The Groaning Board

disheveled as if it was she who’d fought with Minnie. Ellen didn’t
respond, her back a firm holdout against all kindness.
    “Your brother and your houseguest got
too friendly and Minnie was a little upset,” Wetzon said. She could feel the
faint throb begin over her right eye. Migraine on the way.
    “She tried to kill me!” Ellen cried,
getting her voice back.
    A.T. rushed to the girl and held her
close, stroking her wet hair, cooing to her. “Baby, baby, don’t worry.... I’ll
make it all right...
    “Come with me, Leslie.” Wetzon hadn’t
heard Bill return, but there he was. He led her out of the kitchen and out the
door to the elevator. “I told Xenia you had a migraine.”
    “Thank you.” How did he know she got
migraines? Or was it just a lucky guess? “So that leaves only Mort and Poppy at
the table from hell.”
    They got on the elevator.
    “No, it leaves an empty table. The
estimable Poppy felt one of her viruses coming on, so Mort had to take her
home. He said he’d be back.”
    “He probably will. He likes the
social... intercourse.”
    Veeder smiled. “Just for the record,
Hem’s a philanderer.”
    “Philanderer? Are we in a Restoration
play? No, never mind. Philanderers just another synonym for man, wouldn’t you say?”
    He studied her with an intensity that
made her uncomfortable. “Some women play on a man’s weakness, he said.
    They came out of the building. The
sky was aglitter with stars. And Silvestri had a girlfriend. “Weakness? Really?
It doesn’t strike me that you suffer from that, Bill.”
    “Don’t endow me with qualities I
don’t have, Leslie. I’m a man; I’m human.”
    There were plenty of cabs cruising up
Third Avenue with their center lights on. “Thanks for getting me out of
there.” She held out her hand. “Good night.”
    “I didn’t break you out so you could
run off, Leslie.” He took her hand and gave a gentle tug.
    She resisted. “Excuse me, what were
we saying about philanderers?”
    “Please, Ms. Wetzon, won’t you come
with me? I want you to meet someone.” He began walking her away from Smith’s
building.
    At least they were walking west. And
she had to admit she liked the way her hand felt in his. He was a man who had
evolved. Or seemed to be. “Where are we going?”
    “To Park Avenue. I want you to meet
Evelyn.”
    “You want me to meet your wife?”
    “Yes. All charter members of the
Philanderers Club bring the philanderees to meet their wives.” He was laughing
at her. “You’re not kidding?”
    “No, I’m not kidding.”
    They crossed Lexington and she
faltered. “I don’t think this is such a good idea.”
    “Are you afraid to meet Evelyn?” he
asked. “Guilty thoughts perhaps?”
    “Not at all. Why should I be afraid?”
But she was. He was right too. Something was germinating between Bill Veeder
and Leslie Wetzon. She wondered if he would kiss her breasts as Hem had
Ellen’s, then shook the thought away. What was the matter with her?
    “Good evening, Mr. Veeder.” Park Avenue and Seventy-seventh Street. The doorman spoke with a slight burr.
    “Good evening, Scotty.” Veeder bent
and whispered in her ear. “You’re holding my hand awfully tight, Ms. Leslie.”
    His breath made her shiver.
    A doorman and an elevator man. A
first-class building. Another “Good evening, Mr. Veeder,” and up to the
fifteenth floor.
    As Veeder nudged her out of the
elevator, she began, “I don’t think-—” But he was unlocking the door, holding
it open for her.
    The apartment was very formal. The
gallery floor was marble and it went on and on. Big stiff pieces of French
furniture with lots of ormolu. An old tapestry on the wall. More old
tapestries. A very serious apartment.
    “Oh, Mr. Veeder. I thought it was
you.” A light-skinned black woman in a black uniform came toward them.
    “Elsie, this is Ms. Wetzon. Is my
wife still up?”
    “Yes. She’s in the sitting room.”
Elsie was about fifty, hair streaked with gray, very muscular in build. She
wore black oxfords with chunky heels.
    As they moved through the gallery,
the strains of a Mozart piano concerto came toward them.
    The sitting room needed a gardener.
It was overgrown with blossoms. Yellow-blossomed chintz blanketed the windows
and both sofa and easy chair. A needlepoint rug of fat cabbage roses covered
the floor. On a sofa table was a huge glass bowl of fresh flowers. The floral
arrangement almost obliterated the sofa and the woman who sat