Oblivion Stories Part 2

At.w.a.ter was speaking to his a.s.sociate editor at Style. Style. He was at the little twin set of payphones in the hallway off the Holiday Inn restaurant where he'd taken the Moltkes out to eat and expand their side of the whole pitch. The hallway led to the first floor's elevators and restrooms and to the restaurant's kitchen and rear area. He was at the little twin set of payphones in the hallway off the Holiday Inn restaurant where he'd taken the Moltkes out to eat and expand their side of the whole pitch. The hallway led to the first floor's elevators and restrooms and to the restaurant's kitchen and rear area.

At Style, Style, editor was more of an executive t.i.tle. Those who did actual editing were usually called a.s.sociate editors. This was a convention throughout the BSG subindustry. editor was more of an executive t.i.tle. Those who did actual editing were usually called a.s.sociate editors. This was a convention throughout the BSG subindustry.

'If you could just see them.'

'I don't want to see them,' the a.s.sociate editor responded. 'I don't want to look at s.h.i.t. n.o.body wants to look at s.h.i.t. Skip, this is the point: people do not want to look at s.h.i.t.'

'And yet if you -'

'Even s.h.i.t shaped into various likenesses or miniatures or whatever it is they're alleging they are.'

Skip At.w.a.ter's intern, Laurel Manderley, was listening in on the whole two way conversation. It was she whom At.w.a.ter'd originally dialed, since there was simply no way he was going to call the a.s.sociate editor's head intern's extension on a Sunday and ask her to accept a collect call. Style' Style's whole editorial staff was in over the weekend because the magazine's Summer Entertainment double issue was booked to close on 2 July. It was a busy and extremely high stress time, as Laurel Manderley would point out to Skip more than once in the subsequent debriefing.

'No, no, but not not shaped into, is the thing. You aren't-they come out that way. Already fully formed. Hence the term incredible.' At.w.a.ter was a plump diminutive boy faced man who sometimes unconsciously made a waist level fist and moved it up and down in time to his stressed syllables. A small and bell shaped shaped into, is the thing. You aren't-they come out that way. Already fully formed. Hence the term incredible.' At.w.a.ter was a plump diminutive boy faced man who sometimes unconsciously made a waist level fist and moved it up and down in time to his stressed syllables. A small and bell shaped Style Style salaryman, energetic and competent, a team player, unfailingly polite. Sometimes a bit overfastidious in presentation-for example, it was extremely warm and close in the little Holiday Inn hallway, and yet At.w.a.ter had not removed his blazer or even loosened his tie. The word among some of salaryman, energetic and competent, a team player, unfailingly polite. Sometimes a bit overfastidious in presentation-for example, it was extremely warm and close in the little Holiday Inn hallway, and yet At.w.a.ter had not removed his blazer or even loosened his tie. The word among some of Style' Style's snarkier interns was that Skip At.w.a.ter resembled a jockey who had retired young and broken training in a big way. There was doubt in some quarters about whether he even shaved. Sensitive about the whole baby face issue, as well as about the size and floridity of his ears, At.w.a.ter was unaware of his reputation for wearing nearly identical navy blazer and catalogue slacks ensembles all the time, which happened to be the number one thing that betrayed his Midwest origins to those interns who knew anything about cultural geography.

The a.s.sociate editor wore a headset telephone and was engaged in certain other editorial tasks at the same time he was talking to At.w.a.ter. He was a large bluff bearish man, extremely cynical and fun to be around, as magazine editors often tend to be, and known particularly for being able to type two totally different things at the same time, a keyboard under each hand, and to have them both come out more or less error free. Style' Style's editorial interns found this bimanual talent fascinating, and they often pressed the a.s.sociate editor's head intern to get him to do it during the short but very intense celebrations that took place after certain issues had closed and everyone had had some drinks and the normal constraints of rank and deportment were relaxed a bit. The a.s.sociate editor had a daughter at Rye Country Day School, where a number of Style' Style's editorial interns had also gone, as adolescents. The typing talent thing was also interesting because the a.s.sociate editor had never actually written for Style Style or anyone else-he had come up through Factchecking, which was technically a division of Legal and answered to a whole different section of or anyone else-he had come up through Factchecking, which was technically a division of Legal and answered to a whole different section of Style' Style's parent company. In any event, the doubletime typing explained the surfeit of clicking sounds in the background as the a.s.sociate editor responded to a pitch he found irksome and out of character for At.w.a.ter, who was normally a consummate pro, and knew quite well the shape of the terrain that Style' Style's WHAT IN THE WORLD WHAT IN THE WORLD feature covered, and had no history of instability or substance issues, and rarely even needed much rewriting. feature covered, and had no history of instability or substance issues, and rarely even needed much rewriting.

The editorial exchange between the two men was actually very rapid and clipped and terse. The a.s.sociate editor was saying: 'Which think about it, you're going to represent how? You're going to propose we get photos of the man on the throne, producing? You're going to describe it?'

'Everything you're saying is valid and understandable and yet all I'm saying is if you could see the results. The pieces themselves.' The two payphones had a woodgrain frame with a kind of stiff steel umbilicus for the phone book. At.w.a.ter had claimed that he could not use his own phone because once you got far enough south of Indianapolis and Richmond there were not enough cellular relays to produce a reliable signal. Due to the gla.s.s doors and no direct AC, it was probably close to 100 degrees in the little pa.s.sage, and also loud-the kitchen was clearly on the other side of the wall, because there was a great deal of audible clatter and shouting. At.w.a.ter had worked in a 24 hour restaurant attached to a Union 76 Truck 'n Travel Plaza while majoring in journalism at Ball State, and he knew the sounds of a short order kitchen. The name of the restaurant in Muncie had been simply: EAT. EAT. At.w.a.ter was facing away from everything and more or less concave, hunched into himself and the s.p.a.ce of the phone, as people on payphones in public s.p.a.ces so often are. His fist moved just below the little shelf where the slim GTE directory for Whitcomb-Mount Carmel-Scipio and surrounding communities rested. The technical name of the Holiday Inn's restaurant, according to the sign and menus, was Ye Olde Country Buffet. Hard to his left, an older couple was trying to get a great deal of luggage through the hallway's gla.s.s doors. It was only a matter of time before they figured out that one should just go through and hold the doors open for the other. It was early in the afternoon of 1 July 2001. You could also hear the a.s.sociate editor sometimes talking to someone else in his office, which wasn't necessarily his fault or a way to marginalize At.w.a.ter, because other people were always coming in and asking him things. At.w.a.ter was facing away from everything and more or less concave, hunched into himself and the s.p.a.ce of the phone, as people on payphones in public s.p.a.ces so often are. His fist moved just below the little shelf where the slim GTE directory for Whitcomb-Mount Carmel-Scipio and surrounding communities rested. The technical name of the Holiday Inn's restaurant, according to the sign and menus, was Ye Olde Country Buffet. Hard to his left, an older couple was trying to get a great deal of luggage through the hallway's gla.s.s doors. It was only a matter of time before they figured out that one should just go through and hold the doors open for the other. It was early in the afternoon of 1 July 2001. You could also hear the a.s.sociate editor sometimes talking to someone else in his office, which wasn't necessarily his fault or a way to marginalize At.w.a.ter, because other people were always coming in and asking him things.

A short time later, after splashing some cold water on his ears and face in the men's room, At.w.a.ter reemerged through the hallway's smeared doors and made his way through the crowds around the restaurant's buffet table. He had also used the sink's mirror to pump himself up a little-periods of self exhortation at mirrors were usually the only time he was fully conscious of the thing that he did with his fist. There were red heat lamps over many of the buffet's entrees, and a man in a partly crumpled chef's hat was slicing prime rib to people's individual specs. The large room smelled powerfully of bodies and hot food. Everyone's face shone in the humidity. At.w.a.ter had a short man's emphatic, shoulder inflected walk. Many of the Sunday diners were elderly and wore special sungla.s.ses with side flaps, the inventor of whom was possibly ripe for a WITW WITW profile. Nor does one hardly ever see actual flypaper anymore. Their table was almost all the way in front. Even across the crowded dining room it was not hard to spot them seated there, due to the artist's wife, Mrs. Moltke, whose great blond head's crown was nearly even with the hostess's lectern. At.w.a.ter used the head as a salient to navigate the room, his own ears and forehead flushed with high speed thought. Back at profile. Nor does one hardly ever see actual flypaper anymore. Their table was almost all the way in front. Even across the crowded dining room it was not hard to spot them seated there, due to the artist's wife, Mrs. Moltke, whose great blond head's crown was nearly even with the hostess's lectern. At.w.a.ter used the head as a salient to navigate the room, his own ears and forehead flushed with high speed thought. Back at Style' Style's editorial offices on the sixteenth floor of 1 World Trade Center in New York, meanwhile, the a.s.sociate editor was speaking with his head intern on the intercom while he typed internal emails. Mr. Brint Moltke, the proposed piece's subject, was smiling fixedly at his spouse, possibly in response to some remark. His entree was virtually untouched. Mrs. Moltke was removing mayo or dressing from the corner of her mouth with a pinkie and met At.w.a.ter's eye as he raised both arms: 'They're very excited.'

Part of the reason At.w.a.ter had had to splash and self exhort in the airless little men's room off the Holiday Inn restaurant was that the toll call had actually continued for several more minutes after the journalist had said '. . . pieces themselves,' and had become almost heated at the same time that it didn't really go anywhere or modify either side of the argument, except that the a.s.sociate editor subsequently observed to his head intern that Skip seemed to be taking the whole strange thing more to heart than was normal in such a consummate pro.

'I do good work. I find it and I do it.'

'This is not about you or whether you could bring it in well,' the a.s.sociate editor had said. 'This is simply me delivering news to you about what can happen and what can't.'

'I seem to recollect somebody once saying no way the parrot could ever happen.' Here At.w.a.ter was referring to a prior piece he'd done for Style. Style.

'You're construing this as an argument about me and you. What this is really about is s.h.i.t. Excrement. Human s.h.i.t. It's very simple: Style Style does not run items about human s.h.i.t.' does not run items about human s.h.i.t.'

'But it's also art.'

'But it's also s.h.i.t. And you're already tasked to Chicago for something else we're letting you look at because you pitched me, that's already dubious in terms of the sorts of things we can do. Correct me if I'm mistaken here.'

'I'm on that already. It's Sunday. Laurel's got me in for tomorrow all day. It's a two hour toot up the interstate. The two are a hundred and ten percent compatible.' At.w.a.ter sniffed and swallowed hard. 'You know I know this area.'

The other Style Style piece the a.s.sociate editor had referred to concerned The Suffering Channel, a wide grid cable venture that At.w.a.ter had gotten Laurel Manderley to do an end run and pitch directly to the editor's head intern for piece the a.s.sociate editor had referred to concerned The Suffering Channel, a wide grid cable venture that At.w.a.ter had gotten Laurel Manderley to do an end run and pitch directly to the editor's head intern for WHAT IN THE WORLD. WHAT IN THE WORLD. At.w.a.ter was one of three full time salarymen tasked to the At.w.a.ter was one of three full time salarymen tasked to the WITW WITW feature, which received .75 editorial pages per week, and was the closest any of the BSG weeklies got to freakshow or tabloid, and was a bone of contention at the very highest levels of feature, which received .75 editorial pages per week, and was the closest any of the BSG weeklies got to freakshow or tabloid, and was a bone of contention at the very highest levels of Style. Style. The staff size and large font specs meant that Skip At.w.a.ter was officially contracted for one 400 word piece every three weeks, except the juniormost of the The staff size and large font specs meant that Skip At.w.a.ter was officially contracted for one 400 word piece every three weeks, except the juniormost of the WITW WITW salarymen had been on half time ever since Eckleschafft-Bod had forced Mrs. Anger to cut the editorial budget for everything except celebrity news, so in reality it was more like three finished pieces every eight weeks. salarymen had been on half time ever since Eckleschafft-Bod had forced Mrs. Anger to cut the editorial budget for everything except celebrity news, so in reality it was more like three finished pieces every eight weeks.

'I'll overnight photos.'

'You will not.'

As mentioned, At.w.a.ter was rarely aware of the up and down fist thing, which as far as he could recall had first started in the pressure cooker environs of the Indianapolis Star. Star. When he became aware he was doing it, he sometimes looked down at the moving fist without recognition, as if it were somebody else's. It was one of several lacunae or blind spots in At.w.a.ter's self concept, which in turn were part of why he inspired both affection and mild contempt around the offices of When he became aware he was doing it, he sometimes looked down at the moving fist without recognition, as if it were somebody else's. It was one of several lacunae or blind spots in At.w.a.ter's self concept, which in turn were part of why he inspired both affection and mild contempt around the offices of Style. Style. Those he worked closely with, such as Laurel Manderley, saw him as without much protective edge or sh.e.l.l, and there were clearly some maternal elements in Laurel's regard for him. His interns' tendency to fierce devotion, in further turn, caused some at Those he worked closely with, such as Laurel Manderley, saw him as without much protective edge or sh.e.l.l, and there were clearly some maternal elements in Laurel's regard for him. His interns' tendency to fierce devotion, in further turn, caused some at Style Style to see him as a manipulator, someone who complicitly leaned on people instead of developing his own inner resources. The former a.s.sociate editor in charge of the magazine's to see him as a manipulator, someone who complicitly leaned on people instead of developing his own inner resources. The former a.s.sociate editor in charge of the magazine's SOCIETY PAGES SOCIETY PAGES feature had once referred to Skip At.w.a.ter as an emotional tampon, though there were plenty of people who could verify that she had been a person with all kinds of personal baggage of her own. As with inst.i.tutional politics everywhere, the whole thing got very involved. feature had once referred to Skip At.w.a.ter as an emotional tampon, though there were plenty of people who could verify that she had been a person with all kinds of personal baggage of her own. As with inst.i.tutional politics everywhere, the whole thing got very involved.

Also as mentioned, the editorial exchange on the telephone was in fact very rapid and compressed, with the exception of one sustained pause while the a.s.sociate editor conferred with someone from Design about the shape of a pull quote, which At.w.a.ter could overhear clearly. The several beats of silence after that, however, could have meant almost anything.

'See if you get this,' the a.s.sociate editor said finally. 'How about if I say to you what Mrs. Anger would say to me were I hypothetically as enthused as you are, and gave you the OK, and went up to the ed meeting and pitched it for let's say 10 September. Are you out of your mind. People are not interested in s.h.i.t. People are disgusted and repelled by s.h.i.t. That's why they call it s.h.i.t. Not even to mention the high percentage of fall ad pages that are food or beauty based. Are you insane. Unquote.' Mrs. Anger was the Executive Editor of Style Style and the magazine's point man with respect to its parent company, which was the US division of Eckleschafft-Bod Medien. and the magazine's point man with respect to its parent company, which was the US division of Eckleschafft-Bod Medien.

'Although the inverse of that reasoning is that it's also wholly common and universal,' At.w.a.ter had said. 'Everyone has personal experience with s.h.i.t.'

'But personal private private experience.' Though technically included in the same toll call, this last rejoinder was part of a separate, subsequent conversation with Laurel Manderley, the intern who currently manned At.w.a.ter's phone and fax when he was on the road, and winnowed and vetted research items forwarded by the shades in Research for experience.' Though technically included in the same toll call, this last rejoinder was part of a separate, subsequent conversation with Laurel Manderley, the intern who currently manned At.w.a.ter's phone and fax when he was on the road, and winnowed and vetted research items forwarded by the shades in Research for WHAT IN THE WORLD, WHAT IN THE WORLD, and interfaced for him with the editorial interns. 'It's done in private, in a special private place, and flushed. People flush so it will go away. It's one of the things people don't want to be reminded of. That's why n.o.body talks about it.' and interfaced for him with the editorial interns. 'It's done in private, in a special private place, and flushed. People flush so it will go away. It's one of the things people don't want to be reminded of. That's why n.o.body talks about it.'

Laurel Manderley, who like most of the magazine's high level interns wore exquisitely chosen and coordinated professional attire, permitted herself a small diamond stud in one nostril that At.w.a.ter found slightly distracting in face to face exchanges, but she was extremely shrewd and pragmatic-she had actually been voted Most Rational by the Cla.s.s of '96 at Miss Porter's School. She was also all but incapable of writing a simple declarative sentence and thus could not, by any dark stretch of the imagination, ever be any kind of rival for At.w.a.ter's salaryman position at Style. Style. As he had with perhaps only one or two previous interns, At.w.a.ter relied on Laurel Manderley, and sounded her out, and welcomed her input so long as it was requested, and often spent large blocks of time on the phone with her, and had shared with her certain elements of his personal history, including pictures of the four year old schipperke mixes who were his pride and joy. Laurel Manderley, whose father controlled a large number of Blockbuster Video franchises throughout western Connecticut, and whose mother was in the final push toward certification as a Master Gardener, was herself destined to survive, through either coincidence or premonition, the tragedy by which As he had with perhaps only one or two previous interns, At.w.a.ter relied on Laurel Manderley, and sounded her out, and welcomed her input so long as it was requested, and often spent large blocks of time on the phone with her, and had shared with her certain elements of his personal history, including pictures of the four year old schipperke mixes who were his pride and joy. Laurel Manderley, whose father controlled a large number of Blockbuster Video franchises throughout western Connecticut, and whose mother was in the final push toward certification as a Master Gardener, was herself destined to survive, through either coincidence or premonition, the tragedy by which Style Style would enter history two months hence. would enter history two months hence.

At.w.a.ter rubbed his nose vertically with two fingers. 'Well, some people talk about it. You should hear little boys. Or men, in a locker room setting: "Boy, you wouldn't believe the dump I took last night." That sort of thing.'

'I don't want to hear that. I don't want to imagine that's what men talk to each other about.'

'It's not as if it comes up all that often,' At.w.a.ter conceded. He did feel a little uneasy talking about this with a female. 'My point is that the whole embarra.s.sment and distaste of the issue is the point, if it's done right. The transfiguration of disgust. This is the UBA.' UBA was their industry's shorthand for upbeat angle, what hard news organs would call a story's hook. 'The let's say unexpected reversal of embarra.s.sment and distaste. The triumph of creative achievement in even the unlikeliest places.'

Laurel Manderley sat with her feet up on an open file drawer of At.w.a.ter's desk, holding her phone's headset instead of wearing it. Slender almost to the point of clinical intervention, she had a prominent forehead and surprised eyebrows and a tortoisesh.e.l.l barrette and was, like At.w.a.ter, extremely earnest and serious at all times. She had interned at Style Style for almost a year, and knew that Skip's only real weakness as a BSG journalist was a tendency to grand abstraction that was usually not hard to bring him back to earth on and get him to tone down. She knew further that this tendency was a form of compensation for what Skip himself believed was his chief flaw, an insufficient sense of the tragic which an editor at the for almost a year, and knew that Skip's only real weakness as a BSG journalist was a tendency to grand abstraction that was usually not hard to bring him back to earth on and get him to tone down. She knew further that this tendency was a form of compensation for what Skip himself believed was his chief flaw, an insufficient sense of the tragic which an editor at the Indiana Star Indiana Star had accused him of at an age when that sort of thing sank deep out of sight in the psyche and became part of your core understanding of who you are. One of Laurel Manderley's profs at Wellesley had once criticized her freshman essays for what he'd called their tin ear and cozening tone of unearned confidence, which had immediately become dark parts of her own self concept. had accused him of at an age when that sort of thing sank deep out of sight in the psyche and became part of your core understanding of who you are. One of Laurel Manderley's profs at Wellesley had once criticized her freshman essays for what he'd called their tin ear and cozening tone of unearned confidence, which had immediately become dark parts of her own self concept.

'So go write a Ph.D. thesis on the guy,' she had responded. 'But do not ask me to go to Miss Flick and make a case for making Style Style readers hear about somebody p.o.o.ping little pieces of sculpture out of their b.u.t.t. Because it's not going to happen.' Laurel Manderley now nearly always spoke her mind; her cozening days were behind her. 'I'd be spending credibility and asking Ellen to spend hers on something that's a lost cause. readers hear about somebody p.o.o.ping little pieces of sculpture out of their b.u.t.t. Because it's not going to happen.' Laurel Manderley now nearly always spoke her mind; her cozening days were behind her. 'I'd be spending credibility and asking Ellen to spend hers on something that's a lost cause.

'You have to be careful what you ask people to do,' she had said. Sometimes privately a.k.a. Miss Flick, Ellen Bactrian was the WHAT IN THE WORLD WHAT IN THE WORLD section's head intern, a personage who was not only the a.s.sociate editor's right hand but who was known to have the ear of someone high on Mrs. Anger's own staff on the 82nd floor, because Ellen Bactrian and this executive intern often biked down to work together from the Flatiron district on the extraordinary bicycle paths that ran all the way along the Hudson to almost Battery Park. It was said that they even had matching helmets. section's head intern, a personage who was not only the a.s.sociate editor's right hand but who was known to have the ear of someone high on Mrs. Anger's own staff on the 82nd floor, because Ellen Bactrian and this executive intern often biked down to work together from the Flatiron district on the extraordinary bicycle paths that ran all the way along the Hudson to almost Battery Park. It was said that they even had matching helmets.

For complicated personal and political reasons, Skip At.w.a.ter was uncomfortable around Ellen Bactrian and tried to avoid her whenever possible.

There were a couple moments of nothing but background clatter on his end of the phone.

'Who is this guy, anyhow?' Laurel Manderley had asked. 'What sort of person goes around displaying his own poo?'

Indiana storms surprise no one. You can see them coming from half a state away, like a train on a very straight track, even as you stand in the sun and try to breathe. At.w.a.ter had what his mother'd always called a weather eye.

Seated together in the standard Midwest att.i.tude of besotted amiability, the three of them had pa.s.sed the midday hours in the Moltkes' sitting room with the curtains drawn and two rotating fans that picked At.w.a.ter's hair up and laid it down and made the little racks' magazines riffle. Laurel Manderley, who was something of a whiz at the cold call, had set this initial meeting up by phone the previous evening. The home was half a rented duplex, and you could hear its aluminum siding tick and pop in the a.s.sembling heat. A window AC chugged gamely in one of the interior rooms. The off white Roto Rooter van in the driveway had signified the Moltkes' side of the ranch style twin; Laurel's Internet directions to the address had been flawless as usual. The cul de sac was a newer development with abrasive cement and engineering specs still spraypainted on the curbs. Only the very western horizon showed piling clouds when At.w.a.ter pulled up in the rented Cavalier. Some of the homes' yards had not yet been fully sodded. There were almost no porches as such. The Moltkes' side's front door had had a US flag in an angled holder and an anodized cameo of perhaps a huge black ladybug or some kind of beetle attached to the storm door's frame, which one had to back slightly off the concrete slab in order to open. The slab's mat bid literal welcome.

The sitting room was narrow and airless and done mostly in green and a tawny type of maple syrup brown. It was thickly carpeted throughout. The davenport, chairs, and end tables had plainly been acquired as a set. A bird emerged at intervals from a catalogue clock; a knit sampler over the mantel expressed conventional wishes for the home and its occupants. The iced tea was kneebucklingly sweet. An odd stain or watermark marred the room's east wall, which At.w.a.ter educed was the load bearing wall that the Moltkes shared with the duplex's other side.

'I think I speak for a lot of folks when I want to know how it works. Just how you do it.' At.w.a.ter was in a padded rocker next to the television console and thus faced the artist and his wife, who were seated together on the davenport. The reporter had his legs crossed comfortably but was not actually rocking. He had spent a great deal of preliminary time chatting about the area and his memories of regional features and establishing a rapport and putting the Moltkes at ease. The recorder was out and on, but he was also going with a stenographer's notebook because it made him look a little more like the popular stereotype of someone from the press.

You could tell almost immediately that something was off about the artist and/or the marriage's dynamics. Brint Moltke sat hunched or slumped with his toes in and his hands in his lap, a posture reminiscent of a scolded child, but at the same time smiling at At.w.a.ter. As in smiling the entire time. It was not an empty professional corporate smile, but the soul effects were similar. Moltke was a thickset man with sideburns and graying hair combed back in what appeared to be a lopsided ducktail. He wore Sansabelt slacks and a dark blue knit shirt with his employer's name on the breast. You could tell from the dents in his nose that he sometimes wore gla.s.ses. A further idiosyncrasy that At.w.a.ter noted in Gregg shorthand was the arrangement of the artist's hands: their thumbs and forefingers formed a perfect lap level circle, which Moltke held or rather somehow directed before him like an aperture or target. He appeared to be unaware of this habit. It was a gesture both unsubtle and somewhat obscure in terms of what it signified. Combined with the rigid smile, it was almost the stuff of nightmares. At.w.a.ter's own hands were controlled and well behaved-his tic with the fist was entirely a private thing. The journalist's childhood hay fever was back with a vengeance, but even so he could not help detecting the Old Spice scent which Mr. Moltke emitted in great shimmering waves. Old Spice had been Skip's own father's scent and, reportedly, his father's father's before him.

The pattern of the davenport's upholstery, Skip At.w.a.ter also knew firsthand, was called Forest Floral.

The WITW WITW a.s.sociate editor's typing feats were just one example of the various leveling traditions and shticks and reversals of protocol that made a.s.sociate editor's typing feats were just one example of the various leveling traditions and shticks and reversals of protocol that made Style' Style's parties and corporate celebrations the envy of publishing interns throughout Manhattan. These fetes took place on the sixteenth floor and were usually open bar; some were even catered. The normally dry and insufferable head of Copyediting did impressions of various US presidents smoking dope that had to be seen to be believed. Given the right kinds of vodka and flame source, a senior receptionist from Haiti could be prevailed upon to breathe fire. A very odd senior paralegal in Permissions, who showed up to the office in foul weather gear nearly every day no matter what the forecast, turned out to have been in the original Broadway cast of Jesus Christ Superstar, Jesus Christ Superstar, and organized revues that could get kind of risque. Some of the interns got bizarrely dressed up; nails were occasionally done in White Out. Mrs. Anger's executive intern had once worn a white leather suit with outrageous fringe and a set of cap pistols in a hiphugger belt and holster accessory. A longtime supervisor of shades used Crystal Light, Everclear, skinned fruit, and an ordinary office paper shredder to produce a libation she called Last Mango in Paris. The interns' annual ersatz awards show at the climax of Oscars Week often had people on the floor-one year they'd gotten Gene Shalit to appear. And so on and so forth. and organized revues that could get kind of risque. Some of the interns got bizarrely dressed up; nails were occasionally done in White Out. Mrs. Anger's executive intern had once worn a white leather suit with outrageous fringe and a set of cap pistols in a hiphugger belt and holster accessory. A longtime supervisor of shades used Crystal Light, Everclear, skinned fruit, and an ordinary office paper shredder to produce a libation she called Last Mango in Paris. The interns' annual ersatz awards show at the climax of Oscars Week often had people on the floor-one year they'd gotten Gene Shalit to appear. And so on and so forth.

Of arresting and demotic party traditions, however, none was so prized as Mrs. Anger's annual essay at self parody for the combination New Year's and closing of the Year's Most Stylish People double issue bash. Bedecked in costume jewelry, mincing and fluttering, affecting a falsetto and lorgnette, holding her head in such a way as to produce a double chin, tottering about with a champagne c.o.c.ktail like one of those anserine dowagers in Marx Brothers films. It would be difficult to convey this routine's effect on morale and esprit. The rest of the publishing year, Mrs. Anger was a figure of near testamental awe and dread, serious as a heart attack. A veteran of Fleet Street and two separate R. Murdoch startups, wooed over from Us Us in 1994 under terms that were industry myth, Mrs. Anger had managed to put in 1994 under terms that were industry myth, Mrs. Anger had managed to put Style Style in the black for the first time in its history, and was said to enjoy influence at the very highest levels of Eckleschafft-Bod, and had worn one of the first Versace pantsuits ever seen in New York, and was n.o.body's fool whatsoever. in the black for the first time in its history, and was said to enjoy influence at the very highest levels of Eckleschafft-Bod, and had worn one of the first Versace pantsuits ever seen in New York, and was n.o.body's fool whatsoever.

Mrs. Amber Moltke, the artist's young spouse, wore a great billowing pastel housedress and flattened espadrilles and was, for better or worse, the s.e.xiest morbidly obese woman At.w.a.ter had ever seen. Eastern Indiana was not short on big pretty girls, but this was less a person than a vista, a quarter ton of sheer Midwest pulchritude, and At.w.a.ter had already filled several narrow pages of his notebook with descriptions and a.n.a.logies and abstract encomia to Mrs. Moltke, none of which could be used in the compressed piece he was even then conceiving how to pitch and submit. Some of the allure was atavistic, he acknowledged. Some was simply contrast, a relief from the sucking cheeks and starved eyes of Manhattan's women. He had personally seen Style Style interns weighing their food on small pharmaceutical scales before they consumed it. In one of the more abstract notebook entries, At.w.a.ter had theorized that Mrs. Moltke's was perhaps a sort of negative beauty that consisted mainly in her failure to be repellent. In another, he had compared her face and throat to whatever canids see in the full moon that makes them howl. The a.s.sociate editor would never see one jot of material like this, obviously. Some BSG salarymen built their pieces gradually from the ground up. At.w.a.ter, trained originally as a background man for news dailies, constructed his own interns weighing their food on small pharmaceutical scales before they consumed it. In one of the more abstract notebook entries, At.w.a.ter had theorized that Mrs. Moltke's was perhaps a sort of negative beauty that consisted mainly in her failure to be repellent. In another, he had compared her face and throat to whatever canids see in the full moon that makes them howl. The a.s.sociate editor would never see one jot of material like this, obviously. Some BSG salarymen built their pieces gradually from the ground up. At.w.a.ter, trained originally as a background man for news dailies, constructed his own WITW WITW pieces by pouring into his notebooks and word processor an enormous waterfall of prose which was then filtered more and more closely down to 400 words of commercial sediment. It was labor intensive, but it was his way. At.w.a.ter had colleagues who were unable even to start without a Roman numeral outline. pieces by pouring into his notebooks and word processor an enormous waterfall of prose which was then filtered more and more closely down to 400 words of commercial sediment. It was labor intensive, but it was his way. At.w.a.ter had colleagues who were unable even to start without a Roman numeral outline. Style' Style's daytime television specialist could compose his pieces only on public transport. So long as salarymen's personal quotas were filled and deadlines met, the BSG weeklies tended to be respectful of people's processes.

When as a child he had misbehaved or sa.s.sed her, Mrs. At.w.a.ter had made little Virgil go and cut from the fields' edge's copse the very switch with which she'd whip him. For most of the 1970s she had belonged to a splinter denomination that met in an Airstream trailer on the outskirts of Anderson, and she did spareth not the rod. His father had been a barber, the real kind, w/ smock and pole and rat tail combs in huge jars of Barbicide. Save the odd payroll data processor at Eckleschafft-Bod US, no one east of Muncie had access to Skip's true given name.

Mrs. Moltke sat with her spine straight and ankles crossed, her huge smooth calves cream white and unmarred by veins and the overall size and hue of what At.w.a.ter wrote were museum grade vases and funereal urns of the same antiquity in which the dead wore bronze masks and whole households were interred together. Her platter sized face was expressive and her eyes, though rendered small by the encasing folds of fat, were intelligent and alive. An Anne Rice paperback lay face down on the end table beside her fauxfrosted beverage tumbler and a stack of b.u.t.terick clothing patterns in their distinctive bilingual sleeves. At.w.a.ter, who held his pen rather high on the shaft, had already noted that her husband's eyes were flat and immured despite his constant smile. The lone time that At.w.a.ter had believed he was seeing his own father smile, it turned out to have been a grimace which presaged the ma.s.sive infarction that had sent the man forward to lie p.r.o.ne in the sand of the horseshoe pit as the shoe itself sailed over the stake, the half finished apiary, a section of the simulation combat target range, a tire swing's supporting limb, and the backyard's pineboard fence, never to be recovered or even ever seen again, while Virgil and his twin brother had stood there wide eyed and red eared, looking back and forth from the sprawled form to the kitchen window's screen, their inability to move or cry out feeling, in later recall, much like the paralysis of bad dreams.

The Moltkes had already shown him the storm cellar and its literally incredible display, but At.w.a.ter decided to wait until he truly needed to visit the bathroom to see where the actual creative transfigurations took place. He felt that asking to be shown the bathroom as such, and then examining it while they watched him do so, would be awkward and unseemly. In her lap, the artist's wife had some kind of garment or bolt of orange cloth in which she was placing pins in a complicated way. A large red felt apple on the end table held the supply of pins for this purpose. She filled her whole side of the davenport and then some. One could feel the walls and curtains warming as the viscous heat outside beset the home. After one of the lengthy and uncomfortable attacks of what felt like aphasia that sometimes afflicted him with incidentals, At.w.a.ter was able to remember that the correct term for the apple was simply: pin cushion. One reason it was so discomfiting was that the detail was irrelevant. Likewise the twinge of abandonment he noticed that he felt whenever the near fan rotated back away from him. On the whole, though, the journalist's spirits were good. Part of it was actual art. But there was also something that felt solid and kind of invulnerable about returning to one's native area for legitimate professional reasons. He was unaware that the cadences of his speech had already changed.

After one or two awkward recrossings of his leg, At.w.a.ter had found a way to sit, with his weight on his left hip and the padded rocker held still against that weight, so that his right thigh formed a stable surface for taking notes. His iced tea, pebbled with condensation, was on a plastic coaster beside the cable converter box atop the television console. At.w.a.ter was particularly drawn to two framed prints on the wall above the davenport, matched renderings of retrievers, human eyed and much enn.o.bled by the artist, each with some kind of dead bird in its mouth.

'I think I speak for a lot of folks when I say how curious I am to know how you do it,' At.w.a.ter said. 'Just how the whole thing works.'

There was a three beat pause in which no one moved or spoke and the fans' whines harmonized briefly and then diverged once more.

'I realize it's a delicate subject,' At.w.a.ter said.

Another stilted pause, only slightly longer, and then Mrs. Moltke signaled the artist to answer the man by swinging her great dimpled arm out and around and striking him someplace about the left breast or shoulder, producing a meaty sound. It was a gesture both practiced and without heat, and Moltke's only visible reaction, after angling hard to starboard and then righting himself, was to search within and answer as honestly as he could.

The artist said, 'I'm not sure.'

The fliptop stenographer's notebook was partly for effect, but it was also what Skip At.w.a.ter had gotten in the habit of using out in the field for background at the start of his career, and its personal semiotics and mojo were profound; he was comfortable with it. He was, as a matter of professional persona, old school and low tech. Today's was a very different journalistic era, however, and in the Moltkes' sitting room his tiny professional tape recorder was also out and activated and resting atop a stack of recent magazines on the coffee table before the davenport. Its technology was foreign and featured a very sensitive built in microphone, though the unit also gobbled AAA cells, and the miniature ca.s.settes for it had to be special ordered. BSG magazines as a whole being litigation conscious in the extreme, a Style Style salaryman had to submit all relevant notes and tapes to Legal before his piece could even be typeset, which was one more reason why the day of an issue's closing was so fraught and stressful, and why editorial staff and interns rarely got a whole weekend off. salaryman had to submit all relevant notes and tapes to Legal before his piece could even be typeset, which was one more reason why the day of an issue's closing was so fraught and stressful, and why editorial staff and interns rarely got a whole weekend off.

Moltke's fingers' and thumbs' unconscious ring had naturally come apart when Amber had smacked him and he'd gone over hard against the davenport's right armrest, but now it was back as they all sat in the dim green curtainlight and smiled at one another. What might have sounded at first like isolated gunshots or firecrackers were actually new homes' carapaces expanding in the heat all up and down the Willkie development. No a.n.a.logy for the digital waist level circle or aperture or lens or target or orifice or void seemed quite right, but it struck At.w.a.ter as definitely the sort of tic or gesture that meant something-the way in dreams and certain kinds of art things were never merely things but always seemed to stand for something else that you couldn't quite put a finger on-and the journalist had already shorthanded several reminders to himself to consider whether the gesture was some kind of unconscious visible code or might be a key to the question of how to represent the artist's conflicted response to his extraordinary but also undeniably controversial and perhaps even repulsive talent.

The recorder's battery indicator showed a strong clear red. Amber occasionally leaned forward over her sewing materials to check the amount of audiotape remaining. Once more, At.w.a.ter thanked the artist and his wife for opening their home to him on a Sunday, explaining that he had to head on up to Chicago for a day or two but then would be back to start in on deep background if the Moltkes decided to give their consent. He had explained that the type of personality driven article that Style Style was interested in running would be impossible without the artist's cooperation, and that there would be no point in his taking up any more of their time after today if Mr. and Mrs. Moltke weren't totally on board and as excited about the piece as everyone over at was interested in running would be impossible without the artist's cooperation, and that there would be no point in his taking up any more of their time after today if Mr. and Mrs. Moltke weren't totally on board and as excited about the piece as everyone over at Style Style was. He had addressed this statement to the artist, but it had been Amber Moltke's reaction he noted. was. He had addressed this statement to the artist, but it had been Amber Moltke's reaction he noted.

On the same coffee table between them, beside the magazines and tape recorder and a small vase of synthetic marigolds, were three artworks allegedly produced through ordinary elimination by Mr. Brint F. Moltke. The pieces varied slightly in size, but all were arresting in their extraordinary realism and the detail of their craftsmanship-although one of At.w.a.ter's notes was a reminder to himself to consider whether a word like craftsmanship really applied in such a case. The sample pieces were the very earliest examples that Mrs. Moltke said she'd been able to lay hands on; they had been out on the table when At.w.a.ter arrived. There were literally scores more of the artworks arranged in vaguely familiar looking gla.s.s cases in the unattached storm cellar out back, an environment that seemed strangely perfect, though At.w.a.ter had seen immediately how difficult the storm cellar would be for any of Style' Style's photographers to light and shoot properly. By 11:00 AM, he was mouthbreathing due to hay fever.

Mrs. Moltke periodically fanned at herself in a delicate way and said she did believe it might rain.

When At.w.a.ter and his brother had been in the eighth grade, the father of a family just up the road in Anderson had run a length of garden hose from his vehicle's exhaust pipe to the interior and killed himself in the home's garage, after which the son in their cla.s.s and everyone else in the family had gone around with a strange fixed smile that had seemed both creepy and courageous; and something in the hydraulics of Brint Moltke's smile on the davenport reminded Skip At.w.a.ter of the Haas family's smile.

Omitted through oversight above: Nearly every Indiana community has some street, lane, drive, or eas.e.m.e.nt named for Wendell L. Willkie, b. 1892, GOP, favorite son.

The recorder's tiny tape's first side had been almost entirely filled by Skip At.w.a.ter answering Mrs. Moltke's initial questions. It had become evident pretty quickly whose show this was, in terms of any sort of piece, on their end. Chewing a piece of gum with tiny motions of her front teeth in the distinctive Indiana style, Mrs. Moltke had requested information on how any potential article would be positioned and when it was likely to run. She had asked about word counts, column inches, boxes, leader quotes, and shared templates. Hers was the type of infantly milky skin on which even the lightest contact would leave some type of blotch. She had used terms like conferral, serial rights, and sic vos non vobis, sic vos non vobis, which latter Skip did not even know. She had high quality photographs of some of the more spectacular artworks in a leatherette portfolio with the Moltkes' name and address embossed on the cover, and At.w.a.ter was asked to provide a receipt for the portfolio's loan. which latter Skip did not even know. She had high quality photographs of some of the more spectacular artworks in a leatherette portfolio with the Moltkes' name and address embossed on the cover, and At.w.a.ter was asked to provide a receipt for the portfolio's loan.

The tape's second side, however, contained Mr. Brint Moltke's own first person account of how his strange and ambivalent gift had first come to light, which emerged-the account did-after At.w.a.ter had phrased his query several different ways and Amber Moltke had finally asked the journalist to excuse them and removed her husband into one of the home's rear rooms, where they took inaudible counsel together while At.w.a.ter circ.u.mspectly chewed the remainder of his ice. The result was what At.w.a.ter later, in his second floor room at the Holiday Inn, after showering, applying crude first aid to his left knee, and struggling unsuccessfully to move or reverse the room's excruciating painting, had copied into his steno as certainly usable in some part or form for deep background/UBA, particularly if Mr. Moltke, who had appeared to warm to the task or at least to come somewhat alive, could be induced to repeat its substance on record in a sanitized way: 'It was on a field exercise in basic [training in the US Army, in which Moltke later saw action in Kuwait as part of a maintenance crew in Operation Desert Storm], and the fellows on s.h.i.tter [latrine, hygienic] detail-[latrine] detail is they soak the [military unit's solid wastes] in gas and burn it with a [flamethrower]-and up the [material] goes and in the fire one of the fellows saw something peculiar there in amongst the [waste material] and calls the sergeant over and they kick up a [fuss] because at first they're thinking somebody tossed something in the [latrine] for a joke, which is against regs, and the sergeant said when he found out who it was he was going to crawl up inside the [responsible party's] skull and look out his eyeholes, and they made the [latrine] detail [douse] the fire and get it [the artwork] out and come to find it weren't a[n illicit or unpatriotic object], and they didn't know whose [solid waste] it was, but I was pretty sure it was mine [because subj. then reports having had prior experiences of roughly same kind, which renders entire anecdote more or less pointless, but could foreseeably be edited out or ma.s.saged].'

The Mount Carmel Holiday Inn regretfully had neither scanner nor fax for guests' outgoing use, At.w.a.ter had been informed at the desk by a man whose blazer was nearly identical to his own.

Temperatures had fallen and the sodium streetlights come on by themselves as Skip At.w.a.ter drove the artist and his spouse home from Ye Olde Country Buffet with a styrofoam box of leavings for a dog he'd seen no sign of; and the great elms and locusts were beginning to yaw and two thirds of the sky to be stacked with enormous muttering ma.s.ses of clouds that moved in and out of themselves as if stirred by a great unseen hand. Mrs. Moltke was in the back seat, and there was a terrible noise as the car hit the driveway's grade. Blinds that had been open on the duplex's other side were now closed, though there was still no vehicle in that side's drive. The other side's door had a US flag as well. As was also typical of severe weather conditions in the area, a gray luminescence to the light made everything appear greasy and unreal. The rear of the artist's company van listed a toll free number to dial if one had any concerns about the employee's driving.

It had emerged that the nearest Kinko's was in the nearby community of Scipio, which was only a dozen miles east on SR 252 but could be somewhat confusing to get around in because of indifferent signage. Scipio evidently also had a Wal Mart. It was Amber Moltke who suggested that they leave the artist to watch his Sunday Reds game in peace the way he liked to and proceed together in At.w.a.ter's rented Chevrolet to that Kinko's, and decide together which photos to scan in and forward, and to also go on and talk turkey in more depth respecting Skip's article on the Moltkes for Style. Style. At.w.a.ter, whose fear of the region's weather was amply justified by childhood experience, was unsure about either driving or using the Moltke's land line to call Laurel Manderley during an impending storm that he was pretty sure would show up at least yellow on Doppler radar-though on the other hand he was not all that keen about returning to his room at the Holiday Inn, whose wall had an immovable painting of a clown that he found almost impossible to look at-and the journalist ended up watching half an inning of the first Cincinnati Reds game he had seen in a decade while sitting paralyzed with indecision on the Moltkes' davenport. At.w.a.ter, whose fear of the region's weather was amply justified by childhood experience, was unsure about either driving or using the Moltke's land line to call Laurel Manderley during an impending storm that he was pretty sure would show up at least yellow on Doppler radar-though on the other hand he was not all that keen about returning to his room at the Holiday Inn, whose wall had an immovable painting of a clown that he found almost impossible to look at-and the journalist ended up watching half an inning of the first Cincinnati Reds game he had seen in a decade while sitting paralyzed with indecision on the Moltkes' davenport.

Besides the facts that she walked without moving her arms and in general reminded him unpleasantly of the girl in Election, Election, the core reason why At.w.a.ter feared and avoided Ellen Bactrian was that Laurel Manderley had once confided to At.w.a.ter that Ellen Bactrian-who had been in madrigals with Laurel Manderley for a year of their overlap at Wellesley, and at the outset of Laurel's internship more or less took the younger woman under her wing-had told her that in her opinion Skip At.w.a.ter was not really quite as spontaneous a person as he liked to seem. Nor was At.w.a.ter stupid, and he was aware that his being so disturbed over what Ellen Bactrian apparently thought of him was possible evidence that she might actually have him pegged, that he might be not only shallow but at root a kind of poseur. It was not exactly the nicest thing Laurel Manderley had ever done, and part of the fallout was that she was now in a position where she had to act as a sort of human shield between At.w.a.ter and Ellen Bactrian, who was responsible for a lot of the day to day administration of the core reason why At.w.a.ter feared and avoided Ellen Bactrian was that Laurel Manderley had once confided to At.w.a.ter that Ellen Bactrian-who had been in madrigals with Laurel Manderley for a year of their overlap at Wellesley, and at the outset of Laurel's internship more or less took the younger woman under her wing-had told her that in her opinion Skip At.w.a.ter was not really quite as spontaneous a person as he liked to seem. Nor was At.w.a.ter stupid, and he was aware that his being so disturbed over what Ellen Bactrian apparently thought of him was possible evidence that she might actually have him pegged, that he might be not only shallow but at root a kind of poseur. It was not exactly the nicest thing Laurel Manderley had ever done, and part of the fallout was that she was now in a position where she had to act as a sort of human shield between At.w.a.ter and Ellen Bactrian, who was responsible for a lot of the day to day administration of WHAT IN THE WORLD; WHAT IN THE WORLD; and to be honest, it was a situation that At.w.a.ter sometimes exploited, and used Laurel's guilt over her indiscretion to get her to do things or to use her personal connections with Ellen Bactrian in ways that weren't altogether right or appropriate. The whole thing could sometimes get extremely complicated and awkward, but Laurel Manderley for the most part simply bowed to the reality of a situation she had helped create, and accepted it as a painful lesson in respecting certain personal lines and boundaries that turned out to be there for a reason and couldn't be crossed without inevitable consequences. Her father, who was the sort of person who had favorite little apothegms that could sometimes get under one's skin with constant repet.i.tion, liked to say, 'Education is expensive,' and Laurel Manderley felt she was now starting to understand how little this saying had really to do with tuition or petty complaint. and to be honest, it was a situation that At.w.a.ter sometimes exploited, and used Laurel's guilt over her indiscretion to get her to do things or to use her personal connections with Ellen Bactrian in ways that weren't altogether right or appropriate. The whole thing could sometimes get extremely complicated and awkward, but Laurel Manderley for the most part simply bowed to the reality of a situation she had helped create, and accepted it as a painful lesson in respecting certain personal lines and boundaries that turned out to be there for a reason and couldn't be crossed without inevitable consequences. Her father, who was the sort of person who had favorite little apothegms that could sometimes get under one's skin with constant repet.i.tion, liked to say, 'Education is expensive,' and Laurel Manderley felt she was now starting to understand how little this saying had really to do with tuition or petty complaint.

Because of some sort of ha.s.sle between Style Style and its imaging tech vendor over the terms of the service agreement, the fax machine that Skip At.w.a.ter shared with one other full time salaryman had had both a defunct ringer and a missing tray for over a month. Laurel Manderley was in stocking feet at At.w.a.ter's console formatting additional background on The Suffering Channel when the fax machine's red incoming light began blinking behind her. The Kinko's franchise in Scipio IN had no scanner, but it did have a digital faxing option that was vastly better than an ordinary low pixel fax. The images At.w.a.ter was forwarding to Laurel Manderley began to emerge from the unit's feeder, coiled slightly, detached, and floated in a back and forth fashion to the antistatic carpet. It would be almost 6:00 before she broke for a raisin and even saw them. and its imaging tech vendor over the terms of the service agreement, the fax machine that Skip At.w.a.ter shared with one other full time salaryman had had both a defunct ringer and a missing tray for over a month. Laurel Manderley was in stocking feet at At.w.a.ter's console formatting additional background on The Suffering Channel when the fax machine's red incoming light began blinking behind her. The Kinko's franchise in Scipio IN had no scanner, but it did have a digital faxing option that was vastly better than an ordinary low pixel fax. The images At.w.a.ter was forwarding to Laurel Manderley began to emerge from the unit's feeder, coiled slightly, detached, and floated in a back and forth fashion to the antistatic carpet. It would be almost 6:00 before she broke for a raisin and even saw them.

The first great grape sized drops were striking the windshield as the severely canted car left Scipio's commercial district, made two left turns in rapid succession, and proceeded out of town on a numbered county road whose gravel was so fresh it fairly gleamed in the gathering stormlight. Mrs. Moltke was navigating. At.w.a.ter now wore a mushroom colored Robert Talbott raincoat over his blazer. As was SOP for Indiana storms, there were several minutes of high winds and tentative spatters, followed by a brief eerie stillness that had the quality of an immense inhalation as gravel clattered beneath their cha.s.sis. Then fields and trees and cornrows' furrows all vanished in a sheet of sideways rain that sent vague tumbling things across the road ahead and behind. It was like nothing anyone east of Cleveland has ever seen. At.w.a.ter, whose father had been a Civil Defense volunteer during the F4 tornado that struck parts of Anderson in 1977, enjoined Amber to try to find something on the AM band that wasn't just concussive static. With the car's front seat unit moved all the way back to accommodate her, At.w.a.ter had to strain way out to reach the pedals, which made it difficult to lean forward anxiously and scan upward for a.s.sembling funnels. The odd hailstone made a musical sound against the rental's hood. The great myth is that the bad ones don't last long.

Amber Moltke directed At.w.a.ter through a murine succession of rural roads and even smaller roads off those roads until they were on little more than the ghost of a two track lane that cut through great whipping tracts of Rorschach shrubbery. Her instructions came primarily in the form of slight motions of her head and left hand, which were all she could move within the confines of her safety belt and harness, against which latter her body strained in several different places with resultant depressions and folds. At.w.a.ter's face was the same color as his raincoat by the time they reached their destination, some gap or terminus in the foliage which Amber explained was actually a kind of crude mesa whose vantage overlooked a large nitrogen fixative factory, whose complex and emberous lights at night were an attraction countywide. All that was visible at present was the storm working against the Cavalier's windshield like some sort of berserk car wash, but At.w.a.ter told Mrs. Moltke that he certainly appreciated her taking time out to let him absorb some of the local flavor. He watched her begin trying to disengage her seat's restraint system. The ambient noise was roughly equivalent to midcabin on a jetliner. There was, he could detect, a slight ammonial tang to the area's air.

At.w.a.ter had, by this point, helped Amber Moltke into the vehicle three separate times and out of it twice. Though technically fat, she presented more as simply huge, extrudent in all three dimensions. At least a half foot taller than the journalist, she managed to seem both towering and squat. Her release of the seat belt produced an effect not unlike an impact's airbag. At.w.a.ter's notebook already contained a description of Mrs. Moltke's fatness as being the smooth solid kind as opposed to the soft plumpness or billowing aspect or loose flapping fat of some obese people. There was no cellulite, no quivery or pendent or freehanging parts-she was enormous and firm, and fair the same way babies are. A head the size of a motorcycle tire was topped by a ma.s.sive blond pageboy whose bangs were thick and not wholly even, receding into a complexly textured bale of curls in the rear areas. In the light of the storm she seemed to glow; the umbrella she carried was not for rain. 'I so much as get downwind of the sun and I burn,' had been Amber's explanation to Skip as the artist/husband held the great flowered thing out at arms' length to spread it in the driveway and then angle it up over the car's rear door just so.

Many of Style' Style's upper echelon interns convened for a working lunch at Chambers Street's Tutti Mangia restaurant twice a week, to discuss issues of concern and transact any editorial or other business that was pending, after which each returned to her respective mentor and relayed whatever was germane. It was an efficient practice that saved the magazine's paid staffers a great deal of time and emotional energy. Many of the interns at Monday's lunches traditionally had the Nicoise salad, which was outrageously good here.

They often liked to get two large tables squunched up together near the door, so that those who smoked could take turns darting out front to do so in the striped awning's shade. Which management was happy to do-conjoin the tables. It was an interesting station to serve or sit near. The Style Style interns all still possessed the lilting inflections and vaguely outraged facial expressions of adolescence, which were in sharp contrast to their extraordinary table manners and to the brisk clipped manner of their gestures and speech, as well as to the fact that their outfits' elements were nearly always members of the same color family, a very adult type of coordination that worked to convey a formal and businesslike tone to each ensemble. For reasons with origins much farther back in history than anyone at the table could have speculated about, a majority of the editorial interns at interns all still possessed the lilting inflections and vaguely outraged facial expressions of adolescence, which were in sharp contrast to their extraordinary table manners and to the brisk clipped manner of their gestures and speech, as well as to the fact that their outfits' elements were nearly always members of the same color family, a very adult type of coordination that worked to convey a formal and businesslike tone to each ensemble. For reasons with origins much farther back in history than anyone at the table could have speculated about, a majority of the editorial interns at Style Style traditionally come from Seven Sisters colleges. Also at the table was one very plain but self possessed intern who worked with the design director up in traditionally come from Seven Sisters colleges. Also