The Groaning Board by Annette Meyers Page B

whole milk. ;
    “What are you doing, Les?” Silvestri
stood in the doorway holding the clasp envelope from the dining table. By the
shape of it, it was no longer empty. He sounded annoyed. You know, you can tell
a lot about a person by looking in their cupboards and refrigerators.”
    “Oh, yeah? And what did you learn,
Sherlock?”
    “Let’s go,” Metzger called.
    She closed the doors of the cabinet.
“Forget it, Silvestri.”
    “Not on your life. I’m all ears. I’d
love to hear all about it.”
    She hated him when he got like this,
but she said, “All right, then. Your Sheila was a health-food freak.”
    “She was not.” He seemed to resent
her involvement, as if Sheila Gelber still belonged to him. And she wondered if
he meant she was not a health-food freak or not my Sheila.
    “Oh?” Wetzon said with an edge. “Then
you’ve seen her recently?” When he turned away and headed for the door, she
followed him. “People change, you know.”
    “Come on, children.” Metzger was
obviously distressed. “This is no time to fight. Just be happy you have each
other. Right, Leslie?” He patted her shoulder, looking over her head at
Silvestri.
    The night had a particular chill to
it, or so it seemed to Wetzon. Or maybe it was Silvestri’s icy introspection
keeping her at arm’s length. Whatever it was, she felt hurt and angry. They
rode through the Park in stony silence.
    Silvestri drove around the block
twice, then backed the Toyota into a parking place near the corner of Amsterdam and turned off the engine. He made no move to get out.
    “Are you coming up?” Wetzon asked.
He’d held on to his Chelsea apartment because it was rent-controlled, or so he
said. But Wetzon figured it to be his escape hatch, so he’d have somewhere to
go if they split up. These days he used it for his poker games.
    “ Why wouldn’t
I?” he said abruptly, giving her an uncompromising stare.
    “ Jesus,
Silvestri, don’t do that. I haven’t committed a Cr*me... yet. I only thought
you’re so upset about Sheila, maybe you want to be alone.”
    It’s not what you think, Les.”
    How do you know what I think? You
make no effort to try to understand. Everything I say seems to bug you—”
    You think,” he said quietly, “that
what was between me aod Sheila was deep.”
    “Wasn’t it?”
    “No, it wasn’t. It was just something
that Judy and Metzger wanted to happen but wasn’t right for either of us. I
haven’t seen or talked to her in years.”
    “Then why are you...” The tortured
look in his eyes prevented her from going on. She’d never seen him so upset.
    “Come on,” he said. He got out of the
car and came around for her, still carrying the manila envelope.
    He’s taken Sheila’s bills, she
thought.
    The night was blustery; swift-moving
clouds scudded black-edged against the moonless sky. It matched the emotions of
the moment.
    In the elevator he put his arm on her
shoulders. “This is how it is,” he said. “It has nothing to do with you and me.
This time you can’t help. It’s something I have to work out for myself.”

Chapter Thirteen

     
     
     
    She’d fallen
asleep sitting up, her book in her lap, and woke when he closed her book and turned out the
light. Izz whined when he set her in her dog bed on the floor.
    For the first time in a long time
Wetzon had been afraid of the dark, not wanting to remember the sound of that
terrible voice on Sheila’s answering machine.
    When he got into bed beside her, she
folded herself against him. They made love, but it was different this time; his
need was so intense, it threatened to crush her.
    Sometime during the night she heard
him get up, heard him moving around; he didn’t come back.
    It was after nine when she woke
again. Izz was nestling in the small of Wetzon’s back. Silvestri was gone. And
so was the Manila envelope.
     
    The farmers’ market was meager.
Wetzon was cold in her trench coat. She pulled her beret over her ears. A
halfhearted