The Game of Love and Death (5 page)

A
FTER
the show, Henry stood in the alley outside the club and rapped on an unmarked door while Ethan, making no effort to hide his mortification, turned to face the street. No one answered. Henry waited a minute before knocking again.

“Come on, Henry.” Ethan glanced back over his shoulder, his car key in hand. “You can’t afford to get yourself into trouble. Let’s get out of here before that happens. At best, you’re going to make a fool out of yourself. At worst … at worst, this might be the stupidest idea you’ve ever had. We’re not writing an article about her. Not now, not ever. Nothing justifies your curiosity here. Let’s go.”

Henry had just raised his hand to knock one final time when the door opened and the emcee, a tall man with front teeth gapped wide enough to hold a nickel, burst out.

“Club’s closed, gentlemen,” he said. Stripped of his tuxedo jacket, he crossed his muscular arms over his chest, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows.

Ethan took a half step back, leaving Henry by himself. Henry stammered, and the man laughed and shook his head, as if he’d seen the same scene unfold a thousand times before. “Her name is Flora, but it’s Miss Saudade to you. She’s my niece. She doesn’t date the customers, especially not turkey-necked white boys who only have one thing on their minds.”

“I know. That’s not what —” The words clogged his throat. “I — we were at the airstrip yesterday. For an article. I wanted to say hello. I wondered if I might —”

The man exhaled, uncrossed his arms, and grabbed the doorknob. “Much as I am a fan of publicity, I don’t believe a word you’re saying. There hasn’t been a white newspaper that’s written about the likes of us unless some sort of arrest was involved. You wouldn’t have any proof you are who you say you are, would you?”

Henry looked at Ethan, who had such proof in his pocket. Ethan, stubborn as ever, shook his head.

“Just as I thought,” the emcee said. “How about you make yourself scarce before I pound you into a pudding.”

“But —”

The man slammed the door in Henry’s face.

“Cripes! There you go,” Ethan said. “I knew I should have talked you out of this ridiculous business. My parents would be apoplectic at the thought of you coming here. Nothing good can come of this, Henry. You’ll thank me later.”

He turned on his heel. “Are you coming?” he called over his shoulder.

“Yes.” Henry felt a crack in the ground open between him and his best friend. He wouldn’t say another word about Flora to Ethan.

I’ll come every night
, he thought.
Every night, just to listen.
He had to. He’d focused on being useful and dutiful and respectable for so long. He couldn’t do it. Not when it came to this girl, this music, even if it wasn’t something Ethan could understand.

F
INISHED
for the night, Flora sat in her small dressing room, holding a tall glass of lemonade against her forehead. The stage lights were always so hot she felt like something out of an oven after a performance, and nothing was better than something cold, tart, and sweet to drink. As she lowered the glass to sip, she tried not to think about that one moment in her performance … the moment she lost control.

Focus on what went well
, she told herself.
Your club was full. No fights broke out. The tax inspectors didn’t drop by with their notebooks to count the bottles of liquor.

Probably no one even noticed the ruined note — well, no one but Grady, who’d no doubt bring it up with her later, thinking he was doing her a favor. He was that way with her. Because he was older, he considered himself her teacher, her protector, and her superior. He could be a real jackass.

She blamed the boy, though. The one from the airstrip. The one doing the article on the plane. Henry or Ethan. She wasn’t sure which was which. Either way, he wasn’t the sort she usually saw in the Domino, which was perhaps why he stood out in his tuxedo, his eyes glittering in his white face. It needled her that she couldn’t ignore him during the show. Usually, she looked over people’s heads. The audience couldn’t tell the difference.

This time, though, it was as if some force had lashed her gaze to his. The moment of connection felt the way it did the instant the wheels of her airplane touched ground. There was a solidity, an inevitability to it, as though her body had been built for it, even if she wanted only to be back in the sky. It had never happened before. Never. But it was over and done. He wasn’t the Domino type, and surely he’d gotten what he needed for whatever article he’d planned.

Flora shivered and set down the lemonade. She had no business looking twice at a white boy, or he at her, especially if he was the sort who felt entitled to take what he wanted. She’d seen it happen before, sometimes with the waitresses, sometimes with the cigarette girls. Deep in her center, a sense of danger planted itself. She trusted — she hoped — the feeling would disappear.

To let in a bit of air while she waited for Grady to come fetch her (as if she were a child), she stood on a low bookshelf and cracked open the high window, the only one in the whole club that hadn’t been bricked shut. Sherman was scolding someone in the alley. Not the authorities. With them, he was nothing but honey, smiles, and free cocktails. Whoever it was, he was handling it. Flora smiled and jumped off the shelf. She took one last sip of her lemonade, letting the ice rattle in the glass. Then she felt ready to call it a night, and maybe feed the cat, poor thing, and then eat some of that chocolate cake Nana had made.

Right on cue, Grady knocked and stuck his head inside the door.

“Time to go,” he said, as if she might not have realized. Jackass.

“Fine.” She put on her gloves and felt better, more grown-up than girl.

“Let’s feed you some supper at Gloria’s,” he said, referring to the all-night diner that served their people. “A little sustenance for my girl.”

“It’s late,” she said, although she was famished just thinking of the cake. “And I might be coming down with a cold. It made my voice break during ‘Walk Beside Me.’ ” That was to keep him from saying anything about the flaw in her performance, or worse, trying to kiss her.

Grady’s face fell. “You should just let me take care of you.” He pulled her close. “You need taking care of.”

“It’s kind of you to offer, and I do appreciate it,” she said, trying not to breathe in his heavy cologne. “But not tonight. Please.”

“Let’s get you home,” he said. She took the arm he offered, wishing he didn’t hold her so tight. It made it hard to walk.

“On second thought, considering how I feel, I’ll ride with Sherman.” She dropped his arm.

“Flora,” Grady said. He looked more irritated than hurt. She gathered her things in silence. Then she went to find her uncle.

O
NE
morning, when she was a newly minted second grader, Flora stood over her nana’s bed. She wasn’t supposed to wake her grandmother, but a small, scared part of her wondered whether Nana had gone to heaven in the night. Flora watched carefully until she saw her grandmother’s chest rise and fall under the quilt. The relief at the sight felt as sweet as water on an August afternoon.

Perhaps she would stir if someone made the tiniest noise. Flora whistled, clapped, and stomped her foot. Just the one time. Then she stood as still as a statue, hardly even daring to breathe. Even so, Nana lay on her back, her chest rising and falling, a little quicker now, but still her eyes stayed closed. Flora moved closer to the bed. And then, like lightning, Nana’s hand shot out from under the covers. Her papery fingers gripped Flora’s wrist, and one of the old woman’s eyes popped open.

“Caught you.” She grinned and pulled Flora under the covers. It was the softest thing, and Nana was warm and cozy, the way she’d always been when Flora had bad dreams. But bed was the last place she wanted to be. Charles Lindbergh was going to land his
Spirit of St. Louis
in the city and visit Volunteer Park later that morning. Flora’s school was going. It was her first field trip, and she was to take lunch in a pail and to wear her second-best dress, and there was a chance that Mr. Lindbergh would stop and shake some of the children’s hands. She aimed to be one of those children, knowing that if her hand touched his, it would be a blessing on her that meant she’d learn to fly a plane and be up there in the blue sky herself.

“Why so squirmy?” Nana said. “And heavens to Betsy if your feet haven’t been carved from a block of ice. I’m shivering from my toes to my teeth!”

“Nana,” Flora said. “It is time to get up.”

“Oh, but I thought I’d keep you home from school today,” Nana said. “There’s laundry to wash. All of Uncle Sherman’s underclothes. And so many socks to mend. You’d think they were aiming to join the hallelujah choir, they’re so holey.”

“But Nana!” Flora sat up.

“Oh, and the last of the pickling,” Nana said. “I know how you hate the way it shrivels up your hands and makes your eyes water, but it has to be done.” She sat up next to Flora and turned the girl’s face toward hers. “Where should we start? Socks, britches, or cucumbers?” Flora was too stunned to speak. “My goodness it’s a lucky thing your jaw has that hinge on it, or we’d be scraping your chin off the floor.”

She pulled Flora in closer and started laughing, and that’s when Flora knew Nana was teasing.

“Let’s start with the britches,” Flora said. “There are only thirty pairs, after all.” It was Sherman’s bachelor notion that he’d do less laundry if he had underthings for every day of the month. It worked, in a way: Nana did all of his wash.

“On second thought,” Nana said, sliding Flora out of bed, “I think we had better pack you a pilot-size lunch.”

While Flora ate a bowl of porridge, Nana’s practiced hands heated the iron, straightened Flora’s hair, and smoothed it into a pair of braids. Then she buttoned Flora into her dress, put the pail in her hands, and shoved her out the door.

“You say hello to Mr. Lindbergh for me,” she said. “I packed an extra square of gingerbread in case he looks hungry.”

“I will, Nana! I will!” There might have been sidewalk beneath Flora’s feet as she ran, holding her pail as steady as she could. But she did not feel it.

At Volunteer Park, there was so much noise — the shuffle and murmur of the thirty thousand children in the crowd, the bright urgency of the marching band. Even so, the sound Flora heard most was her own heartbeat thumping in her fingertips and ears. She looked up. The sky was a perfect blue, with just a pair of clouds sliding across, as if swept along by God’s broom.

She watched them, hoping, as always, that she’d see her parents looking down at her. She’d memorized their faces from the small photograph framed on her dresser. Every so often she was certain she’d seen them up there, the fringe of their fingertips fluttering over the edges of the white, waving down at her as she lay on the grass, holding things she wanted them to see: the doll Nana had made for her out of rags and a tea towel, the first book she read, the first tooth she lost.

“Is that so,” her nana would say when Flora would report her sighting.

Those were the words Nana always used when she thought Flora was stretching the truth to better fit her imagination. But if it was possible that her parents were up there, perhaps Mr. Lindbergh had seen them from his airplane. And maybe when she learned to fly herself, she could visit them. Just that one moment it took for her plane to pass the cloud … that would be enough.

The sky’s brightness flared, making Flora’s vision swim. Sound rippled through the crowd, and Flora turned to look, wiping her eyes. Mr. Lindbergh had arrived in a long black motorcar. All around, the shout arose from her schoolmates. “I can’t see! I can’t see!” And it was true. The children enrolled at Flora’s school had been positioned on the far side of the huge crowd, where there wasn’t any sort of view. She couldn’t help but notice that all of the white people had been given the best spots to stand, and she wondered if Mr. Lindbergh had asked for it to be that way.

The din of the thousands of children rose as the pilot approached the front, surrounded by a group of men from the city and the mayor herself. From Flora’s spot, she could see a row of hats skimming the surface of the gathered children. But then, across that sea of bodies, an uncovered head attached to a man wearing a baggy leather jacket emerged. He raised his tanned hand to wave it at the throng. Flora glimpsed his face, the same face her parents had seen when he flew by.

She knew she would not get to touch even his sleeve, let alone give him her extra piece of gingerbread. But she’d gotten something. “And somethin’ ain’t nothin’,” as her uncle often put it.

Then Mr. Lindbergh was guided back into his motorcar. Its engine faded and the crowd’s roar broke into a quilt of individual voices again. The scattered laughter of children shoving each other in jest, the muffled sound of feet trampling the lawn, the occasional shout from a boy or girl who needed to find a restroom. The roar diminished, creating pockets of silence where Flora could once again hear her own thoughts.

She was not yet ready to leave, and when the opportunity for her to slip behind a sweeping redwood presented itself, she took it. She could make her own way home. The teacher probably wouldn’t even miss her. She set her lunch pail down. Uncle Sherman could eat the gingerbread. The comforting scent of rich earth, a blend of growth and decay, rose up and surrounded her. Beneath her hands, the tree bark felt rough. Through its swaying branches, she could barely make out the blue overhead. But even that view was enough, and every inch of her strained upward as if she’d been created to be part of it, with threads of her left nice and loose so she might be pulled more easily into the blue.

At that same moment, Henry was on his bicycle, heading home from the same park, holding his cap on his head with one hand and the handlebars with the other. He whistled a happy tune, as much from the thrill of shaking Mr. Lindbergh’s hand as from being permitted to skip school that day. Having recently lost his father and moved in with the Thornes, he was allowed a variety of small freedoms such as this. He never took them if Ethan objected, but Ethan was home that day with a fever, so he couldn’t possibly mind.

Henry was tired of people looking at him with sad eyes. He planned to spend his free afternoon riding his bicycle around town, breathing in all the non-school air, the best kind there was. As he passed through the shadow of a giant redwood, a black cat chased a swooping sparrow across the street. Henry swerved to avoid the cat and bumped up onto the sidewalk, where a girl in a blue dress and pigtails had appeared.

He squeezed the brakes, sending up an awful squeal. The bicycle skidded, its wheel sliding forward until the whole thing tipped, taking him with it. He scraped his palms and tore the knee of his pants. The girl, meanwhile, tumbled backward with a shout. He hadn’t hit her, but nearly so. Henry lifted the bicycle off of himself and sat on the sidewalk, dazed.

“Are you all right?” he asked the girl, who was looking at her own skinned hands.

She nodded. “But my dress is dirty. And it’s my second-best one.”

“I’m awful sorry,” Henry said. “Let me help you home.”

“I don’t need any help,” she said. “It’s just down the hill.”

Henry thought about letting her go. He didn’t know her, and her expression was anything but friendly. But it didn’t seem the right thing to do. “I ought to walk you home.” He stood and held out his hand. There was a long pause. The sparrow, which had escaped, flitted overhead and trilled.

“I’m fine,” she said. She brushed the dirt from her dress. The cat lowered itself onto the sidewalk next to them and started cleaning its back leg shamelessly in the way that cats do.

“How about if I just walk next to you?” It felt like a competition now, to see which one of them would give in first. He looked into her eyes, and she returned his gaze just as fiercely. There was no instrument to measure the slight change in the atmosphere between them. They were scarcely aware of it themselves. Neither would remember the meeting until years later, except in the vaguest of ways. But both would recall the feeling of being brought into something, even as neither had the word for it or the experience to understand what it meant.

After a pause, she shrugged and stood. “I have some gingerbread. It was meant for Mr. Lindbergh, but if you want it, you could have it. It’s probably smashed, anyway.”

“Oh, I couldn’t,” Henry said, falling into step beside her.

“Are you saying that to be polite?”

Henry was so relieved he laughed. “Yes. I love gingerbread and I’m hungry enough to eat a goat, beard and all.”

They shared the cake and talked about airplanes until they arrived at Flora’s small green house, which was about a mile from the park. He told her how it felt to shake Mr. Lindbergh’s hand, which, in all honesty, was pretty much like any other grown-up’s hand. But she seemed interested, so he told her everything about it, including the fact there was a small cut on one knuckle.

It wasn’t until he delivered her to the porch steps that he remembered to ask her name.

She bounded to the top of the steps and put her hand on the doorknob. “Flora.”

Flora. The only Flora he’d met before had been an elderly aunt who smelled like powder and Sloan’s Liniment. But he liked the name for this girl. And she smelled nice.

“Look what followed us.” He pointed to the black cat.

“She’s around a lot. I’m not supposed to feed her.” Flora stood in the open doorway and, for the first time, smiled. “But I do. Don’t tell.” She put her index finger to her lip.

“Your secret’s safe with me.” That smile, that gesture. He liked them. But he couldn’t think of a reason to stay. She didn’t ask his name, which he took to mean she didn’t care to know. It was surprisingly disappointing.

“Good-bye, I guess,” he said, wishing he could think of something else to say.

She waved and shut the door behind her. Then he got back on his bicycle and headed home, whistling a melody of his own invention, one to which he would someday return.