"I know. I'm a woman; I have the prerogative to change my mind, especially after sleeping on it. I don't want to place anyone in harm's way by holding back information but Julie is part of this nightmare and I want to keep peace if possible."

"We have to sic Howie on the crime scene. With luck, he'll tell us if it's our man or some local hoods trashing Julie's place." Betsy rose, unkinked her arm and stretched. She noticed the nearly empty gin bottle for the first time. She tipped it to her lips and emptied it. "Nice party. Did you have fun?" She turned toward the kitchen before I could answer. "I'm hungry."

I closed my eyes and perhaps nodded off but when I opened them, Martha was standing there, without her robe, in only a sheer nightgown. Unnoticed, Betsy stood in the kitchen doorway, a sandwich in her hand, munching away.

"Looking for a little action?" my wife said. I thought Martha would faint.

She caught herself, and slumped into a chair, clutching her gown to her ample chest. "God," she said her eyes wide as she stared at Betsy. "You gave me a heart attack!" She bent over, gagged and vomited between her legs on the carpet. Betsy made no move to assist but continued to eat her sandwich.

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"You want one, Ben? I don't suppose Martha does; least not yet. It's peanut butter and jelly."

When Martha finished, she tossed her head back and moaned. Betsy finished her sandwich and strolled toward the stairs.

"Coming up to bed, Ben? The help will clean that mess when she sobers up in the morning. 'Night, Martha."

"Betsy, I'm sorry!" Martha moaned her head still back and her eyes closed. "I tried to get Ben to fuck me but he wouldn't. I was drunk. Still am."

"That's okay, Martha. Quinn spent the whole time you were pregnant talking about him and me becoming friends with benefits. No harm, no foul." She turned in my direction. "I trust Ben." Any attempt by Martha at a rebuttal was met with a yawn. Betsy pirouetted sharply and continued up the stairs. I followed in my wife's footsteps.

"It was the gin," I said once we were in bed.

"It was the hormones," my wife scoffed.

"She told me one time; she'd never cheated on Quinn."

"Ask Martha to define cheating. Look Ben, she swings on a different set of monkey bars from you and me. Moral ambiguity, that's all. Our job is to hold this group together, for the children. That's the whole agenda; just rally 'round the flag, boys, chin held high."




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