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life —no formal education, no family of his own. Just one failed enterprise after another. Rags and tabloids, most of them. Now he was dead, and a slip of paper in Max’s pocket summoned him to handle the last of the man’s follies.
    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 themwisdom 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