The Game of Love and Death (20 page)

“What are you saying, that I’m trying to be something I’m not?”

A look of confusion flashed across Helen’s face, then understanding. “I can see how you’d say that.”

“Henry’s waiting for me,” Flora said again. “So if you’ll excuse me.”

“What makes you think he’s still there?”

“Who would have paid his bail?”

“I might have left a note for the Thornes,” Helen said.

Flora thought she might be ill. That would make things infinitely worse for Henry. She’d have to reach him first.

“Don’t tell me you love him,” Helen said.

“I said no such thing.”

“I’m sure you’ve considered the cost,” Helen said. “How much it could hurt him.”

“I wouldn’t dream of hurting him.”

“But” — Helen paused, as if she were choosing her words carefully — “would you choose him if you could?”

“Choose him for what?”

“I think you know,” Helen said.

“And I think you know this is none of your concern.”

“Come now. Don’t look so angry. In different circumstances, we might have been friends. There isn’t so very much that separates you and me.”

“Everything separates us,” Flora said. “You can go where you want. Do what you want. Eat where you want. The world belongs to you and yours. My kind, we’re here to be your mules. Your world rests on our backs. We even have to pay you off for the privilege of entertaining you. And then you arrest us anyway.”

“So bitter,” Helen said. “And I love it.”

“We’re finished here,” Flora said.

“Here, perhaps,” Helen said.

Flora had made it halfway up the precinct stairs when Henry walked through the door, his bruised face downcast, flanked on either side by two distraught-looking white people. The woman wore a fur coat and hat; the man, a forehead-splitting scowl.

“Henry,” Flora said. “I’m sorry. I came as quickly as I could.” She’d come in such a rush she’d left her gloves and his hat behind. This, she realized as she noticed his uncovered curls.

Henry looked up, his eyes wide.

“Who might this be?” the woman asked, looking horrified. “How does she know your name? Is she the reason you were in this place? Is she — tell me she’s not — someone you hired?” She began to weep.

The man pulled Henry down the stairs past Flora, who had to take a step backward to let them by. Flora dropped her pocketbook, and its flimsy clasp popped open. The bills she’d gathered fluttered out.

The hungry children in ratty clothes who’d been skulking against the side of the building rushed forward and snatched most of it up before she could, but Flora didn’t have the strength to care. Henry’s guardians shoved him into the back of the car, which pulled away from the sidewalk with an angry squeal.

D
EATH
watched Flora leave the Domino, no doubt headed to the jail with her sad little wad of bills in hand. She drove a short distance away from the club and parked. It was late afternoon, a virtual dead zone for the neighborhood. No one was there to watch the intense, dark-eyed girl in the red dress walk up to the club and slip inside its locked door, which she opened with a single touch. Thus unobserved, she hastened down the stairs, knowing exactly where she’d start, hoping that the end would be as she intended: to take the last thing from Flora that was keeping her in Seattle.

Death lit a candle and placed it on the bar, inhaling the scent of burning wax as the glow of the lone flame found the edges of the room. Grady’s bass, still tinged with the essence of Henry’s touch, lay in the shadows. Though it was the size of a grown man, the instrument felt light in her arms as she moved it offstage, across the floor, and onto the bar. She placed it on its back, an echo of human sacrifices that had occurred over the millennia, gifts offered in the name of various gods, and every one a death that seeped into her endless hollows instead.

She materialized on the other side of the bar, filling her arms with clinking bottles: rum, vodka, bourbon, Scotch. Death set each one down. She uncapped the first of the bottles and emptied it over the instrument as one would anoint a corpse. Then the second and the third and the fourth. The wood groaned at the assault. Its pores drank in the booze; puddles of ruin trickled into the F-shaped holes on its face, drumming its back, scenting the air with dust and spirits.

She rested her hands on top of the bar, remembering the life she’d pulled from the wood the night she’d taken Flora’s parents. There was even less life remaining, less to fight the flames. The sight would be spectacular. She took the candle and held it inside the curved opening.

A claw of smoke rose; the edges of the wood reddened, then charred. And then, as if the fire had discovered its own thirst, the wood exploded into flame. It lapped up the ooze of liquor that had leaked down the countertop. It flowed like a red river over the edges of the bar, finding places to bite the floor, the shelves, the velvet curtains.

Death picked up the gloves she’d once left in the small green house. They were hers, after all, and she always took what was hers. Then she turned to leave, feeling the smoke and the heat on her back, knowing it was true what Love said about fire. This one was its own sort of creature, a singular soul.

Long may it burn.

F
LORA
left the jail and headed to the Domino, where she intended to finish with the food preparations as best she could before the show. She’d retrieve her gloves and set Henry’s hat aside. She’d find a way to get it to him later, and then leave him to his life.

In the distance, a dark finger of smoke touched the sky. She wanted to believe it was not her club in flames, not her livelihood being consumed, but she could feel the ruin of it in her depths, as if a part of her very self was being reduced to ash.

She stopped the car a short distance away and ran toward the burning building. The heat pressed against her face and arms, and the smoke smelled oily and toxic, no doubt fed by the well-stocked bar and kitchen, the curtains, the wooden stairs … everything familiar to her, the last bits of her parents’ legacy. The painting of them. When she realized that was lost too, along with the gloves she’d treasured, she could not hold back the tears. She stopped running.

Behind her, the bells of fire engines clanged, not that they would be able to do anything but keep the fire from spreading. Flora’s shoulders heaved. Next door, the Miyashitos were frantically pouring buckets of water on their business. They cried out to each other in Japanese, and she felt even worse. It would be everything they had too.

A police car was parked across the street. When the officers inside saw Flora approach, they stepped out. One held a sheet of paper in his hand.

“You’re the owner of this establishment?” the officer asked.

Flora nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

He handed her the paper. “Seems a shame to deliver this right now, but I’m legally required to.”

Flora scanned the document. An order from the city, shutting the club down on corruption charges. A flake of ash settled on Flora’s cheek, but she ignored the sudden prick of pain. She turned away from the police officer, crumpled the paper into a ball, and hurled it into the fire.

Words echoed in her mind, in a familiar voice she could not quite place.

Someday, everyone you love will die. Everything you love will crumble to ruin. This is the price of life. This is the price of love.

Someday had arrived.

M
R
. Thorne’s mouth twitched as he sat behind his desk and ticked off the many ways Henry had failed.

“You stole Ethan’s car —”

“I would have lent it to him,” Ethan said.

“Don’t interrupt. You stole the car, you left school during a day you had a final examination to take, you fraternized with … with … a colored
nightclub
performer, whom you then had cousin Helen bail out of jail, exposing her to Lord knows what kind of seaminess.”

Henry blanched. He hadn’t expected the Thornes to discover all that; Helen’s betrayal there surprised and wounded him. It was possible, he realized, that this was her retaliation for his choosing Flora over her. The rest of the accusation — that Helen was the fragile type who could be harmed by helping out someone their age — was nonsense. But Henry kept his mouth shut.

“Does that about sum it up?” Mr. Thorne said. “Or are there more things you’d like to disclose?”

He glanced at Ethan. Henry interpreted the pleading look on his face as a request to say nothing about visiting Hooverville or socializing with James afterward. And Henry was certainly not going to confess how much time he’d spent at the Domino, or how far his grades had fallen.

“I believe that sums it up, sir.”

Mr. Thorne’s mouth twitched again. He pressed his hands against his desk and stood. His bulk blocked much of the light from the window, and his shadow crossed Henry’s face as if it were a thing of substance. “You’ve put me in a terrible spot. A terrible spot.”

“I know.” Henry’s voice hardly felt like his own.

“Do you? Do you know how it feels to have someone you’ve raised — almost as a son — commit an act of violence against a man whose job it is to uphold the law?”

“But he’d framed —”

“Don’t even say her name. I don’t want to hear another word about her. Please tell me there hasn’t been any” — he waved his hand dismissively — “congress.”

“No,” Henry whispered, mortified even to be talking about such things in front of other people.

“Small blessings. It means this isn’t a permanent disaster.” Mr. Thorne lowered himself into his chair again, rubbing his hand along his bare scalp as he leaned back. “The newspaper will have to cover the attack and the arrest. Because you’re under eighteen, you’re not an adult. Your name won’t be used. But your link to my family will be disclosed. Journalistic ethics require it. It’s an embarrassment, an enormous embarrassment.”

Henry swallowed. He’d considered this already and it only made him feel worse to hear Mr. Thorne spell it all out.

“And it goes without saying that you will not graduate with your class. We spoke with them already. They told us about your plummeting grades, and with today’s escapade, you’ve been expelled.”

Henry felt ill.

“And you have lost your scholarship to the university.” Mr. Thorne leaned forward again on his elbows. “Obviously.”

The scholarship was his future, or it had been. And now that was gone. The loss horrified him, but in a way, he felt like he’d been expecting such a thing his entire life. As hard as he’d tried to make himself useful, to follow the rules, to earn his place, a part of him knew he was an impostor in this world. A part of him was always waiting to be cast out.

But he knew this too: There was a future he’d rather have. One he’d always wanted more. And that was one with the possibility of love.

“Father —” Ethan put his hands on the desk, pleading.

Mr. Thorne spun toward him, his index finger raised. “Not a word out of you, Ethan. So far, you seem blameless, but you don’t want to provoke me to dig below the surface and become aware of any shenanigans on your part, do you?”

“No, sir.” Ethan stepped back, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“Out of consideration for the friendship I had with your father, and the pleasure I’ve had seeing you grow up under my roof, I’m not going to cast you out entirely,” Mr. Thorne said. He pulled a cigar out of the humidor and lit it, exhaling a stream of blue smoke. “You may have a job, if you’d like, working on the press crew.” He paused. “But you’ll have to find another place to live. It won’t do to have you here, particularly not with someone vulnerable like Helen being put at risk by your behavior and associates. And then there are Ethan and Annabel to consider. They have their own reputations that need protection.”

Ethan sucked in his breath, and Henry felt sorrier for him than he did for himself.

“I understand,” Henry said. “Thank you, sir.”

Mr. Thorne lifted his cigar from the crystal ashtray whose edges gleamed like liquid in the soft library light. “You’re welcome,” he said, extending his other hand. “Stay out of trouble. And good luck.”

Ethan followed him upstairs. “Henry, you have to reconsider.”

“Reconsider?” Henry scanned the room to see what he should pack. Not much. A few items of clothing. Photographs of his parents and sister. His bass, which was still out in the carriage house. “There’s not a chance of that. Could I trouble you for a ride, though?”

“A ride? Where will you go?” Ethan closed the door behind him. “Henry, this is insanity. If you take that job working the press, it’s a dead end. You’ll never get out. You’ll never be able to afford a home, you’ll —”

“It’s not the only thing I’ll be doing,” he said. He opened a drawer and removed a small stack of folded undershirts, which he placed on the bed. “There’s the Domino. Flora’s asked me to join the band, and I said yes.”

“But that’s — beg for a second chance,” Ethan said. His voice sounded strained, not like his own. “Promise you’ll stay away from Flora and the Domino. Give up the music altogether. There’s no security in that. You know it, I know it. It’s time to face that.”

Henry opened another drawer and pulled out his pants. The school uniform ones, he could leave behind. A good thing. They were itchy. He turned to look at his friend. “Ethan, I don’t believe a word that’s coming out of your mouth. Weren’t you the one telling me to seize the day? Live the life I dreamed of living?”

“I know, I know,” Ethan said quietly. He took the undershirts off the bed and moved to put them back in the drawer, but Henry blocked him. “And I still believe it, I suppose, in the abstract. But this … finding a rented room in a boarding house somewhere, and working inside a noisy pressroom until your hands are permanently stained black and you’re crippled and deaf? I’ve seen those pressmen. I know what happens. And how can you possibly do that and then play music at night? Can’t you please just see if there’s a way for you to finish school? Graduate? You’re days away from it, and I — I’ll —”

“A diploma isn’t going to get me where I want to be,” Henry said. “And this job, it’s a place to start.” He held out his hands for the undershirts. Ethan relinquished them, and Henry set them on top of his bureau and pulled his father’s old suitcase from beneath his bed. It still bore stickers of his travels. Italy, France, England, Brazil — all places that seemed forever out of reach.

He walked to his closet for his one suit. “Don’t count me out just yet,” he said. “Though I don’t have any money for a room. I spent all but twelve cents on bail. What if I look up James in Hooverville? Do you suppose he’d help?” Ethan’s face reddened as he nodded.

“Don’t worry,” Henry said. “Just until the first paycheck comes in. How’s that story coming, by the way? Do you need my help with the writing yet? And what did James think of the music? We never had a chance to talk about it.”

“No — it’s fine, I — here, let me at least make myself useful.” He wrapped the photographs of Henry’s family in a wool sweater and laid them across the top of all the other items in the case. Then he walked to the closet for the borrowed tuxedo Henry had been wearing to the Domino. “You’re going to need this,” he said. “And I’ll give you a ride if you’d like. Of course.”

“I’m not taking that,” Henry said, looking at the tuxedo. “It’s your father’s.”

As he folded his life into a suitcase, he felt as he sometimes did in dreams, wanting to run but feeling as though his legs had turned to cement. But maybe that was what it meant to grow up and have the seemingly infinite possibility of childhood vanish in an instant. You had to press on, no matter how dark and narrow the path ahead seemed.

Ethan slipped the tuxedo and white shirt off the hanger. “Look, I want you to stay. To ask my parents for one more chance. You just can’t leave now. You can’t.” He put the clothing down and sat on Henry’s desk, resting his forehead on his palm. “I don’t know what I’m going to do without you, Henry.”

“We’ll still see each other,” Henry said. “Your parents haven’t forbidden that. And once you’re running the newspaper, you can give me a promotion.”

Ethan laughed, but it wasn’t a happy sound. “Here this is your misfortune, and I’m making it seem as though it’s mine. I’m sorry. You and I both know I’m doomed when it comes to the paper. It’s just a matter of time before my father learns the truth. I knew it was coming eventually.”

“I can still help,” Henry said. “Let’s write that Hooverville story together.”

“I can’t.” Ethan paused to catch his breath. “If I can’t read and write competently on my own, I have no business running the paper. It’s strange, but I used to think that was the worst thing in the world. Now I know it isn’t, and I’m almost eager for the inevitable. I might be asking you for a spot on the floor of your new place once you’ve got one.”

Henry snapped the suitcase shut and moved it off the bed. “What if we did leave together? As soon as I have the money to pay my share?”

Ethan looked up at him. “My father would never permit it.”

Henry immediately felt guilty. “I’m sorry. I know. And I’d never want for you to leave all this. You’re lucky, you know.”

“It doesn’t feel that way most of the time.”

Henry lifted his suitcase. Everything he had, minus his bass, he could carry in one hand. “You’ll come visit me. I won’t be far. And I can help you with anything you need. Your father — he never needs to know.”

“Henry,” Ethan said, his voice growing strained. “I admire your courage. You should have your music. But you must look the part, if you’re to play.” He opened Henry’s suitcase and slipped the tuxedo inside. Then he picked up the case. “You get your bass. Hang my father and whatever he has to say about it.”

Annabel burst in. She crashed into Henry, her face pink and wet from crying. “Henry! You can’t leave! I won’t let you!”

He squatted so they were eye to eye with each other.

“I won’t be going far,” he said. “We’ll ride bicycles together in the park.”

“Promise?” she said.

“I promise. And I’ll send you loads of letters. Now where’s your handkerchief? Let’s get you cleaned up.” She took Flora’s hankie out of her pinafore and Henry pressed it against her cheeks, his fingers touching the letters of the name sewn into the fabric. He wondered what Flora was doing, whether she was thinking of him. He’d had no time to contact her since that awful moment at the jail, and he didn’t know when he’d next be near a telephone or able to walk to her house.

He folded Annabel into his arms. She smelled like grass and peanut butter, and the thought of not hearing her noise every morning and answering her annoying questions and watching her grow up in slow motion … He exhaled quickly, released her, and stood.

Ethan was waiting outside the door with his suitcase.

“Ready?” he said.

“As I’ll ever be.”

Helen waited at the bottom of the stairs. She wore a white skirt and sweater set, and a rope of pearls, which she held between her teeth. She spit them out to ask him a question. “Where are you two going with that suitcase?”

“None of your business,” Ethan said. “I’m sure you already know, anyway.”

Henry felt embarrassed by his situation. Not that he’d ever seriously considered Helen. But this would mean he’d never be with a girl like her, one with pearls and a soft sweater and shining hair. In the most superficial way, she reminded him of his mother, although without the warmth that suffused his memories. He couldn’t tell what he felt about her, or anything else. The numbness went all the way through. Knowing she’d find out at some point, he opted for the truth. A quick drop of the guillotine, forever severing his life from hers.

“I’m moving to Hooverville,” he said.

The look on her face was puzzling. Dismay and then anger.

“Excuse me,” she said. Her breath and the air around her smelled of smoke. She started up the stairs, pausing halfway. “I’ll be seeing you again. Soon. That’s a promise.”

He doubted that. He doubted it very much. He lifted his suitcase. On their way to his car, Ethan tried to talk Henry out of staying in Hooverville. “I have some money saved up. That place isn’t fit for any man.”

“James lives there,” Henry said, putting his suitcase in the trunk.

“James — he’s different.” Ethan grabbed Henry’s arm, as if he could physically keep him from leaving. “Things don’t seem to bother him as much.”

He slipped out of Ethan’s grip and walked to the carriage house to get his bass, hoping it wouldn’t be stolen or turned into kindling the second he turned his back on it in the shantytown. “It won’t be long before I have enough saved up for a room somewhere. Hooverville isn’t my destiny.”