The Groaning Board Read Free Page A

door slammed. No one came
through-the kitchen, Wetzon observed regretfully.
    Envelope in hand, Smith contemplated
her tiny bag, as if willing the envelope smaller. Finally, seeing magic was not
forthcoming, she thrust the envelope at Wetzon. “Here,” she said, “you can put
this in your briefcase and give it to me tomorrow.”
    “Thanks a lot.” Wetzon stuffed the
envelope into her briefcase.
    “Do you want to stop somewhere for a
drink?” Smith asked halfheartedly.
    “No, I’ve had enough. I’m going to
walk it off through the park.”
    Minnie Wu was coming in with her crew
as Wetzon followed Smith through the shop—where end-of-the-day shoppers were
lined up out to the street. Outside the carriage house, a young girl with
straight blond hair, parted in the middle, was sitting on a fat, old-fashioned
leather valise. Her pretty face was stoic as tears streamed down her cheeks.
    “Oh, my,” Smith said. “You poor child.”
    “Do you need help?” Wetzon asked.
    The girl turned exquisite green eyes
from Smith to Wetzon, but before she could speak, A. T. Barron rushed out of
the shop and clutched the girl to her bosom. “Now don’t you worry about
anything,” she said. “You’ll always have a home with me.”
    “She hates me,” the girl said.
“She’ll make you suffer if you take me in to live with you.”
    “No one,” A.T. said in a voice that
gave Wetzon the creeps, “no one makes me suffer.”

Chapter Four

     
     
     
    IT HAD STARTED, INAUSPICIOUSLY
ENOUGH, WITH A VEAL ROAST. And most of the cast of characters had made their
appearance by the time Smith and Wetzon left The Groaning Board late that April
afternoon and parted on Second Avenue. But neither of them knew this.
    And neither had any inkling that
one—Micklynn, A.T., Minnie, or Ellen—would end up doing the dead man’s float in
the section of the Hudson River known as New York Bay.
     
    When they arrived at Smith’s
apartment building on Seventyseventh Street between Second and Third, Smith
said, “What route are you taking home, sweetie pie?”
    “Why do you want to know? Oh, my, be
still my heart. You’re thinking of putting on your running shoes and joining
me.” That’ll be the day, Wetzon thought. Smith didn’t believe in exercise, ate
whatever she liked, and still maintained her slim, svelte figure. It was
loathsome.
    “Are you mad?” Smith said.
    “Oh, totally.”
    “So how are you walking?”
    Wetzon sighed. “I don’t know.
Probably past the Shakespeare theater. Why?”
    “Why? I can’t believe you’re asking
me that. The Park is so dangerous. What if you disappeared on your way to the West Side?”
    “Oh, pu-leeze,” Wetzon said.
    It was still light and the air along Fifth Avenue emanating from the depths of the Park was fragrant with the scent of dogwood.
The magnolia buds were swelling; clumps of forsythia streaked the landscape
with gold and the lilacs were just starting to bloom. In the spring Central Park dressed to kill.
    All of which in a few short days
would lead to itchy, runny eyes and sneezing. But match allergies against
spring in New York... no contest.
    On the splendid steps of the Metropolitan Museum, crowds of young—and not so young—people sat, ate, talked, read,
waited for dates, friends, or just basked in the warm sunlight.
    Taking the path behind the museum,
Wetzon turned into the Park and headed downslope, veering to the left and then
circling the ball fields. Amateur teams from assorted leagues were playing, and
the smack of bat hitting ball seemed the perfect invitation to spring in the
City.
    Babes were all sitting in their high
chairs by this time and those ubiquitous foldaway strollers were conspicuously
absent; the Park belonged to the joggers, cyclists, and roller-bladers, and
those like Wetzon who walked through Central Park on the way home, pretending
it was exercise when it was really balm for the soul.
    New York women were exercise-obsessed. Thin wasn’t
enough; thin and