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Easterbrook given the large sum of money that was going to be paid out. The alleged photographic and video evidence of Easterbrook's sexual relationships had been deleted from his company-issued phone by the time he handed it over to McDonald's upon his departure, the company said.

Hubbard said the Easterbrook case should serve as an example for other corporations of how they need to conduct "much more thorough investigations into wrongdoing.

Compensating CEOs as they walk out the door is the worst thing we can do. McDonald's accuses ex-CEO Steve Easterbrook of hiding sexual relationships with employees and sending nude photos, videos.

Show Caption. Hide Caption. McDonald's CEO fired for 'consensual' relationship with employee. Not all of those children were hers, of course.

The friends of Molly's children had the run of the house, and made good use of it. They all liked the state of anarchy and lack of parental supervision.

At Molly's house, children could do what they wanted, eat what they wanted, and brutalize each other with impunity. There was only one rule: at Molly's house, only Molly was allowed to use the bathroom.

Children must go to some other house, or use the back yard. Numerous wall hangings and the strong oak door filtered out most of the noise coming from the rest of the house, but some of the frantic sounds made it through.

Molly had armed the bathroom with an old compact disc player and a few favorite discs. She hit the play button and Chopin's Nocturne filled the air, at medium volume.

Molly relaxed and began to strip down. She used the same clothing every day, and there was time-worn ritual in her movements.

She hung the heavy coat from its peg and stuffed the sunglasses, gloves and kerchief into the pockets.

The green stretch pants and beige nylon blouse were placed into the sink, and were soon joined by the yellowed bra and the gigantic grey underpants.

She topped up the sink with hot water and poured in a quarter cup of laundry detergent, then stirred the resulting mixture with her hand.

Freed of the familiar but uncomfortable garments, Molly fished in the pocket of her overcoat and retrieved the morning paper. She sat on the toilet and leaned to the right while simultaneously pulling her left buttock upward and outward with her left hand.

Then switching the folded newspaper into her left hand, she performed the same maneuver in adjusting the position of her right buttock.

Having thus effectively created a more appropriate interface between bum and toilet, she released the latch on the inside of the bathroom door, allowing the ironing board to fold down into its open position.

She unfolded the newspaper and spread it upon this convenient flat surface, then settled in for a good long read, scouring the paper from first page to last.

When the Nocturne CD was finished, fifty-one minutes later, Molly had at last achieved a state of true relaxation. She quickly read through a last obituary, glanced without interest at the business insert, and turned the last page over with a sigh of contentment.

It was just about time for her bath. She crumpled the newspaper into a ball and flipped the ironing board back to its upright position.

Opening the door, she flinched as her eardrums were assaulted by the din, then yelled, "Kids! Mommy needs somebody to run up to the store. Who wants a chocolate bar?

Presently an eight-year-old boy with a runny nose approached the room. Molly held the door open only half an inch, and pushed a twenty-dollar bill through the crack.

Ask the girls if we need milk or bread, and get it if they tell you to. And you can have a chocolate bar or a bag of chips. And Benny, eat the chips on the way home, so the bigger kids don't take them away from you.

That's a good boy. Molly was a kind mother in her own way. Although her children had not seen her for five years, except as an overcoat and kerchief rushing from bathroom to car every morning and from car back to bathroom every evening, she loved and cherished them, and was proud of them.

But she needed her baths. She needed this time to herself; she needed to pamper herself. Molly put the plug into the drain and turned on the hot water.

While she waited for the tub to fill, she looked at herself in the mirror. It was sad, she thought as she examined her reflection, how her body suffered from the long day at work.

The huge rolls of skin had shrivelled due to dehydration until deep wrinkles and folds formed, running vertically along her body.

One such wrinkle had formed so deeply on her chest that her left breast had actually been swallowed up between the folds of skin.

Only a strict regimen of bathing, in warm salty water, for at least twelve hours a day, would allow her body to absorb enough moisture to bring back the robust, smooth surface of the skin.

The doctors did not approve, they stood there in their examining rooms with the silly, shocked expressions on their faces, blustering nonsense about healthy eating habits and the dangers of hyperobesity, but they did not understand.

It was clear that they could never understand; clear in the way they squeezed the precious water from her arms, clear from the way they insisted she see a specialist.

No, she had given up on doctors years ago. Opening the cabinet under the sink, Molly chose from among the cases of bath cubes, bath oil beads, bottles of bubble bath and bath salts.

For tonight, a dozen beads of mandarin orange would do, and a cube of lavender. Then a cup and a half There was enough hot water now; she turned on the cold.

She went to the door and, opening it a crack, yelled, "Lillian! Come here. Minutes later, when Molly had tested the water and found the temperature to her liking, there was a knock at the door.

When she opened it and peeped through the crack, she saw a plate lying on the floor, with a mound of macaroni, a pool of beans in tomato sauce, and a pile of miniature egg rolls.

Beside the plate were the two packages of cigarettes. Making sure nobody could see, she pushed the door wider open, grabbed the plate and cigarettes, and closed and locked the door.

She climbed into the bath with a sigh of relief, and devoured the food hungrily. Molly lay in the bathtub for hours, occasionally rolling over to immerse a different part of her body.

When the water cooled down she would use her feet to turn on the hot water tap, until the temperature was pleasant once more.

She listened to Mozart, Vivaldi, the Temptations; she turned on the television and watched the game show channel, her favourite.

And while she lay in the tub, something wonderful happened. Molly's body began to grow. The wrinkles and craters slowly disappeared as her skin soaked up the life-giving water.

The rolls and folds expanded and swelled, as when one puffs air into a wrinkled air mattress, until her skin inflated to its full capacity, and by this time Molly had grown so large that her buttocks, calves and feet completely filled the bathtub.

Refreshed and reassured, Molly slept. Outside the room childish wars were fought, insincere treaties agreed to, then broken, messes were made, expeditions were launched, and Molly snoozed on.

A little girl of about seven years stayed up all night, doing load after load of laundry on the orders of an older sister, occasionally lapsing into temporary unconsciousness, slumped like a rag-doll in a smelly laundry basket, only to be awoken by the buzz of the washer or the ding of the dryer and, gummy-eyed, replace clean with dirty or dry with wet.

The noise of juvenile activity diminished but never stopped and at seven in the morning, some grumpy teenaged girls began to make the family breakfast.

After a heated discussion as to what would be an appropriate meal, they began to make a large batch of french fries. The lobster pot was placed on the stove and a pair of little boys were rousted from their beds and set to work peeling and slicing potatoes.

Soon the oil was subtly boiling, and plates of french fries were passed to the far corners of the house, where tousled children crawled from various nooks and crannies to devour them.

But the making of deep-fried vegetable products has its hazards. A handful of raw potato was hurled too boisterously into the lobster pot, a dollop of oil splashed out, and soon the stovetop was in flames.

With a lightning-quick assessment of the situation, a teenaged boy grabbed a tea towel and began to swat at the fire.

The tea towel was joined by a soiled apron, wielded by another pair of eager hands and, amazingly, the flames were soon extinguished.

But the tea towel was now on fire. With a gasp of mixed surprise and pain, the boy tossed the tea towel toward the back door.

It landed on the patch of spilled garbage, and soon this mess, tricycle tracks and all, was alight and burning merrily.

The mishap had been promoted to a disaster; it was now beyond the scope of the children to deal with it, and they began to run around in a panic.

Some of them ran outside to safety but, confused, ran back inside. Their sharpness of mind, normally well-honed due to too much independance, lost its gleam and they ran around in circles, willy-nilly, occasionally bumping into one another.

All, that is, except Donny. The youngest at five and a half, perhaps he was too small to realize the danger of the predicament. He did not panic.

He marched determinedly along the hallway to the bathroom, pounded on the door and shouted, "Mommy! The kitchen's on fire! Molly did not hear him at first.

She mumbled in her sleep and tried to roll over, but was too tightly wedged in the tub to move. Her right arm flopped against the edge of the tub and knocked the ashtray to the floor.

The sound of the ashtray breaking woke her and, blinking wearily, she heard Donny thumping on the door, and slowly perceived what the small, muffled voice was saying.

Kitchen on fire. Molly snapped awake and sprang into immediate action. She tried to get up, realized she was stuck, and pushed downward on the edges of the tub.

Her buttocks emerged with the sound of two champagne corks popping, and she was free. Leaping to her feet, she rushed to the door and unhooked it.

As the door swung open, Molly saw Donny rush crying into a nearby bedroom. Her sudden emergence had frightened him. The next thing she saw was smoke, filling the top half of the hallway.

At this point Molly began to scream blood-curdling war cries. She sprinted along the hallway towards the kitchen, thinking nothing about danger to herself, driven only by the need to protect her children.

The run along the hallway happened as if in a dream. It seemed to take forever to get there, as if time had slowed. Molly's feet crushed toys that lay in the hall.

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