On Strike for Christmas

by Sheila Roberts

  “And a fat head.”

  Walt came over and handed Rosemary a bottle of Red Hook. He looked around like a king surveying his kingdom. “Well, we pulled it off.” “We” meaning Rick, who had gotten volunteered army-style to find a place for the party. “You women make too big a deal out of everything. Those women didn’t need to go on strike. They just needed to delegate.”

  “You’d have sold a lot less papers if they had,” Rosemary teased.

  Walt made a face. “Got an answer for everything, don’tcha?”

  “Pretty much.”

  He took a swig of beer. “Well, kid, it’s been a fun ride. Nice bit on the smaller turnout at the Hollydays arts and crafts fair, and announcing the winners of this year’s tree-decorating contest will make a good twist. After that I think we’ll have about milked this thing for all we can. We’ll get a picture of the contest winners in the paper Christmas Day and call it quits with that.”

  “There’s still Christmas Day itself,” Rosemary reminded him.

  He shrugged. “That’ll be pretty much of a snooze. Stories about people opening presents don’t sell papers. No, I think just about everything interesting that’s going to happen during this strike has happened.”

  She supposed he was right. What else could happen that would be newsworthy between now and Christmas?

  “It’s sick, that’s what it is,” Sharon snapped. From the look on her face, Joy decided it was a good thing she’d suggested a Sunday afternoon walk and gotten Sharon out of her house and into the crisp winter air. Otherwise the steam coming out of Sharon’s ears might have scalded her husband.

  They were on their second lap around Sharon’s neighborhood, which had been dubbed Candy Cane Lane because of the extravagant holiday decorating the people all did on their houses.

  “I think your tree looks adorable with all those little toy cars and tinsel,” Joy said.

  “Who’d have thought it would win the tree-decorating contest! He’s going to frame the picture,” Sharon grumbled. “I’ll never live this down.”

  They walked past a lawn with a huge crèche. “At least Pete’s involved now,” Joy pointed out.

  Sharon sniffed. “Yes, and from now on everything will be messy and sloppy and—”

  “And you’ll all share the celebration,” Joy said, cutting her off. “Isn’t that the most important thing? Isn’t that what you really wanted? Isn’t that why you went on strike in the first place, so you wouldn’t have to do it all alone?”

  Sharon frowned and kicked at a little mound of snow on the edge of the yard. “I suppose. But now I’m doomed to snoring Santas and singing reindeer all over the house. Honey, that’s no improvement.”

  “Well, you could always confine them to the family room and put out your fancy decorations in the living room,” Joy suggested. “Maybe you could put up your own tree in your bedroom. That would be romantic.”

  A smile grew on Sharon’s face. “Now, that idea has possibilities.”

  “And at least your husband has changed,” Joy added, feeling a little jealous. “You’ve accomplished something with your strike.”

  Sadly, it was more than she could say. And Christmas was almost here.

  Sharon walked back into her house, determined to look on the bright side like Joy had suggested and see how everyone had benefited from her loosening the holiday reins. And then she caught the whiff of burned cookies and followed her nose to the kitchen, where she saw the disaster. Flour dusted the whole work island. Every available counter space was scattered with dirty bowls, measuring cups, and bags of sugar and flour and other baking ingredients. Someone had dropped an egg on the floor and failed to wipe it all up. And that was just the kitchen. All her boys looked like they’d been in a food fight.

  “Oh, my stars and little catfishes!” she cried and pressed a hand to her chest. “What is going on here?”

  “Hey, Mom,” called James. “We’re making gingerbread boys.”

  “Is that what you’re making?” she said. “It looks more like a mess to me.”

  “We’ll clean it up,” Pete assured her. “Why don’t you join us? Oh, yeah, you can’t. You’re on strike.”

  His words sounded more like a taunt than a regret, and that irked her.

  “Mom, we could use some help. This dough tastes kind of funny,” said Pete Junior.

  It was all the excuse she needed. “Well, let me see.” She shed her coat and gloves and went to take a pinch of the dough. “Did y’all remember to add the sugar?”

  “Who was supposed to put in the sugar?” Pete asked, and their middle son, Tommy Joe, blushed and raised a timid hand.

  “Well, let’s just dump this out and start again,” Sharon said.

  “You’re gonna help us?” asked Pete Junior. “I thought you couldn’t do anything.”

  “Yeah,” put in James, “or you’d get a scab.”

  “I’d be a scab,” Sharon corrected him. She looked at Pete.

  He was watching her, his eyes asking, “What are you going to say to your kids now?”

  That was a hard question. “I guess I can be a scab sometimes, even when there’s not a strike,” she admitted. Maybe Pete was right. Perhaps she was just a teensy bit of a Yulezilla.

  He shook his head and slapped an ear. “Whoa, my hearing must be going. I thought you said—”

  “Never mind what you thought I said, Pete Benedict. And this doesn’t mean I’m ending the strike. I’m just…taking a day off from it to supervise you boys.” She started washing her hands. “Okay, now. Let’s get all the ingredients lined up here on the counter and we’ll put each one away after we’ve added it. That way you’ll know everything is in the bowl that should be.”

  For the next hour they played together in the kitchen, making not only gingerbread boys but gingerbread trees, pumpkins, and bunnies, and any other shape that James pulled out of Sharon’s basket of cookie cutters and fancied. Her oldest son decided to make an anatomically correct gingerbread boy, which got his brothers and his father laughing hysterically. Sharon decided to let it go. Maybe that particular boy would have a sad accident coming off the cookie sheet.

  At last they were done and the kitchen was restored to order.

  “I’m pooped,” Pete declared. “Let’s go out for pizza.”

  “Good idea,” Sharon agreed. “I don’t want this kitchen all messed up again now that it’s clean. Boys, you all go change. We’re not taking you out looking like a bunch of ragamuffins.”

  The boys stampeded out of the kitchen with noisy whoops, leaving Sharon and Pete alone.

  He leaned against the counter and pulled her up to him. “I should have taken a picture of you crossing the picket line. I’ll bet someone at the Holly Herald would have paid big money for that.”

  “I wasn’t really crossing the picket line. I was just keeping you and the boys from demolishing my kitchen.”

  “Uh-huh.” His mouth turned up in a crooked grin. “You miss doing all this, don’t you? It’s killing you not to be doing it.”

  She gave his chest a poke. “Let’s not talk about me. Let’s talk about you. How does it feel to have to finally do something? All these years you’ve been like a big ol’ blister, not showing up until the work’s done.”

  He gave her a slow smile. “Well, Tex, if everything didn’t always have to be done exactly your way, maybe you’d get more help.”

  Pete’s statement hit her right between the eyes, making her drop her gaze. It was true. Deep down she knew it. “Don’t you dare call me Yulezilla,” she said, trying to keep some fire in her voice.

  “Things haven’t gotten done exactly your way this year and we all survived just fine. Didn’t we?”

  “I suppose we have,” she muttered.

  “In fact, I think I’ve done pretty good so far this season and I should get some kind of reward.” He began to rub his hands up and down her back.

  “Is that so?” she teased, and slipped her arms around his neck.

 
; He was looking at her mouth now. “Yeah, that’s so.” He gave her a big, juicy kiss and slipped a hand up her sweater.

  “Dad! We’re ready,” said James, bounding into the room.

  Sharon pulled away, quickly straightening her sweater. “I guess you’ll just have to wait for your reward,” she told Pete.

  “Don’t make me wait too long. All this Christmas stuff is killing me.” Before she could say anything he held up a silencing hand. “I know, I know. That’s what it’s like for you every year. But don’t worry. It’s going to be different from now on.”

  She wasn’t quite sure she liked the way he said that. “Now, don’t you go thinking that just because you got away with tacky decorations all over the house this year that you’ve set some kind of precedent.”

  He grinned and sauntered out of the kitchen, humming the redneck version of “The Twelve Days of Christmas.”

  The man was still a barbarian. And Lord, how she loved him.

  It was now December 23, 6:00 P.M., and snowing heavily. Glen had skidded his way through downtown and was halfway home before a lady in an out-of-control SUV finally skated into him and pushed his commuter car into a ditch. He plodded the rest of the way home through six inches of snow, ruining his shoes and freezing his butt off. His only consolation was that Laura had called him on his cell earlier to report that she’d made it home okay. That was one less thing to worry about.

  And Glen had plenty to worry about these days, like where all the stuff he’d ordered through that on-line shopper was. Bad enough he still had to figure out everything to buy for the big Christmas Eve turkey dinner and how to cook all that crap (naturally, he’d missed the deadline for ordering the precooked turkey with all the trimmings from Town and Country by one day), but to have to worry about the presents arriving on top of it, it was too much to ask a guy.

  The stuff should have been here by now. He’d used the Contact Us option on the Web site earlier in the day and had only gotten a form reply telling him that his merchandise was on the way and would be delivered in five to ten working days—the same thing it had said six days before.

  Glen turned the corner to his street, dread chilling him more than the icy snowflakes slipping past his coat collar. He’d ordered everything from that site, from Laura’s gift to the kids’ presents from Santa. All he needed was some nasty hiccup with the delivery. He picked up his pace, anxious to get home and see if there was a pile of Fed Ex packages in the front hall.

  Some of the neighbor kids were racing back and forth across the lawns, having a snowball fight. One of them came darting past him and whoever was after the kid landed a zinger on the back of Glen’s head, zapping him with cold and rattling his overworked brain.

  “Sorry, Mr. Fredericks,” called the kid with the bad aim. “I was trying to get John.”

  “No problem,” Glen muttered. “Hit me again. I can take it. Hell, I’m just a human punching bag these days anyway.”

  The streetlights cast glitter on the snow-covered shrubs and houses, making the neighborhood look like it belonged in a Robert Kincaid painting. Glen’s yard sported a lopsided snowman with a carrot nose and a couple of branches for arms. The kids had obviously been out having fun. At least someone was having fun this season.

  He opened the front door and looked for a pile of packages. Nothing. Hope began to leak out of him. Maybe Laura had put them under the tree for him. Ha! In his dreams. He looked in the living room anyway. No packages under the tree. The last bit of hope rushed out, leaving him feeling like a deflated balloon.

  Laura came around the corner. “Oh, I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “No packages?” he asked.

  She shook her head solemnly.

  “I don’t understand it. I ordered in plenty of time.”

  “You might want to do some shopping tomorrow, babe,” Laura said. “It doesn’t look like they’re coming.”

  At least she had the consideration not to gloat. Still, this sucked. Was he the only guy this was happening to? “I wonder if Bob Robertson got his,” he mused.

  After dinner he decided to call and see. He got only the answering machine. “Uh, Bob. This is Glen Fredericks. My wife is striking with yours. I shopped that personal shopper site you recommended in your article, and none of my stuff has come yet. I’m just wondering if you got yours.”

  He hung up, feeling unsatisfied. What had he been expecting Robertson to do, anyway? It looked like tomorrow he’d be at the mall, doing the last minute race for presents.

  Bob stood listening to Fredericks’s message and feeling once again that miserable ache in his gut like he’d been sucker-punched. This was the third call he’d gotten in two days. It didn’t take a Sherlock Holmes to deduce that something was very wrong here in Holly. He went into his office and shut the door, then booted up his computer. He typed in the Web site address for U Shop Till I Drop again, determined to make something happen. He’d e-mail them one last time, threaten to call the authorities if they didn’t come through. It was probably already too late to get his presents or anybody else’s, but it made him feel better to try.

  The computer screen blinked, then brought him up a big, empty, white page, telling him that the page couldn’t be located.

  What? He went back and tried again. He had to have typed the address incorrectly, had to have made a mistake. The same empty page greeted him, and he knew he’d made a mistake all right, and it had nothing to do with what he had or hadn’t typed. He’d been conned, and so had half the men in Holly.

  He dropped his head into his hands. “I’m a dead man.”

  Twenty-two

  A knock on his office door made Bob jump.

  Joy poked her head around the door. “That was Sharon Benedict. She said Pete’s been trying to access the site where you guys did your shopping and it’s not coming up.”

  Sharon knew. Joy knew. That meant soon all the women would know, and all their men would lynch him. If only he hadn’t gotten cocky and offered to write that piece for the paper. If only he’d done some shopping somewhere else. If only he had more time. If only the earth would open up and swallow him.

  “Bob?” Joy prompted.

  He nodded his head. “I know. I just tried it. I think it’s a scam.”

  “Oh, no,” she said, horrified.

  “Oh, yes. Every man in Holly is going to be out tomorrow looking for presents, including me. I’ll be lucky if I come home alive.”

  He braced for her to rub it in, to say something like he deserved this. But, bless her, she didn’t. Instead she came to him, draped her arms over his shoulders, and kissed the top of his head. “My poor guy. I’m sorry.”

  He shrugged like it was no big deal that he’d played Pied Piper to every man in Holly and led them all into shopping ruin. “Can you get me Benedict’s number?” he asked. “Also, give me the Frederickses’ number. I’d better give Glen the bad news.”

  She nodded and left the room. A couple of minutes later she was back. “This isn’t your fault,” she told him. Who was she kidding? Not him.

  It was no fun making the calls.

  “What are you going to do about it?” Pete wanted to know.

  Like he was the Lone Ranger or something and he was supposed to go track down these crooks? “I’ll call the cops first thing in the morning to report it. But it’s an Internet fraud and there’s probably nothing they can do.”

  “Well, somebody must handle that stuff,” Pete said. “The FBI, the CIA.”

  “Whoever handles it, they won’t be able to get our presents for us in time. Every man in town who used that site is going to have to hit the stores, so if you know anybody who did, spread the word. And tell them to keep an eye on their credit card statements.”

  “You think these guys could be involved in identity theft or something?” Pete asked.

  “I don’t know. At the least they could try and have fun with our credit card numbers.”

  “This sucks,” Pete said before he hung up.<
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  There was an understatement. Who knew what horrible fallout they’d have to deal with from this Internet debacle? And then there was the shopping. Bob hated crowds. He always got his present for Joy well before Christmas. Now he’d be out there with all the other last-minute losers, scrambling for something to put under the tree for not only his immediate family, but the in-laws and friends they exchanged presents with. And he’d have to get something for his folks and his brother’s family, get it all in the mail, then call and tell everyone the presents would be arriving late. All this because he’d had to be the world’s biggest know-it-all. Well, he’d lost that title. Now he was the world’s biggest sucker.

  And that wasn’t even the worst of it. The worst was that he was going to lose the whole day, valuable time that he needed to finish up the surprise he’d dreamed up for Joy a couple of days ago. It was the perfect present, something that would mean a lot to her, and it was costing him something to do it. Now, with this latest development, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to finish on time. In fact, he wasn’t sure he’d live to do it. A sudden vision of an angry mob of disappointed male shoppers pouncing on him made Bob shudder.

  Never mind that, he told himself. Do this all one step at a time and take first things first. Get to work on Joy’s present. Maybe if he stayed up all night he might get it done in time.

  The all-nighter lasted until some time before midnight, when Bob fell asleep in his office. He woke up with his head on his desk at two. Two in the morning and he wasn’t done. The day ahead loomed before him like a death sentence. He rubbed his stiff neck and stumbled off to bed, hoping he’d be able to finish in the morning.

  When he finally woke up he was alone in the bed. The scent of yeast and cinnamon drifted in to him. Joy had already been up baking cinnamon rolls. That meant it was late morning. Oh, no!

  He sat up in a panic and looked at the bedside clock. It was 10:00 A.M. already—10:00 A.M. Christmas Eve day, and he had a daunting to-do list. He had to call the cops and confess he’d been suckered, then he had to rush out and shop, a misadventure that would be followed by a frantic effort to finish Joy’s present. He looked out the bedroom window. The streets were an icy, snowy mess. That made the morning complete.