The Groaning Board

Evelyn left for the
Vineyard.”
    “She’s leaving tomorrow morning.”
    “I think I’ll get dressed and maybe
take a walk around the block.”
    “I’d rather you didn’t go out by
yourself. I don’t want you to have a relapse. Steve said to keep you home the
rest of the week.”
    She held up her hands. “Okay, Big
Daddy.” Bill might have told her his whereabouts, but that didn’t mean he was
where he said he was. So, she wondered, could he be the man in the blue
pinstripe?
    Gaslight.
     
    By midafternoon, she felt strong
enough to shower. She put on leggings and a cropped top and guided her creaky
bones through simple ballet exercises. Afterward, she called Smith to make sure
the drink with Benny Flaxman was still on. It most certainly was.
    At five o’clock Bill was home again,
this time with the Care package from ‘21,’ and stood over Wetzon while she
picked at her food; he fed Izz, walked Izz, went back to the office.
    Wetzon lay on the sofa dozing. The
phone rang. Bill’s answering machine picked up on the fifth ring.
    “Wetzon!” Smith’s voice shrieked
across the tape. “I know you’re there. Pick up.”
    Groaning, Wetzon plucked up the
receiver. Damn. Had something gone wrong with Benny Flaxman? She said, “You’re
supposed to be having a drink with Benny.”
    “I am having a drink with
Benny. In fact, we’ve almost finished with our lovely drink, and Benny and I
are coming over to see you on his way back to his hotel.”
    “Oh no you’re not. I’m not dressed
and I have no makeup on.”
    “Trust me, sweetie pie. Benny just
told me something utterly fascinating and you have to hear it from his own
mouth.”
    “Smith, for godsakes, I look like
hell.”
    “Who cares, sugar? Benny knows we’re
pros and that you’ve been sick. I told him you had a touch of ptomaine, so he
understands. He’s eager to meet you. We’ll be there in ten minutes.”
    “Oh, fuck,” Wetzon told Izz as she
slammed down the phone. She ran a comb through her hair with trembling hands
and pulled it up tight in a topknot, mascaraed her lashes. What had gotten into
Smith? She dusted blush over her paleness and touched her lips with gloss.
    True to Smith’s word, not ten minutes
passed before the concierge announced, “Ms. Smith and Mr. Flaxman.”
    “Ask them to come up, please.”
    Benny Flaxman had a jowly face and a
receding hairline. His nose was red and his eyes watered. “Big Apple
allergies,” he explained, blowing his nose. “ ’S why I went to college in Oregon.” He strolled around the apartment, gaping at the view. Izz came out from behind the
sofa and followed him, sniffing at his shoes.
    “The poor dear is suffering so,
sugar.” Smith gave Wetzon a protracted wink behind Benny’s back.
    “Boy, am I impressed, Wetzon. You
girls must be really successful.” Benny was built like a series of bagels, a
small one for his neck, a bigger one for his chest, a fat one for his middle.
    “How could you think otherwise,
Benny?” Wetzon said. “Didn’t we girls get you to New York?”
    “Let’s sit down,” Smith ordered,
steering Benny to a club chair. “Benny only has a minute or so before he gets
to have dinner with a few of the Rivington Ellis honchos, right, Benny
sweetie?”
    “Yeah, what a day, let me tell you,
Wetzon.”
    “All has gone well?”
    “Yeah. I’m real impressed. Their
technology is a knockout. State of the art. I met a couple of analysts—”
    “Tell Wetzon where you live in Oregon, sugar.” Smith batted her lashes at him.
    “Ashland,” Wetzon said, watching
Benny melt when he looked at Smith.
    “No. I work in Ashland, but actually
I live in Medford.“
    “Medford...” Wetzon frowned. “Medford.”
    “I told dear Benny”—Smith was
speaking very slowly, enunciating with her lips, as if Wetzon were deaf—“how
impressed we were with a high school girl we interviewed for our intern
position. A girl who used to live in Medford, Oregon.” Medford... of course...
“Ellen Moore,” Wetzon said.
    “Yes.” Smith beamed at her and patted
Benny’s arm. “Benny told me all about the tragedy. Go on, Benny, tell Wetzon. I
could never do the story justice.”
    “Well, I don’t know. I hate telling
stories out of school.... I don’t want to hurt the kid.”
    “You told me, Benny. Tell her.”
    “Okay, I guess. You girls aren’t
going to let it get out of this room, right?”
    “Right,” Wetzon said.
    “Positively,” Smith said.
    “Listen, she’s