The other half contained a pair of clocks side by side beneath the second three letters of the Newsweek logo. One clock had the initials B.C. in its center, the other the abbreviation A.D. In shadow under the clocks hung a clear Plexiglas model of the African continent, while at the bottom of the photo, going from left to right beneath the suspended continent and the primeval couple, floated a string of islands representing the Greater and Lesser Antilles. From the island Hispaniola shot out a sequence of arrows demarcating the wake of a fishing boat on its way past Cuba to the tip of Florida. A legend superimposed beneath the feet of Adam and RuthClaire proclaimed:
“Bet this gets a lot of bluenoses to cancel subscriptions,” Ben said.
I didn’t reply, but Ben was probably right. Whoever had taken this photograph had not bothered to air-brush the pubic hair or private parts of my ex and her husband. That was why I thought I knew the photographer’s identity. I flipped to the cover story at the magazine’s heart. Scanning its lead and several paragraphs, I found the name Maria-Katherine Kander repeatedly. In fact, two of the photos accompanying the article were fairly tame portraits—i.e., the models either in shadow or semimodestly draped—from the Abraxas show that had featured Adam’s paintings and the colorful work of various Haitian artists. I had stepped into a timewarp flinging me back to February.
“Did you know they’d done this, Paul? Had their pictures taken nude?”
“No. No, I didn’t.”
It was hard to imagine RuthClaire consenting to such a portrait. She was as naked in this Newsweek cover as I’d ever seen her. Midway through our marriage, she had made up her mind that regular intercourse with me had about it the irresistible romance of changing a flat on a ’54 Chevy jalopy. It was not that she was puritanical or cold, but that for her sex had become a time-consuming process best left to people with nothing more important to do. Her sense that I would probably never father her child had reinforced this cavalier attitude in her. If procreation was out, and pleasure had fled, why bother? At any rate, the last time I’d seen her unclad was the night I’d climbed into a magnolia tree on Paradise Farm to take pictures of Adam in the downstairs bathroom. She had been infinitely more provocative in that setting. In the Kander photo, she seemed to represent Womankind for an alien eye that might not otherwise grasp the concept.
In a way, of course, that was exactly the point.
I set the magazine atop the tablecloths and gathered it and them up in my arms. “Thanks for the Newsweek, Ben.” I staggered across the street with this load, dumped the tablecloths into a chair, and told Livia George that, once again, she’d have to handle the luncheon crowd without me. She waved a hand in dismissal. Nothing I did or failed to do surprised her anymore. So, rolled-up Newsweek in hand, I exited the West Bank and climbed into my car.
Neil Hammond’s jacked-up purple pickup sat in front of my house at Paradise Farm. Hammond was in the living room with a stack of Newsweeks balanced on one of my more fragile-looking end tables holding the magazines in place with the heel of his hand. Adam perched on a wingback across from him, looking penitent and befuddled. My own copy was clutched in my fist like a billy club.
“You’ve seen it,” Hammond said. “You’ve seen the day’s major disaster.” He gestured at the magazines. “I saw it about an hour ago, when I went to the drugstore to buy my wife an anniversary card. I bought every Newsweek in the damn place. Mr. Langton thinks I’m a world-class pervert. It’s probably blown my cover.” He shook his head. “My cover blown by a magazine cover. Funny, huh? I went to every corner of town buying the damn things up, but the damage has already been done. People here remember Mrs. Montaraz—they remember her well—and a lot of magazines that went out on the racks were grabbed for souvenirs. Tomorrow, the folks who have subscription copies’ll get theirs. There’s no way to put a lid on this. It’s a public-relations disaster, a blow to all we’ve been trying to do in this case.” He lifted his hand from the magazines, which slid to the floor in a cascade of whispery thumps.
Adam and RuthClaire, Adam and RuthClaire, Adam and RuthClaire.
I looked at Adam. “What the hell did you two think you were doing?”
“They’ve contributed to what’s likely to become its most collectible issue—cover intact, of course—of Newsweek magazine, ever,” Hammond said, nudging the pile with his boot. “That’s one thing they’ve done. Newsweek’ll get more letters than they’ve ever received, and nine tenths will be from outraged old ladies, concerned mothers, angry preachers, and so on. Subscriptions’ll get canceled, sure, but every damn newsstand copy will be gone before dinnertime.
“Do you remember how that flaky Beatle and his Japanese old lady made an album called Two Virgins in the late sixties? They had themselves shot buck-naked for the album cover. Nobody at their damn company wanted to use the photographs, but the flaky Beatle insisted. They sold the damn things in brown envelopes, though. This—” he kicked one of the fallen magazines—“is being sold right out in front of God and everybody with Time and Woman’s Day and Field & Stream. And by ‘God and everybody,’ I do mean everybody: Little Bobby, Innocent Little Susy, Sweet Old Aunt Matilda, and, probably worst of all, Crazy Craig Puddicombe.”
Adam, hands clasped between his knees, looked up. “Neither RuthClaire nor I had any inkling this shot would appear—” gesturing vaguely— “as it so upsettingly has.”
“But why’d you pose for something like this?” I asked.
“In April, Mister Paul, long before my surgery, this M.-K. Kander person came to Atlanta on business at Abraxas. About ‘shooting’ RuthClaire and me, she inquired. The idea of the Primeval Couple had great appeal to her. Mister David did introductions. And Miss RuthClaire and this M.-K. Kander person, they took to each other fast. So when her new friend suggests we pose as you see, my wife has no great objection. Nor I. So our photo got taken in gallery room where Ms. Kander had February show. Later, she kindly sends us prints of very same one Newsweek has given horrible honor of its cover.” Adam sought my eyes. “Never did we expect this picture to appear anywhere but in M.-K. Kander private portfolio. This, then, is great shock.”
“It’s a disaster,” Hammond reiterated.
I opened out my scrolled copy and held it up. “But why like this, Adam? Why did she want you to pose like this?”
His growl tentative, Adam said, “The set-up was greatly symbolic. The Primeval Couple, as I have said. My name is Adam, and I am a habiline with origins going deeply past those of even Biblical Adam. So said Maria-Katherine. Miss RuthClaire, to the contrary, is modern woman with life in technological times. So, again, said M.-K. Kander. Our union, she told us, ties up past and future of species in exciting new Now.” He paused. “Maybe this symbolism lacks clarity, but in standing naked beside my wife, I saw no harm for this talented picture-taking person. Early Adam and somewhat later Eve. Miss RuthClaire thought it—you may be surprised—very funny and also enjoyable.”