The Christmas Strike

“These chips are stale,” Iris complained as she threw a half-eaten one back into the complimentary basket.

“The chips are always stale,” Jo pointed out. “It’s their way of getting you to order something.”

“You guys want to split the fajitas?”

Jo and I agreed and we put in the order when our drinks were delivered.

Iris licked the back of her hand, sprinkled salt on it, licked again, threw back the double shot, then sucked a wedge of lime. This ritual never failed to fascinate Jo and me. We watched in admiration as we sat there sipping our gentile margaritas.

“You know,” Iris said as she licked salt from her lips, “if the Prisoners Society doesn’t start getting more exciting, we’re going to need to form a society against the damned society.”

Jo sighed. “Okay, so the ceramics didn’t work out. So sue me.”

“Maybe we should start planning another trip to Europe,” Iris suggested, “while our passports are still good.”

Jo shook her head. “I’m saving every dime I can get my hands on for the diner so when I get Mike to see things my way, I’ll be ready.”

“Fat chance I’m going anywhere soon, either,” I put in. “I’ve got a full house. I bet they’re all waiting at home right now wondering what’s for dinner.”

“Damn,” Iris said, “how can you stand it? That’s the main reason I’ve never wanted to get married, you know. The idea of being needed all the time like that—” She gave an exaggerated shiver of distaste.

I’d never really considered the concept of not being needed. What would that feel like? Right now I thought it would probably feel pretty damn good. But it might have just been the margarita.

“I’m starting to get depressed,” Iris muttered. “I think it’s time we did our ritualistic toast thingy again.”

We’d started the toast—really a promise to each other—the year we’d had to cancel the trip to Europe. There was no clear anniversary date for the ritual. We generally hauled it out whenever any of us was having a bad time. It was a way of reminding ourselves that things were still possible.

Iris signaled our server for another round. When it came, we raised our various concoctions and clinked our mismatched glasses and repeated the promise. If one of us ever made it to Europe, we would toast the others out loud so at least our names would have been said there. If it was Rome, it would be wine. And if it was Paris, champagne, of course. Italy and France were the two countries we all agreed that we wanted to see.

“Hey, why don’t you come up to Milwaukee with me next weekend?” Iris suggested after she’d finished her tequila ritual. “That guy I met last time finally called me. We’re going dancing at a club downtown. I’m sure he’s got a friend we could double with.”

Jo groaned. “Milwaukee just doesn’t sound as exotic as Rome.”

Iris sniffed and straightened her shoulders. “Well, we don’t all have a still semihunky husband to cuddle up to on Friday night.”

“Sorry,” Jo said.

Iris turned to me. “How about it?”

“No way,” I said emphatically.

“Hey, you had fun that one time you came with me.”

Fun wasn’t what I’d call it. Okay, maybe at the time it had seemed like an adventure. But afterwards I just worried about whether I’d caught anything or if I was going to turn into a slut. That was over five years ago. I haven’t had sex since. And I had no intention of having it again anytime soon.

“You’re forgetting how paranoid I got afterwards,” I said.

Iris made a face. “That’s right. Forget it. I couldn’t go through that again. Guess you’ll have to find some other way to blow off steam.”

Our fajitas came and we got busy divvying up the tortillas and sizzling platters of meat and vegetables. A guy in cowboy boots slid from his stool at the bar and ambled over to the jukebox.

“Oh, oh,” Jo said, “I’m feeling some Patsy Cline comin’ on.”

But it wasn’t Patsy Cline that came out after he’d stuck in his dollar.

“Hey, wasn’t that our junior prom theme?” Iris asked as a song by the pop group Bread began to play.

But I was already there. I couldn’t even see the face of the boy I went with or remember the color of the dress. But the same feeling I’d had then washed over me now. Excitement. Possibilities. A world at our feet.

I should have known after the evening’s infamous punch incident that things weren’t going to turn out as I’d planned.

I’d learned that the only thing you could really count on was getting old. Sure, fifty-two isn’t old. But it’s a lot older than forty-two, which is a lot older than thirty-two, which is a lot older than twenty-two. What if you didn’t feel that old inside though? Lately I’d been wondering if my insides were keeping pace with my outsides. Like sometimes, inside, I’m still twenty-two. And then I pass a mirror or a plate-glass window and am shocked at the person looking back at me. Not that I look all that bad. My skin is still decent, although, like I said, those laugh lines are getting deeper. My hair is still more blond than silver. I weigh only a few pounds more than I did when I married Charlie. But I sure didn’t look like the kind of woman who had something bubbling inside of me, still waiting to break free. And I sure didn’t look like the kid I was feeling like right now, half buzzed from a couple of margaritas and the beat of a song that, until this moment, I’d forgotten all about.

When I got home that night, sure enough, the first question I got asked was what was for supper. It was nearly seven o’clock and it hadn’t occurred to any of the other adults in the house to fix something.

“I’ve already eaten,” I said.

They all looked shocked.

“But what about us?” Ashley asked.

I squatted down in front of her. “You know what, Ash? Your mom knows how to cook, too. Don’t you remember?”

Ashley nodded enthusiastically. “She makes the best tuna casserole.”

“Oh, yum,” Gwen commented from where she was half reclined on one of the sofas. “Why don’t we just open a can of SPAM?”

“Yes. Why don’t you?” I suggested. “I’ve got some work to do.”

I refused to look back to see what kind of impact my statement had on them. I just kept walking until I’d crossed the living room and opened the door to my office, careful to shut it quietly behind me.

My office was in a small second parlor off the back of the living room. It had a bow window that looked out onto the backyard and an old oak desk and chair I’d found at an estate sale and refinished. There were two small upholstered chairs for clients, a wall lined with file cabinets and an oval braided rug on the floor. I didn’t want to be too cutesy—after all I did people’s tax returns, kept their books, made out payrolls for some of the small businesses around town—so I’d replaced my mother’s lace curtains with miniblinds and the needlepoint on the walls with pieces done by regional artists.

Numbers were one of the things that had saved my sanity after Charlie had been killed. I’d had to focus on something. And we’d needed money. Charlie’s business had barely begun. He’d left me with more bills than anything. I knew that part of the reason that Gwen was so self-absorbed and Natalie was so defiant was because there had never seemed to be enough of me to go around when they’d needed me the most. I’d never claimed to be the perfect mother. But I’d given what I could. Done as much as I could. And I have ever since.

I sat down in my desk chair and leaned back. I felt drained. As if soon there wouldn’t be anything left to give.

There was the sound of a skirmish outside my office door. Matt and Tyler, fighting again. I started to stand up but forced myself to sit. There were three adults out there. They could handle it. I looked nervously at the door. Couldn’t they?

I turned on my computer and logged in to Ivan Mueller’s account. Ivan insisted on keeping old-fashioned ledgers with handwritten entries. So once a month, I stopped by his jewelry store, picked up his ledgers and transferred everything into a spreadsheet on my computer. I hoped that the familiar comfort of the numbers would keep my butt in the chair.

I didn’t leave my office that night until I was fairly certain, from the sound of things, that everyone had gone to bed for the night. Then I crept into the kitchen, grabbed a hunk of cheese from the refrigerator to stave off hunger pangs and went to bed in the maid’s room.

Believe me, the irony of the name my mother had dubbed it all those years ago was not lost on me.

The next day, I had become Gwen’s personal maid, spending a good portion of my time fielding phone messages between her and David.

“Did you tell her what I said?” he asked me anxiously during our latest chat.