The Groaning Board

said. If she didn’t get out of there, she was going to be sick.
    “Loose ends must be tied off;
otherwise, everything unravels, my dear.” He was standing now too. “Sit down
and let me tell you how it is.” J
    She stared at him. Silvestri had used
a similar phrase. ‘I don’t think we have anything to talk about, Bill.” She
forced the words through her teeth.
    On the run now, she was oblivious to
the startled expressions. Only peripherally was she aware she had satisfied the
delighted curiosity of the strangers visiting her City, who, having been
alerted by their travel agents and the media to the unpredictable
eccentricities of New Yorkers, were looking forward to just such a performance
from one of the natives.
    A short time later in Central Park, shoulder resting on an ancient oak, she threw up, ridding herself of the
poisons she’d allowed to creep into her being. It was Silvestri she loved, and
she would hold on to this. They would work through their problems. If he let
her help. Sheila Gelber was dead. There was no escaping that.
    She wiped her mouth with a tissue,
embarrassed by the mess. But then, Central Park was well over a century old.
Surely other people had been sick to their stomachs here. She patted the crusty
bark of the old oak, readjusted her scarf, and was on her way toward Central
Park West and home.
    The last few hours had been an
aberration, and she could blot out most of it... temporarily at least. It would
all come surging back at her the moment she settled her head on her pillow and
turned out the light. She could not remove Rita Silvestri from her thoughts.
Would she tell? No, Wetzon didn’t think so. But Wetzon had seen something in
Rita’s eyes—not understanding, exactly—but was it acknowledgment? Damn
Smith and her “be nice to Bill Veeder”!
    Hold on there, Leslie Wetzon, she
told herself. This is your doing entirely. She couldn’t blame Smith for
anything hut the power of suggestion.
    Clutching an armload of mail, she let
herself into her apartment while Izz danced around and made guttural sounds.
Hardly the hysterical greeting the little dog saved for Silvestri. “No doubt a
female-to-male thing, right, Izz?” she said. “I do understand.”
    Wetzon switched on the light and the
globes of her art-glass chandelier glowed with oranges and blues. Izz yelped at
her impatiently. “Yes, yes, I’ll bet you’re hungry. Let me just drop this stuff
and take off my coat.”
    Except for the chandelier, the
apartment was dark. She raced around turning on all the lights, Izz on her
heels, then dropped her coat on a chair and shook as much dried dog food as the
little dog would let her into the empty dish. Leaning against the counter, she
watched Izz gobble for a few minutes, then filled the water bowl and left the
kitchen, trying to ignore the answering machine blinking that there were four
messages waiting.
    In the bathroom Wetzon rinsed her
mouth again and again. She wiped off her makeup, then stood in a steaming
shower for a long time until she felt clean again.
    The apartment was cold. That damp
cold that builds up after management turned off the heat and yet outside it
wasn’t warm enough to extend inside. She pulled on sweats, put Mozart on the
CD, and worked at her barre until she felt her mind begin to dissolve into her
body.
    She made a pot of coffee, toasted a
bagel and slathered it with cream cheese, took it and a mug of coffee into the
living room. Her answering machine was still blinking. Five messages.
Damnation. One must have come in while she was in the shower. She hit the
playback button. Couldn’t everyone i leave her alone?
    “Silvestri? Call me.“ Metzger.
    Beep.
    “Les, I’ll be home around seven.“ Silvestri.
    Beep.
    " Silvestri? Where the hell
are you?” Metzger again.
    Beep.
    “Sweetie pie, we have to talk. Call
me the minute you get home.“ Who else but Smith?
    “I will not call you, bitch.” Wetzon
wrinkled her nose at Izz, who was sniffing at the bagel. It was seven-thirty
and no sign of Silvestri. Why was Metzger so anxious to talk to him? Had
something come in from forensics on Sheila?
    Beep.
    The line was open. No one spoke, but
she could hear the breathing. She was meant to hear the breathing. The
disconnect came abruptly. She sat absolutely still, foot curled undef her,
until she became aware it had fallen asleep. As she flexe» it to get the pins
and needles out, she said aloud, “It was a wrong number.” It had to be. But