The Game of Love and Death (21 page)

The drive to the encampment was short and silent. Hooverville looked much smaller than the first time Henry had seen it.

“At least take some money for food,” Ethan said.

Henry tucked the money into his billfold. “I’ll pay you back.” He hated owing Ethan any more than he already owed.

“Not on your life.” Ethan looked around in dismay. “Why aren’t you at least asking for another chance?”

Henry didn’t answer. He didn’t want to say the truth, that it was almost a relief that what he’d feared most had finally come to pass. As long as there was still Flora, as long as there was the Domino, then nothing else could hurt him.

H
ENRY
adjusted to the rattle and heat of the pressroom in less than a day. The chaos kept him from most of his own thoughts as he loaded rolls of newsprint into the oily flatbed press. The spinning, the noise, the flying of paper: All of it helped distract him from everything else. So much loss. For Flora, her grandmother. For himself, his home. It felt as though some unseen blade were slicing off the edges of their world, leaving them with little ground to stand on.

He’d set up temporarily at Hooverville, where at least James had been helpful. Almost too helpful, really. He’d clung to Henry like a shadow, even giving him a small shack that smelled of sawdust and tar. In those moments when Henry did stop and listen and breathe, he felt a certain shiver in the air, as though everything solid were about to crumble.

“Heads up, Bishop!”

Henry jumped out of the way of his supervisor, Carl Watters, who was pulling a barrel of ink on a dolly past the chugging press. “No wonder you got those black eyes. You’re a klutz.”

Henry, embarrassed, pushed a sweaty chunk of hair off his forehead and returned to the machine he was supposed to be oiling. He put the rag back in his pocket and tightened a pair of bolts that had come loose.

Shouts came from behind. Henry turned. A sparrow had flown into the pressroom from one of the waxy windows that had been left open to siphon some heat out of the room. The bird wasn’t enough to stop the presses, but if it got pulled into the webbing, there’d be blood and feathers on the afternoon edition, the sort of thing that would get taken out of the crew’s paychecks.

He found the hook-ended wooden pole they used to open and close the windows and did his best to shoo the creature out, but it flitted away and dropped out of sight where the day’s editions were being folded and bound. Henry followed, ducking behind a column. The way things had been going, the stupid creature would crap on top of the afternoon extra.

There.
Sitting on the ledge above the day’s paper. And then, just as if Henry had asked politely, the bird flew up and out a nearby open window. Feeling lucky for the first time in ages, Henry leaned the pole against the column and wiped his forehead with a dirty handkerchief. A headline caught his eye.

NEGRO
NIGHTCLUB
BURNS
.

He recognized the Domino straightaway from the picture, which had been shot during daylight hours. It was a total loss. He scanned the text, the paper shaking in his hands. No mention had been made of Flora. He stood in a stupor until Mr. Watters bellowed more insults in his ear. Henry dropped the paper and looked at the clock. Ninety-seven minutes until the end of his shift. Well, hang that. They could fire him if they wanted. He pulled off his canvas apron and dropped it on the floor.

“I’m going to report you for this,” Mr. Watters yelled after him. “I don’t care who recommended you.”

Outside, he turned toward Flora’s neighborhood and had taken three steps when he heard a voice call his name. It was Helen. From across the street, she leaned her head out of Mr. Thorne’s car, smiling as though nothing had changed. “Need a ride?”

Henry looked at his rumpled pants and his ink-stained hands. He was aware of his bruised face and the dried sweat on his back and in his armpits, and he would have known he reeked even if his nose had been snipped off. He crossed the street to avoid having to shout, but stood away from her automobile so that she couldn’t get too close a look — or smell.

“This is a surprise.” He didn’t want to give her the idea he was happy about it.

“I was in the neighborhood,” she said, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Ouch. Stupid hatpin.” She pulled her glove off and held her finger out to Henry. A bead of blood had welled up. “Come closer so you can kiss it and make it better.”

“Er,” Henry stammered.

“Don’t care for the sight of blood?” She stuck her finger in her mouth and sucked it clean. Then she slipped her hand back inside her glove and set her fingers on the steering wheel. “Where to?”

Henry hesitated. He hadn’t any money for a cable car, and he was almost too tired to walk. But he didn’t want Flora to see him anywhere near Helen — or for Helen to know where he was going. It was none of her business.

“How about something to eat? I’m awfully hungry.”

Henry grimaced. Even if he’d wanted to, he wouldn’t have enough money to take her anyplace. He could barely feed himself.

“My treat,” she said, patting her pocketbook. “I have more money than I know what to do with.”

A hot meal. There was almost nothing in the world that he wanted more. Almost. “That’s all right. Thank you anyway.”

“Just get in the car, Henry,” Helen said. She looked angry, almost dangerous. “We haven’t all day to waste.”

From behind him, another familiar voice called out, “Henry!”

Henry turned. James Booth stood a few feet away, holding a sign that read
A
HAND
UP
,
NOT
A
HANDOUT
.

“This is quite the reunion,” James said.

“What a coincidence,” Helen said. “My goodness.”

“Yes,” James said. “The world and its mysterious ways and all.” He looked every bit as hostile as Helen.

Henry wished he could disappear. “On second thought, I can walk. It’s not far.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Henry,” Helen said. “Let me feed you. You look halfway dead already.”

“As long as you’re being generous,” James said, “I’ll take you up on that offer.”

“I don’t think that’s wise,” Helen said. “I’m just an innocent girl, after all.”

“Then we’ll miss you,” James said, stepping between the car and Henry. Helen looked at James, as if she was calculating the best reply. Then, without another word, she reached over, slammed her door, and drove off.

“Where are we going?” James said, giving him a grin that suggested he hadn’t been affected at all by the strange interlude.

Henry wasn’t in the mood for company, and he didn’t like the way James and Helen made him feel, as if he was some sort of plaything for the two of them to fight over. “I’m afraid I’ve got personal business to attend to.”

“Personal business,” James said. “Sounds intriguing.”

“I’m sorry, James. You’ve been such a help lately, but I really can’t stay. And this isn’t the sort of business that requires company.”

He was surprised at the look on James’s face. Rather than looking disappointed, he looked relieved. Maybe even happy.

“I wish you luck with it,” he said. “Truly.”

And Henry found that he believed him, even as he wished James would leave him be.

F
LORA
had to stop thinking of Henry. They both needed to rebuild their lives with as few scars as possible in the aftermath of the recent disasters. She’d kept busy planning Nana’s memorial service, which would happen the next afternoon. And she’d received a note from Doc Henderson, inviting her to meet with him about picking up a performance or two at the Majestic. She was glad to have something to focus on besides the misery of losing her grandmother and her club and the uselessness of wondering where Henry was, what he was doing, how he was feeling.

“I love you,” she said, just to see how the words she’d never give him felt in her mouth.

As she picked up a broom and started sweeping the kitchen, there was a knock on the door. Annoyed, she opened it, expecting some well-meaning person to be bringing her a casserole. She already had many more than she’d ever be able to eat. But it wasn’t anyone bearing food. It was Henry.

Despite her desire to see him, she panicked at his actual presence. “What are you doing here? You shouldn’t have come.”

He stepped back. The sun was setting and silhouetted his face, but she could see how hurt he was, even through the shadow.

“That’s not how I meant it to sound.” She touched his forearm.

He swallowed. “I heard about the club. I — I wanted to say I was sorry.”

“Well.” She exhaled and looked past his shoulder, welcoming the sting of the sun on her eyes. Henry moved closer, and she could see the exhaustion on his face, and she was torn between inviting him inside for a glass of water and sending him home so she wouldn’t say anything that would cause more hurt or trouble. She heard her grandmother’s voice in her head.
Manners, Flora! Invite the boy inside!

“Are you thirsty?” she asked.

“Like a camel,” Henry said.

She led him to a chair by the window. Then she went to the kitchen, wishing she had something better than water to serve. She filled a glass.

“Are you hungry?” Food, she had.

“Like a camel that hasn’t eaten anything in days.”

“Ham or casserole?”

“No self-respecting camel eats casserole. It could contain a relative.”

Laughing, Flora made a ham and cheese sandwich and set it on a tray next to the glass of water. These, she put on a side table next to his chair. He reached for the glass with ink-stained fingertips.

“You look like you lost a fight with a fountain pen.”

“The pen is mightier than the sword.” Henry picked up his sandwich. “It’s a wonder I survived.” He took a bite, chewed, swallowed. “Truly, though, it’s a long story.”

“I have time,” she said, sinking into a nearby ottoman. She looked up at him, feeling finally at ease. “Tell me.”

He did between bites, although she suspected he made Hooverville sound like a nicer place to live than it was.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “This is my fault.”

Henry moved off the chair and sat on the floor next to her, taking her hand in his. “Shh,” he said. He touched her cheek with an inky finger. Her heart drumrolled in her chest.

“Henry, we shouldn’t do this. There’s no future with you and me in it.”

“Shouldn’t isn’t the same as can’t,” he said. “Besides, there’s no future for me without you in it.”

“You’re white,” she said. “In case you hadn’t noticed.”

“I can’t help that. I’d change it if I could, but I can’t. This is it.”

“You come from money,” she said.

“Not anymore. Not for a long time. I never belonged with the Thornes. But I belong with you.”

“It’s my fault you went to jail.”

“It wasn’t, and I’ve forgotten that already.” He kissed the back of her hand and she leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder. “I love you. We are meant to be a pair. It’s that simple.”

The words and the weight behind them weren’t simple. She knew he meant them. But their lives were not their own, not when it came to this. There were too many other people, with too many other thoughts on the matter. There was also the truth of love, that its end was nothing but pain.

“The world is against this sort of thing. Surely you can feel it,” she said.

“If it’s us versus the world, my money’s on us.”

She moved away from Henry, to lighten the mood. “Easy for you to say. Last I heard, you had twelve cents. You’re ridiculous. You know that, right?”

“When it comes to being ridiculous, I am very ambitious.”

Amused, she let herself rest her cheek against his chest, listening to his heart, inhaling his scent before she sat up with a start. “Henry?”

“Yes?” He held her hands and looked into her eyes, so sweetly serious.

“You smell terrible.” It was the best kind of terrible, but he’d feel better if he was clean. “The bathroom’s down the hall. Wash up. I’ve got some clothes that ought to fit you.”

He laughed. “And then what?”

“Then I’m calling Sherman,” she said. “And we’re maybe stopping by the Majestic if we can get things together quickly enough.”

“The Majestic? But I don’t have any money, and all my other clothes are at my tar-paper castle. It’s almost two weeks before I get my first paycheck —”

“Shh. Doc’s going to pay us,” Flora said, touching his lips. “So are a bunch of the other clubs in town. They will. I know it. So clean yourself up. We have work to do. And I have to keep moving, or I’ll start thinking about everything else and fall apart.”

“I’m sorry for what’s going to happen,” Henry said.

“What?” she said, her shoulders stiffening. “What’s going to happen this time?”

He didn’t answer.

Not with words. Instead, he wrapped his arms around her and kissed her as if it would have killed him to do anything else. And she was glad, because if he hadn’t, she might have died. His mouth was soft on hers. Soft, and warm, and those lips she’d studied so intently tasted salty and sweet, and they moved against hers as if they’d been made for no other purpose. They would never be the couple he wanted them to be; but at least they would always have this moment, this secret sliver of joy that could live on in memory, if no place else.

By the time Henry was clean and dressed, the rest of the band had arrived. Voices, laughter, warm-up notes from trumpets … a world of sound he thought he’d always stand at the periphery of, never getting to dive in. He listened from the short, narrow hallway, keeping himself in the shadows.

“We talked to Doc already,” a man said. “We’ve just been waiting for you to come around.”

Flora replied: “You know I’m only singing until I have enough money for my flight.”

“You keep saying that,” the voice said. “But you don’t ever got to be just one thing. Life isn’t divided up like that, where you’re one thing at the cost of another. And it’s not just the Majestic. Plenty of places for us to play as featured guests.”

“And he’s all right if Henry —”

“He wants to hear him, obviously,” the voice said, “but we vouched. Henry’s in.”

Henry, feeling bad about eavesdropping, cleared his throat and loudly entered the room. He felt painfully aware of his wet hair and white skin and the fact he was wearing clothing that must have belonged to Flora’s father.

“Look what the cat dragged in — our bass player.” It had been Palmer, the pianist, talking.

“Really?” Henry replied, not having to pretend to sound excited and disbelieving.

Palmer pointed at Henry. “That one’s dimmer than a new moon. We been trying to get her to sign you up since that day at her house. And now she tells us you wrote a hit song. Let’s hear it.”

The slow smile that worked its way across Flora’s face was about the best thing he’d seen. He looked around the room. The band filled chairs, windowsills, the davenport. The ones who’d been having private conversations stopped. They were waiting. For him.

“But I don’t have my bass,” he said.

“Flora,” Sherman said. “You still have your daddy’s, right?”

“Still do,” she said. “The strings are going to be ancient, though — I don’t know.”

“Better than nothing,” Palmer said. “Need a hand in fetching it?”

“I’ve got it,” she said.

“I’ll help,” Henry said.

“Just don’t help yourself to
too
much,” one of the trumpet players said. Henry made a mental note to throttle the guy later. He followed Flora into a bedroom that clearly had been her grandmother’s. In the corner, looking like an old soldier, stood a bass with dusty shoulders.

“Here,” he said, reaching for it. “Let me.”

“Wait,” Flora said. She took one hand, then the other, so they stood facing each other. “This is it. Are you ready?”

“Someday,” he said, making it sound like a promise.

“You mean the song, right?” Her forehead wrinkled, as if something worried her. “Because now would be a good time to be ready to play.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he said.

“I know.” She dropped his hands and her tone changed. “Nervous?”

“Petrified,” Henry said. God, he wanted to kiss her again.

Flora laughed. “They’ll love it. I —” She stopped and smoothed her hair, and Henry wished they had more time. It felt as though he’d never have enough. “Shall we?”

Henry nodded. He followed her into the parlor and set up the bass. Then he walked the band through the chords and the chorus and the verse. He played it, hoping they’d feel what he put into the song.

There was a long moment of silence after they finished.

“That song’s gonna change your life, son,” Sherman said.

“Darn tootin’,” Palmer added.

It didn’t feel like that to Henry, though. It wasn’t so much about changing his life as much as it was about him stepping into the one he was meant to live. And, after all of this, he’d arrived.