The Game of Love and Death

by Martha Brockenbrough

  Behind them came the tap of high-heeled shoes on parquet floors, followed by the slapping soles of Annabel’s patent leather Mary Janes. Lydia Thorne entered the room holding a small, yellow rectangle of paper. Annabel followed her, carrying a porcelain doll.

  “I have news,” Mrs. Thorne said, lifting a pair of reading glasses on a bejeweled chain and putting them on her nose. “Two pieces, in fact.”

  “We have news!” Annabel said. “Two newses.”

  “Quiet, dear.” Mrs. Thorne patted her blond daughter on the head. Even with the reading glasses, Mrs. Thorne was still a beauty. It was from her that Ethan and Annabel had inherited their fair hair and clear eyes.

  “We’re to have a visitor,” she said, relishing her moment as the important person in the room. Mr. Thorne wound his right hand in a circle, as if to tell her to get on with it.

  “A visitor!” Annabel said.

  “Quiet, Annabel,” she said. She pressed her lips against each other, as if to hide a smile. “It’s Helen.”

  “But her debutante ball. I thought —” Mr. Thorne set down his pipe and leaned forward on his elbows.

  “Apparently she made the wrong sort of debut.” Mrs. Thorne’s nostrils flared.

  Mr. Thorne grunted and settled back in his captain’s chair, with one hand behind his head. He picked up his pipe with the other, most likely so that he could better exude thoughtfulness.

  “Helen. Helen is a hellion,” Annabel said.

  “Annabel! Where did you hear that word?” Her mother shot her a scolding look.

  “May we be excused?” Ethan rolled his eyes for Henry’s benefit. “If we’re to —”

  “I learned it from Ethan,” Annabel said.

  “That couldn’t possibly be true.” Ethan pretended to look shocked. “I’d never!” He walked to the bookshelf, picked up the clapping monkey, and twisted the key in its back. The clicking revved Henry’s already taut nerves. Ethan pinched the key, no doubt waiting for the perfect moment to release it.

  “When does she arrive?” Ethan asked.

  “We’re to pick her up at the King Street Station” — Mrs. Thorne adjusted her glasses and studied the telegram once more — “next Tuesday at two forty-five.”

  Mr. Thorne whistled low. “They didn’t waste much time, although I’m surprised your sister didn’t have her on the first train west.”

  Mrs. Thorne nodded and removed her reading glasses. “They’ve probably had all sorts of fires to extinguish … and there’s the issue of managing the gossip. And apparently they are departing for Europe to —”

  “Ride out the storm?” He sucked his pipe and exhaled a plume of purple smoke. “Europe’s lousy these days. Spain especially.”

  “Well, now,” Mrs. Thorne said, “let’s not overdramatize things. And Spain is lovely, despite what happened to that one little town.”

  “Spain is lovely if you like fascists.”

  Ethan caught Henry’s gaze and shook his head, smiling slightly. Ethan sometimes called his father a fascist for his domineering ways. Henry drew his finger across his neck so Ethan would cut it out.

  “She’s traveling unescorted?” Mr. Thorne said. “Or will we play the hosts to a companion, as well?”

  “She’s traveling alone.” Mrs. Thorne fanned her face with the telegram. “It’s come to that.”

  Ethan set the monkey down and it clapped wildly. Annabel handed Ethan her doll, took one of her father’s newspapers, and fanned herself as well. Henry, mortified by the monkey, gestured for Annabel to come over and scooped her up. Mrs. Thorne lifted a photograph of a black-haired girl in a navy sailor’s dress from a gathering on a shelf.

  “She’s a handsome girl, Henry, wouldn’t you say?”

  Henry, his arms full of five-year-old, cleared his throat and looked away from Ethan, who stuck a finger in his open mouth and pretended to vomit.

  “Yes.” He blinked, starting to grasp Mrs. Thorne’s point.

  “Henry likes her,” Annabel said. “He’s turning red.”

  “She’s older now,” Mrs. Thorne said. “This was taken while my sister’s family vacationed in Switzerland three years ago. She and Ethan — and you, of course — are of an age. We haven’t seen her since they were children, but she and Ethan had a marvelous time playing together on the island.”

  “She kicked my shins,” Ethan said.

  “Ethan, put the doll down,” Mr. Thorne said. “You look ridiculous. Like some sort of nancy boy.”

  Ethan set the doll on the shelf and Annabel wiggled down so she could retrieve her baby. Then he started juggling a group of fossilized trilobites. “Helen wears really hard shoes.”

  “Ethan,” Mrs. Thorne said. “Those aren’t toys.”

  “Well, we’re not even supposed to handle the ones that are,” he said. “Besides, I never drop things.”

  “You have to be able to withstand a bit more than hard shoes in the pursuit of procreation,” Mr. Thorne said. “Your mother said to put down the fossils.”

  “I was five when she kicked me,” Ethan said, catching the fossils one at a time with a flourish. He set them back on the shelf. “And Helen” — he shot Henry a warning look — “Helen is not particularly lovable.”

  “Kicking isn’t nice,” Annabel said. “I do not kick.”

  “Run along to the kitchen, Annabel,” Mrs. Thorne said.

  Holding her doll by one leg, Annabel galloped out of the room.

  After a moment, Mrs. Thorne tucked her hair behind her ear. “Helen isn’t a match for Ethan, of course, but we’ll see what Henry says about the matter. She might … he might enjoy her company.” She set down the photograph and wiped imaginary dust from the edge of the frame.

  “He’s in the room, Mother,” Ethan said. “And he’s not like one of Annabel’s dolls for you to play with. He’s a person.”

  Henry wanted to say something on his own behalf. But what? This was what he was supposed to want. A way to become an official part of the Thorne clan. He’d complete his schooling and become engaged to a girl damaged enough to say yes to a penniless orphan but still a good enough match to give him connections that would lead to a respectable job. It was a life that promised him everything that was supposed to matter.

  “The second bit of news involves Henry,” Mrs. Thorne said. She held up an envelope, addressed to him, which had been opened. “The scholarship to the university came through. Isn’t that wonderful?”

  It was good news. Truly. Pieces of his life were falling into place all around him.

  “Excellent, excellent,” Mr. Thorne said. He turned his attention back to the newspaper in front of him.

  “Now, boys, both of you may be excused,” Mrs. Thorne said. “We’re going to have to get the house ready. There’s so much to do.” She clasped her hands together. “So much to do.”

  “She probably won’t kick you in the shins,” Ethan said as they hustled out of the library. “But if I were you, I’d be careful.”

  “What?” Henry said. He was thinking of one thing only: getting to the carriage house so he could play music and think. So many things were happening, and so fast.

  “I was joking,” he said. “But I do imagine she’s outgrown kicking boys. She might even be nice now. And for certain, she’s not bad-looking. I wouldn’t blame you if …” He let the thought trail off.

  Henry looked at Ethan in disbelief.

  “I’m on your side, of course,” Ethan said quickly. “You don’t need a marriage to be part of this family. You’re important.” His face turned a bit pink. “You’re like my brother. It doesn’t matter what anyone else says.”

  Henry was glad to hear it even if he and Ethan weren’t the sort for soppy stuff. He felt the same way, despite the fact he was feeling the limits of their brotherhood for the first time. He wouldn’t talk about Flora with Ethan, not after th
at first night, although he’d been to the Domino many times since. He’d waited until after Ethan had gone to bed, then he’d sneaked out, borrowing Ethan’s car on the sly.

  Now that he knew this Helen person was on her way, it felt as though someone had planted a bomb in his life and lit a fuse. As soon as Helen arrived and Mrs. Thorne put her plot into motion, this life he’d begun to hope for — one with late nights in jazz clubs and the dizzying presence of Flora — would be annihilated. Ethan’s words confirmed it.

  “But think of it, Henry,” he said. “If you married her someday, not now or anything — and I’m not saying you have to, I mean, you ought to get to know her and see if she’s your kettle of fish. And maybe neither of us will ever marry. But if you did, and you chose her, you’d really be part of the family. My father might even write you into the will or give you a share of the paper. I’d always have you with me. It would solve so many problems —”

  “Look, I know,” Henry said, louder than he’d intended. “There’s something I have to do, so if you’ll excuse me.”

  He ignored the hurt look on Ethan’s face. This one time, he couldn’t bear being responsible for disappointing him.

  “Hooverville tomorrow, though, right?” Ethan called behind him. “We’ll crack that story wide open.”

  “Yes.” Henry didn’t bother to turn around. When had he ever let Ethan down?

  Henry spent the rest of the afternoon in the carriage house. He started off playing the Enigma Variations but lost interest before he made it through the second movement. Without thinking, he began to play his versions of Flora’s music, eventually setting down his bow so he could focus on jazz-style plucking, varying the lengths of his notes to create a rhythm that felt entirely new. He imagined her voice replying to the voice of his bass, and he wished she were there so they could talk to each other without the peril of words.

  This wasn’t like classical music, where every note was written, every movement with the bow prescribed, every dynamic meant to be the same every time. It was more like real life: unpredictable, unrepeatable, sometimes lousy, but something you loved all the same.

  Working with a melody he’d heard in his head since he was a child, Henry played until the quarter moon rose and his fingertips ached. He burnished the tune until it felt right, and then pondered lyrics that matched, words about the yearning the sea has for the moon. The song that took shape felt like something that had existed for a long time. He played it over and over, setting his bass down only when Mrs. Thorne came out to make sure he’d finished his homework.

  “Nearly,” he said. It wasn’t true, but he did not care.

  “Wonderful,” she said. “You’ve always been such a fine boy. So diligent and reliable.”

  Henry swallowed. Then he followed her through the cool night air into the warm, well-lit mansion.

  THE next day, after baseball practice ended, Henry and Ethan traveled to Hooverville in pursuit of their story.

  “Father was right. This is a big encampment.” Ethan shut off the engine and stepped out of the car. He shaded his eyes and scanned the nine acres of dried mud and misery. The air reeked of sweat and waste and burning wood. A nearby train rumbled by, spewing black smoke.

  “Can you imagine trying to sleep through that noise?” Henry said.

  “I’m sure they’re used to it.” Ethan reached into his satchel and handed Henry a fresh notebook and pencil. The two walked past flimsy plywood houses, small fires in metal barrels, and staring men. “Which one do you suppose is James Booth?”

  “Haven’t a clue.” Somewhere, someone strummed an out-of-tune guitar. A small group tossed dice in the dust, occasionally lifting their hats from their heads, wiping away perspiration. People stopped whatever they were doing to stare as Henry and Ethan passed in their clean, well-constructed clothing. Every so often, a whistle rose above the crunch of gravel underfoot. It took Henry a moment to realize these whistles were a signal to let someone know they were there.

  “Welcome, newcomers!” a clear, sharp voice called out. Henry and Ethan turned toward its owner.

  A golden-haired man who couldn’t be more than twenty walked toward them, his arms extended as if he were Christ on the cross. Despite his youth, there was something powerful about him, something you couldn’t help but stare at. His voice was almost hypnotic, even if his suit had seen better years. Embarrassed, Henry looked down at the man’s shoes, and noticed they were oddly clean.

  “I’m James Booth,” the man said. “Mayor of Hooverville. I welcome you to our community, although I can tell from your attire you’re not looking to move in.”

  James Booth clasped his hands over Ethan’s and gave them an enthusiastic shake. Ethan’s expression changed, and Henry felt something effervesce from his scalp to his fingertips.

  “Do you have a name?” Mr. Booth said.

  Ethan looked flustered. “Ethan. Ethan Thorne.”

  “And who’s your friend?”

  Feeling Mr. Booth appraise him, Henry stood straighter as Ethan introduced him. Mr. Booth did not offer his hand, and the whole experience left Henry feeling pinned like a butterfly under a lepidopterist’s magnifying glass.

  “We’re from the Inquirer,” Ethan said. “Here to do a feature story. If that’s all right by you, sir.”

  “It’s more than all right,” Mr. Booth said. “But you must call me James. I insist.”

  Henry glanced around, wondering whether he was the only one who felt unsettled about this welcome. The other residents of Hooverville had resumed their business tending their fires, flinging dice, mending the soles of their shoes with cardboard, leaving Ethan and Henry to talk with the mayor.

  “You and I — we’ll go someplace private.” James put a lightly freckled hand on Ethan’s shoulder. “Your friend can walk where he likes, taking notes, making observations. That’s how it’s done, isn’t it?” He addressed someone behind Henry. “Will, show this young man around.”

  Henry expected Ethan to object. He couldn’t very well write down what was said in an interview that he didn’t hear. But Ethan nodded and allowed Mr. Booth to steer him toward one of the larger shacks Henry had seen in the encampment. It was made of straight, sturdy boards and capped with a roof of corrugated tin. There was even a small porch on the front.

  Henry tried to tamp down his anxiety as Ethan disappeared inside. He’d come with Ethan on newspaper reporting jobs before, although nothing this important or — he realized — this dangerous. What if Mr. Thorne was right and James Booth was a mobster? Up until now, the greatest danger they’d faced was covering the Shriners’ parade, when an irritated llama spit on Ethan.

  Feeling ill and overwhelmed, Henry turned to face a man who looked about forty-five. He wore a moth-bitten three-piece suit, along with an old hat pulled low over his forehead. His entire wardrobe appeared held together by nothing more than dirt. Behind him stood a few more men who looked equally destitute.

  “Got any jobs at that paper of yours?” The man pushed his hat up.

  “I don’t know,” Henry said. “I’m just —”

  “Figures,” the man said. “Careful with what you write. All the stuff before’s been lies. We want work, not charity.” He paused and looked away from Henry. “We’re not criminals. Not most of us, anyway. Will Barth.”

  The man extended his hand and Henry shook it, feeling stares from all directions. The place was a regular melting pot. People who’d come from around the world and across the country looking for something better only to end up here because they had no place else to go, no family to turn to, no Ethan Thorne as a best friend.

  “Boy’s from the newspaper,” Will said. “He’s going to tell our story. Maybe then people that got jobs and such will think about hiring the likes of us.”

  “Fat chance,” said one with an Irish accent.

  “Don’t mind Rowan,” Will said.


  “How do you know he isn’t a copper?” Rowan shoved himself away from the shack he’d been leaning against and advanced toward Henry. “Gatherin’ up information that’ll be used to bust this place up.”

  “He’s not,” Will said, “he’s a kid.” He gave Henry a hard look. “Right?”

  Henry felt uneasy, knowing what Mr. Thorne wanted. “I’m not with the police,” he said. “Here.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. Inside were the two dollars he hadn’t spent the previous night at the Domino. Rowan snatched the bills, inspecting them before tucking them into the pocket of his coveralls.

  Will shook his head. “Come on, Henry. Watch where you walk. The ground isn’t level and not all of the men use the privy at the end of the dock.”

  As they wove through the maze of shacks, across depleted, gray soil scarred with ruts, Henry learned Will’s story. He’d grown up in the Skagit Valley, where his family had a tulip farm. He’d fought with the Second Infantry Division in the Great War, and lost the farm a couple of years after the Depression. He’d come to Seattle to find work, and had ended up in Hooverville.

  They stopped walking. “Each of these,” he said, “is a house for one man or two, depending. Duck your head in here. No one’ll mind.”

  Henry peered inside a small, mud-spattered shack with a tar-paper roof. It had no windows, and at night would be as dark as a cave.

  “Bed’s there,” Will said, pointing to a piece of plywood covered with a well-worn scrap of burlap and a few sheets of newsprint. “There’s the table and chairs.” By those, he meant two overturned boxes that had once contained apples.

  “A man can have a house for twelve dollars or so — four if the seller’s drunk.” Will chuckled grimly. “No women and children. Not anymore, anyway, although from time to time you do see one. Found a little tyke all curled up in a crate once, but took him back to the orphans’ home. Wouldn’t have lasted two weeks here, not with some of the characters who mix with us.”

  They made their way to the center of the once vacant lot, where the largest building in Hooverville stood.