On Strike for Christmas Page 10

  “It helps the chocolate set up.”

  “So I hear. It probably helps my arteries set up, too.” He smiled and leaned his head back on the couch cushions. “You know, we’ve got a great daughter.”

  Joy smiled. “I know.”

  Glen had had a busy evening decorating the house. He’d scampered around hanging stockings, setting out candles, and putting ceramic angels on guard over small, lighted villages trimmed with lots of doodads and little cords running every which way that made him feel like he had ten thumbs. It had been yet another time-consuming pain in the butt that had kept him from the relaxing evening in front of the TV that he’d envisioned.

  But Laura had just made it all up to him, and now he was spooned up against her in bed, happily drifting off for the night.

  And then an awful thing happened. She sighed sleepily and said, “So I guess you’re getting the kids’ outfits tomorrow morning before they have their pictures taken with Santa.”

  Glen’s eyes popped open. “What?”

  “Night,” she murmured.

  “Oh, no. You can’t just drop that bomb on me and go to sleep,” he protested. “I mean, what if I had plans for tomorrow?”

  She rolled over in bed to face him. “Did you?”

  Maybe this wasn’t the best time to tell her. He could feel the wifely inquisitor stare boring into him. Confess.

  “Well, some of the guys were coming over to watch the game.” Even in the dark he could see her frown. “Don’t worry,” he said quickly. “I wasn’t gonna ask you to feed them. Everybody’s bringing beer and chips.”

  “And who’s cleaning up the mess afterward?”

  “Uh. I am?”

  “Good guess. And you still have to take the kids to see Santa before you party.”

  “It’s barely December. Why do they have to go see Santa so early?”

  “Because we get extra pictures and stick them in a lot of the Christmas cards, which, by the way, need to get done next weekend.”

  Glen swore. “Are you trying to kill me? I work, you know.”

  She rolled back over, turning her back to him. “So do I. Then I come home and work some more on top of that. You’re only doing Christmas stuff, Glen. I have to do that on top of taking care of the kids and the house. I’ve been trying to finish the same book for three months and I’m still working on the same scarf I started in September. I can’t remember the last time I made it to the gym. In fact, it’s a good day when I can find time to go to the bathroom.”

  Glen decided it was time to drop the subject. “Okay, okay, I get the idea,” he said, cutting her off.

  She sighed. “I guess I made my point. If you can’t handle it I’ll end the strike.”

  Right. Like he was going to throw in the towel after that little speech she just made. It would be Super Babe kayos Weinie Man in the first round. “Hey, I can handle it.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure.” He should have kept his big mouth shut.

  “Okay. Good night,” she said sweetly. “Pleasant dreams.”

  Dreams? He was going to be awake for hours thinking about all he had to do. Kickoff was at two. Would he make it back in time? Don’t even go there, he told himself.

  As it turned out, he did get to sleep, but once there he found a nightmare waiting for him. It was Saturday, ten minutes until kickoff, and he still had to drive to the mall and get his kids their outfits, then take them to see Santa. But he was having trouble even getting to the minivan. It was like he was trapped in invisible quicksand and no matter how hard he forced his muscles, every part of his body moved in cartoon slow motion. He finally wound up crawling on his hands and knees. Then, suddenly, he was at the mall with his buddies and they were all yelling at him because they were missing the kickoff. And he’d lost the kids. Santa drove by in his sleigh, right down the center of the mall with the kids sitting on top of a huge sack of presents, waving at him. Santa pointed at Glen and laughed, and it wasn’t his usual ho, ho, ho. It was a nasty, mocking cackle. “You’re gonna miss the game, fool,” Santa called. “You’re gonna miss everything.”

  Glen’s eyes popped open. He spread out his hands and felt firm mattress beneath him and let out a sigh of relief. Okay, it was just a bad dream, his id or something acting up.

  He went downstairs and found Laura in the utility room, putting in a load of laundry. He gave her a kiss, then asked, “How soon does the mall open?”

  “Ten.”

  Glen nodded. “Good.” They’d be there when the doors opened. It shouldn’t take more than fifteen minutes to grab some clothes for the kids. Santa was probably camped out right in the middle of the mall. Half an hour for that, tops. They’d be back home in plenty of time.

  He found the kids at the tiled oak table in the kitchen nook, finishing up breakfast. “Okay, team,” he said, clapping his hands like a football coach about to make a locker room speech. “Everybody ready to go see Santa?”

  “Santa!” cried Amy, scooting out of her chair.

  “Santa!” echoed Tyler, mirroring the action.

  “First Daddy’s going to take you to get new clothes for your Christmas pictures,” Laura said from behind him. “So be good and help him pick out something pretty.”

  Amy nodded enthusiastically. “We will.”

  To Glen she added, “Get her a dress, something red. And Tyler just needs a little, red bow tie to go with his slacks and shirt.”

  “Hey, I can handle it, okay?” Glen said, irritated. What kind of bozo did she think he was, anyway?

  “Okay,” she said. She cocked her head and examined her daughter.

  Glen looked, too. Amy’s hair was sticking out in several directions. “You better go brush your hair,” he told her. “You want to look nice for your picture.”

  “Mommy always fixes it special,” Amy said.

  Uh-oh. But he was already doing so much. She wouldn’t throw him a curve like that.

  She would. “Daddy’s going to fix your hair this year.”

  “Oh, come on, Laura. What do I know about fixing girls’ hair?”

  “About as much as you know about what I do around here at the holidays. All you have to do is brush it and put it in a ponytail. But if you think you can’t handle it…”

  He held up a hand, stopping her in midsentence. “I can handle it.”

  Well, sort of. Just like with the Christmas decorations, his big hands proved ill equipped for the challenge. He finally got the hair band wrapped around most of her hair. It stuck straight up like Pebbles in the Flintstones and was slightly off center. But it looked cute, trendy even.

  Amy studied her reflection in the bathroom mirror, brows knit. Not a good sign.

  Glen spied some sort of fuzzy pink hair clip on the counter. He handed it to her. “Here. Put this in your hair.”

  She obliged then smiled, content with the fix.

  “Okay. Get your coat and let’s go,” Glen said.

  “What are you going to do all day?” he asked Laura as they headed for the door. She gave Amy’s hair a quick tweak, then opened it for them, snapping her gum and smirking. All she needed was a red tail and a pitchfork. “Don’t tell me, let me guess,” he said bitterly. “You’re gonna read, knit, and sit on the pot.”

  Amy cracked up over that. “Mommy’s going to sit on the pot.”

  Not to be left out, Tyler started laughing, too, bobbing from side to side chanting, “Pot, pot, pot.”

  “For your information, smart guy, I’m going to start another load of laundry, clean the kitchen, and then get my hair done.” She bent over and kissed both kids. “Be good for Daddy.”

  “We will,” Amy promised, then skipped out the door with Tyler bouncing after her.

  “Have fun,” Laura cooed to Glen.

  “Don’t worry,” he snapped. “We will. Piece of cake.”

  The mall was already crowded and Glen had to park at the farthest end. He’d forgotten to put the stroller in the minivan, so he had to
carry Tyler. Oh, well. He could handle it. He didn’t go to the gym for nothing.

  By the time they reached the mall entrance he was convinced Laura had smuggled rocks into their kid’s diaper. Why else would he be so damned heavy? Glen put Tyler down and he immediately took off toward the play area after his sister.

  “We’re not playing today,” Glen called and chased after them.

  An hour later they left the play area and went on the hunt for clothes.

  “Look, Daddy. Deer ears,” Amy said, pointing to a headband sporting a goofy pair of brown felt antlers. “Can I have some?”

  “Me want ears,” said Tyler.

  “Okay. Sure.” Glen paid for two sets of antlers and settled them on the kids’ heads. “Now, we’ve got to find something to put you in for your pictures.” They were in the girls’ department, surrounded by racks of pants, tops, pajamas, and dresses of all kinds and colors. Glen blinked, overwhelmed with the choices. Dress, red dress. He started for the rack with the dresses.

  Amy hopped over to the pajamas. “Daddy, I want princess jammies,” she called, holding out a flannel pant leg stamped with Disney princesses.

  Glen scratched his head. Could a kid wear pajamas to see Santa? Laura had said get a red dress. “We better look at dresses,” he said.

  “But I want princess jammies,” Amy pleaded, her voice sounding teary. She started to do the sobby sniff thing.

  Oh, no. No crying. This department was full of women. They’d look at him like he was some kind of child abuser. “Okay, princess jammies it is,” he decided, and yanked a pair off the rack. Kids in pajamas were cute. He held them up to Amy. The pajamas seemed to keep going long after her feet stopped. Hmmm. “I think we better find another size.”

  Naturally, there weren’t any damn princess jammies in a smaller size. “It looks like we’re gonna have to bag the jammies,” Glen said.

  “No, Daddy. You promised.”

  Oh, geez, she was gearing up for a tear storm again. “Okay, okay. We’ll get these. You’ll have room to grow.”

  She rewarded him with an ecstatic smile. He had to be the world’s biggest pushover.

  “Let’s find jammies for Tyler, too,” she suggested.

  Why not? That way, they could match. Both the kids in matching jammies. That’d look cute. Anyway, Glen had no idea where to find a little kid bow tie. The search could take hours.

  They got Sponge Bob Square Pants pajamas for Tyler; then Glen took the kids back to the minivan and changed them into their new duds. Of course, the tags were stuck on with those stupid plastic doohickeys that even Superman couldn’t break. After putting a hole in the armpit of Tyler’s pajamas yanking one off, Glen finally gave up and stuck the tags inside the necks. Then he put the kids in their coats again and trotted them back to see Santa.

  The line stretched halfway to South America. Glen checked his watch. Nearly noon. Well, it would probably move fast.

  Forty-five minutes later they were up to the fake snow lawn and one kid away from entering the red plywood shack to see Santa, and Tyler smelled funny.

  “Tyler smells poopy,” Amy announced.

  Great. Just one kid away and Tyler had to drop a bomb in his pants. If they left the line to change him they’d have to start all over again and no way was Glen going to do that. He considered changing Tyler right on the spot and decided against it. Laura was the kid expert, but even Glen knew that was a social no-no.

  “He’ll be okay until we get home,” Glen decided. He took off the kids’ coats so they’d be ready for the big moment and studied them. There they stood, Amy wearing jammies that flopped over her feet and Tyler with a load in his diaper. Well, what could Laura expect? She was on strike and he was a scab. You had to take what you got when the scabs were on the job.

  Santa got done ho-ho-ho-ing a kid who looked like she should be on a magazine cover and held out his arms to Tyler and Amy. Amy walked obediently up to him, flopping her way around her too-long pant legs, but Tyler suddenly got alarmed. He started to cry and turned to bolt.

  “It’s okay,” Glen told him, picking him up. “It’s Santa. He’s going to bring you cool stuff for Christmas.”

  Glen tried to set Tyler on Santa’s lap and Tyler’s howl got louder. His feet began to pump and he tried to wiggle free. His deer antlers slipped sideways. Tyler wasn’t crying in last year’s Santa pictures. What had Laura done to make him stop? Drugged him?

  “Come on, Tyler,” Amy said encouragingly, and perched on Santa.

  Glen tried again. Tyler let Glen set him down, but he kept on crying. He looked like a kid who’d just had his candy cane stolen.

  “It’s okay, sweetie,” cooed a female elf with a camera. “What’s this I’ve got?” She squeezed a squeaky toy duck at Tyler.

  Tyler kept wailing.

  “Can you smile for Santa?” she suggested.

  She said it just as Santa made a face.

  Glen couldn’t blame him. Tyler smelled pretty ripe.

  “Whoa there,” said Santa. “Somebody needs a clean diaper for Christmas.”

  “Yeah, well. We’re gonna take care of that,” Glen said.

  The look Santa gave him promised Glen a lump of something in his stocking on a par with what was in Tyler’s diaper.

  The elf snapped away while Tyler cried and wiggled, popping loose the stuck-down tag from the neck of his pajamas. At least Amy smiled. She looked like a little angel…with no feet who was having a bad hair day. (The ponytail was mostly out now, and her antlers weren’t exactly front and center, either.) And Santa kept trying to smile but mostly looked like he’d just been fed a lemon.

  Somehow, Glen couldn’t imagine Laura wanting to stick very many of these pictures in their Christmas cards.

  As soon as the elf was done, Santa removed Tyler from his lap. “Whoa,” he said, fanning out his pant leg. “Next time bring your Mommy, kids.”

  “Very funny,” said Glen.

  “Not from where I’m sitting,” Santa retorted.

  The minute they were away from Santa, Tyler stopped yelling. Glen noticed that the woman behind him was bringing up a couple of kids who looked like they’d been dressed by a fashion designer. Of course, that was the look Laura would have wanted for the kids.

  Glen paid the hefty picture price and gave the Santa rip-off company the necessary address for sending the pics, then got out of there. He’d thought they’d have a computer set up that would give him a chance to see some proofs and pick the least awful one like the photographers did over at the place where Laura often took the kids for portraits, but no such luck. Maybe it was just as well, because Glen knew he’d never be able to find any picture his wife would approve.

  By the time he got the kids home he was completely wrung out.

  Laura was back, looking totally hot with a new hairstyle. “How’d it go?” she asked. She was watching him like she was half afraid to hear.

  No sense ruining her day. “Piece of cake. Here,” he said, handing Tyler over to her. “He needs changing.”

  She looked from one child to the other. “What’s with the pajamas?”

  “We went with a Night Before Christmas theme,” Glen said. “Now, if you’re done torturing me for the day, I’d like to go back to being myself.”

  She looked at him innocently, like she wasn’t enjoying every moment of his misery, and said, “Sure.”

  The sad thing was, Glen never completely got back to being himself. He was tired when the guys came, and wished he hadn’t invited anyone over. And it ticked him off that they moved his decorations off the coffee table to make room for the chips and salsa. Then, when Roger and Mac started throwing the football around at halftime, he snapped, “Don’t be throwing that in the house. You’ll knock over my lighted village.”

  Rog stopped, his arm in midair. Three pairs of jaws dropped open and the only sound in the room was the TV blatting out a beer commercial.

  Mac was the first to speak. “Dude. What is wrong with you? You sound like M
artha Stewart.”

  Glen suddenly felt like he was going to puke. Oh, God. What’s happening to me?

  Nine

  The article about the strike appeared in Sunday’s paper. The picture of his wife reclining amid the mess of ornament boxes didn’t bother Glen, but what she said in the article sure did.

  He gave the paper a disgusted thump. “You make me look like a jerk.”

  Laura took it away from him and studied her picture. “I’m donating those pants to the Goodwill. They definitely make me look fat.”

  “Never mind the pants. What about me and how I look?”

  She peered at him over the top of the paper, both eyebrows raised. “All I did was tell the reporter how it is around here every Christmas, babe. How does that make you look like a jerk?”

  He was about to step into some kind of verbal trap. He could sense it the way an animal could smell trouble on the wind. He decided to try a different strategy. “You could have said something good about me, you know.”

  She gave him that sexy grin of hers and moved from her side of the kitchen table to sit on his lap, twining her arms around his neck. “Now, you know they can’t print that kind of stuff in the paper.”

  “What stuff?” Amy asked, looking up from her bowl of Tootie Fruities.

  Laura left Glen’s lap—darn—and started clearing the breakfast dishes. “Never mind. Finish your cereal. We have to get out the door.”

  The last thing Glen wanted to do now was go to Mass. As of this morning, everyone in the entire parish knew that he was the holiday version of Mr. Mom. He had to have been out of his mind to go along with this. Either that or Laura was slipping drugs into his food.

  That last thought gave him an idea. “I don’t think I’ll go today.” He rubbed his gut for effect. “I think I’m coming down with something.”

  Laura looked over her shoulder at him. “Yeah? A case of chicken pox?” She started to cluck under her breath.

  He scowled, sitting up a little straighter and pushing out his chest. “No. I just—”

  “You’re just chicken,” she taunted.

  Amy, sensing a good joke, echoed, “You’re a chicken, Daddy.”