Tender Death (13 page)

I
T WAS A CHARITY
affair for Russian dissidents at the Brooklyn MR Academy of Music. She was dancing a strange pas de deux with Ilena Milanova, Ilena in diaphanous red chiffon, Wetzon in white. Although her feet seemed to know the steps, the music was unfamiliar. She and Ilena were totally in sync. Bearded dancers in black tights, white shirts, and bow ties were gliding around holding red lacquer trays of herring. Stock certificates were draped on their forearms, like napkins. She was thrilled to be dancing with Ilena.

Suddenly the orchestra stopped. Wetzon looked up. For heaven’s sake, Leon was conducting the orchestra. He shook his shaggy gray head as if he were Leonard Bernstein, poked his glasses up his nose, and tapped his baton on the glitzy lectern. The music changed to “I Got Rhythm.”

Her feet, in patent leather Mary Jane tap shoes, began the old-time step she had done as a child. She turned to her partner. It was Judy Blue.

“What are you doing here?” Wetzon asked, not missing a step. “I didn’t know you could dance.”

“You’re missing everything, my girl,” Judy Blue said. “Keep your eye on the conductor.”

Where had Ilena gone?

They finished the number with a shuffle off to Buffalo. Harvey Lichtenstein, whom Wetzon knew because he ran the Brooklyn Academy of Music and was very supportive of dance companies, was standing in the wings in black tie, talking to Smith. He nodded to Wetzon.

“I’m worried about you,” Smith said. “You invest your money in stocks. If the market goes down, you won’t have anything.”

“You have me,” Silvestri said, holding out his hand to her.

“Do I?” Wetzon said.

“You have me,” Carlos called from the other side of the stage. “At least for now.”

“I’ll take your bow for you,” Smith said, rushing out on to the stage.

Wetzon ran after her, taps clicking. “No, no!” Smith was wearing Wetzon’s costume and was bowing as if she had done the number.

A trapdoor opened under Wetzon’s feet and she began to fall.

“Silvestri” she screamed, reaching for his hand. But he wasn’t there. She clutched the stage where the trap had opened, her body swinging in space.

“Where are you going?” Teddy asked, kneeling down.

“Teddy, please help me,” she cried.

“Sorry. Got a lead to follow.”

The lights went out and someone stepped on her hands. She screamed with pain and, letting go, hurtled into empty space.

A siren pealed.

She awoke thrashing. Her alarm had gone off. Six-thirty. She stopped the alarm and lay there, breathing unevenly. Another dream and such a threatening one, too.

It had been late when she’d come in last night and she had torn off her clothes and fallen into bed in her silk thermal underwear.

Flexing her feet, then pointing, she got out of bed. Her throat was only mildly sore. She checked her neck in the bathroom mirror. It was black-and-blue, but surprisingly not swollen, and her throat was hardly sore at all.

She did a quick stretching workout after her shower, played back her messages.

Silvestri couldn’t get there.

“Wetzon, this is Sonya. You know, your ex-friend, Sonya Mosholu? Pick up. Damn, why aren’t you there? Wetzon, this person you referred to me actually came to see me wearing a gun. Hello? ... Damnit, Wetzon. I’m a sixties’ person. I hate guns. I hate people who carry guns ... Oh never mind. I hate the way I sound.” She hung up.

Wetzon laughed. O’Melvany to Mosholu. Contact!

The next call was from Carlos.

Then Smith.

Carlos again, sounding upset. He left a strange number.

Smith again, also upset.

Damn! She got the coffee going and called the number Carlos had left. It was only seven o’clock.

A voice she didn’t recognize answered.

“This is Leslie Wetzon. I’m sorry to call so early but—”

“Arthur Margolies here.” A very nice voice. “Hold on, Leslie Wetzon.”

Carlos came on right away. “Les—”

“Carlos, what’s wrong?”

“Tommy Lawrence died.”

“God no.” She sank down on the floor near the telephone. She and Carlos had known Tommy since they’d known each other. He’d been on almost every show with them. He couldn’t have been more than thirty-four or five. “When?”

“Last night. It was so fast ...”

“Did you know he was sick?” She began to cry. The youngest, the nicest, the most talented ... the beautiful boys and men she had known.

“Yes, don’t get mad. He didn’t want anyone to see him. You know how he felt about his looks.”

“I know. But at least I could have talked to him on the telephone.” Tommy was a beautiful boy when Wetzon had first met him, with a kind of blond virginal purity that belied his sexual appetites.

“He had pneumonia. He was in an oxygen tent. Oh, Les—” Carlos began to sob.

The other voice came back on the line. “I’m sorry about your friend,” he said softly.

She wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her sweatshirt. “Arthur?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry that this is the way we meet.”

“I am, too.”

“Take care of Carlos.”

“I will. He said to tell you there’s going to be a memorial service later this week.”

“Okay. Just let me know.”

She hung up the phone and cried for Tommy Lawrence and all the others. She was afraid for Carlos.

Her phone rang. She hesitated before she answered it, drying her eyes on the bottom of her sweatshirt.

“Wetzon? Wetzon? Hello?” It was Smith’s son, Mark. He sounded terrible.

“Mark? What’s happened? What’s the matter?”

“Wetzon, Mom is really upset. Can you come right away? I don’t know what to do. She won’t talk to me.” His voice trailed off.

“Mark, honey, tell her to pick up the phone for me. Okay?”

He came back a moment later. “She said to leave her alone, that she wants to die.”

“Okay, you know she isn’t going to die, so why don’t you make a pot of tea, and I’ll be right over.” She sighed. Smith went through moods that were wild swings of smug joy and deep depression. The slightest thing could set her off, from not being able to get a reservation at an
in
restaurant to an imagined, or real, slight by a client. She was hypersensitive and when Wetzon told her not to take these things personally, Smith accused Wetzon of not knowing when people were insulting her. Wetzon couldn’t win.

Wetzon focused on getting dressed and over to Smith’s. Mark sounded ready to crack. There was too much emotional involvement for a thirteen-year-old. Having grown up without a father, Mark was too attached to Smith, and Smith used his attachment as an emotional crutch. He needed a social life, more friends his own age.

Wetzon dressed for business, because there was business to do today, in a brown tweed suit and a camel hair sweater. She did a bare-bones makeup and packed a set of morning vitamins into her carryall with her papers. The backpack was on the floor near the door, and she emptied it, taking her wallet and notes. The bottle of cognac she put on the kitchen counter.

Wrapped for the North Pole, she ventured out on Eighty-sixth Street. There was no doorman to be seen and her super, Camillo Peresi, was shoveling the sidewalk, whistling as he did so. The sun was so bright and warm it was melting the icicles that hung randomly from the dark brown canopy of her building.

“No one showed up today yet,” Camillo explained, giving her his broken-toothed smile. He was wearing a small, black beret and looked like a Basque peasant. He stopped shoveling and leaned on the shovel. Since he lived in the building, when the staff didn’t show he was responsible for everything.

“I’m sorry,” Wetzon said, looking up and down the street for a cab. She was distracted, not so much about Smith, but by Tommy Lawrence ... and Carlos. The sidewalks had been shoveled and the gutters were piled high with snow. Camillo had shoveled a neat entrance between the snow piles and the street, which was a white carpet with spots of slush and dark road showing through.

The air felt almost balmy.

A cab stopped in front of her building and a thin, tanned man in a leather coat got out, being careful not to get his fine black leather boots wet. He was carrying a Louis Vuitton traveling bag over his shoulder and a matching Vuitton briefcase. He and Wetzon nodded at each other familiarly, as longtime neighbors would. He was the art director at a big advertising agency, traveling incessantly between New York and Los Angeles.

“Welcome home,” Wetzon said. “We’ve been busy while you were away.” She held the cab door for him.

“So I see.” He wagged his head of reddish curls.

“How was California?”

“Cold and damp.”

“‘That’s why the lady is a tramp,’” they both said, as Wetzon got into the cab and gave the driver Smith’s address.

The City was digging out with obsessive efficiency. The main streets were entirely cleared and the side streets, although narrowed by snow-encrusted cars, were at least passable. She made a mental list of people to call. Kevin De Haven, Peter Tormenkov, Hazel, Teddy ... Last night—seeing Judy Blue like that—out of the blue ... Judy Blue. It was too much of a coincidence, but why would it be anything else but? And Teddy had been in a dumb funk the whole way home. He hadn’t even offered to help pay for the cab when they’d dropped him on Ninth Avenue.

“Announce me please, Tony,” she said to Smith’s doorman, and went to the back of the lobby where two small, swarthy women, made round by their outer wrapping, were complaining to each other in Spanish about the subway system. They got on with her and got off at different floors.

Mark was waiting in the doorway, watching for her to get off the elevator. His face was stained with tears. She would have to talk to Smith about him.

“No school today?” She touched his cheek, then stepped back and pulled off her boots.

He shook his head. “We’re closed because of the storm.” They went into the apartment and Wetzon closed the door behind them.

Too bad
, she thought, disengaging herself of her coat, scarf, and hat, handing them to Mark. She could have packed him off to school and dealt with Smith herself. “Where is she?”

“In her bedroom.” He was wringing his hands like a worried little old man. “Do you think she’s okay?”

“Of course. You know how tough she is. I’m sure something just upset her for the moment.” She walked to the closed bedroom door and knocked gently. “Smith?”

“Go away.” Smith’s voice, clogged with hours of crying, came through the door. “I’m going to kill myself.”

Mark howled, “Mom!”

Wetzon turned Mark from the door. “Wait in the kitchen and keep the tea hot.” He looked at her plaintively. “Go on.” She waited until he was gone. “Smith, stop this nonsense and open the door right now.” She rattled the doorknob. It was locked. “Come on, my friend, talk to me. I have so much to tell you about yesterday” No response. “Of course, if you don’t want to hear ...” She heard a small sound from behind the door. A footfall. The key turned in the lock, but the door didn’t open.

Wetzon opened the door. The room was a mess. Smith stood unkempt and disheveled in a ragged striped bathrobe. Her hair was wild and uncombed. She looked emaciated, anorectic. She swayed and Wetzon caught her.

“My God, Smith, what happened?” The bed looked like a combat zone. Covers half on the floor. Pillows scattered all over the room. A glass on the night table was tipped over. On the carpet near it, a dark, wet spot. An ashtray was clogged with cigarette butts. Clothing and towels covered the floor. Wetzon had to negotiate over an obstacle course which included magazines and shoes to get Smith to the bed. She tried to straighten the crumpled sheet, gave up, and let Smith sink to the bed. When Wetzon righted the blanket she dislodged a plastic makeup bag and an electric razor. Finally, she covered Smith and sat down on the bed facing her.

Smith moaned.

“Okay, Smith, what the hell is going on?” Wetzon reached over and smoothed Smith’s dark curls. Smith was silent, her eyes downcast. “I’m going to leave without telling you anything about what I’ve been up to ...” She got to her feet. Smith reached out a bony hand and grabbed Wetzon’s shirt. “Okay, then tell me.”

“Leon’s betrayed us,” Smith whispered.

“What? How?”

“He’s having an affair with Arleen Grossman.”