Tender Death Read Online Free

interplay.
    “I’m a professional volunteer,” she had characterized herself. She spent one day a week at the museum shop, three mornings as an assistant teacher in a Spanish Harlem elementary school, and one day with an organization that brought children and music together.
    She was a retired social worker, a Ph.D. who had specialized in child psychology and who had studied in Chicago with Dr. Bruno Bettelheim. “My mentor,” she called him reverently. She had come to New York to teach at Columbia and had spent the years before her retirement with one of the big settlement houses, working with underprivileged children.
    Shortly before their meeting at the Museum of American Folk Art, Hazel had been slowed down briefly by a mastectomy, but it hadn’t stopped her for long. She was nearing seventy now, and Wetzon loved her spirit and commitment. And her curiosity.
    “It keeps me young,” Hazel maintained. “And so does Woody Allen. And so do you,” she had said the last time Wetzon had seen her. “Always have young friends, Leslie. They keep you from taking yourself too seriously.”
    Wetzon got off the bus at Seventy-seventh Street and crossed over to Sant Ambroeus. She and Hazel both loved the cafe even though it was ridiculously expensive. It was an indulgence but everything was so exquisite, it made them feel special.
    She sped up when she saw Hazel’s silhouette in her old seal coat through the fogged windows of the cafe. Wetzon squinted—surely there was something ... odd. She pushed open the door, and Hazel turned. Involuntarily, Wetzon gasped. Hazel’s face was ghostly white and pinched beneath the burgundy felt hat with its racy feather. Seeing Wetzon, she smiled a shadow of her old smile and edged forward. Then Wetzon saw the cane.
    “Hey, what’s this?” Wetzon stooped to hug Hazel, who suddenly seemed so fragile, even small. An old woman. How could someone change so much in such a short time? Silently, Wetzon chastised herself for not staying in closer touch. “I hope you haven’t been waiting long,” she said, keeping her arm around Hazel’s narrow shoulders.
    “No, just got here a minute ago, and this,” she said, waving a gloved hand casually toward the cane, “this is just a touch of arthritis. You look wonderful, as usual, Leslie dear, and I am ravenous.”
    She walked with strained steps, leaning heavily on the cane. Wetzon followed, brooding. Surely Hazel had never said anything about arthritis in all the time they had known each other.
    They ordered the cheese risotto and tremezzini: prosciutto, mozzarella, and tomato sandwiches on little Italian breads, and shared everything. Wetzon sipped the hot Italian-roast coffee and set the cup down. “All right, let’s hear it. What’s going on?”
    “Nothing, nothing at all,” Hazel said, “except I’ve made such progress with little Emilio. He’s starting to read by himself now. But tell me what’s happening with you. You lead a much more exciting life. Catch me up.” Her eyes said, I’ll tell you when I’m ready, and not a minute sooner.
    “You are the most stubborn—”
    “Don’t say old lady because—”
    “Okay, you win. Your way.” Wetzon broke off a piece of the crisp breadstick and buttered it. “I’m starved, too. This weather—”
    “How’s Carlos?” Hazel interrupted, just as their food arrived. She loved Wetzon’s best friend Carlos. The last time Wetzon had seen Hazel, they’d had dinner in Carlos’s loft in the West Village. He had made a bouillabaisse and a wonderful Mississippi mud cake, and they had polished off three bottles of wine. Carlos had regaled them with the current theater gossip, Wetzon had told her latest broker stories, and Hazel had retold the Peepsie stories, which made no sense whatever, but were so funny that the three of them had collapsed in giggles, helpless with laughter.
    “He’s been busy on the new musical. We talk on the phone, but I haven’t seen him in a couple of