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The plant was starting to empty out as people started moving to Alabama for their transfer. We really weren’t producing much of anything at this point anyway. Most of the orders were staggered to give a little downtime over Christmas. I was presiding over a skeleton crew and we were preparing to shut down the plant already. By mid-January, I’d either be out of a job or on my way to Mobile. Given how my life here was, Mobile was starting to sound better and better. Hell, that teaching hospital that Stan talked about was sounding like a better place than here.
My fitting went well, and I was forced to admit that I looked good in the new outfits. There were four suits, a tuxedo, matching shoes, ties, tie-clasps, cuff-links, a new Rolex watch and all the trimmings that suits need, like handkerchiefs, dress socks and, apparently, silk underwear. I was drilled on what went with what and may God forgive me if I get it wrong. I left the appointment and stopped by the lawyer’s office to get the envelopes for the bonuses. He asked me to sit and talk to him for a few moments.
“How are you holding up?” Mr. Lawton asked, gently.
“Are you asking or is Mrs. Weaver making certain that the ownership is represented at tomorrow’s party?” I asked coolly.
“You understand that she’s asked me not to pass on any information of a personal nature,” he said. “I know this has put you under a lot of strain and I am sympathetic.”
“I’ll be at the damned party,” I told him. “I’ll paint a smile into my face and pass out presents and bonuses and be everyone’s favorite Santa. I’ll field all the questions about the future of the company and be purposely vague about where Mrs. Weaver is, but assure everyone that her thoughts and best wishes for the holidays are with the staff.”
“That’s great, but that’s not what I mean,” he said and loosened his tie a little bit. “I know you and Mrs. Weaver were close. Close enough that Mr. Weaver could see the writing on the wall. That’s why he changed things.”
I shrugged. “Whatever he felt the circumstances were, they seem to have changed. How I feel about Mrs. Weaver seems to be increasingly irrelevant. I do appreciate your sympathy. Maybe I’ll feel like discussing matters in the new year. Right now, I’m concentrating on getting through the next thirty-six hours without killing someone, myself included. Then maybe, I’ll sign over my inheritance to her and take off myself.”
He nodded with an understanding expression on his face, and I took the box of envelopes. Thank God, they were labeled so I wouldn’t have to guess.
The next day was the worst day of the past year, and possibly my whole life. I showed up to meet the party planner three hours before the party and nothing was ready. The decorations weren’t right, the dinner was going to be late, the DJ was having technical problems, the only thing that seemed to be ready was the suite that Mrs. Fucking Weaver had booked. As much as I wanted to go upstairs and have a drink or twelve, I had to handle the details.
“Stop!” I finally said.
“Are the appetizers and the Champagne fountain on schedule?”
The manager nodded.
“Great! Lead with that. Is the mic working?”
He nodded again.
“Perfect. Then we can do the presentations of bonuses before dinner instead of afterwards. That gives the kitchen some time to get everything ready. You think they can manage if we buy them an extra half-hour?”
“I’ll check with them and we’ll see if there’s something else that we can think of to stretch things out.”
“If they can’t adjust, then we’ll just have to make a few speeches and hope they don’t eat the tablecloths,” I said, feeling a throbbing in my temples.
He took off and I went to find out what the DJ had problems with. It turns out that he was getting feedback from the mic that he’d never encountered before. It went away when we turned off the mic, so we promised to do that when we were done with the announcements and presentations. I put out fires like that for three hours, after locking the box of envelopes in the hotel safe. The last thing I wanted was for that to grow legs and walk away.
By the time all the details were ironed out, the party was about to start. I was off to greet the first arrivals, introduce myself to the staff, some of whom knew me from their close contact with Beth and others who’d heard that I’d sued the pants off Stan. There was a mixture of curiosity and scandal that greeted me as I shook hand after hand, making sure that everyone there got a moment of my time. That took a great part of the evening and before I got more than a sip of Champagne to wet my lips, it was time to get the bonuses from the hotel safe and start the presentations.
In the end, we bought the kitchens enough time to catch up, and the late dinner went off without any more hitches. I circulated among the crowd during the dancing and dessert portion of the mess and was asked about Beth and Mrs. Weaver - several times. The irony of being forced to answer for the absences of the only two women I’ve kissed passionately as an adult was not lost on me. I was trying to work my way over to the bar to have a drink when our party planner needed to see me about the packaged gifts.
I sighed and followed along. The throbbing in my head was getting worse. I spent another twenty minutes with him, reviewing the specific gifts that were in the packages to make certain that they were suitable. This was the first time that I’d seen any of this crap or heard a damn thing about them, so I nodded mutely as he explained that Mrs. Weaver had been in contact about the presents several times and these were the final selection.
“Look, man. There’s a good chance that you’ve spoken more with Mrs. Weaver than I have at this point. If this is what she approved, then it is fine with me,” I told him.
He seemed pleased by my approval and showed me the selection and the distribution with even more enthusiasm. I was finally able to slip away, but was drawn into a discussion with several of Beth’s former co-workers who were interested in how she was doing these days.
“Last I heard, she was dating a cop and looking for a decent apartment or house. Her current place is a little cramped,” I told them.
I didn’t want to tell them she was living with her parents and that she was happier under their roof than she’d been under ours.
“Wasn’t there some sort of scandal around the time she was leaving?” one of them mentioned, half-drunk, but a little too interested in my reaction to make me think she didn’t know the details.
“We got a divorce,” I said dismissively. “That was plenty scandalous enough for me,” I told her directly.
“Yeah, but why?” she pressed, looking to see what would come loose if she shook the tree. “I mean, you two seemed pretty comfortable at last year’s party, right?”
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