The Christmas Strike. Nikki Rivers

the tip of her brush in pink paint. “Aren’t we supposed to be escaping our bondage?”

      “Yes, of course—”

      “Well, I’m seeing you pretty tethered to the ground, honey,” Iris said.

      “Well, what am I supposed to do?”

      “Kick them out on their asses and tell them to grow up?” Iris suggested tenderly.

      “It’s just not that easy,” I whined.

      “Oh, don’t pay any attention to her,” Jo said. “She’s never had kids.”

      “Making me the smartest woman at this table,” Iris stated.

      We’d driven an hour in the snow to sit in the back room of an overheated ceramics shop and paint designs on large coffee cups. I was starting to think that none of the women at this table were very smart.

      “This is a stupid way to spend a Saturday,” I blurted out.

      Some women at the advanced class’s table who were working on painting little elves swung their heads our way, their faces registering disapproval.

      “You trying to get us beat up or something?” Jo hissed.

      “They do look a little hard-core,” Iris said.

      I started to giggle at the thought of hard-core ceramic junkies. More disapproving looks came our way. I wasn’t sure if it was our conversation or the fact that none of us was wearing a sweatshirt with a barnyard animal, a snowman or sprigs of holly on it.

      “Why do I get the feeling,” Jo said out of the corner of her mouth, “that we’re about to get kicked out of here?”

      “Just as long as we don’t have to serve detention,” I said.

      Iris threw down her paintbrush. “Let’s get the hell out of here. I want a margarita.”

      There was a small gasp from a chubby woman at the next table, who was wearing a sweatshirt that featured a row of geese, each with a red ribbon tied in a bow at its throat.

      “What’s the matter, lady, would you rather have a rum and Coke?”

      “Well, I never—” the woman said.

      “Yeah, I’m betting you haven’t,” Iris quipped.

      “I think now is the time to leave,” Jo said.

      I didn’t argue.

      Amid much giggling, we left our half-finished latte mugs where they were, went up front, paid what we owed and headed back to Willow Creek and the only Mexican restaurant in the area.

      I ordered a regular margarita on the rocks, no salt, Jo ordered a blended strawberry one and Iris, skipping the niceties, ordered a double shot of tequila.

      We were as different as our drink orders—Jo, Iris and I. Always had been.

      Jo, the tomboy and the first of us to date, had been on the girls’ hockey team in high school. She was the kind of girl who joined in a game of football with the guys at the park on Saturday afternoons, thus getting to know all the jocks and giving her the inside dating edge. Iris’s high school claim to fame was getting caught smoking in the girls’ room more often than any other girl of the graduating class of 1972. I was the studious, practical one. The one on the debating team. The one who usually followed all the rules.

      The unlikely friendship had started when we’d all refused to dissect a frog in freshman biology. We’d all gotten detention as punishment for our stand on animal cruelty. Although I’ve secretly always felt that with Iris, it was more of a stand against the smell of formaldehyde. Jo and I, clearly out of our element, had glued ourselves to Iris, who was more than familiar with the drill and who was friends with nearly every scary boy in the detention room. Afterwards, we’d walked home in the dark together—it had been late fall and the smell of burning leaves had been in the air—griping about the unfairness of the world. We’d been best friends ever since.

      “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.