Brenda Novak - We Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus

“He says he’ll never eat here again!”

Jaclyn moved closer, but the smell of old sweat pressed her back. Rudy’s office had no windows. It was more of a pantry, really. Small and close, with loaves of bread and other packaged items lining shelves that wouldn’t allow the door to shut, it reeked of him. He was the kind of man with stains under the arms of every shirt.

“Then Joanna’s is better off for it,” she replied. “I wouldn’t put it past that guy to plant a fly in his food.”

“If he was so bad, why didn’t you come get me?”

Because of this, Jaclyn wanted to say. Because I need my job too badly to give you any reason to take it away from me.

Aware of the cooks barking back and forth, the burgers sizzling on the grill, and the constant tramp of feet just outside, Jaclyn lowered her voice. “You’ve been out to punish me for a long time now, Rudy. This has nothing to do with the quality of my work, does it. What is it you’re trying to prove?”

He laughed derisively. “That’s pathetic, Jaclyn. I don’t need your tight little ass running around this place. Now get your things and go.”

For a moment, the kitchen clatter outside faded away, and Jaclyn heard only the beating of her heart. Its quiet tattoo seemed to echo the words: Alex, Mackenzie, Alyssa. As much as she hated to lower her pride any further, especially for a man like Rudy, she thought of all the things her children would need, and knew she had no choice.

“Please,” she whispered. “You know I have kids who are depending on me. At least let me work out the week.”

He snapped her file shut and hefted himself to his feet. “I’m afraid I can’t do that,” he said. “Now, if you’ll go, I have to get back on the floor.”

DAMN HIM, Jaclyn thought. She’d run into Cole Perrini for the first time in ten years, and he’d gotten her fired. Just like that.

Her eyes blurred as she scanned the want ads, and she paused briefly to wipe away two stubborn tears that rolled, one at a time, down her cheeks. As soon as she’d left Joanna’s, she’d stopped by a convenience store to buy a newspaper. The checker had stared at her red, swollen eyes, causing her to chafe under the unwanted scrutiny, but it hadn’t taken long to plunk down a buck seventy-five, grab a newspaper and a cola, and hurry away. Now she sat at her scarred wooden dining table, the sun fading to dusk outside, feeling the emptiness of her small house surrounding her like a shroud, and was both grateful for the privacy and terribly lonely.

Things’ll get better, she told herself. It’s only been a year. But it was hard to have much faith in finding a pot of gold at the end of this rainbow, when everything she saw in the paper either paid too little or asked too much. Computer experience required. Medical experience required. Bachelor’s degree required. Technical skills a plus…

Her chair raked the linoleum as she rose to stare into the refrigerator. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast, but with the children gone, there seemed little point in preparing a home-cooked meal. Retrieving a package of instant noodle soup from the cupboard, she set some water on the stove to boil, went to the bathroom to blow her nose, and returned to the kitchen table to resume her job search.

She’d never get ahead working as a waitress, she thought. She had to find something else, something with a future.

What about becoming a secretary? Though she was probably a little rusty, she’d taken typing in high school, and she still had some nice clothes left over from her married years. Office hours would be ideal, especially during the winter when the children were in school.

Problem was, most of the secretarial positions she saw required computer experience. She barely knew how to turn on a computer, let alone run Quickbooks or Excel or Microsoft Word or any of the other programs she saw listed so frequently. Some companies demanded previous experience, as well, and she doubted having changed a million dirty diapers would qualify her.

At last, Jaclyn saw an ad that made her pause:

Wanted: receptionist. Phones, light typing. $9/hr. No benefits.

No benefits? Well, she didn’t have benefits now. Quickly, she did the math. If she worked forty hours per week, she’d make $1,440 a month before taxes. Rent was $850. Her car payment was $350. Car insurance, $100. Health insurance, $340, utilities $180, and the list went on. Even with Terry’s $750 in child support, she’d be in the red before she bought any gas or groceries or clothes for the kids—she still had the credit-card bills she’d rung up while they were married that the court had ordered her to pay.

The pressure of tears began to build behind her eyes again, causing a headache. Dammit! What now? She’d have to go back to waiting tables. She had no choice. She could have augmented what she made as a waitress giving piano lessons, but she didn’t have a piano. Terry had kept her baby grand, along with almost everything else, when they divorced.

The telephone rang, and Jaclyn looked at it with no intention of answering. But then she thought it might be the kids, that they might need her, and picked up the receiver.

“Hello?”

“Jackie?”

Terry. Jaclyn’s stomach tensed, the way it did whenever she heard her ex-husband’s voice. Their conversations were never very pleasant.

“Is something wrong with the kids?” she asked.

“No. I thought you’d be at work. I was just going to leave a message for you to call me.”

“What for?”

“Alex says you returned the Nikes I bought him when he was here last and got him some cheaper shoes.”

The accusation in Terry’s voice was unmistakable. Jaclyn closed her eyes and shook her head. She wasn’t in the mood to fight about the shoes. She’d just lost her job, and Terry’s biggest concern was making sure Alex had brand-name sneakers.

“I did,” she admitted.

“Why? You had no right to do that.”

“I had every right, Terry. They were sixty dollars, enough to buy shoes for all three children, and you deducted it from my child support this month.”

“That’s what child support is for. To buy clothes and shoes and other things.”

“But it’s not up to you to decide how the money is spent. The kids are living with me most of the time, and we had other priorities.”

“Like?”

Like food and electricity. But Jaclyn wasn’t about to admit that things were quite that dire, even though she suspected Terry already knew. She figured the kids had to reveal in everyday conversation bits and pieces that gave her away, but Terry wasn’t about to make life any easier on her. He wanted her as miserable as possible, and he didn’t seem to care if his children suffered right along with her.

“It’s none of your business how I spend the money,” she said. “I don’t have to account to you. Believe me, it takes every dime and then some to give the kids what they need. It’s not like I’m spending the money on myself.”

“But they don’t have what they need. I don’t want a kid of mine running around in ten-dollar tennis shoes!”

Jaclyn stifled a groan. “That’s great, Terry,” she said. “Then, I have a simple solution. Buy Alex the Nikes and don’t charge me for them. You can buy him whatever you want. Buy him and the girls whole new wardrobes. I won’t stop you, and I won’t take anything back, as long as you don’t deduct it from my child support.”

“You’d love that, wouldn’t you? Then you might have the money to get a new dress and a manicure and go on the hunt for another man.”

“It’s a tragedy that you won’t be generous with your kids for fear I’ll benefit in some way. It’s the same thing with the piano issue. You won’t let me have my piano even though, if I had it, I could teach the children to play.”