The Game of Love and Death (10 page)

She laughed lightly, but Henry could feel her watching him. They parked at the bottom of the hill, and he guided her onto one of the cable cars, his hand lightly — politely — on her elbow.

“I don’t understand how they run,” Helen said. She covered his hand with her gloved one.

“Think opposing forces.” Henry took the opportunity to liberate his hand as he demonstrated how these particular cable cars worked. “There’s a counterbalance underneath. It’s sort of a weighted car that runs through an underground tunnel about three feet high. At the top of the hill, they release the weighted car. As it travels down, it pulls the passenger cars up. Then, when the streetcar goes down, it pulls the counterbalance up.”

“Interesting,” Helen said. “I do love opposing forces. They keep things exciting, don’t you think?”

“I suppose.” It seemed like a lot of bother when so many people had automobiles. They boarded the cable car and took their seats. Helen leaned her head out the window. The wind pushed her hair behind her, and Henry couldn’t help but notice how lovely she looked in the evening light.

She came back inside. “It seems terribly dangerous.”

“The cable breaks sometimes,” Henry said. “That’s why they have all those sandbags down there. They stop the crash. As long as you plan ahead, you can manage the danger pretty well.”

“Sandbags,” Helen laughed. “Sacks of sand against an elemental force and a cable car that weighs thousands of pounds.”

“Well, it’s not going to break now, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Henry felt as though he should reassure her, even though he had no idea whether it would break. If that could be predicted, then there would be no need for the sandbags and other precautions.

Helen seemed to consider the likelihood of such a disaster. “No,” she said, her hands in her lap. “I don’t believe it will.”

They made their way down from the crown of the hill to Kerry Park, which had been given to the city by friends of the Thornes a decade earlier.

“What are we looking at?” Helen said.

Henry pointed out Elliott Bay and downtown. “In the daylight, you can sometimes see Mt. Rainier.” His gaze swept the mud flats and he considered mentioning Hooverville and James Booth and the story they were researching, but something made him hold back.

“Don’t you just love the feeling of being on top of the world?” Helen said. “I adore heights.”

Henry didn’t feel any particular need to impress Helen, but neither did he care to say the truth.

She persisted. “Such a romantic view. Thank you for bringing me.”

Henry swallowed. “It’ll be dark soon. I should be getting us home.”

“Only if you can’t think of anything else to do.” She looked up at him with her dark eyes. He looked away.

He hoped his discomfort wasn’t obvious. “Oh, I wouldn’t want to keep you out too late.”

At some point, maybe he’d become used to her, or less embarrassed by the see-through scheme of Mrs. Thorne. Yet he felt no connection to Helen. Nothing in common, besides maybe their age. And there was this sharpness to her, not just in the line of her smile, but somehow beneath her. It reminded him of the smell of food that had just turned bad. There was an underlying menace to it.

And, though she was clearly on best behavior with Henry, she’d been prickly with Ethan. She didn’t seem like someone he could trust.

“It was a lovely tour,” she said, when they returned home again. The dark, chilly sky was moonless and thick with high clouds. A row of streetlamps lit the driveway. The air smelled of fresh earth and spring blossoms. Even a hint of lily, though none grew in that part of Mrs. Thorne’s garden.

Helen stopped to pick a tulip. She ran her fingers down its pale green stem. Then she put her nose inside the cup of the flower and inhaled.

“I’m not sure you should be doing that,” Henry said. “Mrs. Thorne is pretty particular about her garden.”

She bent and picked several more. Each, she placed in Henry’s arms, until he held a bouquet. “She won’t notice. And you look darling standing there with your arms full of dead flora.”

Henry shuddered.

“Cold?” Helen said.

“No. Just tired, I suppose. Either that, or a bird flew over my grave.”

“What an expression,” she said. She feigned a yawn and held out her arm. “I’ll no doubt sleep like the dead tonight. I haven’t adjusted to this new time zone. My body thinks it’s midnight already.”

“Let me take you inside, then.” Henry felt the lightness of sudden possibility, adjusted the bouquet, and took Helen’s arm. They walked to the house. “I’m going to put these in water.”

“I’ll see you in the morning,” Helen said, as she turned to head upstairs. Henry hurried into the kitchen, in search of a vase. But as soon as he was alone, he changed his mind about what he’d do with the flowers. He still had Mr. Thorne’s car keys. He found some paper, wrapped the tulips, and slipped out the side door. He headed for the Domino, wondering what little thing nagged at him as he drove.

He’d just arrived at the club when he figured out what it was.

Ethan’s Cadillac was missing. Wherever could he have gone?

L
OVE
had felt his opponent return to the city hours earlier. And disguised as the cousin. No wonder the face had been recognizable. It was clever, devilishly so. When her train pulled in, he and a small group of men at Hooverville were standing around a burning barrel full of wood scraps and trash, discussing the best meals they’d ever eaten. He could hardly mention oysters in Paris or chocolate in San Francisco, so he’d made something up about his mother’s biscuits. He felt a darker sort of hunger, and he knew it was hers.

His first impulse was to join her. He was desperate to harangue her for what she’d done to the zeppelin. This would not change what had happened, though. He stilled himself by watching the flames gorge themselves on the sad heap of scraps. Then Love directed his heart toward Ethan’s, calling him across the miles.

He was fond of the young man, surprisingly so. But he was equally conscious of the fact that Ethan stood in the way of the players. It wasn’t just Ethan’s unspoken attraction to Henry, but also his growing interest in an alliance between Henry and Helen. Love wouldn’t break the rule against interfering with the players’ hearts directly. But with one close to them? Especially one so full of charm? It would be his pleasure.

Ethan knocked on James’s door at sunset, still pushing the ruse that he was researching the newspaper piece.

“You’re not writing anything down,” Love said, after they’d spent two hours inside his shack discussing philosophy and politics.

“I have a good memory.”

“Just what the forgotten men of Hooverville need. Your memory.”

Even in the weak light that found its way through the doorway, Love could see Ethan did not know what to make of the remark. He touched the young man’s forearm to reassure him it was not meant as a jab. He meant it truly: to be seen, to be remembered, to matter. It was what these men, and all others, needed.

The gesture undid Ethan. Love meant no harm by it, and he’d so sunk into the skin of James Booth that he’d forgotten the power of his touch, particularly on skin as electrified as Ethan’s. Love removed a small lantern from its spot on the framing of the shack. The Zippo clicked, the flame caught, and there was a smell of burning oil and smoke. Ethan held his breath.

“There,” Love said, his voice low and soft. “A bit of light.”

Ethan exhaled. His hands shook. Love regarded him in a way that said,
I see you.
Ethan looked downward, then back at Love. Their hearts began to keep time with each other. Henry would have appreciated the rhythm, the connection. Love did. More than he had anticipated. It meant there were more depths to Ethan.

“I should go,” Ethan said. “I —”

“Or you could stay,” Love said.

Ethan did not object as Love ran a knuckle down his cheek, slightly sandpapered with stubble where his beard was beginning to come in. Like a rope, the air pulled tight between them. The tension was excruciating; Love could almost feel the fibers snap.

He closed the makeshift plywood door, sealing the space so Ethan would not have to hear any sounds from the outside world: not the voices of men, not the scream of steam engines as they arrived at the nearby station. The only sounds would be of their bodies breathing, of their clothing rustling, of skin moving against soft skin.

The shack was small and humble, but it was cozy and private, and lit with a light that did not seem to come entirely from the lantern.

Afterward, Ethan wept, and Love whispered things meant to make him feel safe. Were it possible, he would have traded his immortality to remain with this beautiful soul, to concentrate all that love on a human who needed it so.

T
HE
bouquet of tulips sat next to Henry on the front seat. He was having second thoughts. What was he going to do, give them to the bouncer and ask him to deliver them? Better to throw them away.

The air outside blushed with humidity. Summer was coming, with its long, hot days. He slipped into the alley behind the club and found a trash can by the door where he’d first encountered Flora’s uncle. As Henry lifted the lid, a black cat dashed from behind the can and looped around his ankles. He nearly had a heart attack; he wasn’t much of a fan of cats.

“Sorry,” he said, not unkindly. “I don’t have any food for you.”

The animal meowed plaintively. Henry turned to discard the flowers. The door opened, and Flora emerged holding a saucer of milk. She wore a robe, though her hair and makeup were done. Seeing Henry, she started, spilling liquid on the cobbles. They stared at each other a moment until Flora broke the silence.

“I brought you this saucer of milk.” She held it out to him, her face deadly serious.

“And I brought you this lid.” Henry offered it to her. “A very rare item. A similar one sold for millions at auction.”

Flora laughed and the cat meowed again. She set down the saucer. “Sometimes she follows me here.”

Henry put the lid back on the trash and held out the flowers. “I know it looks like I might have pulled them out of the rubbish, but I didn’t. I was too much of a coward to deliver them. But now that you’ve caught me in the act, I might as well get credit for the gesture.”

She laughed again, pulled her robe tighter around her rib cage. “They’re lovely. Thank you. I give you full credit.”

“Am I getting more embarrassed or less as this conversation progresses?” He shoved his hands in his pockets.

“If we’re talking relative levels of embarrassment,” she said, “one of us is standing here in a bathrobe.” Her expression changed. “Wait! I do have clothes on underneath. I would like the record to reflect that.”

“As I thought,” he said. “More embarrassed every second.”

Flora smelled the tulips. “Can we pretend this never happened?”

The cat meowed again. Henry shooed it aside gently. “Let’s pretend I walked up to you in a better place than an alley, and I wasn’t tripping over stray cats or holding garbage can lids, and I gave you flowers because I like the way you sing, and no one was mortified in the process. That way, I still get some runs up on the board.”

“Runs on the board? I didn’t realize we were playing a game,” Flora said.

“It’s a baseball thing. Sorry. I’m going to stop talking now. In fact, I’m about ready to agree that this never happened.”

Flora smiled. “Sherman’s going to have my head if I’m not ready to go. We’re onstage again in a few minutes.”

“And I am going to pay the cover charge and find a table, and not say another word. You didn’t see me. I’m a ghost.”

Flora reached the door. Then, looking over her shoulder, she said, “I’m glad you came back. I’ve gotten used to seeing you out there in the crowd.”

The door clicked behind her, as solidly attached as Henry’s heart.

A
FTERWARD
, Flora mopped her brow in her dressing room. She leaned into the tulips, breathing their clean perfume. What had happened onstage? She’d become aware of Henry in the audience again, of his eyes on her, of his hands on the table, of the way the candlelight gilded his face and hair.

This time, though, her immunity was gone. She had an overwhelming urge to look at him, to sing to him, and it terrified her. She fought it. But when the time came to sing “Walk Beside Me,” it was as though someone had found the source of music inside her and was pulling the notes out of her harder and faster than she intended. She was only able to resist for a moment more before giving in absolutely.

She sang to Henry, and to him alone. And once she gave her voice like that she couldn’t remember any more of the performance. What she’d sung. What it sounded like. Whether she’d been good. There had been applause at the end. That she knew, although the spotlight had disoriented her enough that she’d rushed offstage. It would be the last time she’d allow her feelings to get the better of her.

Needing fresh air, she left the dressing room and hurried through the narrow, carpeted corridor. The light was dim; only a few sconces with single bulbs lined the walls. She put her hand on the doorknob beneath an exit sign.

The night air was like a splash of cool water. She thought about going back for a coat, but decided against it. She slipped out and closed the door behind her, making sure it was unlocked. The fire escape was within reach. Glad she was wearing a shorter dress, she stepped onto the trash can and climbed to a small second-floor window. Someone had been tuck-pointing the bricks and left a ladder against the wall. She pulled herself over the lip of the building and onto a flat, tar-covered roof.

And then she heard his voice.

Sitting on the roof’s edge, she leaned forward. Henry stood in the alley, looking every direction but up. Her breath caught in her chest. What was he doing?

“Flora!”

She couldn’t bear the sight of him down below. He needed to be answered. “Look up.”

Henry’s eyes found her. “What are you doing?”

“Getting air.”

“There not enough on the ground?”

“It’s better up here,” she said.

“If you say so.” He scratched his head and glanced back at the door.

“Are you coming up?”

“Up? I don’t know —”

“Don’t tell me you’re afraid of heights.”

“It’s not that.”

“What is it, then?” Did he not want to see her, after all? She tried to figure out whether that hurt or relieved her, or both.

“It’s that … it’s that I am
deathly
afraid of heights.”

She grinned and swung her legs back around the edge. After that confession, it would be rude to send him away. “This is an easy climb. Meet you on the balcony.”

“No, it’s fine. It’s not that bad.” There was a grunt as he jumped for the fire escape.

“Don’t look down,” she said, trying to sound lighthearted.

Henry, hanging tight to the ladder, looked down and then up at her. His face looked pale.

He scaled the fire escape and then the ladder, pulling himself over the ledge in a single, fluid motion. He hurried away from the edge. “How’s the view from the center? Whew. Safe. Now, about your singing.” He turned to face her.

“Shh,” she said. “Nobody likes a critic.” Her heart pounded. “We have to stop meeting like this. The stray cats will talk.” She found a seat on the rooftop a few feet away from him and caught his scent on the night air. Lemons and spice.

“Maybe I’m writing another article and I need an interview,” he said.

“Are you?” she said. A hope flickered that he would, and she’d find a sponsor. But she knew that was nonsense.

“No, but I’d like to.” He sat next to her. “Tell me about it. Why you like to fly. Where you’d like to go.”

She leaned back on her elbows, turning her gaze up. He was close, though not so close that their bodies touched. She couldn’t bring herself to face him. Nor, it seemed, could he look at her. But she felt him all the same.

“Ever hear of Bessie Coleman?” she asked.

“No, was she a singer?”

The disappointment that he was unaware of someone so remarkable, so important to her, pricked her like a needle. Flora tried to keep her voice light as she explained.

“She was the first colored woman to fly a plane. And the first of my people to have an international pilot’s license. No American schools would teach her to fly, so she went all the way to Paris to learn with money she earned doing people’s nails.”

She glanced at Henry as she spoke, gratified to see he looked embarrassed.

“Why haven’t I heard of her?” he asked.

She shrugged. She had a theory, but didn’t want to talk about it just then.

“Well, what happened to her?” Henry asked a moment later. “She sounds like a good news story.”

“She died,” Flora said. “In an accident.”

“That’s terrible,” Henry said.

Flora didn’t know what to say to that. It was terrible. But death happened all the time. It didn’t do to dwell, or you’d never get anything done for the sadness. This was why it was better to care less, at least when it came to others.

They were silent for a long while, looking at the cloud-muffled sky, hearing noises from below — people talking and leaving the building — as well as their own gentle breathing. She briefly wondered about Grady, and hoped he’d assumed she’d made her own way home.

And then they talked about their families — Nana and Sherman. And the fact that Henry lived with Ethan and the Thornes, because he’d lost his family. Flora didn’t ask Henry about his newspaper job, whether that was his dream, as flying was hers. She didn’t need to know any more about what was in his heart.

Time passed. It was hard to tell how much. There were no stars or moon visible to measure the spent minutes. Light from the streetlamps reached the roof, polishing the planes of Henry’s face. She studied it and concluded that she liked it. Very much. What would she be thinking if Henry weren’t white? Would he be a possibility?

She scolded herself silently, first for thinking in terms of possibility, and second for thinking she would change anything about Henry. She’d never want anyone to try to change anything about her. What’s more, there was something so right about him. The way he’d been with Annabel. The way he paid attention to her music and asked her about flying and her family. And something else she couldn’t identify. Some people, like some songs, simply added up to more than the sum of their parts.

She pretended to inspect her fingernails, embarrassed that her teeth had started to chatter. She stood.

“You’re cold.” He stood next to her.

She nodded. Her body shook, but more from trying to keep herself from pressing against him. He put his coat around her shoulders.

“Thank you.” It was a miracle that she’d been able to control her voice, especially when a shy grin spread across his face and he pushed that one stray curl on his forehead back up where it belonged. The gesture pierced her. He just wanted to keep things in order. She could relate. She concentrated on the warmth and scent of his coat until her body stopped shaking.

“We should probably head home, shouldn’t we — back into our regular lives and such. Believe it or not, I have a test tomorrow. Then a baseball game.”

She nodded, surprised that, for once in her life, she wasn’t the one pulling away.

“Unless,” he said.

She looked at him, puzzled.

He whistled the opening line of “The Blue Danube.”

“A waltz? You can’t be serious.”

“As serious as scurvy for pirates,” he said. “I know we should go, but I want just one more minute of this, and I’m cold too. One more minute, a tiny bit of warmth. It’s all I ask.” He put on a grave look. “Please?”

She laughed. “You’re such the tragic figure.” Still, she hesitated. What would it be like if she were still in school, studying for tests and going to dances and such? Would it be like this? Or would she still be chasing other, bigger dreams?

She reached for his upraised hand and looked into his eyes, whose color reminded her of that sharply curving part of the sky at the horizon’s edge, the part she always aimed her plane toward. But it wasn’t just that. It was the openhearted kindness in them, so much that she forgot the loneliness that overwhelmed her most of the time.

He closed his left hand over hers. He moved his right to the hollow of her back and it was almost more than she could take, the warmth of his touch, this connection in two spots. He moved his feet. She moved hers in response. And then they were dancing together on the rooftop, wrapped with an invisible thread that she needed to snap before it killed her.

“A request, Henry.”

“Anything.” He looked into her eyes and it was a moment before she could work her mouth.

“No more whistling.”

“But we need music.”

“How about you leave that to me? Music’s more my thing than yours, after all.” If she could find her voice, she could find her equilibrium.

He smiled and looked as if he was about to speak, but he didn’t. Then she hummed the rest of the song as he moved her in circles. She put her own spin on the melody, so it was more swing than waltz, and he picked up on her cue, releasing her only to draw her back in, closer than he had before. Behind her, the black cat that had found its way to the edge of the rooftop meowed.

The sound brought her back to herself. What she was doing? It was a mistake for so many reasons, not the least of which was the fact of Grady. And then there were their different backgrounds, the wrongness of thinking of a white boy as anything other than someone to be wary around. But this wasn’t just any boy, or any white boy. There was something about him. Something worth knowing. That much was certain.

The cat hissed and slipped over the edge of the roof, and the feeling that had overcome Flora during her performance rushed back. She pushed away.

“What did I do?” he said.

“Nothing. We can’t. I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“Maybe,” Henry said, “some things just aren’t meant to be thought about.”

“Still,” she said, “we can’t do this. We can’t. For so many reasons.”

“What about someday?” he asked.

She couldn’t help but wince, as if the word itself had been formed to hurt her. Henry did not reply, but the look in his eyes shattered her.

As they made their way down the ladder, Henry looked straight ahead. He was glad Flora still wore his jacket. He’d have perspired clean through if he’d been in it. His fear of heights embarrassed him. He’d long wondered how something that existed only in his mind could so affect his body. But then again, fear wasn’t the only emotion that worked that way. Love was nothing you could see or touch. It lived entirely inside of you, invisibly. Even so, it could change everything.

One step at a time, one step at a time.
And then he was down and walking behind Flora, reveling in the scent of her hair, feeling happier than he had in ages. She reached for the doorknob, jiggled it, and looked at Henry.

“Was it locked when you went outside?” she asked.

“Honestly? I haven’t a clue. My only thought was catching up with you.”

“It wasn’t. I made sure. And now it is. We’re locked out.”

“Is that a problem?”

“My pocketbook is in there,” she said. “My money and keys. I won’t be able to get into my house, or pay anyone to take me.”

He took her hand. “Let’s go around the front and knock like crazy,” he said. “Maybe someone will hear us. And I can always give you a lift.”

She wrested her fingers out of his, ignoring his suggestion that he drive her himself. “They’ll be gone. They’ll be gone and we’ll have no place to go until sunrise. And now this.” She held out her hand. “Rain.”

Henry looked up. A warm raindrop smacked his face. “Maybe it won’t turn out to be as bad as all that.”

As he spoke, the door swung open. In its dark mouth stood the bass player.

“Grady!” Flora said. “I thought you’d gone home.”

“I would have,” he said, staring at Henry with eyes full of hurt and malice. “But you left your things and I was worried. Who’s this, Flora?”

“This?” Flora said. “This is Henry. He helped write that newspaper article, the one on the Staggerwing —”

Grady interrupted. “I looked for you. Everywhere. What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” she said. Henry looked away. “Just talking.”

“Do you know how late it is?” Grady said. “I’ve been waiting.”

“Grady,” Flora said. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me. I needed some air, and I ran into Henry in the alley.” She slipped out of Henry’s coat and handed it back to him. Henry could hardly bear the look in Grady’s eyes.

“Let’s go,” Grady said. “Let’s get you home where you belong. Your grandmother will be worried sick, just like I was.”

Grady pulled Flora into the Domino. Henry held his coat overhead as the sky started raining in earnest. He stood in the deluge until he was drenched. But he couldn’t be miserable. The soft hands of the rain on his skin made him feel as though he stumbled on the edge of someplace magical. He wasn’t sure which direction he should move next. And he wondered how serious Flora was when she said such things couldn’t happen, not even someday.