The Game of Love and Death (22 page)

M
ORE
than two weeks passed. During this time, Henry, Flora, and the rest of the band rehearsed and set up shows in clubs around town at night, while Henry worked at the paper during the day. Love and Ethan continued their assignations, which had become as much about philosophical discussions as physical interactions. Death, meanwhile, had been quietly observing. Her relative silence terrified Love.

When the night came for Flora and Henry’s debut at the Majestic, Ethan breathlessly invited James to join him, and Love, eager to hear what the players would create, agreed. He wished he truly were human so he could embrace the evening as a man in love should, wearing a cloud-white shirt of crisp cotton, a fine tuxedo of black wool, and a carefully knotted tie of cerulean silk.

He wanted to scrub the dirt of life from his fingernails. He wanted to steam his face, soap his chin, shave with a new blade — or better, have the practiced hands of a barber perform the duties. He thought of frosted bottles of champagne. Tender rib-eye steaks dripping juice onto bone china. Rich wine. A stunning, audacious dessert: perhaps a cream-filled swan made of dark chocolate, its feathers edged in edible gold.

He’d had these pleasures before. And in previous Games, where he had developed no direct attachments to the players or their friends, he’d indulged himself when the urge struck. But this wouldn’t be the way of James Booth, and so Love would have to forgo such things in favor of humbler clothing, humbler fare.

There was beauty enough in the Majestic, where the musicians had gathered. Candlelight from the table illuminated Ethan’s carved cheekbones, his blue irises, his straight white teeth. Game or no, Love might not have been able to resist this one at any point in history. Ethan was like no other: smart, creative, passionate, handsome. The world was his to inherit.

As the show began, the curtains that covered the stage billowed and split, and the smallish audience that had gathered for the opening act began to applaud politely, though most continued with their conversations as if the music wouldn’t matter. There was a pop of brightness as the lights came on, then the
rat-puh-puh-tat
of the drum. The Majestic wasn’t set up the same way as the Domino, and it didn’t have that club’s history as an underground speakeasy to lend it an air of danger and intrigue. It was closer to a regular restaurant, so the stage was simpler. But it was lovely, all the same.

The band launched into the Gershwin hit “Summertime” — an appropriate choice, as the days had peaked in length and were growing warmer every night. Flora made a straightforward entrance from the left side of the stage, and the look she gave Henry as she walked past him and toward the microphone, her arms swinging languidly, could have lit a city block.

The humans, who did not know what they had before them, scraped their forks against their plates and chattered to each other over the sound of the band, until Flora opened her mouth. When the first note emerged, a few people put down their drinks and watched. Conversations ended. The girl was no longer holding back.

The tune had a meaty bass part for Henry, a sort of slow, sad, wistful walk up the strings that reminded Love of his favorite part of summer, when the heat of the day broke and the light turned a soft purple, and the world was womb-warm and just as safe. Henry gave everything to the song, his hands a blur on the strings, creating a counterpoint to Flora’s melody and a rhythm for her to follow. As Love listened, certain details mesmerized: the way the spotlight burnished the edges of the musicians; the scent of the melting wax from the candles; the occasional, purposeful break in Flora’s voice, turning it from satin to velvet.

The first set ended. Ethan leaned to whisper in Love’s ear: “This is aces, isn’t it?”

Love nodded in agreement, just as the young man’s face took on a stricken look. Death, in her guise as Helen, approached the table in a red dress: hard, modern, impossible to ignore. It was the color she wore when she was in the mood to kill. Love regretted letting himself get so swept away that he’d missed her presence until it was too late to prepare.

The hi-hat shimmered and a new song began. Death crossed her arms and made a face that looked as if she were smuggling a lemon wedge in her mouth. She pulled off her glove and reached for Ethan bare-handed. Love gasped. She stopped short of touching him, as if reminding Love that she held Ethan’s life in her hands too.

She pulled out a chair between the two of them and sat. “What’s in your pocket?” She tapped the spot where he kept his book of notes and observations about the players and their progress in the Game. “Is it a book? Some sort of journal where you write down your James Boothian exploits? What I wouldn’t give for a look inside of it.”

Love glanced at Ethan to see if the boy had noticed. He had. His face colored as he turned toward the stage and pretended to be transfixed by the music.

What was her aim? The book was merely a record of the Game, a record of things that had happened and could not be changed. He turned his focus to the music, and he turned his affection for Ethan outward, so that every heart in the audience would swell with the joy of it. The effort was exhausting, but he had reached the point in the Game where he could save nothing.

H
ENRY
and Flora made excuses to linger after the show. A sudden summer rainstorm had descended, and they hid from it under the red awning in front of the Majestic.

“I’m starved,” Flora said, wrapping her arms around herself.

Henry draped his jacket around her shoulders. “Our stomachs have so much in common. Where would you like to go?”

“Go?”

“There’s the Sterling Cup, there’s Guthrie’s —”

“Henry,” she said. “Neither of those places will let us in.”

“No, they’re open,” he said. “Ethan and I eat there all the …” His voice trailed off as he understood her meaning. These were white restaurants that would serve colored people through the back windows during the day, at best.

“You might go there,” she said. “
We
don’t.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I never thought about it. It was more that you have your places and we have ours.”

Flora shrugged out of the jacket and returned it to him. “Yes, like the lovely Coon Clucker Inn.”

“What, that place?” he said, refusing the coat. “No one goes there. It’s —” He stopped himself. It was a place for low-class whites. Ethan’s family considered themselves above rubbing elbows with that sort. He thought about the restaurant’s sign: a huge cartoon character with black skin, red, rubbery lips, and a winking eye. It was grotesque, and he’d never given it a second thought. He’d never had to. He was so used to being able to go where he wanted, and so unused to thinking of Flora as anyone other than the girl he loved, that the idea of their not being welcome at a restaurant — or anywhere — hadn’t entered his mind.

“If no one goes there,” she said, “why does every third automobile in the city have a Coon Clucker tire cover?”

Henry had no answer. He stood holding his jacket open for her, not knowing what else to do. “Flora, I’m truly sorry. Please. Wear it. Your dress will get soaked, and you’ll catch your death of cold. I’ll go anywhere with you.”

“Exactly.” She accepted the coat. “That’s part of the problem. You’ll go anywhere. The world is yours.”

“I didn’t mean it that way. I meant I’d go anywhere you’d like.”

Rain hissed on the pavement, and every so often, cars honked and doors slammed. It was otherwise quiet.

“There’s one place,” she said after a moment. “It’s called the Yellow House. On Yesler. Open twenty-four hours and they do a pretty mean omelet.”

Henry smiled. “I don’t suppose there’s any way of doing this without getting soaked.”

“You should have worn a jacket,” Flora said. “Dummy.” She lifted Henry’s coat overhead to keep the rain away.

“What can I say,” he replied. “School dropout and all.”

“On the count of three,” she said. “Let’s make a run for it.”

“I’m not in any hurry,” he said. “Let’s get soaked.”

“You
are
a dummy,” she said. “Here’s to turning ourselves into human dishrags.”

“To dishes.”

The restaurant’s windows glowed gold on the sidewalk ahead, lighting their way. A bell dinged as they opened the door. Conversations ceased when the diners caught a glimpse of Henry. He pushed his hair off his forehead with his free hand. With his other, he held tight to Flora. They were both drenched.

“You all right, hon?” the waitress asked Flora, who’d tried to slip out of Henry’s arm. One of the diners lurched as if he was going to stand. Henry’s pulse raced. He didn’t want trouble, just a spot out of the rain and darkness and something to eat. And someplace to spend time with the person he loved.

“I’m fine, Miss Hattie,” Flora said. “Just a little wet.” The man sat, but did not resume eating. Henry looked away.

Hattie inspected them both. “Hmmph.” She shrugged, smoothed her white apron, and took them to a booth by the restroom door. She laid two menus on the table. “Coffee or juice?”

“Coffee, please,” Flora said. “Cream and sugar.”

“I’ll also have a coffee, if that’s all right,” Henry said.

“How dark do you like yours?” Miss Hattie asked. The men at a nearby table snickered.

Henry studied Miss Hattie’s expression, which reminded him of his long-departed grandmother. She’d always sounded crabby, but she also invariably sneaked him peppermint candies. He had plenty of room in his heart for cranky old ladies. “I like mine the way she likes hers.”

“Hmmph,” Miss Hattie said. “Cream and three sugars. Be back in a minute with your coffee. You best be ready to order then too.”

Henry looked at Flora over the top of her menu. “What’s good here? I mean, besides the mean omelet and the cranky coffee?”

Flora laughed. “Everything except the oatmeal.” She laid her menu down. “That’s like eating marbles.”

He folded his paper napkin into a boat and pretended to sail it through rough seas toward her, trying to recapture that easy connection they had when they played music together.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

He put the napkin down. “I don’t know. Making an ark?”

Miss Hattie returned with their coffee. “What’s it gonna be?”

“Two eggs,” Flora said. “Side by side. And two pieces of toast.”

Henry scanned the menu, looking for something that could build on Flora’s ark joke, but he couldn’t find anything. “Eggs, scrambled, with sausage and a biscuit.”

“Fine,” Miss Hattie said. “Anything else?”

“No, thank you, ma’am,” Flora said.

Miss Hattie sighed and headed for the kitchen.

“I think you meant Noah thanks,” Henry joked.

Flora rolled her eyes over the top of her coffee mug.

“See, we’re finding a place,” he said.

“One of us might be,” she said. “I’ll never belong in your world.”

“Flora.” Henry’s voice caught in his throat. “You are my world.” He wrapped his hands around his cup of coffee, wishing its warmth would reach the rest of him.

Miss Hattie returned with their food.

As she ate, Flora looked at him with pitying eyes. “I like you. Against my better judgment, I do. The way you play music. Your decency. Even your stupid jokes. But I want other things. If I do what Amelia Earhart is doing, but faster —”

Henry interrupted. “I get it.” His eggs tasted like paste. He pushed the plate away. If she didn’t want him, what else could he do?

Flora lowered her voice. “For now, can’t we just focus on the music? Everything else can wait.”

They sat in silence as the rest of the customers cleared out. Hattie, looking exhausted, leaned against a wall and closed her eyes. Eventually, the first rays of morning sun began to bend through the foggy windows. Henry’s clothes had dried, and he felt a rumpled and weary mess.

“I don’t understand,” he said, trying to choose his words carefully, knowing his exhaustion made him likely to say the wrong thing. “I don’t see how we could go from everything good that’s happened to this.”

“It’s safer this way,” Flora said. “Trust me.”

Henry reached across the table, but Flora wouldn’t take his hand.

“What do you dream of?” Henry said. “What do you dream of if it isn’t this? You, me, music. We could build a life out of that. I know it.”

“Look at your fingers,” she said. “Covered in ink.”

“Please don’t change the subject,” Henry said. “But it’s not just ink.” He turned his left palm up and showed her the fingertips he’d played to shreds. “See? Blood.”

“Ink by day, blood by night. Days of ink, nights of blood,” she said. “Sounds like a song.”

“You should write it,” he said.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m not the one being ridiculous,” he said.

“Henry.”

“Look how far we’ve come. I don’t want to give up. Not now. Because someday —”

She yawned and rubbed her temples, as though her head ached. “We can think about that sort of thing another day. But not now.”

Miss Hattie shuffled to their table. “Heat up your coffee?”

Henry glanced at his empty cup. “No, thank you.”

“Then you’ll be wanting to settle the check,” Miss Hattie said.

Henry took the hint. He pulled out one of the bills Doc had paid him the previous night and laid it on the table.

“Keep the change.” It was twice the money he needed to leave. But he wasn’t above buying an ally.

“Flora?” He held out his arm.

She hesitated. “We should walk away from it now, before it gets worse. It’s what Captain Girard says about flying. ‘Only a fool goes into a storm.’ ”

“The rain has stopped,” he said.

“You know what I mean. This won’t end well.”

“Who says it has to end at all?” he said.

She took his arm at last, and together, they walked out into the fragile morning light.