He shifted in his seat, the resulting creak and squeak the only sound, as Aimee’s prayer had called them all to a silent search of hidden sin.
She ended with a plea to God that he would grant them wisdom and fervor as they waged battle in his name, just as she always did, yet when Max finally opened his eyes, nothing seemed familiar. Or, if familiar, not comfortable. He was not a small man, but never before had the wooden armrests on the chair felt so confining. A sharp pain formed between his shoulder blades as he tried to fold himself to fit, and soon the only solution to his discomfort was to back away from the table itself and rest his elbows on the empty blotter in front of him. Such posture would have earned him a stern look from his mother, and so it did from Sister Aimee, who glowered from five seats up.
“Shall we begin?” Her question cut straight to him; he listlessly folded and unfolded Ida’s message while all around him papers were shuffled and pens uncapped. Sitting directly at Aimee’s right was Roland Lundi. Small and slick, his exact position in Sister Aimee’s army remained somewhat a mystery—something between a servant and a squire. A well-dressed toady. He handed her a page of neatly typed notes before settling back in his seat, his responsibility complete.
“I’ve got everything prepared for the summer edition,” Sister Aimee continued, sliding a thick folder down the table. It stopped right in front of Max and there remained, unopened.
“In the summer months, as you all are well aware, our collective minds turn to thoughts of patriotism and independence, so I’ve drafted an editorial in staunch condemnation of that so-called Miss America display that seems determined to take place year after year.”
This was the point where he was supposed to speak up in agreement, perhaps offer some ideas for photographs or illustrations, but instead, he said nothing, until the silence all around the table became as uncomfortable as a wet wool suit.
“Well, Mr. Moore?” Sister Aimee said at last.
“Well, what?”
“Have you no opinion of my suggestion?”
“Why, yes,” he said, speaking even as the idea began to unfurl itself. “I was thinking of writing a profile piece on Margaret Gorman. For those of you who don’t know, gentlemen, she is the winner of the aforementioned contest in Atlantic City. And from what I’ve learned, she’s a fine example of modern womanhood, high school educated and enrolled in college. My memory fails as to which university in particular—it’s in my notes.”
A fleeting smile twitched across Lundi’s face, gone before Sister Aimee could capture it in her sweeping gaze.
“Mr. Moore, surely you are saying such a thing to vex me. Now, if we can get on with our business, have you any serious ideas to contribute?”
“Why in the world would you be interested in what I have to say?”
“Because, after all, you are the editor of the Bridal Call.”
“Aimee, you and I both know I’m not the editor of anything.”
“That’s simply not true.”
“Your name is on the cover. You choose, write, and approve every article. I’m lucky to get my name on the masthead.”
There was an audible gasp from the men around the table, who had been moving their heads back and forth in unison, as if a slow-moving tennis match were taking place right atop the gleaming table. With barely a stretch from where he sat, Max reached across to grab a large brown folder from Mr. Todd, the cover artist—a thick, balding man who looked more like a dockworker than an artist. He flipped it open, pulled out an oversize sketch of a woman looking bravely into the horizon, and pushed it across the table to where it came to a perfect stop right in front of Sister Aimee.
“I had absolutely no say in this.”
“You should not let matters of pride cloud your judgment, Mr. Moore. Our readers know me. They trust me. This magazine represents my message to them—to all who cannot come to hear God’s Word from my mouth. I thought you understood that.”
She had a way of speaking—always—that captured equal measures of authority and grace, and immediately he felt the heat rising up the back of his neck. Not shame, exactly. At least not shame in this moment. But he could almost feel the clatter of the blinders falling from his eyes, and questions he’d never quite dared to ask himself began to demand answers.
“I suppose,” he said, musing aloud, “I’m just wondering exactly what my place is here.”
“You keep everything straight,” Sister Aimee said as Mr. Lundi decorously returned the sketch to Mr. Todd. “You keep the articles balanced.”
The rumbling sound he heard captured the agreement of the men around the table, none of whom he’d wager had ever looked beyond the cover of any issue of the Bridal Call.
“I count the words.”
“If that’s how you want to define it, yes.”
“But I don’t write the words. I don’t approve or direct them.”
“If you’ve ever a serious idea . . .”
There was that word again. Serious. It was the last of her diatribe that he heard before feeling the smile that his mother used to say opened up wide as a melon slice stretching across his face as the joke he’d been telling himself since his parents’ death finally came clear. Uncle Edward, apparently, had been the punch line.
“I do have an idea, Aimee.” He’d interrupted her mid-Corinthian metaphor about a body needing many parts, no single one more important than the others. She hated more than anything to be interrupted, and her mouth refused to accept the fact that she had been as she continued on, eyes to the ceiling as Scripture poured out of her in perfect citation.
“All right then.” He spoke aloud, yet to himself, and backed his chair away from the table, standing to a towering height.
“Mr. Moore!” Sister Aimee leapt to her feet, causing a wave of like motion, but Max was already at the door.
“Gentlemen,” he said, holding up a hand as if to stop the attack that would only come at Sister Aimee’s bidding, “I received some sad news about a relative of mine. He passed away, you see, and I’ve been summoned to settle his affairs. I wish you well.”
And he left, closing the door firmly behind him and waiting for a full count of ten exhalations to see if anyone would care to follow. Or simply track him down to drag him back.
Nobody did. Apparently, he was free.
He walked up the short hallway and found himself again at the reception desk where, to his surprise, Ida was waiting with a small cardboard box. Given the advantage of his height, he could easily see the contents: a football trophy, two diplomas, a thick black scrapbook, a Bible, and a ceramic cup of pencils in every hue.
“How did you know?”
Ida sniffed. “I had a hunch.” The old girl had never been one for emotion, but even this short sentence bore evidence of fighting back tears. “Be sure you get yourself a good coat. They have real winter back there.”
“I will.” He took the box from her, set it on the reception desk, and took the older woman in his arms.
“You’re leaving, Mr. Moore?” This from the lovely Serena, who made no pretense of hiding her disappointment. A little quiver had come to her adorable chin, and she stood, offering a delicate hand across the desk. “I guess this is good-bye, then?”
“It is,” Max said, taking her hand. Then, in reaction to an impulse not even he could have predicted, he grabbed Serena by the shoulders, pulled her halfway to meet him, and planted a long, satisfying kiss right on her lips.
“I’ve wanted to do that forever,” he said when he was finally able to release her. Her dazed expression and slightly smeared lipstick proved to be the most satisfying image he’d seen of late. That, and the beam of Ida’s approval.
Serena touched the back of her hand to her lips. “What’d ya wait for?”
“I don’t know.” He gathered his box under his arm. “But I won’t wait so long next time.”
Don’t accept rides from flirting motorists—they don’t invite you in to save you a walk.
ANTI-FLIR
T CLUB RULE #2
THE FUNERAL FOR EDWARD MOORE took place on a blindingly cold day in a small cemetery adjacent to a tiny Episcopal church. Though it was common knowledge that the deceased had loathed any adherence to religion, the task of the final arrangements had fallen to his accountant, Thomas Harper Jr., who stood near the gaping grave. The casket had already been lowered, and the small gathering of mourners—Monica among them—stood at a respectful distance.
“We coulda done this at the office,” she said, speaking over her shoulder to Tony Manarola, the man who spent his days and nights hoofing from one police station to the next in search of the more salacious crime stories. “There’s nobody here that isn’t from the paper.”
“Careful what you says,” Tony replied, making a familiar Italian gesture meant to ward off bad luck. “Chances are we’ll be givin’ the whole operation its final rest in the near future.”
“Is somebody going to speak or something?” Monica shifted from foot to foot in an attempt to get warm. It wasn’t windy, but the air was thick with merciless cold. She brought her mittened hands to her face and cupped them around her mouth, breathing deep.
“In the old country,” Zelda Ovenoff, their office janitress, said, “if you die in this weather, we take you to the barn and set you on ice until the ground grows soft for digging. Only in America can one have a grave in the dead of winter.”
Monica sent a sidelong glance at the lanky, rawboned woman who seemed oblivious to the cold despite the fact that her coat was worn thin at the elbows. Still, the look on her face was one of true sadness, unmatched by any of the others gathered there.
“Is there going to be a meal?” Trevor asked. He stood to Monica’s right, wearing a black overcoat obviously borrowed from an older, larger relative. “Mom said funerals are usually the best eating. She wanted to come with me, but I said it didn’t seem right, seeing as she didn’t know him like the rest of us.”
“There isn’t going to be a meal.” Monica’s muffled words echoed back from within her gloves. And besides that, nobody here really knew Edward Moore—not outside the offices, anyway, where he was known to pace and growl as if the dingy string of space were his own personal lair. “Where would we go? Does anybody even know where he lives—er, lived?”
At this point, Thomas Harper Jr. deemed their conversation disrespectful and shot forth a cautionary glower. “We are waiting for the next of kin to arrive. And, ah, this must be him.”
A lone figure was making his way across the cemetery, remarkable not only for his stature—even from a distance she could tell he was easily more than six feet tall—but for his gait, which appeared at once loping and purposeful. His face, however, remained a mystery, swathed as it was with a thick red wool scarf up to his nose and a black felt hat pulled low over his brow. What remained was a partially fogged set of round tortoiseshell spectacles. These trappings, combined with a fur-collared jacket, made him look equally suited to an expedition for Klondike gold as a midmorning funeral in a frostbitten cemetery.
Harper was the first to break rank and approach him, offering in one efficient gesture a greeting, introduction, and expression of sympathy for the loss.
“Thank you,” the interloper said, though really, given the muffling, he might have said just about anything. He made his way down the modest line of mourners, introducing himself to each one, in a sort of reversed reception line. Each seemed to receive his undivided attention and gratitude for their attendance at his uncle’s grave.
Monica watched from her spot on the end, fingers twitching within her mittens. This was a social occasion that called for precise, solemn decorum, and she worked to discipline her mind to speak along those lines.
So sorry for your loss.
I’m sorry we had to meet under such sad circumstances.
Edward was a good man. He’ll be missed.
Next to her, Trevor stood rooted in silence, his pimpled neck stretched to meet the stranger’s gaze.
“So sorry for your loss, Mr. Moore,” his voice cracked the very pleasantry Monica wanted to claim for herself.
The next thing she knew, her hand was encased in something of a bearlike claw.
“Max Moore,” said the voice behind the scarf by way of introduction.
“Are you sure?” she found herself saying, unable to stifle her cleverness. “Because I was half expecting you to introduce yourself as Griffin.”
The eyes—crisp and blue like the sky surrounding his towering frame—opened wide behind the lenses, and his brows danced in confusion. “Excuse me?”
“Griffin. As in The Invisible Man. It’s a novel, and this man—he’s invisible, and he wraps himself up . . .”
In the midst of her babble he’d used his free hand to tug his scarf down, revealing a smile wide and crescent-warm. “I’ve read the book.”
“Well, then, you know. And, my, what a nice face you have.”
“I’m from California. Not used to the cold, I guess.”
“Well, I hope you stick around long enough to get used to it.”
Her eyelashes had taken on a life of their own, batting in punctuation, and he cocked his head to one side, looking both quizzical and amused. Before he could give any sort of reply, however, Harper cleared his throat with trumpetlike force and asked if they shouldn’t get on with the ceremony. Max agreed, and as he moved to take his place at the head of the open grave, Harper openly glowered at Monica, hissing, “Have you no shame?”
She answered definitively with a wrinkled nose and stuck-out tongue—apparently she didn’t. It was a harmless joke, a tiny flirtation, and if she’d offended the only Moore in mourning, he certainly hid it well. That was the problem with frosty old fogeys like Thomas Harper Jr. No sense of fun.
“Thank you all, once again, for coming,” Max said with the air of a man clearly uncomfortable with public speaking of any kind. He had, however, unfurled his scarf until it merely hung down from his shoulders, and when he removed his hat in anticipation of prayer, he revealed a mop of wavy brown hair.
Tony Manarola and Zelda Ovenoff made dutiful signs of the cross and bowed their heads, as did the others, leaving Monica the briefest moment to openly study the new Mr. Moore before shutting out the daylight.
“Gracious Father,” he began, without a shred of prayerful authority, “we gather together to honor the life of Edward Moore, a man who lived . . . a . . . life.”
She risked opening one eye to find him shifting his hat from hand to hand, rocking on his heels, looking for all the world like a little boy faced with his first school recitation. His eyes were not closed, either, and he’d lifted his face to the sky, as if God himself would drop the words down to him. Initially amused, she felt a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. After all, in the year she’d known Edward Moore, there’d been very little about the man to be extolled in prayer. But then, after a deep sigh, Max moved his hat to cover his heart and looked down, catching her eye in the process. The sadness on his face reached out to her—silently imploring for rescue. Since one eye remained closed, she went ahead and twitched it in a wink before closing the other and offered a line.
“Amen.”
Her voice rang out clear, inviting the others to echo, and when she looked at him again, the sadness had turned to relief.
“Uncle Edward,” he began, sounding instantly at ease, “was . . . born July 2, 1863, not too far away from here.” His brows hovered expectantly. “For those who aren’t familiar, that was the Battle of Gettysburg, and our family has always joked that he was born under cannon fire, which accounts for his explosive personality.”
They rewarded him with a round of warm chuckles, as Moore’s temper was indeed legendary.
“But I think that also made him fearless. You worked with him; you know. He never backed down from a fight, not in all his days as a reporter or an editor. Publishing was his world, and you—well, you all were his family. And me, of course . . .”
The nervous discomfort had returned
, but he avoided Monica’s gaze, opting instead to glance to some invisible attendant to her left, then down at his feet until a deep breath revived him.
“I admired him—for his courage, if not his character. And I might have even loved the man, had he ever given me the chance.”
It had never crossed Monica’s mind that she would be moved to tears at Edward Moore’s funeral; they’d been sparse enough at her own mother’s, and those that appeared were born more of guilt than grief. But when Max’s eyes took on a glinting sheen, she herself welled up, and the chorus of sniffles around her brought her to an unforeseen, heartbreaking camaraderie.
He smiled then, broadly enough to engulf them all, and if they hadn’t assembled at the graveside as family, they certainly felt so now. At least Monica did. Through Max’s words, Edward Moore had been transformed from intolerable tyrant to heroic old crank, and the scars from his predictable tirades took on certain nobility. Even Trevor, who’d always turned a shade of sickly green whenever Moore spoke to him directly, stood with a distant smile under his sparse growth of moustache while Zelda Ovenoff, who had arguably treated him with the most kindness, openly and loudly wept.
“Obviously we can’t go back to Uncle Edward’s for a meal,” Max said, holding his gloved hands out in apology, “but there’s a deli not far from here that Mr. Harper tells me was one of his favorites, and they’ve assured me that we are all due a complimentary lunch in his honor. Will you join me?”
Of course they would, and Monica’s mouth began to water at the thought of the warm pastrami and tart potato salad waiting at the District Deli—a haunt familiar to them all.
Max took three purposeful steps (in the wrong direction, before being corrected by Harper) and the mischief of mourners followed. Monica held back, keeping a pinch of Tony Manarola’s coat sleeve between her fingers until the others were several steps ahead. Then, linking her arm conspiratorially through his, followed. Tony was one of the few men near her own height, and her whispered words drifted just under the brim of his hat.
All for a Story Page 3
