Nudge

"All right, all right," Anthony said as the employees chattered, ate, laughed, ate.

"Y'all?" Heather Aucoin, the supervisor of the fabrication department called out. "Mr. Whitehead has something to say. Y'all!"

"Quiet!" Brent Collier called out.

"Thank you," Anthony said, drained his glass and dropped the cup into the large garbage can.

He pointed to a large graph. It had color bars extending outward.

"Red is last year's numbers, ending on this date last year," Anthony said. Pretty good, huh?"

He let the murmurs of agreement die down. He then pointed to the red bar.

"You know they were good; all of you received some pretty hefty bonuses in your Christmas stockings, right?" Anthony said.

"We uh, they're not Christmas..." Brent said.

"Bull. Shit. Bull shit," Anthony snapped. "They were given out two days before Christmas. It was a Christmas bonus. Anyone offended by it being called a Christmas bonus? You can return that bonus to Whitehead Generators. Anyone want to return them? No? Then, I hope you all enjoyed those CHRISTMAS bonuses. Now, as I was saying before the P.C. Police busted in, numbers last year? Good. Numbers this year? Suck."

Anthony pointed to the blue bar. The blue bar was nearly three quarters the length of the red bar.

"Anyone tell me why the blue bar's numbers suck? Anyone?" Anthony asked.

The silence was broken by someone coughing. Anthony looked at the employees, the supervisors. They all stared back at him.

"What's changed? What changed between last year and this year? Has demand decreased? According to our sales figures, that's a big solid no. Has availability of goods changed? Looking at our stock? That's a big fat no. Has the trucking industry quit sending trucks to our loading docks? No. Has shipping to our customers ceased? No. So, what's changed?" Anthony asked.

Again, silence. A few employees looked down at the hard concrete floor.

"Only thing that's changed is my father died. And last time I heard? He didn't come down here, he didn't help unload the trucks. He didn't run the parts to fabrication. He didn't switch out tanks. He didn't come down here and do assembly. He didn't load trucks. The man sat in his office and made sure that parts were ordered, made sure bills were paid, employees were paid. Well, that's still going on. So, what's changed? How exactly would the death of Marcus Whitehead affect our production?" Anthony asked.

After a long moment of silence, Anthony took the bar chart down and folded it. Then he dropped it into the garbage can.

"Well, this is what's about to change," Anthony said. "Either the numbers get back up to where they're supposed to be? Six weeks from today? Six weeks from..."

He looked at his watch.

"...Seven forty three? Or each and every single one of you. No exception, every single last one of you will be unemployed. Any questions? No? Get to work," Anthony said, turned and marched up the metal stairs to the office.

In less than four weeks, twenty seven days from the doughnut breakfast, Lisa let the board know that production was back to its previous numbers. In fact, they would probably exceed last year's numbers.

"I say we give them a bonus," Jimmy suggested.

"I say we don't," Anthony snapped.

"What?" Lisa asked, surprised at her brother's vehemence.

"A bonus? For doing what they're supposed to do? If I had not gone down there, got in their faces and let them know they were just a few days away from unemployment? We'd still be talking about how bad the numbers are and trying to figure out how to get them up again," Anthony said. "So, no. No bonuses. Way I'm feeling? I'm not so sure I want to give them any Christmas bonuses either."

"There will be Christmas bonuses," Susan said. "Even if I have to give up my share, our employees will get their Christmas bonuses."

"I thought we weren't supposed call them Christmas..." Jimmy said.

"I'm Christian. You're Christian. We celebrate Christmas. It's a God damned Christmas bonus. Any of them offended by the word 'Christmas' has every right to decline receiving their Christmas bonuses. But I'm willing to bet on your life that not a single one of them will be offended," Anthony snapped.

"Bet on my life, huh?" Jimmy smirked. "Not yours. Mine."

"Any more new business?" Susan finally interrupted the brotherly squabble.

"Yes, there's the new business of why Anthony's a big old butt head," Jimmy said.

"Then I move we adjourn," Lisa said.

"Seconded," Anthony agreed.

Anthony continued to pay the utilities and insurance on the home, even as he looked for his own home. At first, he thought to move close to the factory, but did not care for the neighborhoods in and around Pinoak. Elgee was worse; many of the homes were fifty and sixty years old and many looked as if they'd not been painted in fifty, sixty years.

Susan's home was in a gated community, near the Hardington Acres Country Club. Anthony had a tag hanging on the rear view mirror of his car. And should he forget, or lose the tag, he also knew Susan's security code and could punch the code into the gate.

Cheyenne did not have a tag. Cheyenne did not have the code. Cheyenne was still behind bars, but they'd not keep her there forever.

Carmen Davis was an attractive middle aged woman. She had a firm handshake and a friendly, easy-going style. She also listened to her clients, rather than trying to get her clients to listen to her. Just that fact alone put her ahead of the last two real estate agents Anthony had worked with.

"Hardington, usually have to wait for someone to die before you can get a home in that area," Carmen mused. "But there is one on Pennington. Would you like to see it?"

"Let's roll," Anthony said.

The home was three stories with a deep chocolate brown brick exterior and honey brown wood trim. Even before seeing the interior, Anthony decided he wanted the home. The garage sat back, detached from the rest of the house, had three doors for three automobiles and had a 'mother-in-law' suite over the garage. The garage was made of the same brick as the house, and the three garage bays had the same honey brown wood doors.

"Never mind," Carmen said, getting out of the car. "House is off the market."

"Huh? But there's the Gold Standard sign right there," Anthony said.

"Nope, decided I want this bad boy for myself," Carmen said. "You hardly ever see garage doors like that."

"Well, humor me," Anthony smirked. "Show me your new home, Ms. Davis."

The downstairs had a large den, a room that was obviously designed to be a library with honey brown bookshelves built in to three of the walls and a large stone fireplace.

The kitchen was spacious and had much counter space.

"Dining room's a little small, but..." Carmen shrugged.

The second floor had four bedrooms and two bathrooms. The east side of the floor had two bedrooms separated by a shared bathroom and the west wall shared the same features.

"Of course, you could turn one of these into a home office," Carmen suggested.

"Or I could shoot myself," Anthony said. "Ms. Davis..."

"Call me Carmen, huh?" Carmen said.

"Carmen? I come home to get away from work. Why would I bring any of it home?" Anthony asked.

"Okay. So, no home office," Carmen said. These are some big bedrooms. Ready see the third floor?"

The third floor had only two bedrooms, but each bedroom was a suite. There was a fireplace in each bedroom, a large bathroom with whirlpool tub, glassed in shower with marble bench and four showerheads, and a vanity with two sinks.

Each bedroom also had a large bay window with padded bench. One faced the east; the bay window in the other suite faced the west.

"Like I said, shame this house is off the market," Carmen gaped at the closet.

"Could park a truck in here," Anthony said, looking in the closet. "Course my ex? Could probably find some way fill it and run out of room."

"None of my girls were like that," Carmen smiled. But I got a feeling my granddaughter Carmy? She's going be an a little princess and princesses need plenty of clothes, don't they?"

"What are they asking, oops, I mean what WERE they asking for this?" Anthony said as they trooped down the stairs. "You know, before YOU snagged it for yourself?"

"Four seventy five," Carmen said.

"Offer them four ninety," Anthony said.

"I uh, I'm going need one percent earnest money," Carmen said.

"Of course. Davis Real Estate?" Anthony asked and used his phone to do the transfer.

Anthony was gnawing his way through an order of baby back ribs at Cowboy's BBQ when Carmen sent him a text; the offer had been accepted. He wiped his hands clean, but still got sauce on his phone as he told her to set up the closing ASAP.

Carter, Anthony, and Cheyenne's attorney again sat in Judge Theriot's office. After Carter's petition, and minimal token resistance from Cheyenne's attorney, Judge Theriot agreed that, since Mrs. Whitehead was unavailable for counseling sessions, the order for eight mandated sessions was rescinded.

"And that, Mr. Fullilove, is why I pay you the big bucks," Anthony whooped.

"With the order of counseling revoked," Carter continued. "There is the matter of Mr. Whitehead's petition for divorce."

"Mrs. Whitehead does not agree with this petition," Cheyenne's attorney pled.

Judge Theriot checked with the Clerk of Court for St. Ann Parish, determined that Mrs. Whitehead's upcoming trial would be in four months. Armed with that information, Judge Theriot declined to move forward with the petition of divorce.

"Your Honor," Carter said.

"Its fine," Anthony sighed. "Really? Only reason get a divorce is to get married again. And I got a feeling it's going be a loooong time before I make that mistake again."

"Uh huh, get rid of one crazy ass bitch, fights the divorce tooth and nail, finally decide, 'hell with it. We're just making the lawyers rich' so drop the whole thing. Then, next thing you know, you're in Burns, doing a little grocery shopping, see this gorgeous red head, got her an ass just don't quit, got the cutest little red headed girl with her says 'hi mister, what you doing?' and next thing you know, you in love and just NEED be with this woman," Carter said.

"Um, got a feeling you're not pulling this out your ass," Anthony said.

He smiled wider when Carter held up his left hand, indicating his wedding band. Carter also smiled as he confessed that he was his step-daughter's soccer team's coach.

"Oh. That's um. Nice. Maybe one day she'll be interested in a real sport?" Anthony suggested.

"Uh huh; like to see your pasty white ass out there trying keep up with bunch of seven year olds all think they the next David Beckham," Carter smiled.

Cheyenne was given a ten thousand dollar fine and time served. She was also placed on three years' probation and given a severe warning; fail another drug test and she would serve the three years in a medium security penitentiary.

She did not have Anthony's cell phone number any longer, so called Whitehead Generators. Courtney Louviere, the Personal Assistant that Marcus had trained buzzed Anthony to let him know his wife was on line three.

"Hi Cheyenne, what an unpleasant surprise," Anthony said.

"Called your old office, that ugly bitch, DeGarde or something said you ain't there no more," Cheyenne snapped.

"DeFranco," Anthony said.

"Huh?" Cheyenne asked.

"Her name is DeFranco. Ann DeFranco," Anthony said. "And, uh, Cheyenne, where have you been?"

"What? I've been in jail, ass hole," Cheyenne spluttered.

"I took over for my father, remember?" Anthony continued to speak over her splutter of outrage. "That happened before you went back to jail."

"Like I'm supposed remember all that shit?" Cheyenne asked. "And, uh, what's this shit, we don't need go counseling anymore?"

"You were unavailable. But, hey, now that you're out? We can move forward with the divorce," Anthony said.

"Do, do we really, why?" Cheyenne asked, voice cracking.

Anthony listened to her sob for a moment. It actually hurt, listening to her tears; he sensed that these tears were genuine. Her tears were real; she was not trying to manipulate him, was not trying to get her way.

"Cheyenne, why? Why on God's earth do you want to stay married?" Anthony asked.

"What? What do you, I love you," Cheyenne sobbed out.

"Stop. Just stop and think about it for a minute, Cheyenne," Anthony said. "Just think about it. Truthfully? I don't doubt that you might love me. But honestly? You don't like me one bit."

"That's not true," Cheyenne sobbed.

"What? What exactly is it that you like about me, Cheyenne? Because all I remember is the nonstop bitching. The constant riding my ass, the endless bitching and complaining. Please, Cheyenne, please just sign the papers. Just give me the divorce."

You don't even want to try?" Cheyenne sniffled. "Please?"

"Cheyenne, please, please just listen," Anthony sighed. "For the past few months? I've been as miserable as fuck here at the job. But then? I go home and it's like, 'Ah! I can breathe!'"

"So? You can breathe here," Cheyenne said, bitterness creeping into her voice.

"No. No I can't. I can't. And I won't. I will not put myself through one more minute of misery than is absolutely necessary," Anthony said.

"I'll fight the divorce," Cheyenne now screamed. "Hear me? I will fight this for as long as it fucking takes."

When Carter Fullilove informed Cheyenne's attorney that any additional expenses would be handled by Cheyenne Whitehead, the attorney contacted Cheyenne and relayed this information.

"Oh, so now you using Daddy's money against me?" Cheyenne sneered into the telephone. "Now you got money I got do whatever you say?"

"Yeah," Anthony said, not bothering to rise to the bait.

"I hope you rot in Hell, Anthony Whitehead," Cheyenne spat. "Hear me? I hope you rot in Hell."

"Been there. About to get out, but thanks for the kind wishes," Anthony quipped. "I'm hanging up now."

Anthony knew when Cheyenne received the final decree of divorce. Courtney Louviere buzzed him, let him know Cheyenne Whitehead was on line three. Before Anthony even said 'hello' Cheyenne was wailing into his ear.

Arriving home after yet another grueling day, Anthony retrieved the quite thick envelope with the official St. Ann's Clerk Of Court letterhead. The letter sat on the counter of his kitchen, unopened for several long moments.

Anthony wished he had something, anything stronger than beer in his home. He even got into his Ferrari, with every intention of driving to the convenience store in Pinoak, Louisiana, the nearest place, other than the country club to get a fifth of St. Elizabeth's Superior Gin.

Instead, he wound up at Arthur Porter's gym. He pounded the heavy bag until he couldn't lift his arms any more. Then he stood underneath a hot spray, listlessly rubbing the bar of soap over his tired body.

Home again, hair still damp, body smelling of the cheap soap he used at the gym, Anthony looked at the counter. The envelope was still there.

Fourteen, almost fifteen years of marriage had come to an end. No whistles and cheers. Only screams and tears. And then, dead silence, interrupted by the rustling of the thick papers in his hands.

Anthony let a tear trickle down as he read the cold, impersonal legal jargon that declared Anthony Marcus Whitehead and Cheyenne Allison Fricke Whitehead were no longer legally wed. Neither had any legal claim to the other.

Lisa, his sister did quietly commiserate. Gracie, his niece did assure him that he'd meet someone better.

Susan was far too gracious, too refined to utter 'thank God' when Anthony called her. She just quietly assured him it was for the best.

Jimmy, Cindy, and Barbara, his other siblings did wonder why he was calling them, informing them of the dissolution of his marriage.

"Shit. Thought y'all was already divorced? Like, what, five or six years ago?" Cindy asked.

At least once a day, during the work week, Anthony received a call from Cheyenne. Apparently, she could not, or would not accept the fact that they were truly divorced.

In time, the calls slowed to every other day. Then the calls dwindled to once a week, once a month, then, every so often, out of the blue.

"I've found someone," Cheyenne claimed on Christmas Eve.

"Oh? Well, good for you," Anthony said, looking at the bright red envelope his mother had just put on his desk.

"Twice the man you ever were," Cheyenne sneered into the telephone.

"Oh, I'm sure he is," Anthony said, now seeing the call for what it truly was.

Cheyenne was simply trying to make him jealous. The problem was, Anthony did not feel jealous.

"Yeah, he's got..." Cheyenne started to say.

"Well, that's terrific, Cheyenne," Anthony said cheerfully. "I hope you and, I'm sorry, you never said what his name is, but I hope the two of you have a very Merry Christmas, hear?"

Inside of the bright red envelope was his Christmas bonus. Anthony whistled at the two hundred and fifty thousand dollar figure on the check. Then he smiled and nodded.

Under that envelope was another envelope. This one was from Ann DeFranco, his former coworker. Even though it had been nearly two years, she still remembered to send him a card.

The card showed the horse faced woman, and her three kids, all sitting astride horses. Anthony smiled at the genuine happiness the four wore.

"Merry Christmas," Ann had written. "As you can see, we loved the dude ranch so much, we saved up and went again this year."

"Merry Christmas," Anthony said aloud, reading the little notes her three children had scribbled on the inside front flap of the card.

Before leaving his office, Anthony called the Oakleaf ranch and booked a two week cattle drive for Ann and her children. Then, he booked the same trip for Cheyenne and 'guest.' He was fairly certain Cheyenne would not go, and if she did go, she would be bringing her mother, not some mystery budding romance.

"Mr. Whitehead, this, this bonus?" Courtney asked, chubby face looking worried.

"Yes ma'am?" Anthony smiled. "You going tell me it's not enough?"

"Mr. Whitehead! It's too much!" Courtney protested. "Mr. Whitehead, I don't do nothing all day."

"Courtney, Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Merry Kwanzaa, Holy Hug A Tree Day, whatever you celebrate. See you Monday, okay?" Anthony said and left the office.

The work floor was eerily quiet as his leather heels struck the concrete. In the corner, near the metal stairs stood a gaily decorated Christmas tree. Underneath the tree were three packages. Two of the packages looked slightly bedraggled, as if they'd been handled quite a few times. The third package looked fairly untouched. Anthony saw his name on the tag and saw it was from '?'

"Uh huh. No, think I'll leave that one alone," Anthony chuckled mirthlessly.

The day after Christmas, Anthony bought himself a Bentley. The gleaming white automobile handled as responsively as his Ferrari, but felt like he was seated on a cloud. Even the speed bumps in the parking lot of Whitehead Generators barely registered as he drove over them.

"Now, that. THAT'S what luxury feels like," Anthony said as he glided to a stop in his parking space.

New Year's Eve was celebrated at the Hardington Acres Country Club. Anthony pasted a smile on his face as he circulated among family and acquaintances. The band was fairly good and he did dance a few times with Gracie, his favorite niece, with Lisa and Cindy and Barbara, as well as Cindy's two daughters, Penny and Stacie. Truthfully, if he could have avoided dancing with those two nieces, he would have. Penny and Stacie were both carbon copies of Cindy Whitehead, their mother; self-absorbed, entitled princesses.

At midnight, he stood with his mother and family, counted down, then screamed 'Happy New Year' with everyone else. He looked around but did not see Gracie. This was not unusual; the girl generally avoided crowds.