to do the neighborhood party this year.” Like that would ever happen. Karen’s husband was the cheapest bum on the block.
She looked at him like he’d just told her that Santa would be passing her house without stopping.
“Merry Christmas,” he said, and pulled a DVD off the shelf.
“Same to you,” she said in a tone of voice that wished him a lump of coal up his butt.
He couldn’t help smiling as he walked away. For the first time since he’d gotten married, his wife wasn’t running the holiday show. He could do anything he wanted. Anything. The holiday was his. He was writing the scenario this year.
He practically skipped to the comedy section and randomly picked something. Then he stopped by the action/adventure shelf and got an old Arnold Schwarzenegger movie, The Terminator. Bob felt a little bit like a terminator, himself—the Christmas Terminator, wiping out irritating, invasive traditions wherever he went. Ho, ho, ho and blast away. This really was going to be a great holiday. No neighborhood Christmas party at his house, no herds of chattering women traipsing through his living room and kitchen for teas and cookie exchanges. Just the peace and silence of a brave, new world.
On the way home, the Christmas Terminator made one more stop, and pulled his car into the parking lot of Hank’s Hardware.
Hank’s sat squarely in the middle of town, a good, strong dose of testosterone to balance the kitchen shops, women’s clothing boutiques, toy stores, and other female-friendly stores that dominated downtown Holly. Hank didn’t bother to cater to women. Shoppers would find no wind chimes, no picnic doodads, no cutesy gardening utensils or little stone frogs for the front yard in his place. The few small appliances he stocked were cool guy toys, like the George Foreman Lean Mean Grilling Machine. Hank’s was Man Land, packed full of saws and hammers and nails, wheelbarrows, levels, screwdrivers, bits, and anything else a man could want, including male conversation. His only concession to the holidays was a limited selection of outdoor lights—no garlands or tinsel or lighted villages. In short, nothing to tempt the women of Holly to invade his territory. Bob always liked wandering around in there and seeing what was n
ew.
He walked in to find a couple of men leaning on the front counter, talking to Hank and watching the last of the game playing on the TV mounted on the wall behind him. The big, beefy one Bob recognized right away as his neighbor, Glen Fredericks. Bob didn’t recognize the man next to him. He was shorter, with the sinewy build of a runner, and was wearing a baseball cap on his head. It was obvious he’d taken the day off from shaving.
Hank, a grizzled, old bachelor, spat a streak of tobacco into the old-fashioned spittoon he kept by the cash register and said, “The problem with you morons is you’ve forgotten how to be men. Christmas cards,” he said in disgust, and spat again. And then he saw Bob. “Well, speak of the devil.”
The other two men turned to look in Bob’s direction; then both frowned.
Bob nodded politely and scurried down the aisle with the flashlights. What was that all about? Of course, the article in the newspaper. But why give him the stink eye? Fredericks’s wife was in this clear up to her pretty, blond curls.
Bob selected a flashlight and some batteries, then walked up to the counter, steeling himself for attack.
“My wife’s trying to kill me,” Fredericks greeted him. “I just spent an hour doing Christmas cards and I’m still not done. The only way I could watch the game in peace was to come here.”
“I hear this was all your wife’s idea,” the other guy accused Bob.
“This is Pete,” Glen began. “What’d you say your last name was?”
“Benedict.” The man was frowning like he wanted to punch Bob’s lights out. Writing and an occasional round of golf hadn’t exactly kept Bob in top fighting condition. The guy would have no problem.
Lucky for Bob, Pete took his proffered hand and shook it. “My wife joined that strike your wife started, and now, instead of driving me crazy making everything perfect, she’s driving me crazy telling me that nothing’s perfect.”
Glen shook his head. “So far this game is going to the women.”
“You should’ve stayed single,” Hank told him.
“So, did you do that tree in the picture in the paper?” Pete asked Bob.
Bob shrugged. “Just a little sabotage.”
Glen gave Bob a thumbs-up, but Pete let out a snort. “Passive-aggressive stuff doesn’t work. It just makes ’em madder.”
“Well, I thought it was worth a try,” Bob said.
“Nothing works when they’ve made up their minds about something,” Fredericks said.
“Sick,” Hank muttered, and let fly with another stream of tobacco juice.
“The best we can do is stay strong,” Bob said. “Don’t let them think they’re getting to us.”
“Hey, I’m not letting this get to me,” Fredericks insisted. “I can take anything she can dish out.”
“Which is why you’re down here,” said Hank.
Another man came up to the counter now. Around the pipe in his mouth, he asked, “You talking about the strike?” They nodded and he frowned. “If I get my hands on the wimp who let his wife start this…” The other two closed ranks to protect Bob, and the newcomer’s eyes narrowed. “Wait a minute.”
“It’s not his fault,” Glen said. “The women all got together. None of us had any control over this.”
The man looked at them all in disgust. “Well, your wives convinced mine that I have to go Christmas shopping.”
“Don’t tell me, let me guess,” said Glen. “Jack Carter the Scrooge.”
“I’m not a Scrooge,” Jack snarled.
Now another man had joined them. “Hey, you think shopping is bad—my wife is making me cook a turkey. What do I look like, anyway, Chef Boyardee? I don’t have a clue how to do that.”
“You don’t,” Bob told him. “You order one precooked from Town and Country.”
The guy nodded thoughtfully. “Good idea.”
“We don’t have to do everything the women do,” Bob added.
Fredericks puffed out his massive chest. “Yeah, we’re men.”
“Yeah,” the others chorused.
“So, does anybody know how to make cookies?” Pete asked.
Silence fell on Hank’s Hardware.
“I’ve gotta get home,” Glen finally said.
“Me, too,” said Pete.
“Henpecked,” said Hank in disgust.
Not me, Bob told himself as he drove away. These poor slobs needed help. They needed the Christmas Terminator.
He came home to find his wife waiting for him on the living room sofa, cupping a steaming mug of tea and wearing a melancholy expression. He felt his cloud of euphoria begin to dissolve around the edges. “What’s wrong?”
“I’ve already had two people ask me if we’re going to have our annual Christmas party.”
Uh-oh. The Christmas Terminator started to fall apart and the ground under Bob’s feet suddenly felt unstable. “What did you tell them?”
“That I’m not in charge this year.” She said it like it was his fault she’d abdicated her position as ruler of the holidays. She took a sip from her mug and watched him over the rim.
The Christmas Terminator was crumbling into a useless pile of nuts and bolts and melting steel. This was how she always got him, with guilt.
But not this time, Bob told himself firmly. Joy was on strike and Bob was the new ruler. The queen was picketing; long live the king.
He willed the Terminator back together and said, “Good girl.” No parties this year, thank God. He handed over the DVDs. “What do you want to watch?”
Arnold, of course, did not get first pick. Neither did the foreign film. She picked the comedy. Bob realized he should have paid closer attention to what he was grabbing. The movie with Will Smith had been a tactical error. It was all about a date doctor who advised men to do anything for the woman they wanted—a bad message for a man who was trying to gain some measure of control over his own existence.
Just pretend you don’t get the message, he told himself as they headed for the TV room.
“So I guess we’re not having a party this Christmas,” Joy said from behind him.
She was trying to sound casual, but he could hear the hope hiding in her voice. He smiled grimly. It had been easy enough to announce she was going on strike, talk a big talk to the newspaper reporter, but she wasn’t finding her strike so much fun when faced with the reality of losing control. Well, now she knew how he felt.
“Are you ending your strike?” he countered.
It took her a minute to answer. “No.”
“Then I guess we’re not.”
“Fine,” she said, miserable resignation tainting every particle of breath. She was Joan of Arc, waiting for the bonfire. He could see their quiet evening together vanishing quicker than a plate of Christmas cookies. Who was he kidding? Her unhappiness would spread out far beyond this evening.
“You’re the one who wanted me to see how miserable I’d be if we did things my way,” he reminded her. “Don’t you want to give me a chance to be miserable?”
That coaxed a reluctant smile from her. “Hurry up and get miserable, will you?”
He put in the DVD and settled on the love seat, patting the cushion next to him. “Come on. Let’s enjoy the movie.”
She snuggled in next to him and he put an arm around her, deep contentment settling over him. He loved times like this when it was just the two of them enjoying something together. Who needed a party?
Joy had trouble paying attention to the movie. Her thoughts kept drifting to the bleak Bob Humbug Christmas that lay ahead of her. She felt like Mrs. Claus stuck in a tug-of-war with the Grinch. At the rate they were going there was only one thing that was going to save her. Note to self: Buy more chocolate.
After the ribbing he’d taken at church, Glen entered the office on Monday like a soldier preparing to cross territory riddled with land mines. Mitzi, the receptionist, greeted him with a glare. He wasn’t sure, but he thought she growled.
“Don’t believe everything you read in the p
aper,” he told her, and pressed on.
One of the guys called from his desk, “Hey, man, saw the article. Hang in there,” and that made Glen feel better.
His secretary, Kathleen, shook her head at him as he tried to slip past her desk. She hung up her phone and said, “I told you it would all catch up with you someday. You’d better pray your wife doesn’t decide to have a party.”
Like it was his fault Christmas came every year? Like it was his fault they had family and friends who wanted to come over? Like he couldn’t handle this? He was doing fine.
He spread out his arms, briefcase dangling from one hand. “So, let her. Game on.”
Kathleen was ten years older than he was. She seemed to think it gave her the right to act like his mother and dish out advice and make ominous predictions. Oh, and dish out superior looks like the one she was giving him now.
He decided to ignore it. “Hold my calls,” he said. “I’ve got some work to do.”
He locked his office door, then went to his desk, opened his briefcase, and took out a fat pile of Christmas cards to address.
Laura was restocking the brochure rack with the reprinted Hollydays brochures when the call came in to the Chamber of Commerce. It was Kathleen, Glen’s secretary.
“I thought you might like to know your husband informed me this morning that he’s perfectly capable of throwing a Christmas party.”
Laura gave a snort of disgust. “Yeah, right. And who does he think is going to get all the food for it and serve it and clean up the mess afterward?” Just the thought of the work that came along with any pairing of the words “Glen” and “party” made her start snapping her gum.
“He claims he’s up to the challenge.”
“That’ll be a first,” Laura said. “I can just see Glen in charge of a party.”
“Sounds like fun. Can I come?”
Glen having to deal with the kind of instant invasion he dumped on her. That should be interesting. Give the boy some circles to run in. “Yeah, the more the merrier. In fact, why don’t you invite the whole office? I’ll call some of our friends.”
On Strike for Christmas Page 11
